Seven days a week. Five months a year. Six years.

That’s the duration, from 1991 to 1996, that I had interactions with Lou Holtz.

For the most part, they were give and take.

Except the first one.

Holtz died at 89 Wednesday, so this was an opportunity to remember how that little guy with wire-rimmed glasses, a lisp and some interesting quirks made such an impact on my professional life.

It was early August, 1991, as the Notre Dame football team was starting its preseason camp. It was my first as beat writer for the South Bend Tribune.

During March and April, as the 15 spring practices unfolded, I was a sporadic attendee since we hadn’t determined who was going to take over just yet. The previous beat writer had taken a new position at the paper.

The spring was sort of an audition.

Either I did something wrong or something right, but I drew the short straw (or the long one, whichever) and got the job. I’ve gotta say now, I never understood the scope of the job until I lived it.

In the summer leading up to the 1991 season, another writer and I worked on a project. We broke down the first few years of Dick Rosenthal’s tenure of athletic director at Notre Dame.

Dick was a nice guy. He was a banker by trade, and a former basketball player for the Irish. His crowning achievement was signing a lucrative deal with NBC.

Anyway, there were plenty of pros and cons in the series of stories. We interviewed several current and former Notre Dame coaches.

One coach we didn’t interview was Holtz. Holtz and Rosenthal were next door neighbors and golf buddies. How objective could he possibly be?

The day the media gathered to start preseason camp, Holtz made it clear through his minions that he had nothing to say to me. That’s fine. I got by talking to players and assistant coaches.

After about a week of the silent treatment, I was talking to someone away from the practice field. 

As I turned, there was Holtz wagging that bony index finger in my face: “I think you did a hatchet job on Dick Rosenthal. You should have called me. OK, what do ya need to know?”

And, thus, a longterm relationship had begun.

Even though this was before the age of the internet, everyone cared what Lou Holtz had to say. Every Tuesday for the entire season, I’d turn on my tape recorder and let him write me three or four stories. Football, politics, world events … you name it, Holtz had an opinion on it.

I followed him like a bloodhound in New Orleans at the Sugar Bowl after the ’91 season. Rumor was a controversial book “Under the Tarnished Dome” was ready to be published — detailing problems Holtz has caused at Arkansas and Notre Dame. (Nothing worth of that attention was published) 

I was there the day Notre Dame became No. 1 by beating Florida State in 1993.

I was there a week later when Boston College ended that dream. 

After the Cotton Bowl in Dallas that year, I was in the hotel rotunda as Holtz lobbied (unsuccessfully) for his team to pass Florida State for the national title or at least share it.

I was there the next morning when the voters ignored Holtz.

Holtz threw me out of spring practice (can’t say if that’s a punishment or not)  for the final eight or so practices for mentioning — in the 10th paragraph — Jerome Bettis was running a one-back offense. Duh. If you had Jerome Bettis, wouldn’t you make it a one-back offense?

He was a regular pipe smoker at practice, but hated it when he was photographed with his pipe.

Rick Mirer, Irish quarterback in ’91, said, “I’d be there under center at practice, then all of a sudden I’d smell the pipe. I could tell he was looking over my shoulder. That made me tense up.”

In 1992, I saw him get so mad at defensive coordinator Gary Darnell and defensive line coach Jay Hayes that he sent both of them to the east end of the indoor facility, while the entire team worked on the west end. Darnell and Hayes just stood there and chatted.

It wasn’t unusual for Holtz to notice, from nearly 100 yards away, that an offensive lineman had his foot three inches off the line and it was only supposed to be two — and the player heard about it.

I was the only media member at the last indoor practice of 1995 before the Irish left for Christmas break and would re-convene in Miami for the Orange Bowl. I had been advocating for Thomas Krug to start at quarterback in place of oft-injured Ron Powlus.

They were running goal-line situations at the east end of the facility. I was standing near the west end zone.

Krug went the wrong way on a play, and the play exploded. Holtz blew his whistle and went ballistic. He didn’t direct his anger at Krug. He stormed down the 99 yards, got in my face, and pointed that bony finger again.

“You see what I’m up against?” he yelled. “You keep saying Krug is the guy! He can’t even run a (expletive, expletive) play.”

Then he turned and went back to the other end.

I’ve seen Lou be your favorite grandfather, spinning yarns and doing magic tricks, when the bright lights are on, then transform into a ruthless taskmaster outside of the public view.

Holtz and athletic director Mike Wadsworth butted heads in ’96. That’s when Lou, as he was being coy about his departure from Notre Dame, came up with the famous line when asked about his situation at Notre Dame: “If you want to know something, don’t ask the monkey, go to the organ grinder.”

I’ve also seen him in his most vulnerable moments. I was there when he got off a private plane early on a Saturday morning, hours before a home game, fresh off neck surgery at Mayo Clinic.

I was standing outside of the back of the tent in 1996 after his last interview following his last game at Notre Dame Stadium (a 62-0 win over Rutgers). While most media focused on what he said, a photographer and I positioned ourselves where, as a flap flew open and Holtz exited, we saw tears streaming down his face.

One of my favorite mementoes from my writing career was a letter I got from Holtz several years after he retired to his Orlando home. He talked about how he appreciated the job I did and the fairness I showed over the years.

That put closure on a relationship that started out kinda rocky.

Rest in peace, Lou.