They buried Jim Crowley, the last of the Four Horsemen of Notre Dame, on a snow-covered slope on the side of a mountain in a little town called Moscow in the heart of the Pennsylvania hard-coal region.

The roar of the multitudes that rocked football arenas across the country when the Four Horsemen were alive and strong of heart and limb was but a faint echo when Jim Crowley was carried to the mountainside. There were no cheers, no rising crescendo to set the heart athrob, no brass band to thunder out the familiar Notre Dame "Fight Song."

There was only the faint voice of a young priest reciting the litany of the dead. Then there was silence, the quiet hush of the graveyard, the haunting stillness of death.

The last of the Horsemen was alone with his God on the snow-covered mountainside, a grove of great green cedars towering above his grave, there to sleep beyond the misty shroud of eternity.

Jim Crowley was a precious man. He was a rare, rare commodity in these frantic and cynical times. He was a genuine American folk hero, immortalized by the matchless pen of Grantland Rice, cast by fate in an almost god-like role that cast a long shadow over generations of American football.

Yet, with it all, Jim Crowley never lost his magnificent touch, his marvelous feel for people, his glorious Irish sense of humor.

He knew fame, that ugly old whore, for what a terrible flirt she was. He was never a rich man, albeit a most generous and giving one. He never made money on his athletic ability or his famous name, yet he never envied the high-salaried players of today. Pettiness was never a part of Jim Crowley's outlook. He loved people too much.

He loved to share himself with people - with kings and presidents, politicians and pretenders, the rich and famous, the poor and the needy and, of course, the wide-eyed football fans of all ages.

I never knew a famous man so willing to share of himself and the legend that he was. Everybody seemed to want a piece of Jim Crowley and that always seemed to be just fine with him. I always felt that to be Jim Crowley's ultimate greatness.

Many a night I saw him struggle to the speaker's table at one sports dinner or another. He was well into the fourth quarter by then. His legs had begun to betray him, but not his great heart. He had lost a step, but his eyes were still knowing and his great Irish mind was still filled with humorous insights.

I remember him struggling to the dais at one particular dinner a few years ago. He was greeted by a thunderous ovation. The band blared out the Notre Dame "Fight Song." Every man in the room was on his feet.

Jim Crowley held up both hands, begging for silence with a warm smile. And when everyone was seated he brought down the house with his first line.

"If I had known I would live this long," he said, straight-faced, "I would have taken much better care of myself."

Jim Crowley, the last of the Four Horsemen, was many things - a protege of the immortal Rockne, a bonafide All-American, a most successful coach, a pioneer of pro football. But humility was his strong suit. It set him apart

from all the rest.

I remember him speaking at the Alpine Inn in Delaware County a few years ago. He wasn't feeling well that evening, but he still found time to autograph the program for scores of admirers.

One admirer asked that a second program be autographed for a brother dying of cancer. Jim Crowley autographed the second program and said, "Tell your brother I'll pray for him tonight."

Later that night Jim Crowley talked about death. He had just buried his wife, Helen, his mate for more than 50 years, and his son, Jim Jr., at 41. He seemed so hurt, so lost, so fragile, so grieved.

"You know," he said, "when a man dies in the prime of life, everyone says, 'Oh, what a tragedy to die so young.' But when your health starts to slip and you have heartaches to bear, you sometimes wonder if dying young might not be a blessing after all."

Jim Crowley did not die young, thank God. He lived for 83 long and glorious years, enriching us by the sharing of himself, adding laughter to our days with his wit and humor, providing example by the way he carried the awesome burden of fame thrust upon him as one of the Four Horsemen of Notre Dame.

Now the old horseman is gone. He sleeps in death beneath the snow on the mountainside. But as long as men play football, the memory of Jim Crowley and the Four Horsemen will remain ever green - as green as the massive cedars that tower above his grave in the little town called Moscow in the heart of the Pennsylvania hard-coal region that Jim Crowley loved so much.

James Crowley