At the junction of five points at Eddy Street, where time itself seemed to gather and hold its breath, the tavern at 1026 Corby Street stood like a guardian of memory. Most of us knew it simply as Corby’s. To us, it was more than a bar—it was a second living room, a post-shift confessional, a place where men could laugh and cry, and women could dance or play the jukebox without judgment. It was a neighborhood institution, living and breathing with the rhythms of South Bend.
But if you peel back the layers of dust and smoke, beneath the familiar name of Corby’s lies a much older story. You see, during the 1930s and 1940s, it wasn’t always called Corby’s. Back then, if you asked someone from the West Side or the East Bank neighborhood where they were headed for the evening, they might have replied, “Heading over to The Five Points Lounge,” or simply, “Down to Casey’s.” Old timers still argue about which name it truly bore first, but consensus often leans toward “The Five Points Tavern”—a nod to the famed intersection outside its doors.
South Bend in the 1930s was a working-class city, defined by the rise and fall of the Studebaker factory, the clang of the steel rails, and the bustle of Irish, Polish, and Hungarian immigrants who built their lives in tight rows of bungalows and brick homes. The Five Points area was a crossroads—literally and figuratively. It was where Eddy Street, Corby Boulevard, and several other streets intersected in a jagged, angular dance. It was also where cultures met, where boundaries blurred, and where the city’s heartbeat thudded loudest.
1026 Corby Street had started as a simple brick building—part residence, part dry goods store—but as Prohibition ended in 1933, the space quickly transformed. The owner at the time, Michael “Mickey” O’Callaghan, was a first-generation Irish-American who had bootlegged his way through the dry years. Once repeal passed, he went legit and opened a tavern named “The Five Points Tavern,” a name that carried both a sense of geography and notoriety. O’Callaghan was smart—he kept the bootleg-era clientele, added a kitchen run by his Polish wife, Aniela, and installed a shuffleboard table that people lined up to play.
It wasn’t fancy. The floors were linoleum, worn through in patches. The bar was a thick slab of oak salvaged from a decommissioned passenger train. But what The Five Points lacked in elegance, it made up for in soul. It was where factory workers gathered for a boilermaker after second shift. It was where people held wakes and wedding receptions. It was where kids learned to dance on their parents’ feet during Saturday polka nights.
When World War II broke out, South Bend transformed almost overnight into a wartime manufacturing hub. Studebaker retooled for military vehicles. Women went to work in factories, and servicemen crowded the train depots on their way overseas. Through it all, The Five Points Tavern stayed open. It became a home base for the community during uncertain times.
Photographs from those years show young men in uniform raising pints beside factory workers still wearing coveralls. There’s a famous photo from 1943 of a woman named Shirley Grebs—who would later become South Bend’s first female precinct captain—swinging on the arm of a returning sailor named Paulie “Beans” Marchesi. The sign behind them reads: “Welcome Home, Boys! First Round’s on the House.”
People today forget that taverns like this were the social glue of neighborhoods. There were no chain restaurants, no big stadiums, no Uber to take you downtown. You had your local watering hole. You had community. And you had the kind of loyalty that meant if someone’s son didn’t come home from overseas, the bar kept a stool empty in his memory for the rest of the year.
The 1950s brought prosperity—and change. Mickey O’Callaghan passed away in 1951, and his son, Patrick, took over. Patrick, however, was more business-minded than community-minded. He sold the tavern in 1958 to a Notre Dame alumnus named Charles Corby. That’s when the tavern officially became “Corby’s.”
Corby was a visionary in some ways. He cleaned up the place, installed new booths, hired bartenders in uniform white shirts and ties, and started serving “Corby Burgers,” which quickly became a local favorite. He leaned into the Notre Dame connection, decorating the walls with Irish memorabilia, clippings of the football team, and autographed photos of coaches.
Soon, Corby’s wasn’t just a neighborhood tavern—it was the pregame and postgame bar for Fighting Irish fans. Students came from campus in flocks, often bringing their parents or visiting alumni. During football weekends, the bar would swell beyond its walls. People would tailgate on the side streets, leaning against bumpers and playing radios tuned into the game.
Locals had mixed feelings about the change. On one hand, the place was thriving. On the other, something had shifted. It had become less of a community center and more of a college hotspot. But Corby was clever—he made sure to hire bartenders from the neighborhood, kept the jukebox full of Sinatra and polka, and maintained a “locals only” happy hour from 4 to 6 p.m.
The 1970s and 1980s were not kind to South Bend. As Studebaker collapsed and jobs disappeared, the Five Points neighborhood changed. Homes fell into disrepair, crime ticked up, and many longtime residents moved away.
Corby’s, too, struggled during these years. It changed ownership a few times, and by the late 1980s, the bar was often described as “gritty.” But even in its decline, it maintained a kind of romantic decay. There were darts and pool. There were cigarette burns on the tables. There was a crowd of loyalists who didn’t care if the beer was cheap and the floor was sticky—they just wanted a place to belong.
Ironically, this version of Corby’s would achieve a kind of cult status when scenes from the 1993 film Rudy were loosely inspired by it. Though the actual interior shots were filmed elsewhere, many locals proudly insisted: “That’s supposed to be Corby’s.” It was a small nod to a big heart.
In the 2000s, as South Bend began its slow but steady revitalization—spurred in part by university partnerships and city investment—Corby’s got a facelift. New owners restored the oak bar, installed flat-screen TVs, and brought in craft beer. The shuffleboard table returned. The Corby Burger was brought back, with minor updates. And the jukebox, mercifully, stayed.
Students still come, especially on game nights. Locals return out of nostalgia. And on some nights—particularly the ones when the Irish win—you can almost feel the echoes of 1943 in the walls. Shirley Grebs dancing. Paulie “Beans” laughing. The community holding tight, across decades and generations.
The bar’s current sign reads simply: Corby’s Irish Pub. But for those who remember, it will always be more than that. It’s Five Points. It’s Casey’s. It’s The Five Points Tavern. It’s Corby’s. It’s home.
What does it mean for a place to endure nearly a century of change? How many stories does one set of walls hear? Corby’s is more than brick and mortar. It is a living archive, capturing the rhythms of a city in transition. And if you listen closely, you can still hear the echoes:
The clink of glasses to honor a friend who didn’t come home.
The roar after a Notre Dame touchdown.
The soft shuffle of feet on a dance floor in the 1940s.
The arguments over whether it was better when it was Casey’s.
The stories passed down, the laughter, the tears, the toast:
“To the past, to the future, and to the bar that never closes—at least in memory.”
The junction at Eddy Street remains chaotic, its five arms reaching out like the fingers of fate. But at the center, 1026 Corby Street still stands.
Corby’s. Always Corby’s.
Even when it wasn’t.
