By Patrick J. Bird

SUBSCRIPTION IS FREE, NOT REQUIRED, BUT ENCOURAGED

The Gymnast, a historical memoir, is being serialized here, hellgatetriborobooks.com, and at www.facebook.com/patbird.927 under my “post story.“

The Gymnast and other books by Patrick J. Bird are available at Amazon.com: books, Kindle eBooks, Barnes & Noble and bookstores.  

Table of Contents, Previous Chapters, About the Author follow Chapter 34.

Scroll Down

Book Synopsis: A working-class polio kid of 1950s New York City copes with a withered Polio leg,  bullies, disability bigotry, while experiencing the joy and agony of first love. And with grit and luck (lots of it),  he becomes a champion collegiate gymnast and NCAA All-American. The Gymnast is a journey through the past delivering a heartwarming, informative tale full of humor and spirit.

Chapter 35

Summer 1962, Follow the Sun

I was accepted into the Ph.D. program, emphasis exercise physiology, with a stipend and free tuition. That, along with Peggy’s salary, put us in a manageable financial shape. Staying in Champaign was now our top priority. As far as being assistant coach again, the icing on the cake, I’d approach that with Charlie when he’s back from Colombia—no way a sure thing, given the season’s outcome.

The Big 10 and NCAA championships were naturally a colossal disappointment, sending my coaching confidence into a tailspin. Still, the desire to be a college coach was there and further encouraged by Abie getting a coaching position at Southern Connecticut State College and Don Tonry at Yale University. 

I’d applied for the head coaching jobs at Chico State in California, the University of New Mexico, and the University of Alberta. We had fun checking the towns out at the university library—living in what we envisioned as the wilds of Canada would be a great adventure. Peggy and I agreed that we’d return to the drawing board if one of them came through.  

***

The phone then rang in the office. Joan Powell informed me that Dr. Piper was on the line. I assumed it was about next year’s schedule. Instead, he asked about my plans for the next academic year. I told him what was up. 

“Sounds good, Pat,” he said. “But how about doing graduate work at the University of Minnesota and being the acting head coach for a year?” 

I had to bite my lip to control my impulse to shout into the receiver: “Sure, Ralph! When do I start!”

Ralph explained—my heart convulsing 1000 beats per minute— he’d received a 1962-63 Fulbright Award to lecture at the University of Tehran, Iran. I’d take over for him and, at the same time, pursue a Ph.D. There was a new Exercise Physiology Lab associated with the Ancel Keys Laboratory of Physiological Hygiene. And when he returned from Tehran, I could stay on as assistant coach and complete my graduate work. The pay was $4,000 (about $32,000 today) and free tuition. 

“Don’t need an answer right away, but soon. Think about it, Pat,” Ralph concluded and hung up.

It was as if Lady Luck was making amends for the sorry end to the gymnastics season—in the extreme! 

I was immediately back on the phone, calling Peggy at work. 

“Hey! Got a chance to get back into acting?”

“Paddy, what are you talking about?” she sounded annoyed. “I’m really busy with classes starting.”

“Acting coach at the University of Minnesota.”

After a sentence or two of explanation, Peggy shouted into the receiver. “Paddy! Call Dr. Piper back now! Before he changes his mind!” 

***

“Gonne work for Piper, Paad,” Charlie laughed when I broke the news to him on his return from Borgata. “The old scoundrel stealin’ ya from me!” 

Charlie kindly said he’d miss me as a competitor, fellow coach, and particularly fisticuffs partner, adding additional good news: “Ralph says he’s thinkin’ of retirin’ after thirty-plus years coachin’ and teachin’. Minnesota’s a smart move for ya, Paad.”

The summer flew by, Peggy and I in the glow of anticipation. I again worked as a research assistant at Dr. Cureton’s Sport and Fitness School and finished my master’s thesis: Comparison of Olympic-level and Varsity Gymnasts on Fitness Characteristics.^[1] I submitted the work for a McCloy Research Award (for outstanding contributions to Physical Education research) and a Western Conference Gymnastics Grant. Lady Luck wasn’t done with me yet—I hit on both.

 The award and the grant each came with a lovely $500 check. With that, we bought a 1959 Volkswagen Beetle. Peggy didn’t drive,  and we spent hours circling the Illini Village parking lot to the sound of Peggy grinding the gears. She passed the written test on the first attempt. The road test for her was a frustrating challenge. After the third failed attempt, I considered slipping the examiner a ten-dollar incentive but wisely rejected the idea — this was Champaign-Urbana, not New York City. 

Finally, with her newly minted driver’s license, Peggy drove from the Driving Exam Station, saying, “Paddy, this is freedom—Heaven!” 

On August 13, 1962, wearing a graduation gown and mortarboard cap dangling an orange tassel, I was awarded the Master of Science Degree in the newly opened, clamshell-roofed Assembly Hall. Immediately after, we were off to Minneapolis, our new VW bug stuffed with our stuff.  

Peggy asked as we drove through campus, Dutch Elm tree replacements flourishing. “You sure you know the way, Paddy?”

That sparkling new metallic blue 1950 Cadillac Coupe of what seemed so long ago—wide whitewalls, heavy chrome bumpers and grill, bodyline running smoothly from the hood, adorned with that classic Caddy winged goddess, to the angled-up windshield and roof slanting gradually down to swoop up into fin-like rear fenders— burst into my mind. The wingless Spitfire taking off down Manhattan’s 7th Avenue,  Ed yelling out, “Follow the sun, kid!”    

I smiled over at Peggy: “We’ll follow the sun.”

^1] Bird, Patrick J.  “Comparison of Olympic-level and Varsity Gymnasts on Fitness Characteristics.” Modern Gymnast VII-6   8 July 1965.

THE END

Table of Contents

1. Don’t Mess with the Crip 

2. Long Island City High 1949

3. Chelsea Vocational 1950

4. Manhattan’s West Side YMCA 1951

5. Follow the Sun

6. Polio Talk with Mr. Morris

7. YMCA Swimming vs Gymnastics

8. YMCA Gymnastics 1951

9. Hell’s Kitchen

10. Chelsea Discipline

11.Discouragement, Drinking, and  Stupidity

12. Career Change 

13. Life on the Upswing 

14. The YMCA Nationals 1955

15. Peg o’ My Heart 

16.  1955-56 Florida Gymnastics Clinic 

17. The College Invite

18. Stay or Go

19. Leaving for Collage August 1956

20. Admission Denied

21. Limbo

22. Admission Approved January 1957

23. Peggy’s Visit: sexual disaster

24. Sad NYC Summer

25.1957-58 Gymnastics Season: misery and elation  

26.  Summer With Alice

27. Florida Road Show

28. 1958-1959 Gymnastics Season: Betsy, partying Finns, Ahab-Elect

29. Summer of Romance and Apprehension

30. 1959-60 Gymnastics Season: triumph, personal Failure, and a splendid surprise, Peggy

31. Summer 1960: bliss, 500 lb. hogs, a vile revelation

32. 1960-1961 Gymnastics Season: visiting Russians, assistant coaching disaster

33. 1961-1962 Gymnastics Season: acting head coach, vocation questioned

34. 1962 U. S. Wheelchair Games: The Gizz Kids, epiphany, sad visit home

35. Follow the Sun 

    Appendix: Letter from Charlie

    Selected References

_______________________________

Chapter 1

Don’t Mess with the Crip

Major prizefights in the 1940s and 1950s were as big a deal in my New York City working-class neighborhoods as NFL Championships are today. As a kid, I’d listen to them with Pop. He was the 1918 Bantamweight Champion of the British Expeditionary Force in India. After the army, Pop fought on the decks of British merchant ships, having shipped out as a stoker shoveling coal into the boiler furnaces of the steam-powered vessels of the day. With a few drinks under his belt, Pop, in his jaunty Liverpool accent, a mesh of Cockney and Irish, would talk about boxing for “The Crown” and fights at sea:

“Fought every few weeks in India, often in Delhi, sometimes Bombay. Fights wuz up ‘un up, strictly by Marquess o’ Queensberry Rules. At sea, now that wuz a  different kettle o’ fish. I’d take on all comers, big and small, thick’ er thin—no weight classes. No rounds. You fought it out. Marquess o’ Queensberry? Nothin’ but a pub on Piccadilly Square ter me mates.”

Pop jumped ship in Manhattan in 1926, ending his boxing career but not his love of the sport. He knew everything about the fight game. 

I began receiving what Pop called “a few pugilistic pointers” at age seven. This was initiated by an incident the night of the first middleweight championship fight between Jake LaMotta and Sugar Ray Robinson on October 2, 1942. While Johnny Addie announced the particulars of the pending battle, Pop sent me to Brown’s Tavern for a quart of takeout tap beer, cost fifty cents and served in a cardboard container. 

Browns was one of two bars directly across from our second-floor Astoria apartment and could be seen, and heard, from our windows. The other bar was the less rowdy O’Donnell’s Bar and Grill. There was no grill; “We cater to drinkers, not eaters,” Pat O’Donnell would say. Leon’s Grocery Store and Pop’s Candy Store separated the two saloons. 

As I crossed from the apartment house courtyard to Brown’s, several teenage guys hanging out in front of Pop’s Candy Store began breaking my chops.

“Hey, there’s the gimp,” one shouted.

 “Well, if it ain’t fuckin’ Hopalong Cassidy,” another calls out.

“Yeah,” this fat guy added, “Lookin’ like the crips walkin’ with one foot off the curb.” 

Shit like that. Heard it all before, went in one ear and out the other. And being called Hopalong Cassidy, so what? He’s a great cowboy, my favorite. On his white horse, Topper, and with Speedy McGinnis at his side, he always got the bad guys. Besides, we had something in common. His leg got shot off in a gunfight and replaced with a wooden one. That’s why he’s called Hopalong. He didn’t limp like me, thought.

Passing the assholes, the fat one shoved me by surprise. The polio leg gave way. Down I went like a ton of bricks. Sitting on the sidewalk, the assholes laughing at me, I began crying, not hard just a little. I wasn’t hurt but humiliated—the worst of all hurts. I struggled to my feet and limped home. “Fuckin’ crying crip,” shouts following me.  

I wiped my face at the apartment door so Pop wouldn’t know I’d been crying. When I entered the living room, Johnny Addie was shouting like crazy: “Sugar Ray’s down! First time in a hundred fights! Unbelievable, folks! Unbelievable! The Raging Bull—floored him with a right cross! Came from nowhere! Just unbelievable!”

“Where’s the beer, Paddy?” Pop asked, glancing up from the radio. 

“Didn’t get it. I—I fell.” 

“Hurt yew self?” 

“No.”

“Then, why no beer?” 

“I couldn’t get it.” 

“‘Ow’s dat?”  

I meekly fessed up, leaving out crying, of course. 

Pop then stood and went to the window. Looking through the sheer curtains, he muttered to himself, “Bloody buggers,” turned to me and said sharply, “Go on now. Get the beer.”

“But Pop!”  

He stepped from the window, took my shoulders, and turned me toward the door: 

“Off yew go.”

As I left, round two began, Johnny Addie still frantic: “It’s already the fight of the century, folks! The stately Sugar Ray—downed in round one by LaMotta’s brute power!”

This time, I crept through the courtyard, staying close to the side of the apartment building. Then, instead of going directly across the street to Brown’s, I snuck down the sidewalk for about twenty-five yards, unseen by my tormentors, and crossed there. Hugging the buildings, I headed back up the street towards the bar. Feeling calm yet excited, I was now a commando on a mission: 

Evade the Nazi guards. Slip into the Biergarten, packed with drunken SS Storm Troopers celebrating Hitler’s birthday. Signal the bald barkeep with the rounded red nose. Receive the precious liquid—an explosive that will save the lives of a thousand Marines. 

I entered the Tavern without the candy store assholes spotting me. I paid Mr. Brown his two bits. Beer container in hand, I was back in commando mode: 

Exit the Biergarten. Retrace my steps, unseen by the Nazi guards, carefully carrying the precious explosive liquid that will save a thousand Marine lives. Cross to the Allied line. 

“Hey, the gimp’s back!” shouted one of the assholes.

Too late. I was in my apartment courtyard. 

“Up! Yours!” I yelled back, giving the middle finger.

As I entered the living room, a most happy fellow, Johnny Addie was super frantic: “Sugar Ray beat LaMotta! A unanimous ten-round decision! Unbelievable, folks! Unbelievable!” 

“Here’s the beer.”  

 Mission accomplished!

After the fight, Pop and I went to the apartment roof. From there, you could see Manhattan a few miles beyond the Hell Gate and Triboro bridges over the East River. Beams of searchlights wandered the blacked-out city sky, watching for Luftwaffe bombers, maybe even Kamikaze Zeros. 

I naturally didn’t tell Pop about the commando mission. He’d think that was dumb. But when returning to Allied lines, I saw his shadow behind the apartment’s curtains. 

***

About a week after the Robinson vs. LaMotta fight, Pop returned home from his Brooklyn Navy Yard where he worked as a boilermaker. He’d tried to enlist in the Army, Navy, and Coast Guard— “ter do me part,” as he put it. Rejected each time as too old, he settled for the dirty, backbreaking work of cleaning and refitting the boilers that provided the steam powering the Navy ships. 

I was in the living room glued to the radio, listening to The Adventures of Superman.Looking up as Pop entered, he tossed me a package. Surprised, I tore right into the brown paper wrapping and pulled out boxing gloves: kid-size but still like regular ones, even with Everlast on the cuffs.

“Wow, thanks, Pop,” I said, not knowing what to make of the unexpected present. 

“Okay, Paddy, ‘ere we go—yer first boxin’ lesson,” he said.  

Removing his jacket and rolling up his shirt sleeves, he knelt and helped me into the gloves. 

“Bein’ lefthanded, yer a southpaw,” he said, standing to demonstrate the southpaw stance. “Chin tucked into yer shoulder. Rite foot an’ right hand forward. Left foot and left hand back. Weight spread evenly. Now, the left-hand bein’ back, that’s yer knockout hand as it’s got more distance to throw a punch.”

Pop set me in position. But the back polio leg couldn’t take much weight, so he leaned me more forward on the good leg.

“Yer now a tad unstable,” he said, and I was, “But that may be an advantage, forcing yer ta keep advancin’. You’re a charger, Paddy,” he laughed. “A Jake LaMotta.”

Stepping back, he inspected my position. I stood there, awkwardly but proudly, working to hold my forward-leaning southpaw position, wondering what was next.

“Okey. Put yer hands down while ay show you the four basic punches: jab, cross, hook, and uppercut.” 

Sliding with his fingers into the other pair of small gloves, thumbs on the outside, he kneeled again opposite me.  

Alright, we’ll start wi’ the jab—a quick straight punch wi’ the lead hand.” 

His hand shot forward, tapping me on the forehead—not hard, but no love taps, either. I stumbled backward and reset my position. He then demonstrated the other punches, tapping my chest and throwing me off balance each time.  Next, we practiced each punch in slow motion. 

“Set yerself. Now, come on again. Yer doin’ fine.” Pop cheering me on.

 It was fun. Best of all, I had Pop’s complete attention.  

“Okay, that’ll do,” he said after a while, flipping off his gloves but remaining on his knees. “Paddy, three things to remember. One: Yer a charger, always crowdin’ yer opponent so he can’t get off a solid punch. Drive ‘im into a corner, hittin’, poundin’ away like LaMotta. Two: You got to hurt yer opponent. Make ‘im suffer so he’ll think twice about takin’ you on again. He must know, win, or lose yer goanna hurt him. Three: The initial blow is critical, especially in a street fight. It can weaken yer opponent’s will. Yer must strike first. And there’s one special blow that’ll stop ‘im dead.”

In a flash, Pop yanked me by the shirt toward him while throwing his head forward toward mine—the violent motion stopping just short of his forehead smashing my nose. Releasing me, he sat back on his haunches—me frozen in place, heart pounding, shaking head to toe. 

“That’s called a header, ‘ad ay followed through,” he smiled. “It’s for street fights only. Barred by Marquess o’ Queensberry Rules in the ring.” 

“But it’s dirty fighting,” I murmured as the shock wore off, thinking: Hopalong Cassidy’, he’d never do a header.

“Yer aim yer forehead right at yer opponent’s snout,” Pop continued. “Done correctly—hard, fast, unexpected—he’ll see blood and perhaps ‘ave ‘himself a broken nose as well. And that’s it. The fight’s over. Likely, you’ll not be challenged again. Now you’ll be scared and hesitant the first time you go for a header. But Paddy—never doubt yerself—strike!”

“But Pop, it’s dirty fighting,” I repeated.

 “All’s fair on the street.” He ruffled my hair, laughed, and stood up. “We’ve made a good start, lad.”

The boxing lessons continued for some time, usually when Pop had a few drinks. I learned to handle myself. Aid I never heading anyone in the neighborhood. It wasn’t just being a clean-fighting Hopalong Cassidy. It was fear. What if I headed my opponent, missed, he got the idea and headed me back—but didn’t miss?

Sow the wind and reap the whirlwind, as the nuns would say.

***

Pop’s lessons did their job. I had some boxing skills—a Jake LaMotta charger. Most guys just unthinkingly flailed away. It wasn’t long before I acquired a street reputation: “Ya don’t wanna mess with the crip.”

I started thinking, I could be a prizefighter. That would be my sport. It wasn’t a far-out notion as I saw it. On the wall of Sal’s Barber Shop down the street from the apartment was a photo of George Raft, he fought professionally before becoming an actor, standing beside a dressed-out fighter with a withered leg like mine. The caption on the photo read: George Raft and Golden Glove Welterweight Champion (don’t remember the fighter’s name).

In fifth grade, the PAL, Police Athletic League, started a Prizefighting Club at the local public high school, PS 141. I went to the first meetings. It was the real thing, with two portable rings on the gym floor and bins of boxing gloves. I joined up and got a prenatal permission slip, with a stern warning from the cop dolling them out: “No parent signature, no boxing.” I stuck the paper in my pocket and forgot about it. 

The fight club became my regular Monday, Wednesday, and Friday after-dinner destination. And as a relentless Jake LaMotta charger, I held my own. After several weeks, there was an in-club, age-group tournament with three three-minute rounds, with the winner advancing and the loser eliminated. 

Wearing a cool white T-shirt with PAL in green across the front, I had three bouts, won them all, and came away with a small medal. As I left the gym, the sign-up cop called after me: “Congratulations, Paddy! Remember, no signature, no more boxing. Get that slip signed!”

“Mom, I won a medal boxing!” I yelled, pleased bursting through the apartment and into the adjacent kitchen.

Mom was at the kitchen table listening to her station, WQXR Classical Music, and peeling potatoes for dinner with her unsteady hands: the nerves she called the tremor, later diagnosed as multiple sclerosis. Brother Billy, three years old, was in his highchair, alternately chewing on a wooden clothespin and banging it on the tray. 

“Oh, ’tis lovely,” Mom replied in her soft West of Ireland voice, glancing at the excellent medal as I showed it. 

Standing by Billy, playfully playing clothespin tug-a-war with him, I waited for more. Mom just peeled away, absorbed in her music. 

It was well after dinner before Pop came through the door with a Friday after-work load on. Mom was still in the kitchen with Billy, cleaning up. Sister Kate, three years older than me, was reading in our shared bedroom. I was in the living room excitedly waiting for Pop and listening to Inner Sanctum, very scary but very good.

“Yer auld goat!” Mom hit Pop with a blast of Irish anger. “Comin’ home, dinner al’ done! Stinkin’ like a brewery! ‘Av yer no thought for no one but yerself!”

“Ah, Nan! Will you bloody well shut up!” Pop responded.

“Don’t yer go tellin’ me ter shut up! An’ watch that language before the child!” 

With a final salvo, “Yer ol’ goat!” Mom left the kitchen and entered the living room with Billy. 

I right away went to the kitchen. 

“Hey, lad,” Pop greeted me from his seat at the kitchen table where he was eating poached flounder and boiled potatoes.

I sat down and told Pop about the PAL Fight Club. Our boxing lessons had long ended, but we still listened to the fights. However, I’d not mentioned the club before; fights were for watching, not talking. And what I did after school was of little interest to Pop so long as I stayed out of trouble. 

“I won this today boxing.” I slid the medal beside his plate. 

“Won it boxin’?” He eyed the award, chewing away. “Got that Y-shirt, too?”

“Yes, had three fights. Won them all,” I answered calmly, not wanting to appear full of myself, as Mom would say. 

Pop stood and took a bottle of Ballantine Ale from the icebox, my heart pounding wildly as I waited for his acknowledgment of my great accomplishment. He sat back down and resumed eating, saying nothing. I took the permission slip from my pocket and slid it across the table beside the medal.

“You got to sign this so I can stay with the fight club.” 

Pop downed half the beer, looked at the permission slip, and went on eating. 

“Do you like the medal, Pop?” I finally asked after what seemed like an eternity of silence.  

No response. The last of the flounder disappeared from his plate. 

“You’ll sign the permission slip,” I pushed gently, “won’t you?”

Wiping his mouth with a napkin, Pop looked at me and said, “You don’t want to be boxin’—not wi’ that bum leg of yours.” 

“But you taught me to fight,” I mildly protested. 

“That wus ter take care of yerself. Real boxin’ takes speed and quickness. You don’t ‘ave that,” He shook his head, adding sternly, “Nope! Boxin’ is not for you.”

“I can do it, Pop,” I pleaded. “You see that I already got a medal.”

“There’ll be no boxin’ club!” 

Pop pushed the silver medal and permission slip back toward me, got up, put his dishes in the sink, drained the Ballantine, and tossed the empty in the trash. Taking his jacket from the back of the chair, he looked at me and said firmly, “Find somein’ better to do with yerself.”

Pop then left the apartment. I stuffed the permission slip and medal in my pocket. That was it, the end of PAL boxing.

I returned to the living room. Mom and Kate were laughing at the radio antics of Fibber McGee and Molly. Billy was down for the night. I went to the window and watched Pop cross the street and disappear into Brown’s. 

At that moment, I hated him.

***

Pop’s bum leg tag. After I was released from my nineteen-month stay at the New York State Reconstruction Home (October 1940 to May 1942), Pop sometimes took me with him to one bar or another. Sitting on a stool beside him, sipping a cherry Coke, surrounded by his drinking cronies, was fun until Pop would say, “Show us the bum leg, Paddy.” 

I’d dutifully pull up my pant leg to reveal the freaky thing to oohs and ahhs, then rapidly pull it back down. I hated it. 

One day in Brown’s, Pop asked me to show the leg to Bill Rivers, the local cop who’d stop in for a free drink and weekly payoff.

“No, I can’t,” I responded stubbornly.

“Ah, sure you can.”

“No, Pop. Please.”

“C’mon,” he said, gently tugging my pant leg. “What’s the ‘arm, lad.”

“No. I won’t!” I answered, my head down, avoiding Bill Rivers’ anticipating look. 

“All rite. As you like,” Pop relented.

Pop then lifted me from my stool, took my hand, and walked me from the bar. Outside, he quietly told me to go home. Crossing the street to the apartment house, I looked back. Pop was watching me, his shoulders slumped forward, sad-like. 

The bum leg bar shows ended. But the bum leg tag stuck. Didn’t mind that, though. 

____________________________

Chapter 2

Long Island City High School 1949

I managed to graduated as an okay student from The Immaculate Conception Elementary, down the block from the apartment. The Immac, as we called it, was the domain of the Franciscan Sisters of Perpetual Adoration. School wasn’t my thing and not a priority at home if I wasn’t failing. I liked to work, to make money, and did so.

 My grade school resume:

• Collected and sold old newspapers and balls of aluminum foil stripped from cigarette packs for the WWII effort: Lend A Hand on the Land.

• Gathered soda bottles, usually from building sites, a nickel deposit each. The mother lode was the Marine Terrace Apartments going up on the Victory Garden land nearby.

• Carried packages home from the A&P for tips. My best tipper was Sister John Mary, the ancient-looking cook for the convent across from the Immac. She was a sweetheart.

• Shined shoes outside the Long Island City building where WWII soldiers were being demobilized at the war’s end: a dime for shoes and two bits for boots. An army sergeant with a chest of ribbons taught me how to do the spit-shine. 

• Delivered the Long Island Star, earning extra on monthly “dollar days” when you’d get a buck for each new subscriber. A little scam here. I’d occasionally cancel a subscriber but keep delivering an extra (samples), then re-up the account on “dollar day.”  We all did it. The manager knew of the scam, but it helped fill his new subscription quota. Everyone made out. 

• Sold Chinese firecrackers on the street around the Fourth of July: 25 cents a 20-pack, cherry bombs a dime. My supplier of the illegal explosives was the new owner of Pop’s Candy Store. Pop had died. 

• Adjusted rental bikes, assembled and delivered new ones, and learned to do repairs at Joe’s Bike Shop. Also, build me a bike from scratch using an old Schwinn New World frame, sanded down and painted black, and refurbished junk parts. The best bike ever. 

***

 Like everyone in my Immac graduating class, I applied to Catholic high schools and was accepted at Power Memorial Academy on West 61 Street in Manhattan. Visiting the school for orientation, I instantly acquired a dislike for the Irish Christian Brothers with their gloomy black robes and scowling red faces. And right off, I got in trouble. While standing in line daydreaming, the line suddenly moved on, the kid behind barked into my ear, “Get moving, gimp!” and gave me a hard shove. 

The polio leg crumbled, I fell and got up, fists flying, Jake La Motta in action. My assailant toppled back on his ass, me on top of him, pounding away. Then whack! I’m smacked across the back of the head. Looking up with my ears ringing, there’s this white-headed, red-faced, fat cow, Brother glaring down at me. 

“We don’t abide dat behavior’ ere. That we don’t, lad!” he said in his Irish brogue as he shoved me with his foot off the guy. Yanking me by my collar to my feet, he delivered another back-of-the-head whack. 

“Any more fightin’, an’ yer’ll be gone. Get along, witch yer now!” 

Fatso said nothing to my attacker.

I told all this to Johnny Myers, my biking buddy who lived in the adjacent apartment building where his dad was the superintendent. In the basement, Johnny had a room full of fish tanks, perhaps a dozen or more, all specially lit and the tanks held every kind of fish, Red Zebra, Blue Fin Kill fish, even Guppies that glowed. We’d bike over the Triborough Bridge, ride south through Harlem to the zoo in Central Park.

There Johnny would tell me about the animals, like cheetahs can reach speeds of 75 mph, giraffes can reach 19ft in height and their legs are so strong they can kick and kill a lion, dolphins can be trained to detect enemy swimmers trying to plant explosives on ships, and so on.  Anyway, Johnny Myers, was the smartest of all my friends. I really looked up to him.  Not Catholic, Johnny graduated from PS 141 and attended Long Island City High School.

“You don’t have to take that shit,” he said. “Go to LIC. The teachers are good there. You’ll like it.” 

So, with no hesitation, I enrolled at Long Island City High. My folks were fine with that. I also got an after-school bike messenger job with the Western Union Office a few blocks from the school. I was all set and had a plan. In the morning, I’d pack up my WWII Army surplus rucksack with lunch and books, bike the two miles to LIC, attend classes, hang out with Johnny, deliver telegrams, bike back home, and then study. 

Perfect! 

Not quite so. I hardly saw Johnny. We had different classes and lunchtimes. I knew no one at LIC but Johnny, as all my Immac buddies were at Catholic high schools. Being self-conscious of my limp and naturally monkish, I didn’t attempt to make new friends. And no one tried to befriend me; my standoffishness no doubt made me appear a bit dull-witted. 

Lunch was the highlight of my school day. Avoiding the noisy, smelly cafeteria, I’d eat in the auditorium where the LIC orchestra practiced at that time. It was nice. The sound of the classical music was familiar—with Mom always listening to WNYC—but it didn’t impress me at home. The auditorium was different. The orchestra’s volume demanded attention, and the music lifted my otherwise gloomy mood. Also, after a while the melodies and rhythms began making as much sense in my head as those of jazz, Irish folk, and the blues. 

One day, the conductor shouted, “Slaughter On 10th Avenue!” 

The orchestra played the strangely titled piece all the way through. It was terrific, jazzy-classical. I went around for days with the theme playing in my head, while wondering about the bloodthirsty title and what was behind it. Then, I did something out of character. I stopped one of the violin players in the hallway, a shapely blonde, very pretty, and asked if there was a story to the music. 

“Yes. It’s about a vaudeville dancer who falls for a dance hall girl,” she answered, seeming happy to be asked. “Then the lovers are killed by the girl’s jealous boyfriend. You should go see the movie Words and Music. Gene Kelly and Vera-Ellen Slaughter play the leads and perform a marvelous dance sequence at the end. It’s wonderful.” 

Walking away, she looked over her shoulder with a flirty smile, saying, “A tragic story but lovely music and dance. See you in the auditorium.” 

I saw her every day, didn’t know her name, and never approached her again drawn so deeply into myself at LIC.

***

My Western Union routes extended from the East River to Calvary Cemetery and from the Astoria border to Newtown Creek, a cesspool separating Queens from Greenpoint, Brooklyn. I loved riding around delivering the telegrams. It made my day.

Then disaster! 

A few weeks before Christmas, the dispatcher gave me a single telegram to deliver instead of the usual dozen. 

“Put it in the hand of the person addressed to,” he said. “No one else. It’s an Army death notification of a son killed in Korea.” 

The address was a single-family home near Calvary Cemetery. Of course, I was anxious as hell. Having never delivered a death notice before, I had no idea what to expect. 

A man about Pop’s age answered the door. I read the name on the telegram.  

“Yes. That’s me,” he replied, signed the receipt, and gave me a tip—nothing special, except his hand shook when signing. 

I rode back to the office along Queens Boulevard, a wide street divided by an overhead IRT L line. It was a gradual mile and a half downhill to the Western Union Office. The traffic was light. I was moving at a good clip, timing the lights, imagining what might be happening at the dead soldier’s house:  

Telegram on a table, mother sister, brother hugging crying, father sipping Seagram’s, maybe knuckles bloody from punching his fist through the wall, what if it was me, I’m killed, Mom Kate Billy hugging, Pop into the booze, no one will see me again ’til Heaven… 

I’m hit! The bike careens wildly, the front wheel crashes the curb, and I go somersaulting over the handlebars, landing on the sidewalk on my back. Instantly, I felt a horrible pain at the knee joint of the polio leg— like a dentist hitting a nerve and drilling away. 

“Here, you’re bleeding,” a woman said, squatting beside me and placing a handkerchief on my forehead. “Hold it there. I saw it. The car just kept on going. Didn’t so much as slow down. I’ll get a police officer. You need an ambulance.” 

“No, please. No cop. No ambulance. I’m good. I just got to rest a minute,” I answered, stretching my leg while the knee pain subsided.

“You sure? I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, thanks anyway,” I said, trying to smile. 

The Good Samaritan stood looking sorrowfully down at me and walked off, leaving me her hanky. 

Glancing over at my self-made, great Schwinn New World, I saw a sorry sight: fork bent back to the frame, front wheel out a whack, handlebars, and seat twisted to the side—a mess. Easing to my feet, the pain manageable, I picked up the bike, rested the crossbar on my shoulder, hobbled a block to the 40th Street L Station, and made my way up the steps to the platform. Aboard the train, I checked my head in the car window—just a scrape. The knee pain was about gone. I was fine.

At Queens Plaza, I went to the Western Union office, handed in the signed receipt, and called Pop. He came in his beat-up ’36 Chevy and took me home with the battered bike and my rucksack containing the seldom-opened books. 

That was it for Western Union and the beginning of the end for Long Island City High School.

***

On the first day of the spring semester, the Guidance Officer, Mrs. Carlson, a gray-headed lady with round wireframe glasses, reviewed my grade report, Cs except an A in art. 

            “You seem to be having difficulties with the academics here, Patrick,” she said blandly, looking up at me. “Perhaps a trade school would be a better fit for you.” 

What! Trade school? I grumbled inside. That’s for fickin’ dummies—everyone knows that! 

Mrs. Carlson went on about a school called Chelsea Vocational. She said I could learn a trade. After a bit, it didn’t sound bad. I could be an electrician. And anything would be better than the LIC. 

“You should discuss this option with your parents,” Mrs. Carlson concluded.

I left the Guidance Office wanting no more of LIC, and LIC seemed to want no more of me. In my mind, it wasn’t like I was getting booted out for being too stupid, rationalizing, as Mrs. Carlson said, it was for a better fit.

Deep down, though, I was hurting. I’d been screwing up, not living up to Pop’s first commandment: If it’s worth doin’ at all, it’s worth doin’ well! 

He’ll be pissed. 

That evening, I told the folks about my meeting with Mrs. Carlson. Instead of going after me over my grades, Pop got excited about the trade school idea, mainly my being an electrician; that was financially and status-wise at the top of all the trades. 

“Big money. Clean work,” Pop said. “An’ ay know Peter Brennan from the Knights of Columbus; he’s on the Building and Construction Trades Council. Big job, he ‘as. He’ll get you into Local 3. Mostly a closed shop, father ter son, but Brennan will do that for me.” 

            Mom, at the time expecting my second brother while dealing with her MS, seemed not to care: “Long as yer happy, darlin’.”

It was agreed. I’d transfer to Chelsea Vocational High School and become an electrician. Pop said he’d get me an after-school job at the Manhattan’s Graybar Building, where, following the boilermaker wartime job, he now worked as an in-house “decorator,” which he loved: “After the Navy Yard, a piece av cake paintin’ one office after another and dem not needin’ paintin’ a-tall!”

Still, for me, there remained a problem, a big one. No one I knew who’d graduated from the Immac went to a trade school— what to say to my friends who’d be thinking, the dumb ass crip couldn’t cut it at LIC. 

So, I came up with a story. It went like this when asked, “Ya goin’ to a stupid trade school?” 

“No choice. Got caught smoking a joint. Kicked me out of LIC. The other guys I was with, too.”

“Wow! That’s tough.” 

“Yeah. LIC has what’s called a no tolerance’ drug policy. That was it. I was out.”

            A risky lie. What if someone somehow learned the truth? Stories get around. I’d go from a crip to a lying, stupid crip. Still, I went with it. And the story was swallowed hook, line, and sinker. Somehow it even seemed to strengthen my don’t mess with the crip rep. 

Bike to LIC, hang out with Johnny, deliver telegrams—a bust! The only good thing about that experience was my introduction to a lifetime of musical pleasure. Also, I really liked the Western Union job. So, I guess. LIC wasn’t a total disaster.  

Now, it’s on to Chelsea Vocational High. 

Chapter 3

Chelsea Vocational High School, 1950

Chapter Summary: Chelsea, located in Greenwich Village, primarily black and Puerto Rican, teachers white WWII vets. Vice Principal advice on first day: “Students here can be rough. You’ll be tested. Don’t overreact.” My nasty shop partner calls me a gimp. I overreact.

I took the Astoria BMT from my Ditmars Boulevard L station to Queens Plaza. There, the train descends into the Midtown Tunnel to race, screeching like a banshee under the East River. The front window of the first car was my f spot. I’d watch off into the blackness. A green light would appear, fly toward me, and flash by like a shooting star. Another would come into view, then another, and another while the train rattled and leached side to side. It like a Coney Island amusement ride and helped pass the dull forty-five minutes to Canal Street. 

That first day, the ride really helped calm my jitters. I knew nothing about Chelsea Vocational High but what Mrs. Carlson told me. At Canal Street in lower Manhattan, I walked west, into a cold Hudson River wind, past merchants opening shop and putting their wares onto the sidewalk. 

On Canal Street, you could buy about anything: electronics, lamps and lampshades, bolts of cloth in all patterns and colors, used restaurant supplies from dishes to stoves, motors big and small, tools of every kind, jewelry, watches all set at 10:10, and WWII surplus from camouflage clothes, gun holsters to cool combat patches. There was even a shop selling nothing but buttons. 

At West Broadway, I turned north to Broome Street, where Chelsea Vocational sat on the corner across from a small park. I liked the look of the building: five stories, white granite, tall windows. I followed guys filing into the entrance lobby: seemingly all blacks and Puerto Ricans, spiking my anxiety spiked. LIC was almost all white. The Immac and my Astoria neighborhoods were totally so: predominately Irish and Italian. 

I finally spotted a few white faces in the crowd. A bell, sounding like that starting a boxing match, clanged three times, and everyone headed every which way. 

Suddenly, I was alone. 

“Patrick?” a voice came from behind me.

“Yes!” I spun around, surprised someone knew my name. 

A short, trim man approached, saying sharply, “Where were you yesterday for orientation!”

“Mrs. Carlson said school started today, like at LIC,” I mumbled. 

“We started yesterday. Come with me.”

I followed him into a small office painted a dingy gray battleship but brightened somewhat by light streaming through tall windows. 

“Take a seat. My name is Mr. Penner, vice-principal,” he said hurriedly. 

I sat in front of his large wooden desk. Mr. Penner remained standing behind it, flipping through a stack of folders. He pulled one out, sat down, and opened it. 

“You barely passed your LIC courses, but no flunks,” he said, not looking up. “You’ll be given credit for them. I expect you to do much better here.” 

Mr. Penner closed the folder and reviewed my schedule: English, Science, and Theory of Electricity in the morning and Electric Wiring Shop in the afternoon. I was exempt from PE, as at LIC, because of the polio leg, which was fine with me. 

“You’ll report to the auditorium during PE,” he said. “It’s not free time. You will spend that period on schoolwork, no comic books, and no sleeping. Understand?”

“Yes,” I hastily responded.

“It’s yes, Mr. Penner,” he said. 

“Yes, Mr. Penner,” I replied, thinking: a real hard ass.

Mr. Penner then walked me around the building, not spiffy like LIC by a long shot. The hallways were windowless, lit by yellowish fluorescent fixtures, with black pipes running along the sooty white ceilings above them. The walls, battleship gray. He showed me the auto mechanics, carpentry, and electric shops, each with its individual smells: gas and oil, fresh-cut wood, and burnt-out motors. Though more ship gray again, the shops looked pleasant with light streaming in from the tall windows and students busy doing their thing.  

As we walked the building, Mr. Penner informed me that Chelsea was the first trade school in New York, its origins going back to the Dutch who first settled in Manhattan. The present building opened in 1904. And the school today has 422 students, inserting, “Only half will graduate. Those who do will have jobs in their trades waiting for them.” 

The tour ended outside my first class, English, where Mr. Penner gave me some unsettling advice: “Students here can be rough. You’ll be tested, Patrick. Don’t overreact. Mind your P’s and Q’s, and you’ll do just fine.” 

Amazingly, he extended his hand, saying, “Welcome to Chelsea.” I shook it, feeling awkward, having never shaken the hand of a teacher or, for that matter, a priest, a nun, a doctor, or any other significant person. 

A good start. But the day wasn’t over: rough and tested awaited.

***

Chelsea had no cafeteria, and we all had lunch in the auditorium, which had three sections. The Blacks gathered up front on one side, the Puerto Ricans up front on the other side, and the whites had the center section, mostly sitting toward the back. A teacher, the monitor, sat at a desk on the stage. 

I took a seat in the empty back row of the center section. As I did, a guy came and plopped down beside me. He was tall, had dark hair, and looked older than the rest of us. 

“Name’s Cole,” he said with a smile.

“Mine’s Pat.” 

“I’m in electric wiring. And you?” Cole asked.

“Electric wiring, too.”

 “Where you from?”

“Astoria.”  

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Just over the Triboro.” 

Cole went on talking, seemingly full of words. I quietly listened. In short, he told me he was from the Bronx: “So close to Yankee Stadium, we drink beer and watch games from my apartment building roof.” He quit Chelsea to join the Marines: “Was in the Battle of Okinawa. The last big one—killed lots of fuckin’ Japs.” After the Marines and killing Japs, he said he returned to Chelsea and will graduate in June: “Got this fuckin’ great payin’ job lined up with an outfit that keeps Times Square’s electric signs goin’.” 

“See you around, Pat,” Cole said, finishing his chatter as the boxing bell ended lunch. 

            I followed him from the auditorium, trying to guess his age—maybe twenty or so. I found my way to the electric wiring shop feeling upbeat. Perhaps I already had a friend.

There were sixteen of us in the shop, sitting on stools at three long tables facing a desk with a wall-length blackboard behind it. Two walls of the shop were lined with booths, like horse stalls. I’d soon learn that the stalls were where we set up our assignments: various configurations of switches, lighting fixtures, electrical boxes, conduit and fittings, fuse panels, and the like. 

Our teacher, Mr. Lux, was tall, skinny, and had a long, bony face. He reminded me of John Carradine. Mr. Lux took a roll, turned to the blackboard, and began drawing electric circuits while mumbling away. I diligently copied each circuit in my notebook but could hardly hear what he said. When finished, Mr. Lux assigned us, in pairs, “semester shop partners” to one of the stalls. 

“Bird and Walsh. Number 3,” he announced. We were each issued a screwdriver and long-nose pliers to be returned after class and went to our stall. Number 3 had boxes of switches, circuit breakers, and light receptacles. Cords of black, red, yellow, and white wire hung from hooks. And there was a small table. The first assignment was to wire a simple circuit, one of those Mr. Lux had sketched on the blackboard.

“You copied the blackboard stuff—gimp?” Walsh, freckled-faced, wiry, and my height, snapped at me.

“Yeah, have a look,” I answered overlooking the insult, remembering Mr. Penner’s words, “Don’t overreact.” 

I opened my notebook but held on to it, saying quietly, “Don’t call me gimp. Don’t like that.” 

“Tough shit—gimp!” he answered while trying to yank the notebook from me.

Mr. Lux just then entered the stall. “You boys getting on, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” we responded in unison. 

When Mr. Lux walked off, I placed my open notebook on the table for reference. Walsh and I then worked together, wiring several types of switches to a single light receptacle. Our few words spoken were related to the task. 

Leaving the stall at the end of the day, Walsh snarled at me, “Gimp!” 

 Outside, I started toward Canal Street, thinking how I might get reassigned to another stall without saying anything to Mr. Lux against Walsh. I wanted no more of the prick. 

“Gimp—get ya sorry ass over here!” A shout came from the park. It was Walsh.

My heart plunged to the pit of my stomach. Surely, everyone milling about heard Walsh. I kept walking.  “Gimp—ya hear me! Get ya ass over here!” Walsh’s voice was harsher.

I knew I had to do something or appear as chicken-shit. I turned around and started for the park. Walsh stood watching me, hands on hips, feet spread, arms hanging loose at his side: Jack Palance in Shane. Several other guys, including maybe friend Cole, were standing with Walsh. 

I limped into the park, really scared. I’d be anxious in nasty neighborhood encounters but always knew the person breaking my chops and how well he could handle himself. Walsh was an unknown. He could be a PAL-trained champion boxer, know karate or judo, or carry a switchblade. But I had a plan, though a scary one.  

Approaching Walsh, I dropped my rucksack and went right up to him, nose to nose. I could smell his tobacco breath. 

“So, gimp, what ya think ya gonna do?” 

Walsh’s lip twitched, and he swallowed hard, increasing my confidence; he appeared as frightened as me. 

Walsh then shoved me. I stumbled back. 

Recovering, I quickly stepped up to him, grabbed his jacket, yanked him toward me—praying I wouldn’t miss— rocked my head back, and hurled it forward. The header felt on contact as if my forehead had smushed a grape. 

“My nose! Ya fuckin’ broke my nose!” Walsh screeched, stumbling back wide-eyed, blood streaming over his lips and down his chin.

Trying mightily to look Steve McQueen cool, while trembling like a tuning fork, I turned away and picked up my rucksack, Walsh moaning pitifully.

Someone then patted my shoulder, laughing, “Walsh, he wasn’t expecting that.”

I started from the park, hoping Walsh wouldn’t suddenly recover and be on my back then suddenly realized I was heading uptown, not downtown, toward Canal Street. 

“Ya, a dirty-fightin’ shit! I’ll get you! Gimp! Gimp! Fuckin’ gimp!” Walsh bellowing behind me.

            I kept going, still trembling but smiling, Pop’s voice in my head: Even the best of ’em won’t go on. 

At the end of the park, I went east on Spring Street to Broadway and took the uptown subway to my new messenger job at J. Walter Thompson, a high-end advertising agency located in the Graybar Building, which towers 30 stories over Grand Central Terminal. Pop got me the work as promised,

So, that was Chelsea, day one—Shane kills gunslinger Jack Wilson. Walsh, though, isn’t dead.

***

Chelsea, day two. 

I saw Walch in the auditorium at lunch, sitting with Cole about ten rows before me. When the boxing clangs ended the period, they filed into the aisle. I stayed put, hoping to get a feel for what might be in store for me. I pretended not to see them but sneaked a peek as they passed. Walsh was looking down, like inspecting his dirty sneakers. He’d seen me for sure. Cole then caught my eye and nodded. Greeting? Warning? Couldn’t tell. I waited until they passed and went to the electrical shop. 

Walsh was sitting at a back table in the shop, head down as if snoozing. I sat up front to better hear Mr. Lux mumbling to the blackboard while chalking away. I took notes: Voltage is measured in volts. Current is measured in amps. Resistance is measured in ohms. Current equals voltage divided by resistance I=V/R— Ohm’s Law. Electrical power is measured in watts. Power equals voltage times current. P=VxI’.

Turning from the blackboard, Mr. Lux held up an ohmmeter, explained its operation, and assigned a wiring project using the instrument. Ohmmeters were passed out, one per stall, along with the usual tools. Sitting in the front row, I got a meter to share with Walsh.

“Gimme the meter!” Walsh, nose puffy and nostrils stuffed with cotton, demanded when we entered Number 3. 

But he didn’t say gimp gimme the meter—a good sign. Smiling, I handed the instrument over. 

“What did Lux say about this? How’s it works?” he asked, absent his tough-guy tone.

I read my notes aloud, and we went about our assignment, saying no more than necessary to complete. Toward the end of the afternoon, Mr. Lux came by. 

“Tell me what you’ve done, boys,” he said cheerfully.

 Walsh jumped right in with, “I” did this, “I” did that,” Mr. Lux rocked his head approvingly and then questioned Walsh about the ohmmeter. To my amazement, Walsh correctly explained its operation.

“Keep up the good work,” Mr. Lux said, smiling at Walsh as he left. Then, as if an afterthought, added, “You, too, Pat.”

  “You don’t take notes or anything, Walsh,” I laid into Walsh after Mr. Lux departed. “Without me, you’d have known crap. And saying to Lux like you did everything. Didn’t let me get a word in edgewise.”

“Who the fuck stopped you?” Walsh shrugged. “And I don’t gotta take notes. Got you—my tit-less secretary!”

When about to leave for the day, Walsh, swollen face twisted in a revolting grin, snarled, “Could-a beat the shit out of ya. Ya blindsided me. Everyone saw that. Ya fought dirty. Everyone knows that. too!”  “Yeah,” I answered, stepping close to him. “Dirty fighting is a character fault I live with, but useful.”

“Up yours!” Walsh barked in my face and walked from the shop, adjusting the cotton in his hose.

I looked toward the park while joining the crowd streaming from the building —no Walsh and crew.

***

Weeks passed. I settled into Chelsea and my rocky relationship with Walsh. He needed everyone to know that a cripple was in no way his equal—he was the man! —and totally ignored me outside the confines of Number 3. But he wouldn’t go so far as to risk an out-and-out fight which I also didn’t want. In Chelsea jargon, he tried to get the bull on me another way. 

I’d made a friend named Cheatham. Mainly, we’d have lunch together in the auditorium. Cheatham was from Trinidad and had this lyrical Harry Belafonte way of speaking, always cheerful. And he didn’t fit in with the blacks, not black enough, or the Puerto Ricans, didn’t speak Spanish. Also, Puerto Ricans, Cheatham told me, don’t like Trinidad people for whatever reason. The whites left him alone. Actually, Cheatham could have sat anywhere in the auditorium, being over six feet with a Charles Atlas build. 

One day, Cheatham gave me a heads-up on Walsh. “The little dick is amusin’ his crew wi’ de gimp-limp, he calls it. Try’n ta put ya down.” 

His crew was the same bunch that was there when I headed Walsh.  

“He’s an asshole.” I shrugged as if it were nothing. Inside, though, I was smoldering. 

A day or so later, eating lunch on the steps outside Chelsea and enjoying a beautiful spring day, I saw Walsh and crew yakking and smoking in the park. Seeing me, Walsh started doing his gimp-limp act. I watched his stupidity and finished my sandwich. I then got up and went toward him, feeling reasonably safe. Walsh, I now felt, was a wimp. And none of his crew seemed to have ill will toward me. 

Walsh stopped his performance when I got close. 

“Hi,” I said, addressing the group, trying to appear relaxed as if I were coming over to say hello. 

No response. They were all, surely Walsh, thinking, What’s the crip up ta?  As I approached Walsh, he stepped back, likely making sure he was out of header range. 

“You know shit about gimping,” I said with a smile. “Here, I’ll show you.”

I walked back and forth in front of him several times, exaggerating my limp. 

“Now, you try that,” I said pleasantly. “Ain’t hard to gimp-limp properly. You got to sway more side-to-side, tick-tock-like.” I took a few steps to demonstrate. “Not so much up-and-down like a yo-yo as you’ve been doing.” demonstrated again. “Go ahead, Walsh. Give it a try. I’ll give you pointers.”  

Walsh’s face fired up to match his redhead. As I saw it, he had several options. He could attack, but he wouldn’t chance another defeat. He could somehow apologize. No way, too humbling. Or he could turn the table, go along, and try to humiliate me by exaggerating my instructions—his best option. Still, he’d risk appearing like the organ grinder’s monkey, me holding the leash. Walsh was stumped.

“Fuck…Fuck you!” he snarled, glaring at me, eyes tight with rage.  

 “Go on, Walsh. He’s a pro. He’ll improve your half-ass act.” Someone said. 

Others joined in, laughing and egging Walsh on. 

“C’mon,” I continued, needling him, “you can learn a much better gimp-limp.” Twisting the knife, “You’re trainable.” 

Just then, the boxing bell triple clanged, ending lunch. 

“You’re, you’re shit. This ain’t the end of it— crip!” Walsh hissed at me through his teeth.

He and the crew jogged off, Cole calling over his shoulder in a laughing voice, “You got some set of balls, Pat.”

I followed, gimp-limping properly, feeling super but emotionally drained. 

***

Despite Walsh’s threat, I had put the bull to pasture. Over the remainder of the semester, he mellowed, me, too. Walsh even displayed a playful side, often circling the cubicle doing a Fred Astaire soft shoe, which was pretty good. And he told jokes that were so feeble I couldn’t help laughing, like:

A stranger walk into a bar, orders a drink, and asks to use the toilet. Kelly, the barkeep, points the way, and the stranger goes off. The bar phone rings, and the caller asks, “is Dunn there? Knowing everyone in the bar, Kelly figures Dunn must be the stranger. Kelly goes to the back of the bar and knocks on the toilet stall door, calling out, “Are you Dunn? “  The stranger shouts back, “No,  just get’n started!”

I continued to be curious about Cole. So, while wiring a half-dozen circuits to a breaker board, I told Walsh about Cole’s story of coming back to Chelsea after being a Marine and “killing Japs” in Okinawa. 

“He ain’t never been no Marine,” Walsh sniggered. “While away from here, he was doin’ time upstate at the Tryon School for Boys, a bad-ass juvenile prison.” Walsh went on, clearly enjoying himself. “You see Cole and this guy Finny went to rob a grocery store on 166th, just off a Grand Concourse. The way Finny tells it, know Finny forever, so this ain’t no bullshitter. They rode to the heist on stolen bikes. Then putin’ on these Lone Ranger masks, they goes in the store just before closin’. The old Jew owner, he’s behind the counter countin’ the day’s take. The masked men flash switchblades, Cole shouting—this is a stick-up! A fuckin’ switchblade holdup on fuckin’ stolen bikes!

“The old Jew, he looks up, probably thinking, who the fucks these clowns? Then he rushes from behind the counter wielding a Louisville Slugger, screamin’ Yiddish, and crazily swingin’ the bat. Cole and Finny, they back off. The Jew, he runs past them and out the front door, locking it behind him. Cole and Finny grab the cash and head to the back of the store, thinkin’ of escapin’ that way. The back door, it’s locked. Windows barred. They race back to the front, figurin’ ta smash out through the front door. Bad luck! The Jew has pulled down the security gate. They’re fuckin’ screwed!”

Walsh laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “So, they put the cash back in the till, take off their Lone Ranger masks, and wait for the cops. The Ke-mo-sah-bees got two years at the Tyron. Could-a got double if it wasn’t for the old Jew. He stood up for ’em in court, sayin’, They’re good boys.” 

Walsh snickered, “Good boys. That’s one for the books!” and finished his story saying sarcastically, “No fucken’ Marines. No fuckin’ Okinawa. No killing fuckin’ Japs. Cole’s a fuckin’ bullshit artist!”

Some days after Walsh’s story, I sat beside Cole in the auditorium. For the hell of it, I asked him to tell me more about his killing Japs in Okinawa. And that he did. His yarn sounded like the movie The Sands of Iwo Jima, with him as John Wayne. Cole told a good story. 

 I didn’t have another class with Walsh for the rest of my time at Chelsea. And we avoided each other. Then he vanished, probably dropped out at age sixteen. Cole graduated and was, well, maybe was, “keeping the Times Square signs goin’.” Except for lunches with Cheatham, I didn’t socialize going right from school to my J. Walter Thompson’s messenger job. It was a rough start at Chelsea, but after the Walsh affair, nobody hassled me. 

As Mr. Penner warned, “You’ll be tested, Patrick.” 

Passed!

Chapter Note:  In the 1950s, and about forever before, physically “handicapped” people were often assumed, even by educators, to be also intellectually deficient. A historical perspective is presented in Disability Studies Quarterly, Vol. 32 No. 2 (2012).

Chapter 4

Manhattan’s West Side YMCA 1951

Summary: I join Manhattan’s  West Side YMCA, fortress-like and housing many surprises. Its swim team practice. Disappointed then unhinged, the coach has an ugly polio leg like mine. I try to escape.  

I could ride a bike as well as any of my friends, roller-skate in a fashion, and play one-wall handball, okay? But I stunk at baseball, was too slow for Ringolevio and Four Corners, and couldn’t jump worth a damn in Johnny-Ride-A-Pony. Besides boxing, which Pop nixed, and the occasional street fight, which was always distressful, I was only good at swimming and loved it. 

Wally, who like Johnny Myers, lived in the apartment building beside mine told me the West Side YMCA had two pools. So, one cold December 1950 evening, swimsuit, towel and locker lock wrapped in a towel tucked under my arm, I took the BMT to 7th Avenue and West 57th in Manhattan. There I walked two blocks north and looped through Central Park to West 63rd. 

WW II pea coat collar up against a brisk wind funneling down Park Avenue, I looked up at the Y for the first time. With two pools, it had to be big. But this was huge, ten stories of mostly red brick and scattered with ornate balconies and terrets. There were two high-arched entryways flanked by columns with lions sitting on top, as if on guard duty. The building was like a medieval fortress. There was even a long balcony with slotted openings above the entrances—perfect for crossbow defenders. 

I went to the closest archway which opened into like a grotto, not Catholic though, no Blessed Virgin Mary. The grotto sides were lined with thin columns topped by an ugly gargoyle. Several steps led up to a heavy looking wood door crisscrossed with studded steel bands. Over the door was an imitation balcony. At each end was black hawk statues, each looking threadedly at one another. Above was a domed ceiling surrounded by small carvings of bearded men holding wreaths, more hawks peering down, and dogs behind Crusader shields. 

I climbed the steps and pushed open the door into a dungeon-like lobby with a low ceiling of intersecting domes and dimly lit by a wagon wheel suspended horizontally and sprouting fake candles. I’m thinking: Douglas Fairbanks gonna come dashing by cutlass in hand, red headscarf flowing with half-naked Arabs wielding sabers in hot pursuit. 

At a dark wood counter located at the center of the dungeon, I was signed up by a crabby clerk with shiny black hair as if pomaded with shoe polish. He then directed me to the locker room in the bowels of the building. And the bowels it was, stinking of sweaty bodies, unflushed toilets, a gross sauna, and God knows what. 

Bathing suit on, locker locked, I entered a steamed-up shower room. There shadowy figures stood under running spigots, their dangling schlongs looking like mooring ropes knotted at the end. I’d soon learn the Y at that time was a popular place for trolling gays, the shower room ground zero, the half-hard-ons calling cards.

I rinsed off quickly and went through a rust-spotted iron door marked Pool Entrance. Stepping onto the deck, I took a refreshing deep breath. There was more air in the air and the inviting smell of chlorine. Then, my heart sank. The pool was packed with swimmers racing back and forth, two or three to a lain. 

On the far side of the deck, a man in a singlet-top bathing suit was stooped over, talking to a swimmer treading water. He glanced in my direction, returned to the swimmer, said something, and stood.

“Ho-ly-shit!” I gasped as he came toward me, limping and swinging a withered polio leg just like mine.

 It was me—the future me! I turned in panic for the exit. 

“Hey there!” the man called. 

I glanced back, about stumbling over myself. 

“Hold on,” he called out. 

I kept moving. 

He then shouted, “Stop!” 

Obedience to authority instilled by the Sisters of Perpetual Adoration kicked in. I stopped. 

“I’m Sid Morris, Y swim coach,” the man said, coming up to me. He was short and balding, with muscular arms and a Buddha belly, perhaps fifty. “You’re here to join the team?” 

“No just, just to swim, but the pool’s full,” I muttered, screaming inside: Get the fuck out of here!

“Well, swim. That’s what swim teams do. They swim,” he said, smiling. “What’s your name?”

“Pat,” I answered, my inner voice now screeching: Go! Go!

“Okay, Pat, go to the end of the pool. Take the first lane and swim back to me.” Mr. Morris ordered. “Stay to the right so you don’t run into the other swimmer. Go ahead!” 

“I only do the crawl,” I answered as an apologetic out.

“Crawl’s fine. Get moving.” 

I walked to the end of the pool; sure, Mr. Morris was sizing up his lumpy twin crip. 

Slipping into the pool, I stood, getting used to the cold water while my lane partner sprinted toward me and splashed a flip-turn. I immediately followed him, stroking madly, determined to climb out at the other end of the pool—and escape. 

Touching the bulkhead, gasping heavily, I saw I’d overtaken my lane partner as he flip-turned beside me, continuing his way. Energized by the effort, the cold water, and a kind of win, I felt good.

“Okay, Pat. Repeat ten times with flip-turns,” Mr. Morris called down from the deck to me.

“I don’t do flip-turns,” I answered, looking up seeing the leg. The withered thing was right above me.  

“Don’t worry, you’ll learn. Get moving!”

Chapter Note: Aside from swimming pools and gyms, the West Side YMCA had a billiard room, bowling alleys, a food counter, a restaurant, as well as 600 guest rooms (temporary home over the years to many notables such as John Barrymore, Montgomery Clift, Lee J. Cobb, Kirk Douglas, Johnny Weissmuller, Bob Hope, Dan Rather, and Andy Rooney). The building also housed The McBurney School, believed to be the model for Holden Caulfield’s Pencey Prep in J.D. Salinger’s novel The Catcher in the Rye. 

____________________________

Chapter 5

Follow the Sun

Summary: A flashy dude man in  a beautiful 1948 Series 60 Cadillac Coup offers a me “position” selling subscriptions “everyone wants to buy… particularly from  you with ya infliction….Follow the sun, kid!”

Central Park was peaceful and quiet as I headed home from the Y, just the clacking hooves of the occasional carriage horse and the sporadic rumble of 59th Street traffic. A light snow, the first of the season, dusted the deserted pathway. And I felt good, invigorated by the swim and Mr. Morris’s encouragement. 

“You have the potential to be a good competitive swimmer,” he said at the end of practice. Picking up on my dubious look, he laughed. “That’s true. Quite good if you’re willing to work.”

 Potential. I liked that. No one had ever pinned that word on me about swimming or anything else. 

As I left the park, feathery snowflakes began turning the night white. Christmas was in the air, sending through me a mixture of dread and Joy. The dread, Pop’s boozing. That would start when he got his year-end Christmas bonus and continued steadily through the holiday. Even Christmas Eve itself wasn’t sacred. He’d be half-soused walking Mom, her unsteadied by “the nerves,” to the Immaculate Conception Church for midnight mass. 

A joy was Christmas day. We’d have a tree of sorts and a few presents, and Mom would make a dinner of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding drowned in delicious gravy, the meal finished off with her sumptuous homemade apple pie. Also, Pop would usually control his drinking. It would be a full house, including Aunt Margaret, Mom’s spinster sister, and my cousins Patsy and Betty, about my age. They lived at St. Joseph’s Home for orphaned children in Peekskill, NY. Their parents had died, mother of some sickness, and father, Mom’s brother, of a broken heart, it’s said. 

My absolute Christmas joy, though, was walking my J. Walter Thompson messenger rounds. Strolling down Seventh Ave to the subway, my thoughts drifted off to the beautiful sights, sounds, and smells I’d encounter:  

The Christmas tree with gillions of lights of every color soaring ten stories above the Rockefeller Center skating rink. Giant red bows and green wreaths brightening soot grayed St. Patrick’s, its bells chiming O Come, All Ye Faithful. The vast Kodak screen above Grand Central Concourse flashes Norman Rockwell fantasies, and below, a children’s chorus delighting harried travelers with Hark! The Herald Angels Sing … 

“Hey, kid!” A sharp voice came from the Seventh Avenue. I ignored it. Likely a bum looking for a handout: 

Pine spruce and fern trees lining market streets waiting for a happy home. The magical window displays at Bloomingdale, Macy’s, and Gimble with Salvation Army bells clanging at the store entrances. The luscious-smelling chestnut carts whistling away on corners. Bing Crosby’s smooth voice flowing from shops, “I’ll be Home for Christmas,” bringing smiles and maybe a tear to those passing buy. 

“Come ‘ere. I’m no faggot or nothin’,” the voice insists. “Just a minute of yer time.” 

Glancing toward the street, a dark blue Cadillac with wide white walls was creeping alongside me. Curiosity trumping my yuletide musing, I walked toward the car. It stopped. A guy with dark Brylcreem-shined hair, dressed to the nines, slid from behind the wheel into the passenger seat. And the car door began to open. 

“Here, kid, hop in outta the snow.” 

 I put my good knee against the door, halting its progress. The occupant got the message and gently pulled it shut.   

 “Name’s Ed,” he said, extending his hand out the window. “What’s yours?” 

 “Pat,” I replied, ignoring the gesture.

 “How old are you?” His arm retreated and rested on the window frame, fleshing a diamond pinky ring and green shamrock cufflink.   

 “Eighteen,” I lied. 

  “How’d you like a great job?”  

“Doing what?” I answered while casually checking out the beautiful Caddy. Its bodyline ran smoothly from the hood, with its classic winged goddess ornament, angled up easily at the windshield to the roof which then slanted gracefully back to the rear fenders that swept up into fins—it was a Spitfire without wings.

“Doing what?”

Ed replied. “Making big money selling what everyone wants to buy.” “Yeah. How’s that?” I leaned over for a glimpse of the Caddy’s inside. Red leather. Very nice.

            “Selling subscriptions, Pat. Subscriptions to terrific magazines—Look, LIFE, Home and Garden, Saturday Evening Post, Esquire, Reader’s Digest. You know, the ones everyone wants to buy. It’s an easy sell. Just ring a doorbell and butter up the customer with your story. Then, make the pitch. It’s like offerin’ candy to kids. Housewives, they jump at it.”

I went into the street. The front end’s heavy bumper and checkerboard grill were all shiny chrome. 

“Pat! Easy money, easy work.” Ed’s voice was louder, his head now out the window getting snowed on. “And there’s the travelin’. Travelin’ cross the country with kids your age. Stay in the best places. There are girls, too! You’d get laid the first week for sure.” Ed laughed.

I stepped back onto the sidewalk. 

“So, what’s under ya arm there?” Ed asked, his head back inside the Caddy. 

 “Swim stuff,” I answered, anxious to be on my way.  

   “You swim? It’s winter!” 

    “Yeah, at the Y. I’m on the team.” 

 “Pretty impressive. I bet you’re a top swimmer,” he said. “You’d be a top salesman, too. And about that good money. When you sell a subscription, you get a percentage of the sale. Better yet, you get that percentage forever if the customer keeps up payments. Soon, you’ll be getting paid—paid for doin’ nothin’.”

 “Not interested,” I said with a smile.

 “Free money, kid. You don’t wanna be makin’ a mistake now.” 

Feeling the subway rumble under my feet and snow coming down heavily, I wanted to go. But Ed’s engaging way, the intrigue of travel, and the sweet Caddy kept me interested.

“Remember, a position like this doesn’t come along every day,” Ed said insistently. “It could be a life-changer. You’re a smart kid. I see that. And you’ve got an asset that gives you a great story to tell. People will buy from you. That’s a fact.”

“Asset?”  

He nodded toward the leg. Yup, he’d noticed. 

“They’ll buy from you, Pat. They will. Not out of sympathy, mind you. But out of respect, admiring you for being an en-ti-per-nor despite your infliction. And remember, ya sell terrific products customers want to buy.”

Flashing a Burt Lancaster piano-key smile, Ed gently persisted, “C’mon, kid, get in the car. We’ll talk some more and have a bite to eat. You don’t wanna miss this great opportunity—big bucks. Follow the sun, New York to California—an adventure of a lifetime.”      

 “Nah, Ed. That sounds good,” I answered politely, “but I’m going to be an electrician.” 

“Electrician. Now, that’s a top union job. If you get in the union.” His green studded cuff was out the window again, his knuckles tapping the Caddy door. “See you like my wheels—’48 Series 60 Cadillac Coupe De Ville.”          

Then, like a magic trick, his hand sprung open, flipping a card between his fingers. 

“Here’s my card in case ya change ya mind. Remember, we’re talkin’ here about selling what everyone wants ta buy. It’s not just a job like being an electrician. It’s a sales position! A position with a Caddy in the future.” 

Another tap on the car door. 

“Pat, ya know, speaking honestly, like a friend,” he pushed the card at me, “even with a great electrician’s job, a Caddy won’t come ya way. The money just ain’t there. It’s in sales.”           

I took the card and glanced at it: Kelly green, matching the cuff links, with just ED embossed in large orange letters and a phone number in one corner. As I walked away, the Caddy crawled along beside me. 

“Call me! Follow the sun, kid!” Ed then called out with his final shot.

 The white walled wheels of the 1948 Series 60 Cadillac Coupe De Ville spun in the snow, and Ed was gone, racing up 7th Avenue. I rushed down the slushy subway steps, hand sliding along the railing in case of a bad-legged misstep. 

In retrospect, Ed’s encounter was prophetic. I’d indeed “Follow the Sun.” But not as some disabled woebegone limping door-to-door, town-to-town, hawking magazine subscriptions “everyone wants to buy.”

Chapter 6

Polio Talk with Mr. Morris

Chapter 6 Summary:  At the Y food counter, Mr. Morris asks about school, work, my polio, and where I learned to swim, bringing back memories the New York State Reconstruction Home. Walking off he’s hardly limping. His polio leg shoe is built up and properly sized to the smaller foot. Mine are fitted to the size eight good foot: the polio foot size five. Buy two pairs of different-sized shoes. Pay to add a lift. Toss half of each set away. I could hear Pop: “Bloody waste o’ money! You’re gettin’ along al’ rite as is.” 

Several weeks after joining the swim team, I was surprised when Mr. Morris came and sat beside me at the Y food counter, where I usually had a snack before practice. Dressed in a suit and carrying an overcoat and fedora, I hardly recognized him.

 “Hello, Pat,” he said, sliding onto a stool beside me, folding his overcoat neatly on an adjacent one, carefully placing his fedora on top.

 “Hi…hi, Mr. Morris,” I responded anxiously. Teachers—and I guessed coaches—don’t just plop beside you out of nowhere without an agenda. 

“You’re early,” he said easily. 

 “Came right from work,” I answered, gulping down the last of my tuna sandwich.

“What work is that, Pat?” he said, waving over the waitress.  

  “I’m a messenger.” 

   “Oh, Western Union?”

 “No, did that once but quit.”

He ordered a black coffee. 

“Why’d you quit?” he asked as if trying to make conversation.

 “I got hit by a car on Queens Boulevard. It was snowing. The car probably didn’t see me and kept going.” 

“Were you hurt?”  

“Nah. But the bike needed some work.”

We sat silently, waiting for the coffee, which was taking forever. I was getting more uncomfortable by the minute, wishing Mr. Morris would get to whatever was on his mind. Finally, the coffee arrived. 

Steering a load of sugar into his cup, Mr. Morris asked, “Who do you work for now?” 

 “J. Walter Thompson. An advertising agency in the Graybar Building over on Lexington. My pop’s a painter there. Got me the job.”

“Like it?” He added cream.

“Yeah, a lot,” I answered, feeling more at ease thinking maybe Mr. Morris just wanted company with his coffee. 

“What’s best about it, the job?”

  Walking around the city. Sometimes, too, I deliver to famous people.”

“Like whom?” He took a cautious sip of coffee.

 “Well, just yesterday, I picked up a gown from a tailor shop on West 37th and delivered it to a TV studio in Rockefeller Center. It was for Patti Page. After a woman signed for the gown, she let me watch rehearsal. Patti Page sang. She was terrific.”

“Yes, she’s one of the best.” 

Mr. Morris then rotated on his stool slightly toward me as if genuinely interested in what I had to say. Encouraged, I went on.

“And last week, I delivered a package to Sutton Place. After making a call, the doorman sent me to the eighth floor. A small guy with a stubbled face and in pajamas answered the door.” 

I looked straight at Mr. Morris for the first time and said, smiling, “Know who it was?” 

“Who?” He smiled back.  

 “Peter Lorre!” I laughed. “Tipped me two bucks.” 

 Mr. Morris laughed, too. 

While he sipped his coffee, I pinched tuna bits from my plate, wanting to go but also to stay. 

“Where do you go to school?” he then asked.

 “Chelsea Vocational.”

 “On West Broadway near Houston Street, isn’t it?” 

  “Yeah,” I answered, surprised he knew of it.

  “And where did you learn to swim?” 

I never talked about the Reconstruction Home, not even with Mom and Pop. That would be complaining. Could hear Mom: Yer shud thank the Lard, yer shud. Lots’ av it worst.  

“The New York State Reconstruction Home in West Haverstraw.” The words popped out.

Mr. Morris nodded. Then, casual-like, he began asking about my time there,

triggering long-parked memories. I was uncomfortable, and my answers were

stiff, with zero elaboration, but still respectful. They went something like this:

I got polio in 1940 and was four. Mom said at Rockaway Beach. Was in an Iron Lung at Bellevue Hospital for a week or so. When I got out of the Iron Lung, they sent me to the Reconstruction Home. Stayed there for nineteen months. First, both legs got full casts. Then, just the left. Next came the long braces. I started to walk again. But the left foot didn’t work right. They operated on it in three places and had a cast again to the knee. I then got my braces back when the half-cast came off. That’s when Mr. Cooney taught me to swim. Being the youngest kid at the Reconstruction Home and not in school, Mr. Cooney let me swim a lot. ^[1]

“Have to go, Pat,” Mr. Morris said suddenly, looking at his watch.

He put change on the counter, picked up his overcoat and fedora, saying,

“Seeyou in the pool. And by the way, I have a gym class at six on Tuesdays and

Thursdays. Stop by if you like.” 

His abrupt departure disturbed me, feeling I’d chased him off with my curt responses. Probably now thinking I’m some dumb ass.

Watching Mr. Morris leave, I was surprised he walked almost normally, notlimping like in the pool. Looking closely, I saw that the shoe on his polio legwas built-up, an inch or so, and was smaller than the one on the good foot. Iwore regular shoes, high-top Hush Puppies fitted to my size eight right foot. Always high-tops. They laced more securely to the size five left foot. To hold theshape of the oversized shoe, I’d stuff paper into its toe. Still, it would eventuallycurl up and flatten like a clown’s shoe. And I’d re-stuff it. I was envious of Mr. Morris. But Pop would never buy two pairs of different-sized shoes, pay a shoemaker to add a lift, and then toss half of each set in thegarbage. I could hear him: Bloody waste o’ money! You’re gettin’ along al’ rite as is. No matter, talking to Mr. Morris somehow felt good.

Walking to the dank locker room, a long-parked ditty danced in my head:

Mama, Mama,

Take me home,

From this Reconstruction Home,

I’ve been here a year or two,

Now I want to go with you.

Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay,

Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay.

^1] Bird, Patrick J. A Rough Road (2^nd ed.). 2012.  Available at Amazon.com: books, Kindle eBooks, and through Barnes & Noble and all great bookstores. (Tells the story of Paddy’s nine-teen month stay at New York State Reconstruction Home age 4 to 6.)

Chapter 6 Note: The story of polio and the Reconstruction Home: Bird, Patrick J. A Rough Road. Paperback | Barnes & Noble,. and eBooks: Bird, Patrick: Kindle Store, amazon.com

__________________________________

Chapter 7

YMCA Swimming vs Gymnastics

Chapter 7 Summary: Watching the Y gymnastics team practice, flying about like Bert Lancaster in the Crimson Pirate,  I’m invited to join the “novice” group. I skip swimming for gymnastics then meet with the swim coach to quit  his team for gymnastics. He doesn’t try to dissuade me, not a tiny bit, considering myself his best freestylers. The swim instead coach gives me a great gift.

  I joined Mr. Morris’ Tuesday and Thursday gym class, which focused on physical fitness: twirling dumbbells, tossing medicine balls, push-ups, sit-ups, chinning, and calisthenics. Never having had a gym class in school, I found the activities different but not much fun after a while. However, as Mr. Morris stressed, they were good conditioning for swimming. 

After class, I’d sometimes stand in the doorway of an adjacent gym and watch the Y gymnastics team practice. They were something else, particularly flying around on the horizontal bar like Burt Lancaster in The Crimson Pirate. One day a coach helping guys out on the parallel bars, Serge Seuto, came over and invited me to join his “beginners” group. I said sure but felt apprehensive. The “beginners” didn’t look like beginners, like some could swing to handstands. 

Just like that, I was on the West Side YMCA Gymnastics Team. I soon began skipping gym class and, more importantly, swimming practice to do gymnastics. It was so much more exciting, challenging, and daring than following the black line at the bottom of the pool, lap after lap after lap. 

Soon, good old Catholic guilt took hold. I had to officially quit the swim team and gym class. I owed Mr. Morris that. Dilly-dallying for weeks, I finally got up my courage. I left gymnastics practice early, changed, and went to the lunch counter. From there, I had a view of the lobby to see Mr. Morris leaving. I’ve been thinking of what to say to him that wouldn’t come off as ungrateful or anger him too much. He’d surely want me to stay with the swim team. Being truthful is best, I decided. I’ll tell him gymnastics is more fun than swimming and stuck up the impending wrath.

Mr. Morris, in overcoat and fedora, finally appeared, moving quickly toward the exit. I jumped from my stool. 

 “Hi, Mr. Morris,” I said, rushing beside him.

 “Hello, Pat,” he replied without slowing down.

 “I…I want to quit swimming,” I sputtered anxiously. “I’m… I’m now on the Y gymnastics team.” 

  “Good for you. The team’s a winner,” he said, glancing at me but kept moving. “Good luck, Pat.”

  I stopped dead. Mr. Morris had blown me off like a table crumb. I couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t upset, not a bit, not even surprised. Nothing! Just “Good luck, Pat!” And I was one of his best swimmers. I took second in the 50-yard and third in the 100-yard crawl at the Kips Bay Boys’ Club Open the week before going AWOL. 

Dumbfounded and crushed, I stood watching Mr. Morris push open the steel-studded dudgeon door where he hesitated, looked back, calling, “You here tomorrow?”      

 “Yes. For sure! Yes!”

  “Meet me at the food counter before your gymnastics practice.” 

He disappeared out the door. I trailed behind him, berating myself for overreacting, thinking:  He just had no time to convince me to stay with swimming. Tomorrow, he’ll do that then. 

Picking at a sandwich and waiting the next day at the counter, searching for something better to say than gymnastics is more fun. If I said that, Mr. Morris would think I was saying gymnastics is a better sport than swimming. Or worse, he wasn’t a good coach, or I didn’t like him. 

I settled on saying nothing. Let him talk away, trying to convince me to stay with the swim team. When he finishes, I’ll say I simply don’t want to do that and accept the consequences.

 A brown grocery bag hit the counter, startling me. 

“Here’s something you might be able to use, Pat,” Mr. Morris said, appearing beside me.

 “Oh, hi,” I answered.  

  “Open it.” He smiled, standing there as if enjoying the moment.

 Reaching into the bag, I pulled out a pair of long white gymnastics pants.  

  “Wow,” I declared, holding them up. 

They were like those worn by head gymnastics coach Johnny Van Aalten. When I turned again to Mr. Morris, he was already walking away. 

 “Thanks! Thanks! Mr. Morris,” I shouted after him.

He waved casually over his shoulder.

Despite Mr. Morris’ great gift, I sat there feeling hurt. He hadn’t tried, even a little, to convince me to stay with his swim team, my inner voice chiding: You’re a good swimmer, but not that fucken’ good. 

I neatly folded the great gymnastics pants, slid them into the grocery bag, and headed for gymnastics practice—could hardly wait to try them on.

____________________________

YMCA Gymnastics 1951

CHAPTER 8

Chapter 8 Summary: The YMCA Team was coached by volunteers, head coach a member of the Dutch National Gymnastics Team before WWII. The gym was strange: flaunting gay guys eying us and thundering crashes of barbells.  I struggle to control the polio leg on the apparatus and landing dismounts. In the Y boxing room with fellow gymnasts from Manhattan’s  notorious Hell’s Kitchen, my pugilistic skills are  challenged.  

The Y gymnastics coaches were volunteers. Head coach Johnny Van Aalten was a diamond cutter by trade, also a Dutch National Gymnastics Team member before WWII, and a resistance fighter during the war. Serge Souto was an accountant working for the NYC Civil Service. And Bill Buffer, who still competed on still rings and flying rings, was a draftsman.

The gym where we practiced was the size of a half basketball court with the usual gymnastics apparatus that we had to set up before practice and remove when finished. Halfway up the two-story wall facing the gym entrance was a long window-like opening covered by chain-link fencing. Behind it was the weightlifting room, the source of nerve-shattering explosions as barbells crashed to the floor. And shadowy ape-like forms, fingers entwined in the fence, would gaze down at their acrobatic orangutan cousins. 

Besides us orangutan, other creatures appeared on the gym floor. A long, gaunt fellow, hardly more than skin and bone, would stand arms stretched above his head hands clinging to a climbing rope while lazily gyrating his body, eyeing us as if pleading: Please rescue me.The twins, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, short guys shaped like bowling pins with squat legs attached, would sit side by side on a bench, watching us perform for hours. There were the shirtless guys in tight shorts who’d work out with the wall pulley weights longingly gazing at one gymnast or another. And every so often, this tall blond character, face girlishly painted and wearing something resembling a pink leotard, would haughtily sashay into the gym, perform ballet exercises at the stretching bar, and sashay off coyly smiling at us. 

The gym oddities made for a distinctive and entertaining training environment. And then there was, of course, the locker room shower with gays courting gays. It was all essentially unaggressive. I was hit on only once over the years, a tapping on my bathroom stall door, a whisper, “Lonely in there?” and a fitting New York reply, “Fuck off!”

***

About fifteen of us, ranked novice, junior, senior, were regulars at practice, which was pretty much laid-back. I was soon doing well on the horizontal and parallel bars, okay on the pommel horse, and best on still rings. Vaulting and floor exercise, forget it. My polio leg thigh was no thicker than my knee, and the lower leg was little more than a stick. The muscle was not there. Sitting in a chair, for instance, I hadn’t the strength to extend the polio leg. I did better, however, moving the pathetic thing side-to-side. This was critical. To keep the polio leg from flopping about like a wet noodle on the apparatus, I could press it against the good leg, which would serve as a kind of splint. 

Dismounts were naturally a problem. The good leg took nearly the full impact on landings, while the polio leg could only help steady me in a cane-like fashion. My dismounts had to be spot on, or I’d totter about and sometimes fall over. To develop landing strength and balance, I began by jumping off a two-foot-high bench, gradually progressing to rolled-up mats, and eventually from the top of the pommel horse.

Anyway, by the summer of that first Y year, I was showing off at Astoria Park. While guys did pullups and dips, I would do kips and front and back hip circles on the chinning bar and swing handstands on the parallel bars. To really show my stuff, I’d climb to the top of the monkey bars and press to a handstand—impressive, at least to me, and hopefully to any chicks hanging about. 

I’d found my sport. Its daring, exhilaration, and thrill were like being a Ringling Brothers circus performer. And as Lady Luck would have it, I was in the right place at the right time. As Mr. Morris said, the West Side YMCA gymnastics team was a winner, not just locally but soon nationally—a rising tide raises all boats, even one with a lousy rudder. 

***

Arriving early at the Y from my J. Walter Thompson messenger job, I’d spent time before practice in the boxing room trying to get the hang of the speed bag. There, I began a close friendship with Gordie Christie, a junior-level gymnast, and John Pesha, aka Pesha, a senior performer. With his black hair and deep-set dark eyes, Pesha reflected his Yugoslavian ancestry. Gordie was all Irish, brown curly hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. Hollywood handsome. Both were from Manhattan’s Hell’s Kitchen. 

One day, they entered the boxing room wearing punching bag mitts and stood watching me struggling away at the speed bag. 

“Pat, see, you don’t know shit ’bout hittin’ the bag. Probably ya Astoria guys are no better at boxing.”

  “We do okay,” I answered, embarrassed by my inept speed bag skill but quite confident of my boxing ability. 

 “Show me.” Gordie laughed and playfully sprung into fighting position. 

We began sparing, me moving forward in my Jake LaMotta style, Gordie skipping about light-footed like a dancer, tapping me every so often. Head down, I doggedly advanced, trying to maneuver him into a corner. But Gordie would spin away, pawing at me, stepping slide side to side, tapping me here, there, and everywhere. He was having a ball, and with mounting frustration, I chased after him. 

All the while, Pesha pounded away at the heavy bag: left jab-jab-jab followed by a terrific right cross, sending the one-hundred-and-fifty-pound sack rising almost to the ceiling. I’d find out later that Pesha was a middleweight on the New York City College boxing team and both he and Gordie were PAL-trained as kids.  

“I quit!” Gordie throws up his hands. “Ya fuckin’ wearin’ me out.”

 “Okay, Gordie, guess you can’t handle it,” I replied, laughing but feeling quite humbled. I hadn’t laid a solid hand on him.

 “Pat,” Gordie said, going over to the speed bag. “Let me show you how to hit this.”

He started slowly and gradually picked up speed until the bag clattered off its wooden support like the rattle of a Gatling Gun. Then, with a sharp right, he silenced the bag. 

  “Now, Pat, the first thing is to know the rhythm. You hit the bag.” He lightly punched it. “Let it bounce off the support, come back, and rebound forward again. When the bag comes back the second time, that’s when you hit it again.” He slowly hit the bag several times. “You let the bag rebound three times for every hit. It’s easy. You’ll soon get the hang of it.”

After that first encounter with Gordie and Pesha, we often met in the boxing room before practice. I eventually managed the speed bag but never got it rattling like a Gatling Gun. And whacking the heavy bag with Pesha’s baseball-bat power? Maybe in another life.

Chapter 9

Hell’s Kitchen

Chapter Summary. Hell’s Kitchen, hanging out there with fellow Y gymnasts Gordie and Pesha, was like being on the set of On the Waterfront, absent Brando and crew. But real. The scene included Pk’s Candy Store, a number’s operation, and Horse Head Ralph’s swag shop selling whatever the longshoremen swiped from ships docked at Pier 88. I hear a yarn about Ralph and stevedore Angelo’s trip to Cuba and the “almost virgins” that kept them company.  

Two million people lived in Manhattan in the 1950s, 300,000 more than today, in fifty-two neighborhoods scattered jigsaw fashion across the island. Many neighborhoods were, and some remain, ethnic enclaves such as Chinatown, Lower East Side and Upper West Side (Jewish), Koreatown, Harlem, Spanish Harlem, Little Italy, Yorktown (German), and Hell’s Kitchen (Irish) where Gordie and Pesha lived. 

Hell’s Kitchen, extending from West 34th to West 57th Streets and 8th Avenue to the Hudson River, was one of Manhattan’s two most notorious neighborhoods, the other being Little Italy. The Genovese Mafia family-owned Little Italy illicit activities. The Irish Mob, ruled by Hughie Mulligan, controlled Hell’s Kitchen’s gambling, loansharking, extortion, and the looting of ships’ cargo, passenger luggage, or whatever wasn’t nailed down aboard the vessels. Mulligan also managed the “shape-up” where longshoremen showed up on the waterfront at 7:00 a.m. looking to be picked for a day’s work; a toothpick behind the ear signaled to the hiring boss that if chosen, Mulligan and the Irish Mob get a kickback. The Both neighborhoods, at the time, had one thing in common besides gangsterism, drug dealing was forbidden. 

Gordie and Pesha lived in tenements on West 48th Street, between 9th and 10th Avenue. Like most locals, their fathers worked on the Hudson River docks. The center of the neighborhood action was PK Candy Store, known as PK’s, on the corner of 48th Street and 10th Avenue. Besides ice cream and candy, at PK’s, you could buy beer for fifty cents, airplane-size bottles of hard liquor for a buck, cigarettes at two for a penny called loosies, and what PK referred to as girly magazines. I bought the inaugural issue of Playboy, December 1953, from PK—Marilyn Monroe smiling on the cover in a low-cut black halter and gloriously naked in the centerfold. 

PK’s main business, however, was fronting for Mulligan’s loan sharking and numbers racket where the player guesses the last three digits of the total amount of money placed at a particular racetrack on a specific race day. For example, “PK, give me 625 at Belmont on the 16th.” The Daily Racing Form reported the take at each track. 

Also, if in a shopping mood, PK, a bony old man with a cigarette constantly dangling from his lip, would direct you to an apartment where you could buy dock loot—”Good stuff, cheap!” Another Mulligan operation. 

My introduction to Hell’s Kitchen was on a summer evening in 1953 was drinking beer in front of PKs with Pesha, Gordie, and some longshoremen. It was sweltering hot with locals sitting on their stoops and tenement windows wide open to catch any whiff of air. Half-listening to the group’s banter, my eyes were on kids up the street dashing in and out of water blasting from a wide-open fire hydrant. As I watched, one of the older kids forced what looked like a tin can open at each end into the hydrant outlet and directed the gush of water up in the air, the other kids dancing crazily under the downpour. The can-holder then turned the water on the tenements, hosing the stream back and forth across open windows. 

“Sonny, you little shit!” a large woman leaning halfway out a window screamed, “I’ll come kick ya little ass, ya do that again!” 

A burly guy then rushed from a stoop and clouted Sunny across the back of the head, knocking him to the ground. The can shot from the hydrant: the cool rush of water back drenching the street and the kids. 

Oh, to join them, I’m thinking.

Gordy’s loud, laughing voice brought me back to the group. “Hey, how was the trip!” 

Two guys carrying beers approached. One was short and square, built like a deck of cards, Angelo. The other, Ralph, was about 6’5″ and Sumo wrestler -built. With his massive head and a long, hooked nose, Ralph was known as Horse Head Ralph—but no one called him that to his face.

“Ya can’t fuckin’ believe it! Cuba’s fantastic!” Angelo answered as he and Ralph joined the group.

 “Like go’n ta pussy heaven,” Ralph jumped in, curling his upper lip to expose large brown teeth in a horsey smile.            

Angelo began the account. “We drank our way from La Guardia to Miami International. Drinks is fuckin’ free. Then a short hop from there to the Havana airport. Soon as we leave the terminal, this skinny little spick runs up sayin’, take ya to the hotel and fix us up with two,” Angelo emphasizes, “almost virgins.”

That got a good laugh.

“After some price dickering, the spick, he takes us in his rattle trap Buick to the Riviera Hotel & Casino. Now, I’ll tell ya, the place it’s classy like ya never seen. Chandeliers, all thick carpet, fuckin’ marble everywhere. An’ this giant casino with lines of slots and packed wi’ roulette, poker, blackjack, baccarat tables—the works. So, we gets a two-bedroom place, ocean right out the window. The spick, he ushers in these two beauties. I mean, really fine, and the price dirt cheap.” 

  “They speak English?” someone asked. 

“Nah. Not much. We talked in grunts and groans,” Angelo answered, sparking another good laugh. 

“We naturally spend the rest of the day in the sack gettin’ acquainted with our young ladies. We then hit the casino, got the girls buckets of slot coins, and me and Ralph we go to the blackjack table. We won a little an’ lost more, but drinks is on the house!” 

Angelo stopped and took a swig of beer as if signaling that was the end of the story. 

“Other than screwin’ and blackjack,” Gordie asked, “do anything else? Like, I mean, what’s Havana like?” 

“Water’s right out the window. What’s ta do?” Angelo responded with a shrug.

“The pool.” Ralph nudged Angelo. “Tell ’em ’bout the pool.” 

“Ya gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’, Ralph.” Angelo laughed. “These pricks will be forever breakin’ our balls.” 

“C’mon! Let’s hear it!” someone demanded. 

  “Okey, I’ll tell ’em.” Ralph took up the story. 

“Next mornin’ the girls, they disappears after breakfast in the room and comes back with this Rahul in tow. He’s maybe fifteen. They want to take the kid to the pool. Sounds good, I says. My girl then says we got no bathing suits. Would ya fucken believe it? Wants ta go swimming and got no bathing suits. So, I buys us all ones in the lobby shop, and we hit the pool. 

“Like everything at the Rialto, the pool it’s first-class, even got a divin’ tower like at the Olympics. Me, Angelo, and the girls, we stretch out in lounge chairs, drinkin’ rum and cokes, watchin’ Rahul jumpin’ off a low springboard. For the hell of it, I waves two bucks at the kid an’ points for him to jump from the tower. Rahul climbs to the first platform. He walks back and forth, lookin’ over the edge like he’s scared shitless. I yells, up there! The top one! 

“Rahul puts up five fingers. I add another three bucks to the kitty. He climbs to the top. Again, he goes back and forth, lookin’ over the edge each time. Ain’t gonna jump, I’m thinkin’. Rahul then runs to the edge. Chickens out. My girl then says offer him more. What the hell? I wave a ten-spot, which she grabs, tucks in her bathin’ suit bottom, and gives Rahul a thumbs up. 

“Rahul, he walks to the platform’s edge, turns round, and stands balancin’ on his toes. Yup,” Ralph shakes his head laughing, “the little shit, he’d fuckin’ done this before. And Rahul, he swings his arms, jumps backward, does two somersaults, and hits the water headfirst with ‘ardly a splash.”

We all laughed, and Ralph goes on. 

“And my girl, tenner tucked away, then tells us proud-like—as if I haven’t just been ripped off—Rahul’s her fuckin’ brother and one of Cuba’s top divers.”  

Among the laughter, a guy standing beside me named Freddie shouts, “Should-a kicked some ass, ya ask me.” 

“Nah,” says Ralph, horse smiling. “So, girls and kid, they do a little con. I mean, it’s Havana, ain’t it?” 

“So, ya drops big bucks in Cuba,” Freddie again, “gets suckered by spick whores. Big deal. Could-a went ta Harlem and got yourselves ten-dollar black asses and saved yourselves the trouble.” 

Ralph gives Freddy a look that could score steel and says calmly, “They was nice girls, Freddie, not whores.”

With that, the group adjourned to PKs for refills, except for Ralph and Freddy. I could see them out the window standing close together: Ralph talking down at Freddie, and Freddy looking up, arms bent at the elbows, fists clenched, as if ready to defend himself. 

Freddie then stepped back, raising his hands in appeasement while Ralph turned for PKs, Freddie following behind him. Anticipating some action, I was sadistically disappointed, not considering the action could be deadly — this was Hell’s Kitchen, not Astoria. 

“Freddy’s big mouth gonna someday get him in real deep shit,” said Pesha beside watching the scene. 

Pesha later told me the back story of the Cuba trip. Angelo worked the docks. Ralph ran the swag shop and collected overdue loan shark debt for Mulligan. Angelo and Ralph had been best friends since grade school. Ralph then hit big on the numbers one day, decided to take a trip, and invited Angelo to go along on his dime. With all the press about Havana’s Mafia-controlled nightclubs and casinos—to Ralph, Angelo, too, Cuba was the exciting place to go. 

“The invitation,” Pesha concluded, “was also a welcome-home gift to Angelo, who’d just returned from a stint in the army.” Pesha laughed.  “Fuckin’ enlisted knowing he’d likely be sent to Korea. When I asked why he did such a dumb-ass thing, he said he was fed up with the docks. With no union seniority, Angelo got the crap jobs and killin’ gooks he figured was better than breakin’ his balls in the hold of stinkin’ rat-infested ships. Well, as it turned out he went from frying pan to fire.”

Pesha then retrieved a postcard pinned to the wall, pinned there along with other bric-a-brac, and handed it to me. The card showed a snow-covered rock beach and a glowing iceberg in the distance. The message on the back: 

HI ALL

I’M A FUCKEN PRIVATE SECOND-CLASS STEVEDORE IN LABRADOR— SUCKS!

ANGELO

***

I visited Ralph’s swag shop in a 48th Street fourth-floor railroad flat one day. He lived in the front living room, neatly set up as a bedroom. The goods were in three connecting rooms. The first had cases of Scotch whiskey, French wines, rounds of Italian cheeses, and packs of cured meats. Men’s and women’s clothes and suitcases of all sizes filled the second room. The third contained small items like watches, clocks, pocketbooks, gloves, silver flasks, and wallets, all displayed nicely on shelves. 

Due to their layout, with windows only in front and back, railroad flats are dark and funky with stagnant air: of course, no ACs then. However, the swag rooms were well-lit, spiffy, clean, and smelled of pine needles. 

 “Who comes and buys?” I asked as Ralph showed me around.

“Neighborhood guys, mostly suits and dresses for weddings, wakes, christenings, and other big occasions. Madison Avenue types, too, and cops.   Guinea gangsters is my big customers buyin’ Italian suits, shirts, and ties. Also, Rolexes are big wi’ dem.” 

“Ralph, where’d the profits go?” I stupidly enquired.

“Ya don’t wanna be askin’ that.” He gave me a sharp, head-shaking look.

On the way out, Ralph handed me a silk tie, saying, “Italian. On me. But next time ya buy somethin’.” 

Hanging out on West 48th Street was like being on the set for Elia Kazan’s On the Waterfront: unfortunately, absent brooding Brando and beleaguered Eva Marie Saint. Hell’s Kitchen, though, was real, not make-believe. The neighborhood had a nasty, sometimes deadly, underbelly that I was unaware of at the time.

And the name Hell’s Kitchen?

“Street bull shit has it that a seasoned Irish cop and a rookie were working a riot in the neighborhood,” Pesha informed me. “The rookie declared, ‘This place is hell itself!’ The seasoned Irish cop responded, ‘Sure me lad, hell ’tis a mild climate. This is hell’s Kitchen!’”

________________________

Chapter 10

Chelsea High School Discipline

Chapter 10 Summary: With just two classes needed to graduate, I’m assigned to vice-principal Penner’s Office, filing and answering the phone, and encouraged to study for the Transit Authority Electrician’s Exam, gateway to a top NYC job. Mr. Penner handled discipline. Serious offenders, like the stabbing of shop teacher Mr. Lux, were carted off to juvenile prison. Minor offenses Mr. Penner, a WWII Army Intelligence Officer, handled. One of his methods, involving blindfolds and batons, I covertly observe.  

By my last semester at Chelsea, I needed but two courses to graduate, having used my PE time, with Mr. Penner’s okay, to take extra classes. To keep me busy, Mr. Penner assigned me to his office to answer the phone and do filing. Also, he encouraged me to use that time to study for the Transit Authority Electrician’s Exam. Passing with high enough marks would mean being hired on as an electrician for the subway system, one of New York City’s top trade jobs: big money and excellent benefits, including retirement with full pay in twenty years. 

When trouble occurred, the students involved were sent to Mr. Penner’s office. He took care of minor offenses, usually fights. For repeated violations, it was expulsion if sixteen years old, if younger, a transfer to the prison-like Tyron School for Boys in upstate New York. For something severe, as when Mr. Lux got stabbed, the offender is taken to Rickers Island, the infimums jail on an East River Island in the Bronx. I didn’t witness the stabbing, but Cheatham saw it and said Mr. Lux got just a flesh wound and, with one punch, coldcocked his assailant, now residing at Rikers. 

 I had a desk in the reception area next to a large window into Mr. Penner’s office covered from the inside with a closed Venetian blind. From there, I witnessed one of his methods for dealing with minor offenses; rumor had it that he had an arsenal of disciplinary techniques drawn from his time as a WWII Army Intelligence Officer. 

One afternoon, Mr. Penner entered the outer office where I sat, followed by a black and a Puerto Rican, both looking pretty roughed up, obviously from a fight. They went into Mr. Penner’s office, and he shut the door.  I peeked through a break in the closed Venetian blinds. It was eerie dark. The only light came from a desk lamp, and the street blinds were closed. The guys were sitting in chairs facing one another, knees almost touching and looking very uneasy. 

Mr. Penner said something. I couldn’t hear it. Then he went to a file cabinet, the guys anxiously watching, and returned with some rope and what looked like strips of black cloth. He began tying the wrongdoers to the chairs with the rope, leaving their arms free.  

“Hey man, what ya doin’—ya can’t do this! Ain’t fuckin’ right!” I could hear them loudly protesting:

“Shut up! Watch your language!” Mr. Penner barked. 

Next, Mr. Penner blindfolded them with the black cloth. 

“What…what ya doin’… can’t do this.” The protesting is now panicky.

“Shut up!” Mr. Penner again demanded.

The tie-up, the blindfolded duo, looked as if strapped to electric chairs, with the warden about to throw the switch. Mr. Penner went again to the closet and fetched out what resembled batons, three of them. When back beside the guys, I could see the implements more clearly. They appeared to be tightly rolled up newspaper, about twice the thickness of a broomstick, and wound barber pole fashion with black tape. Each one was like three feet long. 

Mr. Penner put a baton in the hand of each of the guys. 

“Man, what’s this for?” came the responses as they blindly explored their batons. 

Standing over them for a moment, Mr. Penner, with his baton, then whacked the Puerto Rican on the head. 

Smack! The sound is loud and clear. 

“What the fuck!” The Puerto Rican yelled—reaching frantically to pull off his blindfold.  

“Don’t touch that!” Mr. Penner pounced.  

Smack! Mr. Penner whacked the black guy.

“Ya shit-ass spick!” the black guy bellowed, naturally thinking the Puerto Rican delivered the blow. 

“Language!” Mr. Penner hollered and let the Puerto Rican have it. Smack! 

The Puerto Rican viciously retaliated on the black guy. 

Smack! Smack! The black guy struck back. Batons were then flying. 

Smack! Smack! Smack!  

Every so often, Mr. Penner would put in a solid lick, timing it so the guy hit would think it came from his opponent.

At this point, I was quietly laughing. It was like a Three Stooges sketch:  Curly whacks blindfolded Larry, blindfolded Larry whacks blindfolded Curly, unmasked Moe adding to the mayhem. The only thing missing was some zany Spike Jones piece.

The guys went at each other full tilt, bits of paper flying, with Mr. Penner contributing. After, say, five minutes, Mr. Penner tossed his baton out of sight behind his desk. 

“That’s it, boys! Fun’s over!” he called out, reached into the action, pulled the batons away, and dropped the shredded tubes to the floor. 

The combatants, sweating and breathing hard, were permitted to remove their blindfolds. Mr. Penner squatted beside the chairs, talking for a minute or so, couldn’t make it out, stood, and untied the ropes. 

When the office door opened and the guys filed out, Mr. Penner, following them, said almost kindly, “Boys, I hope you don’t go through that again. But any more trouble, you’ll be right back here. And mind you, I have other means of entertainment.” His voice then went hard. “You understand—don’t you!?”

“Yes, sir!” The replies were respectful and certain. 

As the offenders passed me, heads hanging down in defeat, I’m surely each thinking the other got the best of him, thanks to Mr. Penner’s timely smacks.

When they left, Mr. Penner returned to his office. I ventured a last peek through the Venetian blind. It flew open. Mr. Penner stood there glaring at me! 

Toward the end of the term, I took the written portion of the Transit Authority Electrician’s Exam at the Manhattan Transit Authority headquarters along with fifty or so other hopefuls.

______________________________

Chapter 11

Discouragement, Drinking, Stupidity

            I graduated from Chelsea in June 1954, able to wire about any structure to code, repair electric motors, and fix most electric appliances on the market. Mom was in the graduation audience. Sadly, not Pop. He was painting someone’s apartment that Saturday. 

The principal welcomed and congratulated the graduate’s representing carpentry, auto mechanics, and electric wiring: only eighteen of us. As Mr. Penner predicted, attrition was about 70%, including Walsh, who was gone at age sixteen. To my great surprise, Cheatham went to the stage and sat at the piano, had no inking he played, and accompanied English teacher Miss Stine singing “The House I Live In.” A black student named Roof then belting out in a Paul Robeson bass-baritone voice, “Ol’ Man River” followed by “Stout-Hearted Men.” All quite schmaltzy, but it was great.

The principal announced the “top students” next. I had all A grades in my Chelsea “academic” subjects and E’s (excellent) in shop classes. But with my lousy Long Island City High grades averaged in, I ranked third behind Cheatham and some auto mechanic guy. Standing to be recognized, I glanced at Mom—all smiles, pleased as Punch. After the ceremony, Mom and I had a celebration lunch at the Times Square Automat. 

That was it for Chelsea, so I thought.

***

The letter arrived a few days after graduation, saying I’d passed the Transit Authority Electrician’s Exam. For Pop, it was as if I’d won the Irish Sweepstakes, and for me, too. The next step was a physical at a Bronx Armory. It included chinning, push-ups, sit-ups, and such. With two years of gymnastics training, no problem. My one worry was the broad jump. I made it with room to spare. 

The City of New York Examining Board notice came several weeks later. I tore into it—one short paragraph, the last phrase, a sharp knee to the groin: 

“…disqualified due to a physical deformity.” 

I couldn’t fuckin’ believe it! I ripped the letter to shreds. 

That summer, I worked full-time at J. Walter Thompson while applying for electrician jobs. Lots of openings were listed in the New York Times help wanted pages. I’d apply and get a bite. The interview would go great until something like— “So, what’s with the limp?”

“Polio.”

“Oh!” 

The catch would wiggle away. 

***

Eventually, even Pop saw the writing on the wall. One night, well into his cups, he said he’d buy me Joe’s Bike Shop, which was up for sale, him thinking, no doubt, that would set his gimpy kid up with a decent living. It was the drink talking. He hadn’t the money. Also, the notion didn’t appeal to me at all. I like working on bikes, but every day for the rest of my life, repairing, renting, selling in that little shop under the L, forget it. But Pop’s heart was in the right place.

Then there was the idea of going to sea. That came up during a visit by Pop’s brother, a British merchant seaman, ship’s carpenter. With the same steel wool eyebrow, quick smile, and scouse accent, Uncle Jack was practically Pop’s twin. And he was a WWII hero of the “Battle of the Atlantic,” which ran from 1939 through 1945 as the Germans attempted to stop Allied merchant ships from delivering US goods for the British war effort. Uncle Jack repeatedly made the treacherous crossing until the Nazis were defeated. 

As Uncle Jack told it:  

Survival wasn’t good, especially in the early years before convoy crossings. Could be torpedoed by U-boats. Hit a mine. Be shot at by    Luftwaffe aircraft comin’ outta nowhere. U-boats, though, they wuz the worst. Sunk 2,603 Allied ships. Got meself torpedoed three times. One hit left me tryin’ ter stay afloat for 20 hours in the cold Irish Sea wi’ a bloody broken arm to boot. By war’s end, one in four British merchantmen wuz killed —a higher ratio than any of the Queen’s armed forces. But dem poor blokes on the U-Boats. They had lot worst. That they did! Three out four of went ter the bottom wi’ their boats. ^[1]

Over beers in Brown’s with me and Pop, Uncle Jack said he could get me on a British ship as an electrician’s apprentice. With Pop born in England, he said I could obtain a British passport and get into the British Seafarers Union. Going to sea had appeal. See the world! Nothing came of it, though. Even had it gone somewhere, a physical exam would likely have ended my chance. I wouldn’t have done it anyway because I’d have giving up gymnastics and wasn’t ready to do that. Still, it was a fun conversation at the bar in Brown’s.

***

As my failed job search went on, I was becoming depressed and, on top of that, began drinking too much. Like I’d bounced around The City after workouts with Pesha and Gordie. 

We’d typically start at The Landmark Tavern on 10th Avenue, located around the corner from PK’s Candy Store. The bar was always alive with neighborhood girls, longshoremen, local Irish Mob guys, and a never-silent jukebox spinning 45s: Frank Sinatra’s “Young at Heart,” Teresa Brewer’s “Till I Walk Again with You,” Tony Bennett’s “Rags to Riches,” The Four Aces, “Love Is a Many Splendored Thing.” And no coins were required instead of the usual five cents a play, six for two bits. The Mafia controlled the jukeboxes in most city bars. As “a gesture of friendship toward the Irish mob,” Pesha told me, play on the Landmark Wurlitzer was free. 

From The Landmark, we’d go to The Whitehorse in the West Village to hear Noreen McKenna sing. We’d also occasionally go to Rockaway when she appeared at the Leitrim House, one of the beaches’ many Irish bars. Noreen had this lovely Irish singing voice, as if she was born and bred in the Emerald Isle. But when just talking, her o’s were pronounced aw’s while g’s and r’s at the end of words were missing. Noreen was a Hell’s Kitchen girl whom Gordie and Pesha had known her since grade school. 

Another destination was McSorley’s Old Ale House, the oldest standing bar in the Bowery, which opened in 1854. Besides its longevity, McSorley’s posted claim to fame was: Good Ale, Raw Onions, And No Ladies. A carving on an ancient ice chest behind the bar further set the tone—Be Good Or Be Gone.

McSorley’s was unique, with its sawdust-covered floor and walls plastered with photos, paintings, news clippings, and other bric-a-brac accumulated over the century. The clientele ranged from the upper crust to the downtrodden. Adding to its fascination, the Ale House was a hangout for prizefighters, most well over the hill. 

Pesha would point them out. Like Pop, he knew the fight world well. “Hey look, there’s Billy Conn, two-time Light-Heavyweight champion… There’s Henry Armstrong, winner of the lightweight and welterweight titles, sitting with Barney Ross, who took 135, 147, and 147 lbs. titles, first to win three separate weight classes…” Once, even Rocky Marciano came in shaking hands with guys at the bar, including me, saying in his gravelly voice, “Glad ta meet ya.” A real treat!

So, the nights went, with our alcoholic outings ended at a Blarney Stone. Thirty-four of these working-class pubs then operated in Manhattan. We’d sober up on two-inch-thick roast beef or corned beef sandwiches, shepherd’s pie, a chicken leg the size of a leg of lamb, or my favorite: meatloaf served with a volcano of mashed potatoes overflowing in brown gravy. Each selection, two bucks—a dime, a beer.

***

That was the drinking. Now stupidity. Sometimes, on our escapades, we’d go to the Irish Dances. They were held at the Turnverein, a German social and athletic club in Yorkville where we occasionally worked out there with the gymnastics team. For the Saturday event, the club’s gymnasium was converted into a dance hall with a bandstand, tables covered in green cloth, and three wildly busy makeshift bars.  

Along with the day’s standards, a band played Irish jigs, reels, and polkas featuring the lively tin whistle and the bodhran, a handheld drum played with a wooden dowel, the heartbeat of Irish traditional music. One of the bandmembers also sang, a fine tenor who’d tear up the Irish girls, guys, too, many straight off the boat with the likes of, “I’ll Take You Home Again Kathleen.” The sad songs were typically followed by rousing drinking songs, “Whiskey in the Jar” and “The Irish Rovers,” everyone joining in. The night would end with some haunting ballad, like “Kevin Barry,” about an eighteen-year-old IRA member, hung by the British in 1920 during the Irish War of Independence. That would hush to the crowd, followed then by an anti-British jingle, the entire congregation joining in: 

Up the long ladder and down the short rope,

To Hell with King Billy, and God bless the Pope,

If that doesn’t do, we’ll tear ’em in two,

An’ send ’em to Hell with their red, white, and blue!

Well, this one unfortunate night, we selected, as usual, a table occupied with unaccompanied girls. Gordie and Pesha immediately escorted two of the ladies to the dance floor. There, Gordie moved with Fred Astaire’s ease while Pesha shuffled about like an oil-starved windup. 

I didn’t dance, not wanting to make a fool of myself, never mind embarrassing a partner. I’d sat absorbing the music and taking in the grand party while happily drinking beer and unlike me sipping Jameson’s Irish Whiskey. Usually, my drink was only beer, but Gordie bought shots to celebrate his passing the NYPD Police Officer Exam. 

It was well into the night. The band had just returned to the stage after a break. I’m blotto by then. One member went right to the mic. To my bleary eyes, this little redheaded fellow in his green band outfit was the figure of a Leprechaun.   

“My name’s Tim O’Brien,” the Leprechaun announced in a thick Irish brogue. “I play the pocket trumpet an’ tin whistle, as yer may ‘av noticed. Now me trumpets gone. That wee instrument, t’wuz a gift from me dear ma, God rest ‘er soul. An’ ‘tiz mar precious ta me than all I ‘ave in this world. And I must have it back.” 

Suddenly, I felt the bulk under my jacket, my mind spinning with alcohol. How’d it get there? I tried to remember. A fuzzy picture emerged: I went to the toilet when the band took its break. Coming back, I saw it, sitting so prettily in its stand at the edge of the empty stage. I took it!

“Whoever ‘as taken me trumpet,” Leprechaun pleading, “please return it to me, a band member, or staff person. No police—no consequences! ‘Tis a promise. Surely it wuz but a prank. No ‘arm is done. Please Give return me instrument— God Bless!” 

The Leprechaun went to his place, taking up the tin whistle, and the band burst into an Irish reel. The dance floor filled, including Gordie and Pesha. I got up and fled in dizzy panic, holding tightly the trumpet under my jacket. After vomiting at the curb outside, things then went blank. 

The next thing I’m waking up on my cot in the curtain-draped alcove, head pounding like a jackhammer. The curtain-draped alcove was my bedroom. Our apartment had two bedrooms: Mom and Pop in one, my younger brothers, Billy and Johnny, in the other, which, until recently, was shared with my sister Kate. She just married. 

I fished under the cot, praying it was all an alcohol-juiced dream. It wasn’t. I pulled out the pocket trumpet and sat sadly inspecting the beautiful piece of work. It was about half the length of a regular trumpet, had four valves, the finger buttons capped in ivory, and brass so brightly shined it clearly reflected my wretched face. 

With everyone at Sunday mass, the apartment was empty. I quickly dressed, took the trumpet into the kitchen, wrapped it in newspaper, and tied the bundle tight with string. Returning to the alcove, I put the package in my gym bag, also pulled it from under the cot, and left. 

The weather fit my mood, gray sky, and misty rain. On the way to the Ditmars L station, I got a glimpse of myself reflected in a store window thinking: a limply, bedraggled Raskolnikov with his ax stashed in a gym bag.  

While the train rattled toward Manhattan, my head against the cool window to ease the alcohol revenge, I tried to figure out why the fuck I stole the trumpet: To sell it? I was no thief. To play it? Didn’t know how. In my drunkenness, I figured that the instrument appeared to be some lovely little toy. Like a child, I had to have it. 

It was raining hard when I arrived at the Turnverein and entered Hans Jaeger’s, a German restaurant on the building’s first floor. The place was empty except for this tall, burly bartender with a shiny bald head—Daddy Warbucks—behind the bar polishing a glass.

“What can I get ya?” he said, smiling at me, half-drenched.

 “Do you know Tim O’Brian?” I answered, going to the bar.

“Yup. Plays trumpet.”

 “He around?”

“Nope,” the bartender replied, polishing away.

I took a deep breath, relieved I wouldn’t have to face my victim, and asked, “Will you be here when Tim O’Brian shows up?”

“Yup. Here till ten tonight.”

I took the package from my gym bag and put it on the bar, saying, “A friend asked me to give him this. He’d do it himself but is sick. Would you do that?”

“Sure,” the bartender said, eying the bundle.  

He then put the glass and cloth aside and walked over to me. His neck was thick above the beefy torso of an Olympic weightlifter. 

“What’s it?” he asked, taking the package and lifting it up and down as if gauging its weight. 

“Don’t know,” my heart pounding like a bodhran closing out a jig.

He placed the bundle back on the bar, his squirmy eyes now drilling into mine. 

“Could it, by chance, be a little trumpet?” 

 It was time to get out of there! As I spun away, his hand, the size of a baseball mitt, grabbed my arm. 

“Hold on,” Daddy Warbucks growled, squeezing my bicep with vice-like power.

I tried to jerk away. He yanked me back hard against the bar, my mind screeching: Hit the fucker with the trumpet! Instantly rejected. If the trumpet didn’t kill him, as it surely wouldn’t, Daddy Warbucks would be over the bar and on me before I’m two steps to the door. 

“Sit!” he barked as if commanding a naughty dog. 

 I gave him my fiercest tough-guy stare. He chuckled, tightening his grip. I sat. 

 “Ya friend, now he’s done a very dumb thing. And ya wanna let the theivin’, lame-legged asshole know he was seen doin’ that very thing.”

Again, a mighty squeeze as his bowling ball head leaned forward, our foreheads about touching. Give him a fuckin’ header! Now! My inner voice demanding. Again, dismissed. Miss, I’m dead meat.

“An’ ya want-a tell that dumb friend if he’s seen ’round here again, I’ll personally kick his ass up one side of 85th Street an’ down the other!” 

Daddy Warbucks then released my arm and stepped back casually, spreading his baseball mitts along the edge of the bar, and in kindly bartender fashion, he said, “Now, on Tim O’Brian’s behalf, I wish to thank you for the trumpets’ return. What’ll you have?”

I slid from the stool, grabbed my gym bag, and walked to the door. Daddy Warbucks’ final words, oozing with contempt, “Have a good day!” 

I flashed a middle finger. 

Raging inside at the bartender and my sorry self, I went west from Hans Jaeger’s to Fifth Avenue. There I cut through Central Park for a scheduled workout in preparation for the YMCA National Championships. The rain had stopped, and passing the reservoir, the sun broke through turning the gray water a golden blue.

 I smiled: The world hadn’t ended.  

“Where ya go last night? “Gordie harassed me as I entered the gym. “Sneaked off with some Irish chick? 

“Yeah, I wish. Went home,” I said, going to do jumps off the pommel horse for landings practice.  

After that, I joined my teammates at the horizontal bar, put on my handguards, chalked up, did a pullover to the top of the bar, and swung up towards a handstand. Circling the bar in giant swings, my troubles vanished in the flow and thrill of the movement, thinking: Gymnastics, such a beautiful sport.

In the end, the catastrophe was a wake-up call. I knew I had to pull my life together and accept that my grand plan—be an electrician, get a Local 3 Union Card, make big bucks—was on the rocks, likely doomed. And I had to curb my drinking straight away. That awful night was my last taste of hard liquor—until my romance, moderately fueled by lovely Cutty Sarks Scotch Whisky.

Chapter 12

Career Change

Toward the end of the trumpet fiasco summer, the J. Walter Thompson dispatcher sent me to the Garment District to pick up a gown for delivery to a T.V. studio in Rockefeller Center. The gown wasn’t quite ready. So, with time to kill, I took the subway to Canal Street and walked to Chelsea for a chance to meet with Mr. Penner. Maybe he’d have some advice regarding my search for electrician work; perhaps a I know somebody lead. 

Mr. Penner welcomed me and listened to my job search story. He then asked me to wait in the outer office. After a few minutes, he called me back.  

 “Are you willing to return to school for a few months?” he asked, phone to his ear.

“Back to school?” 

“Yes. To become a mechanical-electrical draftsman.” 

“Sure,” I answered, naturally wondering what’s this all about. 

Mr. Penner motioned me to sit and then said into the receiver, “Dan, yes, he’s very interested.” He then looked at me and said, “Are you free tomorrow morning at ten?” 

“I can be.” 

Mr. Penner relayed my answer, listened briefly, thanked Dan, and hung up. He then explained that building on my Chelsea training, I could become a mechanical-electrical draftsman, and there was plenty of work for drafting technicians. 

“How much will it cost?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about that now. You have a ten o’clock interview tomorrow at The Delahanty Institute of Drafting,” he said, writing on a slip of paper, which he folded and handed to me. “Take along your Chelsea transcript. Wear a suit. Look sharp. First impressions count.”

 I put the paper in my pocket. Mr. Penner stood and extended his hand across the desk, smiling. “Good luck, Pat.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Penner.” 

On the subway back to the Garment District, I took out the slip of paper and unfolded it:  

Mr. Dan Shay

10:00 am

The Delahanty Institute of Drafting 

115 East 24th Street 

The following day, I arrived at 115 East 24^th Street, an intimidating silver plaque on the door—THE DELAHANTY INSTITUTE OF DRAFTING. I kept walking. At the corner, I turned back, knowing I had to follow through. I owed that to Mr. Penner.

The entrance area was small, upscale, and very pleasant. The receptionist, hair draped to the side Lauren Bacall-style, smiled beautifully when I introduced myself. She said, almost teasingly, Mr. Shay would be right with me. 

  From a cozy leather chair, I watched well-dressed men—suits, ties, spit-shined shoes like me—enter the reception area and pass through a door behind my Lauren Bacall.

A middle-aged man then came out the door the suits entered. He was tall, partly bald, and dressed in J. Walter Thompson casual: candy stripe shirt, no jacket, chinos, and penny loafers. “Mr. Shay,” he introduced himself. I followed him back through the door and into a large, windowless, brightly lit room where about two dozen men were working silently at rows of drafting tables. The room had the sterile, dreary feel of a New York State Rehabilitation Home ward, beds replaced by drafting tables. 

We went into a small office at the back of the room, furnished with a drafting table and a small yellow plastic table with matching chairs. A blank blackboard filled one wall, and drawings of machine parts and wiring diagrams covered the other walls. Again, no windows.

Mr. Shay got right to business as we sat at the table, asking for my transcript. His finger then slid slowly down the column of courses and grades, saying without looking up, “You did well at Chelsea, not at Long Island. You haven’t taken algebra or trigonometry, just this Math for Electricians.” 

“That had some algebra in,” I said quietly, feeling this wasn’t working out and wanting to leave. 

“Students we accept have more substantive academic backgrounds than yours,” Mr. Shay said, looking up at me. “They also come to us with work or military experience, usually both.” He paused as I waited for the coup de grâce. “But you know something about electricity. Most applicants don’t know a watt from an ohm. You have a leg up there. Most importantly, Mr. Penner has highly recommended you.” 

Mr. Shay got up, rummaged through a wooden file cabinet, and returned, placing official-looking forms and a colorful brochure on the table. 

“Fill out and return the application,” he said, sitting back down. “The brochure explains that mechanical-electrical drafting is a nine-month curriculum, 1,000 hours of instruction, and working on various projects in the drafting studio. Lectures cover design techniques, principles of drawing precision technical plans, machine production and processes, fasteners, tools, and types of materials…” He rattled on like the bored priest reciting mass for the umpteenth time. 

“Any questions?” 

“Have I been accepted?” 

“Fill out the forms. You’ll be notified by mail.”

“How much will all this all cost?” I gingerly followed up.  

“Oh, yes, Mr. Penner said you had polio. Nearly forgot about that.” He got up and went again to the file cabinet. Returning and remaining on his feet, looking as if ready to get rid of me, he said, “Complete these forms as well and include any official documents you have concerning your Infantile Paralysis history. That’s important. Then, if you are admitted, we’ll talk about tuition and fees. On your way out, have Ms. Nicolson make a copy of your transcript and social security card.” 

I thanked him and went back through the silent drafting studio, which now looked far more inviting. I felt I had a chance, though a long shot, at sitting at one of those tables.

“Thank you. See you again, Ms. Nicolson,” I said with a smile when she returned my copied transcript and social security card and took down contact information.

“Goodbye,” she said softly with a sexy smile, me fanaticizing Bacall cooing to Bogart in To Have and Have Not: “If you want me, just whistle. You know how to whistle, don’t you?” 

Leaving work early, well before Pop got home, I went home and told Mom about the possibility of Delahanty and Mr. Shay’s request for information about my polio history. I also asked her to say nothing to Pop, afraid he’d kill the possibility. Supportive as ever, Mom agreed. 

The only thing she could find was a photostat given to her upon my release from the Reconstruction Home, which read: 

New York State Reconstruction Home

West Haverstraw, New York

 #2769 Bird, Patrick J.   Catholic.

Admitted: October 8, 1940   

D.B.: December 8, 1935

Address (on admission): 6836 Burne Street, Forrest Hills, Long Island

Address (on discharge): 452 Yates Street, Albany, New York

Parents: William – Anne (McGowan)

A. D.   Poliomyelitis, onset September 24, 1940

H. D.   Post-polio. Involving both lower extremities

Remarks:  Discharged – May 10, 1942

                        Orthopedic Condition.

Operations: 1/12/42 – Transp. Of ext. hallucis longus and ext. digitorum longus with arthrodesis joint, left.

2/21/42 – Myringotomy, left ear 

…

“Good morning,” Lauren Bacall greeted me the next morning with a brilliant smile. 

“Good morning, Ms. Nicholson,” I smiled back, handing her an envelope containing the photostat and the completed application. “Would you please give this to Mr. Shay?” 

“I will, indeed.” 

Another captivating smile.

***

After checking the mailbox every day for a week, the letter finally arrived:

Dear Mr. Bird,

The Delahanty Institute of Drafting has admitted you as an Electrical/Mechanical Drafting student. You should report for orientation on Wednesday, September 14, at 9:00 am. Classes will commence Monday, September 21, at 9:00 am. 

Please call and make an appointment with Mr. Danial Shay several days before orientation to discuss financial arrangements. 

Cordially,

Barbara Nicolson, Administrative Assistant

Fantastic, but for the words financial arrangement. There was nothing to be arranged. I had no money, nor did Pop. 

I was again at The Delahanty Institute first thing the following day, in suit, tie, and spit-shined shoes. 

“Well, Mr. Bird, isn’t this a nice surprise?” my lovely Lauren Becall greeted me.

  “Hi. I got your letter and thought I could see Mr. Shay.” 

 “You should make an appointment by phone, as my letter stated.” 

She sounded annoyed but opened a black leather book and flipped back and forth between pages. 

“Place is quiet,” I said, trying to make nice.

“It’s between sessions,” she answered, all business-like. “Mr. Shay has an opening tomorrow at 9 am.”

 “No sooner, maybe like now?” I pushed, trying not to sound too assertive.

  “Nope.” She closed the black book. “Tomorrow, 9 am.”

 A familiar voice came from behind me: “Good morning, Ms. Nicolson—and you, too, Mr. Bird,” 

“Good morning,” Ms. Nicholson answered. 

I turned to see Mr. Shay, dressed in a sports shirt and Levi’s, approaching us. 

“And Mr. Bird, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” he said friendly-like.

After explaining my purpose, Mr. Shay invited me to his office, where he took a folder and a white cloth sack from the file cabinet. Sitting at the plastic table, he went right to the point as last time.

 “The Federal Government, through the state, will reimburse the Institute for your tuition and fees.”  

“Wow. Why?”   

“Uncle Sam, in his wisdom, has set aside funds to help the disabled get job training. It’s all explained here.”

 Mr. Shay opened the folder and handed me a paper titled Vocational Rehabilitation Program for Americans with Disabilities. Excited by my good fortune, my eyes wandered blindly over the paragraphs.   

“Legalese rambling,” Mr. Shay said, offering me a pen. “Please sign and date it at the bottom of the last page to indicate you have read the document. I have welcoming gifts for you, also by way of Uncle Sam.” 

I sighed. He slid the white sack toward me, stenciled in red with Delahanty Institute of Drafting, saying, “Inside is the Machinist’s Handbook, your draftsman bible, compasses, and a slide ruler. Basics to get you started. So, that’s it until we meet again in a few weeks.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shay,” I said as we shook hands. 

 Delahanty bag in hand, I about danced through my beautiful drafting studio and into the reception area. 

“Have a wonderful day,” a sweet voice called out as I left.

“It’s been a terrific start. Be seeing you, Miss Nicolson!”  

***

Now, there was Pop to deal with. He will feel blindsided and want to put the kibosh on Delahanty. Though the training was free, I’d have to live at home on his dime for nine more months. Pop had to buy into it.

I waited until the following weekend when I’d be helping him paint an apartment kitchen in Woodside, one of Pop’s freelance “decorating” jobs. Saturday morning, we loaded up his ’36 Chevy with paint, benzene, spackle, drop cloths, brushes, scrapers, sandpaper, clean-up rags, and a ladder tied to the top of the car. I tossed my rucksack in the back, containing our baloney sandwiches, Cokes, and the white Delahanty gift sack. 

At the empty apartment, we spread drop cloths on the kitchen floor. Pop mixed and readied the paint, and we went to work. My job was to paint the pantry while Pop prepared the kitchen walls, sanding, filling cracks with spackle, and the like. I’d painted many closed-in spaces for Pop. And it wasn’t too bad at all. Breathing in the built-up, sweet-smelling benzene fumes produced a mild high, making the time fly. 

Pop was a stern taskmaster—”If it’s worth doin’ a-tall, it’s worth doin’ well.”—but a cheerful boss. He liked to work. Even following a night of heavy drinking, he’d be on the job the next day revived by the hair-of-the-dog: a raw egg, a shot of whiskey, several shakes of Lee & Perrin’s Worcestershire Sauce, a sprinkle of pepper, pored unmixed in a glass and downed in one gulp. 

The morning passed quietly. Sitting on the floor side by side during lunch, I began by telling Pop I saw Mr. Penner about electrician jobs, and he suggested I be a draftsman, emphasizing good pay and lots of work, and concluded with my interview at the Delahanty Institute of Drafting. I tried to soft-peddle my remarks like it was just a pipe dream, not a done deal.

Pop sat eating away, saying nothing.

I then showed him the slide rule, the compasses in a black case, and the Machinist’s Handbook. He shrugged them off but with a glance. 

As we finished lunch, I reached the story’s crux, “I’m accepted at the Delahanty Institute. It’s free. What do you think?” 

“Ay think we should get back ta work,” he said, getting to his feet.

Delahanty was dead as a doornail, I felt. 

At six o’clock, we called it a day. Driving home along Northern Blvd, Pop looked at me and said, “What you say we stop at O’Hanlon’s? You can show me again what you got from the draftin’ school.”

 “Sounds good, Pop,” I smiled back at him, thinking: Delahanty ain’t quite dead yet! 

O’Hanlon’s was a seedy, old guy’s saloon located adjacent to the stairway up to the Ditmars L platform. As we settled in at the front end of the bar, a few hands waved to Pop. He responded in kind. Jim O’Hanlon, Astoria-born and raised, greeted us with his well-practiced Irish brogue and took our order: beer for me, boilermaker for Pop. 

“Let’s’ ave a look at that Machinist’s Handbook,” Pop said as we waited for our drinks.

I took the manual from my rucksack. It was the size and heft of a family bible with the same type of flimsy pages. Drinks arrived. Pop downed the shot of whiskey, took a long drink of beer, and began paging through the tome, pausing here and there to study a diagram, table, or what caught his eye. 

“Learnin’ even a bit of this would be doin’ somethin’,” he finally remarked, waving over Jim O’Hanlon for another around. 

“So, as ay understand,” he shifted around in his stool to look at me, “you want to be livin’ in the ‘ouse, bringin’ in no money, and not lookin’ for electrician’s work? And how long would that be?”

“But—but,” sputtering in defense, “I’d get a job after school on weekends, too. It’s only nine months, Pop.” 

“This school cost nothin’. That so?”  

   “Yes, the Government pays.”

 “Well, that’s somethin’,” Pop chuckled. “And when you finish, you’ll be a draftsman, making good money, with a world of work open to you?”

“Well, yes. That’s kinda what Mr. Penner said.” 

“An’ ‘all this been goin’ on for weeks while you’re not tellin’ me ’til today?” he grumbled, giving me a stern look.

“It wasn’t real ’til last week, Pop,” I replied, worried he was now getting angry.

Turning back to the bar, he downed the second shot, took a sip of beer, and turned again to me with a slight smile softening his face.  

“Well, Paddy, go ahead wi’ it if you must.” 

 I wanted to give him a big hug, but that was culturally unmanly, so I settled for squeezing his arm and saying a heartfelt, “Thanks, Pop.” 

 “Go on now. I’ll be ‘coming later. Yell yer mam, the car got a flat, and I’m fixin’ it.” 

  “Pop! Mom won’t believe that.” 

He shrugged, slipped from his stool, and walked down the bar, calling out, “Hey, Danny! It’s been a while. Let me buy you a drink.”

____________________

Chapter Notes: 

*The Federal Government reimbursed New York State, which reimbursed The Delahanty Institute for my tuition and fees per the Smith-Fess Act signed into law by President Woodrow Wilson in 1920, also known as the Civilian Vocational Rehabilitation Act.

*Benzene is a toxic chemical oil that was once widely used as a solvent to thin paint, clean brushes, and whip up paint spots. Breathing it in unventilated spaces resulted in a mild high, like sniffing glue. The Consumer Product Safety Commission banned it in 1978.

_________________________

Life on the Upswing

 Chapter 13

The Delahanty students were older, a nose-to-the-grindstone bunch, and all men. The day began with lectures on such things as slide Ruler Operations, Detail Drawing Techniques, Fasteners and Threads, Gears and Cams, and Conversion Tables. The afternoons were spent learning to make detailed manufacturing drawings, ranging from simple brackets to gearing assemblies. 

My primary drafting instructor was Mr. Shay. He was easy-going, but measurement errors morphed him into a Mr. Hyde. The most fun was making three-dimensional assembly drawings: each part to scale, shaded to show subtleties, labeled, and parts carefully numbered: artistic in its way. We lunched at our drafting tables, and most, including myself, worked beyond the 3:00 pm end of the school day. I usually quit at about 5:00 pm and went to the Y for quick lunch counter snack and then to gymnastics practice, except on Fridays. 

Unable to work for J. Walter Thompson during the day, I got a night job stocking shelves at the local A&P. Each Friday, I’d go home, eat, rest, and clock into the A&P at 9:00 pm. I was part of a four-man crew led by a skinny, super-hyper guy in his forties who set this frantic pace. We’d moved boxes from the basement by conveyor belt, take them by dolly to assigned aisles, clean and restock the shelves, flatten and tye the empty boxes, cart them back to the conveyor belt, and send the empty boxes into the basement—repeat again and again except for a thirty-minute “lunch” at 2 a.m., cold-cut sandwiches and sodas on the house. 

I’d clock out between 8 a.m. and noon Saturday, totally whipped. It was hard work. But I earned more in one night at the A&P than in a week at J. Walter Thompson; though strolling about mid-town Manhattan on my messenger rounds, that was entertainment not really work. 

The nine months at Delahanty flew by, with the last few weeks dedicated to assembling a portfolio of drawing samples to show prospective employers. My primary piece was a three-dimensional blow-up of a motor-gear assembly. As for the seductive Ms. Nicholson/Bacall, she was a lovely tease who enjoyed our good-natured attention as we did hers. 

***

The day I received my Delahanty Institute Certificate, qualifying me as a mechanical/electrical draftsman, I called about a job posted on the studio bulletin board at a company called GAL Electro-Mechanical Elevator Services. I picked that posting because the company was in Manhattan. I wasn’t interested in applying to IBM upstate in Poughkeepsie or Northrup Grumman on Long Island. They were hiring big time. But that would mean giving up gymnastics. No way. 

Invited for an interview that same afternoon, at three o’clock, sample drawings in a tube tucked under my arm, I walked east on 110th Street from the 3rd Ave L through a section of East Harlem: a Puerto Rican neighborhood like in West Side Story, but no sign of Maria or the Jets. GAL was on a block with small motor, sewing machine, and appliance repair shops. And there was also La Stripper Feliz (The Happy Stripper) which restored old furniture. 

Still shell-shocked by my electrician job denials, I was super apprehensive. Entering the building, a worker directed me to a second-floor office. There, a tall, slim thirtyish man with an open collar and loose tie was bellowing into the phone:  “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Tomorrow! Tomorrow! Always tomorrow! Fred, I need the fuckin’ material now. Today!” The only other person in the small office was working diligently at one of two drafting tables. 

The phone caller slammed down the receiver. Seeing me standing at the doorway, he waved me in. 

 “I’m Herb,” he said, coming toward me, smiling, and extending his hand.

“I’ve come about the drafting job,” I said, shaking his hand.

“Sure, you’re number four.” He sounded a little frustrated, emphasizing four. “Take a seat over there.” He motioned to the empty drafting table.

“I have some work samples,” I said, offering him the tube.   

“Give them to Mr. Glazer. Be here soon.” 

As I sat at the drafting table, Herb returned to the phone and resumed barking away. The person at the other drafting table, thin, white shirt sleeves rolled up, no tie, maybe also in his thirties, nodded a welcome. I nodded back. The drafting table where I sat seemed ready for a project. A sheet of legal-size paper had been taped in place. There was a T-square, compass, pencils and eraser, angles, and an architect’s ruler. 

Fiddling with the compass, I inspected cramped space. The walls were yellowish and bare. A fan slowly turned in the middle of the ceiling. Four hanging fluorescent fixtures brightly lit the place. There were lots of gray file cabinets with stuff piled helter-skelter on top. All in all, messy and austere.

A small balding man in a suit, looking disheveled, suddenly rushed by me. Herb handed the man the phone receiver. The man said a few words quietly and gave the receiver back to Herb, who shouted to the caller, “You heard him. Today or never!” 

“So, vat’s ya name?” the man said in a heavy Jewish accent as he approached me. 

I introduced myself, said I was from the Delahanty Institute, and offered him my sample tube. He waved off the tube and dug into his jacket pocket, pulling out a thumb-size copper bushing, and placed it on the drafting table.

 “Vant ya ta draw an’ label dis. Increase length by 3/16th, flange by 1/16th, and outer diameter by the same. Inner diameters increase by 1/32nd.” he said as I scribbled the instructions on the bottom of the paper taped to the table.  “Be quick, too!” He rushed away. 

I went to work, finishing in about an hour. The little man returned, took the architectural ruler, and methodically checked each dimension of the resized bushing. 

“Vell, vant it, da job?” he asked, putting the ruler aside and looking at me over the rim of thick glasses. 

“Yes, yes. Thank you.” I said, heart pounding —got the job!

“Be here in the mornin’. Mr. Leon, he does employment.” He turned to the other drafting table, “Jerry, show ‘im ‘round,” then looking back at me, “Ya name’s vat?” He was then gone in a rush without giving me his name, presumably Mr. Glazer.

 The shop was the size of two basketball courts and noisy, with drills, lathes, metal saws, and the intermittent pounding of what sounded like a heavy hammer. The smells were oil, grease, burnt rubber, and sulfate. Jerry explained that twenty men worked in the shop, manufacturing elevator components, from switches and interlocks to door operating systems, about everything but the elevator cab itself. 

Heading for Mr. Leon’s office at the tour’s conclusion, Jerry informed me that Mr. Leon handled the company’s business end. Mr. Glazer, who evaluated me, ran manufacturing, and Mr. Abramowitz was the creative force and inventor of new devices. Herb is the salesman and troubleshooter, Mr. Glazer’s right-hand man. 

Mr. Leon, who sat neatly attired behind a paper-strewn desk, outlined, in a soft Jewish tone, the job specifics, including salary—all terrific.  

Leaving GAL, I floated up East 110th Street on a cloud of joy. I had work as a mechanical-electrical draftsman in Manhattan. Passing the La Stripper Feliz, I smiled, thinking: La Draftsman Feliz.

_____________________________

Chapter 14

YMCA Nationals 1955

By 1955, I’d been a gymnast for four years, advancing from novice to junior-level competition. The area coaches, competitors, and, most importantly, the judges had gotten used to a polio guy often competing against the “able-bodied.” My first significant performance test was the New York City Junior Gymnastics Championships held at the West Side YMCA. 

Chalking up my hands for pommel horse and trying to calm my usual almost blinding performance anxiety, my heart stopped as I glanced toward the gym entrance. There was the shadowy image of Pop, overcoat and suit jacket hanging open, fedora cock-eyed on his head. I squinted, looking closely. It was him and two sheets to the wind. 

My name is called. Lightheaded, performance anxiety spiking from the sight of Pop, I mounted the apparatus, immediately fell off, and stumbled but managed to stay on my feet. Remounting, I finished the routine, dismounted, and looked for Pop. He was nowhere in sight. For an instant, I felt released. Maybe he hadn’t seen me screw up. Then, a wave of sadness hit me. Pop had never seen me do gymnastics, not even swing to a handstand on the parallel bars in Astoria Park. Even with my lousy start, I wished he had stayed. “Ah, well, move on,” I grumbled to myself. I placed third on horizontal bar, second on parallel bars, and first on rings, all top performances for me then. Based on my Junior Championship showing,

***

 Based on my  NYC Junior Championship performance, Coach Johnny Van Aalten selected me to compete with the team at the National YMCA Gymnastics Championship in Dayton, Ohio. We had won the championship the year before at the Brooklyn Central Y —we, that’s a stretch. I didn’t compete, not good enough at the time. 

Eight of us piled into two cars for the trip to Dayton:  Gordie Christie and John Pesha, my Hell’s Kitchen drinking bodies, Mike Arimborgo, Dick Mohr, Lou San Andres, Abie Grossfeld and Assistant coach  Serge Souto. During the ten-hour drive, the entertainment in my car was telling jokes, mainly Abie Grossfeld dishing them out. For every joke someone rattled off, Abie came up with three on the same topic with his spot-on timing. He could have been a headliner in “The Jewish Alps,” Catskill Mountains, with the likes of Jerry Lewis, Mel Brooks, and Woodie Allen. 

Besides top comic, Abie was our team superstar  (winner of all events at the 1953 Maccabean Games held in Israel, and at the recent Pan American Games in Mexico City, he took gold on horizontal bar and bronze in floor exercise, rings, and parallel bars; the US came home with the team title). 

We stayed at the Dayton YMCA, which is huge, like the West Side Y. The meet kicked off in the early morning, with teams from all over the US and several from Canada queueing up outside the competition gymnasium. We were the last team to be called to the floor, and a loudspeaker blaring, “The New York City West Side YMCA, 1954 Team Champions.” We marched single file into the gymnasium to a rousing rendition of “Stars and Stripes Forever,” me tingling with pride.

We won the team championship again, with Abie taking gold in each event except pommel horse. Pesha won that and placed second behind Abie in the all-around. My contribution was third on rings. 

Driving home after the competition, Abie talked about the University of Illinois, where he had recently accepted an athletic scholarship, which was new to me.

“The gym is large and just for gymnastics,” Abie said, “with everything always set up. There is no lugging out mats and apparatus. And Charlie (Chalie Pond, the coach) even gave me a key to the gym.”

I felt a touch of jealousy—free college just for doing gymnastics. But higher education wasn’t on my radar. Abie was a champion, me run-of-the-mill. Crossing the George Washington Bridge, the sun rose behind Manhattan’s jagged skyline, and the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings towered majestically— a magnificent site. Unlike Abie, I could never, not in a gillion years, leave my glorious New York City. 

Among the West Side YMCA Team members, see Photo Story  (back row left to right) Russ Shoeman, Red McGlocklin, Gordie Christie, Dick Mohr, Assistant Coach Serge Souto, Abie Grossfeld, Lou San Andres, John Pesha (front row left to right) Pat Bird, Coach Johnny Van Aalton.

_________________________________

Chapter 15

Peg o’ My Heart

At GAL, Mr. Glazer would quickly pounce on work that did not meet his exacting standards: “Vot’s das shit! Do it again, mit eyes open” while encouraging me to go into the shop to see what I’d drawn come to life. In the process, I became a finer draftsman and learned about manufacturing processes from the friendly machinists. 

     Mr. Glaser was also generous. An intelligent suggestion meant a bonus in my pay envelope. Saturday work, lots of it, paid time-and-a-half; when leaving, Mr. Glazer would often peel an extra $10 from his money clip with a crisp “Danken.” And salesman Herb was very supportive. One morning, for instance, we were looking out the window at Jerry’s, my drafting partner, new Ford Fairlane. 

 “Pat, keep up the good work. Next year, we’ll be checking out your new wheels,” Herb remarked, giving me an encouraging patted my back.

Herb’s prediction came early. I heard an Astoria neighbor, an Irish lady, was selling the car belonging to her recently departed husband. The car was sitting at the curb before her house, and I went and checked it out: shiny black, no dents or scratches, excellent chrome, good tires, beautiful exterior. I knocked on the widow’s door to find what she was asking. 

 “Three hundred is the price,” she replied.

She let me look inside the car: again, pristine with lacquered wood trim, gray felt seats, less than a thousand miles on the odometer, and still had that lovely new car smell. With one twist of the key, the machine purred like a kitten. Trying the clutch, it went down easy. Another plus. The clutch in Pop’s jalopy, where he taught me to drive, was so stiff I had to push the bad leg down with my hand to depress it. That nearly cost me a driver’s license. Pop slipped the examiner a tenner to overlook the fault.   

Is three hundred your best price?” I asked the Irish lady, returning the keys.

“So, yer tink oi should ask more?” she answered.  

“No, no.” I laughed.

 “Gran’. ‘Tiz three hundred then.”

I agreed and asked for time to get the cash together. 

“I’ll hold it til the end of the week, naw more.”

 I went to the bank for a loan and was informed I needed a co-signer. Mom did that, together agreeing we wouldn’t tell Pop. Could hear him: You don’t go ’round borrowin’ money. Can’t pay cash, you bloody well shouldn’t’ be buyin’ a car.

And so, I became the proud owner of a 1939 Chevrolet Master Four-Door Sedan. Over a few celebratory beers with friends at the local Squirrel Bar, an upgrade hangout from Jacobi’s Ice Cream Parlor, the car got christened— Argo. 

Origin of the name:  Neighborhood squabbles were usually concluded nonviolently with “Ar-go-fuck yerself.” 

Ergo, Argo. 

Crude street humor. The handle stuck.  

 

***

Argo was Cupid bewitched. Cruising with a girl—the whiff of perfume, a glimpse of knee, soft music—was so sexy. I’d be charmed by whatever lovely was in the passenger seat, even before any hanky-panky, which was seldom in the offing. 

My popularity among the girls took off, as I had the only car among my friends. Emboldened by this elevated status, I asked out the most popular girl in the neighborhood, a beauty: tall, shapely, blue eyes with a tantalizing glint of mystery, like Ingrid Bergman in Notorious. 

 That was Peggy.

 I’d had a crush on her since we were grade school hallway “monitors.” She was in sixth grade, me seventh, when Mother Superior Sister Mary Agnus started a monitor system. One student per class was assigned to enforce silence as classes moved about the building. If a student talked, that student got a yellow ticket. A red ticket was issued if anyone in that class committed a second offense that same day. A red ticket meant thirty-minute after-school detention—for the entire class. 

 Being a hall monitor and wearing the identifying yellow sash wasn’t voluntary but a duty like wiping down the classroom’s slate blackboards. Some kids liked that kind of thing. I didn’t, but I had to do it. On my first day as a watchdog, Peggy was monitoring with me. I really didn’t know her well but surely wanted to.

“Paddy, it’s not right that the whole class is punished for the misbehavior of one person,” she said indignantly. “I’ll never, ever give a ticket.”

“Me neither. Let’s quit,” I said cavalierly, knowing quitting is not done. 

The next day, Peggy didn’t show up in the hallway. After school in Jacoby’s Ice Cream Parlor, a hangout near the Immac, I asked her why she wasn’t on duty: a good excuse to talk to her. 

 “I quit as you suggested. Didn’t you?” 

  “I was going to but got sidetracked. Plan to do it tomorrow,” I lied.

 A flicker of disappointment flashed in Peggy’s eyes. 

The next day, I told Sister John Alecia, the monitor coordinator, that I didn’t want to be a monitor anymore. 

“Why, child? It’s an honor.”

“Punishing all the class because one or two talked is unfair,” I said gingerly. 

 “Perhaps so,” she answered pleasantly, as if my complaint were reasonable. “If you are sure it’s what you want, let me have your sash.” 

I lifted off the yellow sash. Sister John Alecia took it, smiled, and walked off, leaving the impression that she may be on our side.

I later found Peggy in Jacoby’s and told her I’d quit.

“Good!” she said as if we’d done this incredibly moral thing. 

After that, when I’d see her, she’d always give me a smile and sparky “Hi, Paddy,” trembling me head to toe. Still, a relationship beyond casual friendship that wasn’t in the cards. I was the local crip, she the princess.

Anyway, forward six years, I remained captivated by Peggy. Emboldened by my new Argo-induced status, I asked her for a date, being quite specific so she wouldn’t think it would be on the cheap: movie at Manhattan’s Roxy, followed by dinner in Little Italy. 

Surprise, surprise! She accepted—at once!

***

I pushed the apartment buzzer dressed in a new suit, shirt, tie from Ralph’s 48th Street swag shop, and, of course, spit-shined shoes. The door right away sprung open. Peggy—sexy as hell in a slim green dress, white sweater, hair loose to her shoulders—greeted me with a lovely smile.

Off we went in Argo, me beside myself with excitement. Peggy talked about her new job as a switchboard operator at Belles Receptionists & Answering Service, which she said catered to movie and theater people like Yul Brynner, Candice Bergen, Steve Allen, and Rock Hudson.

 “We pick up all kinds of gossip over the phones. You’d be surprised.”

 “Like what?” 

“Can’t say. Sworn to secrecy.” She laughed.

The 6,000-seat Roxy Theatre, billed as The Cathedral of Motion Pictures, was on West 50th Street, off Times Square. Its marquee at the corner of the Taft Hotel building was typical Broadway, nothing special. But inside, that was something else. 

A circular red oriental carpet covered most of the lobby’s white marble floor, supposedly The Largest Round Oriental Carpet in the World. Blue-streaked marble columns rose maybe fifty feet toward a sky-blue domed ceiling surrounded by a gold border. Suspended from the center of the dome was a massive multi-tiered crystal chandelier. 

“It’s stunning, like out of the Arabian Nights,” Peggy said as we crossed The Grand Foyer Rotunda. “Have you been here before?” 

 “First time. What about you?”

  “No. No, never,” Peggy replied excitedly.

We climbed the wide, red-carpeted stairway to the first of three balconies. Looking for our auditorium entrance, we strolled around the gallery, passing Greek statues in niches, busts of stern-faced men on marble stands, and tall gilded framed mirrors hanging from the red velvet walls. Catching my reflection alongside Peggy, I didn’t cringe at my limping for once. I was the prince with a stunning princess. 

An usher dressed like a TWA pilot led us to the front row of the balcony, where we settled into cushy red velvet seats. Just above us was another enormous chandelier made of three inverted glass cones: The World’s Largest Light Fixture. Below us, left of the red velvet screen curtain, which had to be thirty yards across, a tuxedoed organist played lively tunes while swanky-dressed people filled the seats. 

The World’s Largest Light Fixture dimmed. The organ went silent as it slid back out of sight. The massive curtain then rose to the thundering beat of Bill Haley and His Comets’ “Rock Around the Clock.” The giant screen came alive:

BLACKBOARD JUNGLE

In the thrill of the moment, I so wanted to put my arm around Peggy’s shoulders. My inner voice jerked the reins: Whao! Don’t go screwin’ up!

***

After the movie, we traced our steps back to Argo, parked on Ninth Avenue, and drove to Greenwich Village. First stop, pre-dinner drinks at The Seven Steps. While at Chelsea, I’d often passed the bar, located in the basement of a brownstone, hearing piano music from inside. But I never ventured in. So, the Seven Steps was a shot in the dark, hoping for easy music in a romantic atmosphere. It was also just a short walk to Little Italy and for dinner at Paolucci’s Italian Restaurant.

As Argo weaved through the traffic, we sat quietly. Peggy was in her thoughts, and me—well, I was really upset. I’d picked Blackboard Jungle because it was at the Roxy. And I was kicking myself for not going to Rebel Without a Cause at the less spectacular Rialto on 42nd Street—a big mistake, like going to Broadway’s famous Sadri’s Restaurant and being dished out chopped liver. Blackboard Jungle stunk. What’s more, Peggy knew I had gone to a trade school. Now she’d think Chelsea Vocational was out of control like the movie’s dumb-ass North Manual High School.

The entrance to The Seven Steps was, fittingly, seven steps down from the Street. We entered near darkness. The only light seemed to come from candles in small red jars set along the long bar, like for church offerings. Piano music could be heard above the chattering, which was surpassingly mellow given the size of the crowd.  

 We made our way toward the music and into a lounge beyond the bar, where a disco globe slowly beamed pink circles around the ceiling while couples moved slowly about a small dance floor. A touch of panic: what if Peggy wants to dance? I shook that off, reminding myself to relax and not buy trouble. Beyond the dance floor was a grand Steinway piano surrounded by stools, several of which were occupied. A heavy-set blonde in a red gown was busy at the keys. 

We sat at a two-seater table with a churchy red candle. A waitress in a body-hugging dress, low cut to just short of her navel, took our order, two Cutty Sark and water, the first hard liquor since the trumpet tragedy. Au naturel sauntered off. With iron self-control, I didn’t ogle.   

“It’s so romantic, Paddy,” Peggy said, placing her hand on mine. 

 “Yes,” I answered, trembling inside under her soft touch. 

Sadly, she quickly removed her hand. We sat enjoying the music, light jazz, until our drinks arrived. “Anything else?” au naturally asked, bending over and placing the Cutty Sarks on the table; magically, her breasts didn’t slip out.

 “We’re good for now,” I smiled.

“She’s stunning,” Peggy said as au natural left. 

“She’s okay,” I answered, trying to sound coolly unimpressed.

 “Just okay! Paddy, take a good swig of your drink.” 

We laughed together.

After sipping our drinks, Peggy asked, “Well, what did you think of Blackboard Jungle?” 

Soothed by the music and alcohol, I answered calmly, “The movie got it wrong from the beginning.” 

“Wow!” Peggy’s eyes lit up, “didn’t expect that.” 

“Sorry, but Vic Morrow,” I quietly let loose, “the number one so-called hood trying to talk like Cagney sounded totally fake. And Glenn Ford was a real wimp. How could he let Morrow call him Mr. Daddy-O and even threaten to rape his wife, and she’s pregnant? And the other teachers, supposedly World War II vets who’d likely killed Nazis and Japs, let the gang trash the school; no way! At Chelsea, Morrow and crew would have been tossed out on their asses, more likely cuffed and carted off to…”

“Would you like to dance?” A soft voice interrupted me.

I looked up. There was a woman in a white suit and vest over a pink open-collar shirt with her hand extended invitingly to Peggy.   

“No, thank you,” Peggy answered with a smile. 

“If you change your mind. I’m nearby.” The interloper nodded toward a nearby table where a woman smiled at us. 

As the white suit walked away, Peggy began quietly laughing.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, feeling I must have missed something. 

“You know this is a lesbian bar?” Peggy whispered, leaning toward me.

 “Oh…is it?” 

I glanced around. Sure as hell, there were only girls with girls on the dance floor and at the tables. 

  “Peggy. Want to go?” I said, feeling like an eejit!

 “No, not at all. This is fun. But if you do?”

  “No, no. It’s terrific.” 

“I liked the movie.” Peggy brought us back to Blackboard Jungle. “It struck me as authentic, not, of course, knowing trade schools like you do. Sidney Poitier, now you must admit, he did an excellent acting job. And” a little smile turned her lips, “he’s so handsome.”

I agreed about Poitier, saying he reminded me of my Chelsea friend Cheatham, explaining that Cheatham, like Poitier, was from “the islands.” 

“And maybe you’re wrong about Glenn Ford,” Peggy continued. “He was trying in his caring way to bring order to the classroom, which had been running wild for a long time. He, too, did a fine acting job. So did Ann Francis as his wife.” 

I agreed that Ann Francis was good but held my ground on Glenn Ford. Our easy-going debate ended with us agreeing on one thing: the soundtrack: Bill Haley and His Comets’ blasting “Rock Around the Clock.” That was fantastic. 

We discussed other movies, the Astoria neighborhood, and mutual friends. I told Peggy a little about gymnastics, she knew nothing of the sport,  and Pesha, Gordie, and Hell’s Kitchen. The Hell’s Kitchen bit mainly was the Ralph and Angelo Cuba story. Peggy loved that. I didn’t go so far as to confess that my new outfit was stolen dock goods by way of Ralph’s swag shot. 

Time flew by, as did dinner at Paolucci’s. We filled up on bar nuts while the piano played almost nonstop, and its stools filled with women regularly singing along. At some point, two stools opened. Fortified by Dutch Courage, we took them and joined the happy group in singing: “Our Love Is Here to Stay,” “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend,” “Dat’s Love,” and more. And being the only apparent penis person in the company added for me a kind of sexy excitement. Great fun!

Peggy went to the ladies’ room as the night was winding down. I took the opportunity to approach Dawn, the piano player. When Peggy settled back in beside me, Dawn began toying with the keys while reciting sing-song fashion:

Oh! My heart’s in a whirl,

Over one little girl. I love her, I love her, yes, I do,

Although her heart is far away, I hope to make her mine someday.

Ev’ry beautiful rose, ev’ry violet knows, I love her.

With a flourish of the keys came the first bars of the chorus. Peggy leaned into me. I put my arm around her waist while our ensemble of voices filled e lounge:

Peg O’ My Heart, I love you,

Don’t let us part. I love you,

I always knew it would be you,

Since I heard your lilting laughter,

It’s your Irish heart I’m after…^[1]

Three a.m., thereabouts, Peggy unlocked her apartment door with, “I had a terrific time, Paddy, really did.” 

She then kissed my cheek—God, I wanted more than that. Restraining myself, I asked, “Would you like to go somewhere tomorrow or Sunday? Like drive into the city, walk around or something?” 

 “Have you been to Lake Ronkonkoma?” she responded.

“No. Heard of it. It’s out on Long Island?”

“Yes. I went to summer camp there as a kid. Never been back. We could go there, have a picnic, go swimming. I’ll pack us a lunch.”

Swimming! Hit with a 250-volt live wire jolt. 

 “We don’t have to go to Ronkonkoma,” Peggy said, likely picking up on my reaction. “It’s a long way. Just a thought,” 

 “No… it’s not that far… let’s do it…what time?” I answered with stumbling enthusiasm. 

 “Nine o’clock, okay? I’ll pack us a lunch.”

“Great. Nine is good.” 

“It’ll be fun. Good night, Paddy—oops! Good morning.” 

We laughed, and Peggy was gone. 

The thought of exposing the leg to Peggy ground away at me as I returned to Argo —for sure, it would turn her off. But wanting desperately to be with her, I couldn’t say no. And I didn’t have the wits about me to propose something else.

All things considered, I was a happy fella. My first date with Peggy went super well, even though the movie sucked. And I did get a kiss, sisterly as it was, her lips lingered delightfully as Louie Armstrong sings in his classic, “A Kiss to Build a Dream On.”    

 Tomorrow, I’ll deal with tomorrow.

***

The weather was perfect as Argo meandered along the Northern State Parkway. Peggy was quiet, watching the potato fields, Christmas tree, potato, and duck farms pass by and occasional turnoffs to the North Shore Gold Coast Mansions. Of course, I was worried as hell about what was coming. 

After getting lost along the winding roads at the end of the parkway—perhaps subconsciously delaying the inevitable—Argo found Lake Ronkonkoma. We parked, divided up the gear, and went to change. In the men’s dressing area, bathing trunks on, I unrolled the largest towel found at home and secured it around my waist. I must have looked like some half-wrapped Egyptian mummy outside, waiting for Peggy, towel hanging waste to ankles. 

Peggy appeared in a gorgeous yellow bathing suit, topped by the biggest smile in the world. I took the lead and selected a spot as close to the water as possible—a few quick steps before the unwrapped leg would disappear into the lake. We set up, and Peggy took off running into the water, swimming for a raft about twenty-five yards out. I released the towel and went after her. 

“C’mon up, Paddy! It’s lovely!” she called out after climbing aboard the raft while I dog-paddled beside it. Standing above me—Peggy was glittering wet, the yellow bathing suit clinging to her lovely body—I wanted desperately to comply. But no, couldn’t risk exposure.  

“I’m going to do some laps,” I responded and headed for the rope marking off the swim area.

“I’ll go, too,” and she dove beside me.

We swam some lengths and finished hanging on the rope, side by side, facing each other, Peggy’s body occasionally tantalizingly brushing mine.

“Beautiful, Paddy, isn’t it!” 

“Nice, but freezing.” I moved closer to her.

“You’ll get used to it.” 

 Our bodies met. Peggy gently kissed my lips, turned away, and took off along the rope. We went back and forth several more times and headed for shore, me making sure she waded out of the water first. Out of the water, I followed on her heels, grabbed my towel at the blanket, and mummified myself in a flash. 

We picnicked and swam several more times, me following my in-and-out-of-the-water masquerade: the child hiding behind hands over his eyes to hide. At a minimum, Peggy could see my scarred-up, undersized foot peeking from the towel as we ate and laid about talking and reading. But I couldn’t do otherwise. 

By the time we got back to Astoria, it was dark. We had pizza and beer at the neighborhood Half Moon Pizza Parlor. Then we parked beside Astoria Park, cuddling together, the Hellgate Bridge overhead and the lights of Manhattan off in the distance. We kissed, for real. I was in love! And maybe—just maybe—Peggy had fallen for me, at least a little bit. 

---

^[1]  Bryan, Alfred (words), and Fisher, Fred (music), Peg o’ My Heart, 1913. Public domain as of January 1, 2022.

________________________________

Chapter 16

1955-56 Florida Gymnastics Clinic

Attila Farkas, a former member of the Hungarian People’s Republic Olympic Gymnastics Team, joined the Y coaching staff. Attila was one of five international-level athletes who’d defected from the country the year before Hungary’s failed 1956 revolution against its USSR-controlled government, after which nearly a quarter million Hungarians fled.^[1]  

       Attila began carousing about town with Gordie, me, and Pesha.  Although a stoic type, Attila was a funny guy with a few beers under his belt, particularly when teaching us cuss words in Magyar (the official language of Hungry) while we corrupted his English. 

Sobering up on Blarney Stone’s greasy grub after a night of drinking, Attila recounted his escape. With his Hungarian accent and flair for the dramatic, the story came off like a Hitchcock thriller. In short: 

I was in Holland touring with the Hungarian National Team. One day evading the lofasz (horse cocks) minders, I snuck off to the beach. And from a distance, I watched a woman strolling along the water’s edge. When she sat on the sand looking out over the North Sea, I walked over and sat beside her.

Hello, Miss Farkas, I greeted her. She was Andrea my sister who’d escaped Budapest a year earlier, the meeting been arranged before I fled.

         “Get lost, dummy. They’re watching us,” she hissed. “I’ll contact you.”

  I got up as if rejected in a pick-up attempt. Later that day, a man bumped into me in the lobby of the Rotterdam Hotel, where the team was staying, and slipped me a note. 

That night, I climbed out a back window of the hotel, shimmied three stories down a drainpipe, flagged a cab, switched cabs several times, and reached the address on the note, a safe house. From there, friends helped me get to Germany, then New York and set where they set me up with my job working for a Hungarian wine merchant.

I then spent my spare time at the movies learning English and joined the Y. Now hear I am eating szemét (shitty junk) with Yankee lofaszes!”            

          Attila, as a Y coach, decided he’d make me an all-around performer: that is, add floor exercise and vaulting to my pommel horse, horizontal bar, parallel bars, and ring events. I was all for it. He was a relentless taskmaster, and I was an equally determined student. But as hard as we worked, the polio leg wasn’t up to the task. The power wasn’t there to do even a decent backflip or adequate horse vault. 

           We tossed in the towel. However, the effort was not all for nothing. At that time, Europeans were “artistically” ahead of the USA in gymnastics. During our effort, Attila also helped me improve the technique and style of my regular events, contributing greatly to my future in the sport. My routines gained “a freer flow, a more elegant flair,” as Attila put it.  

***

         In the Fall of 1956, Abie was a freshman at the University of Illinois. He regularly corresponded with Pesha and told him the UI team would attend the National Gymnastics Clinic in Sarasota, Florida, during the Christmas holidays.

     “You guys should go, too,” he wrote. “Gymnasts from all around the country will be there. Talk to Ed Scrobe about it. He’s the clinic president. It will be a good time.”

       Several of us began kicking around the idea—Christmas in Florida sounded pretty good. Pesha contacted Ed Scrobe, a former US Olympic gymnast coaching at St. Mary’s Recreation Center in the Bronx. Ed urged us to on saying he’d wave the clinic entrance fee. Florida then looked doable and tempting. But I was getting cold feet as Peggy and my GAL job came into consideration. 

        Peggy and I were dating regularly but weren’t “a committed couple.” She went out with other guys, and I dated other girls, but only sometimes, my heart was all Peggy. One evening, during the team Y to Florida discussions, we were on our way to Martell’s, an upscale tavern on the Upper East Side. Peggy’s brother, Pat, waited tables there, and thanks to him, we’d essentially eat on the house. 

        Passing Malachy’s Irish Pub on our way, one of the many saloons tucked away under the Third Avenue L, the sad lament “Take Me Home to Mayo” drifted from the bar. I knew it well. It was about an Irish Republican Army fighter, Michael Gaughan, starving himself to death in England’s Parkhurst Jail. Bleak lyrics, a beautiful melody, quintessential Irish. Mom, herself from County Mayo, forever her home, would sadly sing the song during alcohol-fueled apartment gatherings.

      Drawn by the music, we went inside and took stools at the sparsely occupied bar.  The bartender, round-faced with rosy cheeks and snow-white hair, rushed over to us.  

        “Sorry, women ar’ ter sit at the tables. No women at the bar,” he said with a kindly Irish brogue.

        “Ya gotta be kiddin’,” I replied. 

      “That I’m not. Women at the tables only. An Irish tradition that’s carried on ‘ere.” 

      “I heard of a lot of Irish traditions. Now, that’s the dumbest,” I responded with an edge.

      “Paddy. It’s fine. Let’s take a table,” Peggy said, tugging my sleeve.

       We took a table along the wall across from the bar. All others were empty. Rosy cheeks came right over. 

      “I’m Malachy McCourt,” he said cheerily. “What’ ill yer ‘uv?” 

       “Two Cutty Sark and water,” I answered, still with an edge.

     Malachys was different from your typical shoddy Irish joint. It had some class: Tiffany-like fixtures over the bar, matching small lamps on the tables, and the near absence of the compulsory Irish bric-a-brac. We liked it. Despite the idiotic bar rule.  It would become our place. 

      After the drinks were served, I told Peggy about the possible Florida trip, making it clear it wasn’t a done deal, just team small talk. In my mind, a Florida Christmas would be great fun, but I wanted more than anything to spend the holidays with Peggy.  

      Peggy’s response was definite. “Wow! You got to go, Paddy! I mean, Christmas in Florida!” 

      Her enthusiasm pushed the paranoid button: She has someone else lined up for the holidays and wants me out of town! Whether true or not, Peggy wasn’t concerned about missing me. Besides, being with her over the holidays wasn’t a sure thing as we hadn’t even touched on the matter.  I shook off the bitter thoughts and let the topic drop. 

      I was going to Florida if I could get leave from GAL.

***

      I had no idea how Mr. Glazer would take my request for a week off. The plant was going great, guns, and I was busy.  I didn’t get up the nerve to approach him until late November, picking a Saturday when he was typically a little less grumpy. 

      That Saturday morning, Mr. Glazer was back and forth between me and the shop, making changes to a prototype hoisting mechanism I was working on. The project was going well—once, he even cracked a smile. At the end of the day, I explained to him that I was a gymnast and, laying it on thick, said, “I’d been invited to a Florida training clinic for top national gymnasts” and would like some time off during the holidays.  

      Mr. Glazer looked skeptically at me over the top of his glasses, surely wondering how this crippled kid could be an athlete. 

      “Oy, ve! Vat next,” he grunted and walked away.

       That’s that, I figured. No sun and fun in Florida, in a way, a relief. I’d be with Peggy if, big if, she hadn’t committed to someone else. Then, on leaving for the day, Mr. Glazer handed me the usual bonus, saying, “Von. Veek.  But ya woik Chanukah wit’ no extra pay.” 

       GAL closed during the Jewish holiday. As the only goy in the office, I worked the previous Chanukah: letting myself and a few shop goys into the plant, doing my drafting work, answering the phone, and closing the plant at the end of the day. And I got paid time and a half. 

      The die was cast. Christmas 1955 in Florida.

Chapter Notes:

*Malachy McCourt, the exuberant owner of Malachy’s Bar, was the younger brother of Frank McCourt, the author of the 1996 Pulitzer Prize winner Angela’s Ashes. Over the years, Malachy would also be an author, writer, and radio host.

*Attila Farkas, desperate to escape Hungary, left his wife and young daughter behind to follow him later as panned. He and his family settled in Wisconsin, where Attila, now “Jim,” was hired as athletic director and gymnastics coach at the Milwaukee Turners. 

_______________________________

Chapter 17

The College Invite

      With the windshield wipers madly sweeping away snow, Pesha and I headed across the George Washington Bridge in a Fairlane Victoria. Pesha had made a deal with a Hell’s Kitchen delivery service for us to drive the car to Miami. The plan was to go straight through on Route 1, no I-95 at the time, drop the car, take a Greyhound to Sarasota, and after the clinic ended, take a Greyhound home. 

      “Is the car hot?” I asked Pesha, only half-jokingly, given the location of the delivery service.   

      “Drugs and cigarettes go from south to north, not the other way. So, I don’t think so. But ya never know. Might wind up on some fuckin’ rebel chain gang instead of sunning in Florida.”

      That was our last laugh until Miami. The weather was rotten, going from snow to rain to overcast, and the drive monotonous, just hallelujah ranting on the radio. There was also Pesha’s driving. Here we have this stalwart collegiate boxer and champion gymnast who’s a wimp behind the wheel, hardly even reaching the speed limit. Drove me up the wall. Saying nothing, I hogged the driving, which seemed okay with him. 

       Thirteen hundred miles and thirty hours later, we dropped the car at the designated garage in Downtown Miami. A Cuban guy who received the keys unexpectedly handed us each a ten-dollar tip with a smiley “Gracias, amigos.” 

As we rode the bus to Sarasota, the sun finally started breaking through the overcast. And we checked into the Gulf Beach Resort Motel. 

Entering our room, I right away went and pulled back the curtains over a glass door facing the beach. Wow! It was like Dorothy throwing open the barn door, turning black and white Kansas to Technicolor. I stepped onto a small balcony.  An enormous yellow sun sat on the horizon, sparkling the calm blue-green Gulf. It was all quiet and so peaceful, just a swish of surf against the beach extending endlessly in either direction. The only structure in site was large and white as the sand, the Lido Beach Casino, as we’d soon discover. 

      “See anything, Pat?” John called from inside.

      “A building up the beach and little birds running crazily along the water’s edge. No people,” I shouted.

I stood admiring the fantastic view wishing Peggy was sharing it with me. 

***

      Clinic training sessions were held at Sarasota High School and taught by National caliber coaches. The “fun and sun” occurred on Lido Beach, where gymnastics apparatus was set up, at the Casino’s Olympic-sized pool, and in the evening at the Castaway Bar, the popular end-of-day refreshment spot. The Gulf naturally was super inviting to me: about a mile swim to the bay inlet and back, perfect. But that meant gimping skinny-legged in a bathing suit to the water—everyone watching, won’t happen. 

      Besides the general activity, a group of us visited the Ringling Bros. Barnum & Bailey Winter Quarters, where we were treated to a smorgasbord lunch and watched the circus performers practice. The highlight was aerialist Fay Alexander rehearsing the triple over a net. The triple, we learned, had killed more trapeze artists than all aerial stunts combined: no net in shows, miss, a fifty-foot deadly drop. 

      One day toward the end of the clinic, I was working out on the beach parallel bars, as always, in long gymnastics pants. I was in a crappy mood. A committee of coaches had selected gymnasts to compete in the big closing event, The North vs. South Meet. I didn’t make the cut.  

      “Yaw, lookin’ good up there, P-a-a-d,” a John Wayne like voice interrupted me. 

     “Thanks,” I answered, surprised he knew my name.

      “You’re good on horizontal bar and rings, too. And not bad on pommel horse.” 

      “Pretty good,” I answered as a middle-aged guy with a graying spiked crewcut and an over-the-top flowery tourist shirt strolled over to me. 

      “I’m Charlie Pond, Illini’s coach. Abie said yaw wanted to attend the University of Illinois.” 

     “Yes, sure I would,” I mumbled surprised and baffled as I’d hadn’t told Abie I wanted to attend Illinois or any college.

      “What’s your address? I’ll send yaw some information.”

       He handed me a pad and a pen. I scribbled down the information. 

      “Nice meeting yaw, P-a-a-d.” 

      We shook hands. The University of Illinois coach, Charlie Pond, strolled from the beach, leaving me dumbfounded. I immediately went searching for Abie, finding him at the diving boards. 

       “Abie, Charlie Pond invited me to go to Illinois. He’s sending me information.”  

       “Yeah. Told him about you, mixing in some bullshit. Well, interested?”

       “Hell, Abie, I don’t know— he’s talking for real?” 

       “Sure, for real. Come out in August. Get settled in before school starts.”

        “I can’t just quit work. Just leave.” I chuckled as reality set in. “And how the hell would I pay for college?”

         “Don’t worry. Charlie, he’ll set things up for you.” 

        Abie then hopped on the diving board and did a front two-and-one-half somersault.

***

     At the Castaway Bar that night, the words kept spinning in my head: Would yaw like to attend the University of Illinois? I didn’t want to tell Pesha, beside me sipping a beer, about the encounter. He’d surely say go for it. While I had no idea what I wanted to do or could do. 

       Antsy, beer in hand, I left the bar and retreated to the Casino’s second-floor balcony and joined the company of four ten-foot-tall seahorses looking intently out over the Gulf. It was another beautiful night. Trillions of stars like diamonds speckling the dark sky, a lovely yellow sliver of moon, and far off across the calm water dots of lights from a ship seemingly in no rush to go anywhere. 

        Resting on the balcony rail, I considered my dilemma. College had crossed my mind, but once, when Abie talked about Illinois on our way back from Y Nationals in Dayton, Ohio. It was a fine fantasy then, but now, maybe not. There were tons of things to think about. First off, money. I hadn’t saved a dime while contributing at home, paying off Argo, romancing Peggy, and bouncing around the city with Pesha, Gordie, and now Attila. But Abie indicated Charlie would “set things up.” What does that mean?  

      As for gymnastics, I already had it great, being on a National YMCA Championship Team and improving all the time, even if I was not yet ready for the North vs. South meet. Leaving the city—its walks, sights, bustling excitement—now that would be tough. Then there was the kicker—Peg O’ My Heart, giving me an adios kiss, it’s out of sight, out of mine. 

          Conclusion, Illinois just ain’t in the cards. That was okay. I turned from the railing, nodded farewell to the stoic seahorses, and returned to the bar. While ordering another beer, Don Tonry squeezed in beside me. Don was a top national gymnast who trained at the Brooklyn Central Y. I knew him only slightly.

      “Hi, Pat, hear Charlie talked to you about joining us in Illinois.” 

      “Yeah, in a way. You’re on the Illinois team?” 

     “Yes, so is Gavin Blair.” I casually knew Gavin, too, another terrific NYC all-around performer. “Hope you come out. You can stay with me at Delta Chi until you get settled.”

      “Delta Chi?” 

     “My fraternity.”

     “Oh!” I answered, feeling a bit dumb.

     “See you in Champaign!” Don went off to sit with Muriel Davis, a beautiful gymnast with a body to kill for. Abie had pointed her out to me.

      On New Year’s Eve following the North vs South competition, John and I boarded a Greyhound armed with a six-pack of Budweiser to help ease the long, tedious trip to New York. As the bus rumbled through the night, we found we weren’t the only drinkers. A mason jar, maybe several, was being passed around. The guy across the aisle handed it over to me.

      “What’s in it?” I asked.

       “White lightnin’.” 

       I sniffed it, no smell.

      “Is it safe?” I asked. 

       “Drank it all my life and still ‘bove ground. It’s good ol’ Carolina moonshine. Won’t make ya blind or nothin’. Might explode, though. Ya don’t wanna drop the jar.” 

      I took a sip. It hit like a hammer but left a pleasant peachy taste. I offered the jar to Pesha, who said he’d stick with beer. With a second sip, I returned the jar.

Somewhere In Georgia, John and I popped our last two Budweiser’s, and, along with our fellow travelers, we welcomed in 1956 with a murderess rendition of “Auld Lang Syne.” 

---

Chapter 18

Stay or Go

Argo took Peggy and me from Astoria to Manhattan on Friday night after returning from Florida. On the way, I regaled her with the fantastic Sarasota weather, working out on the beach, training sessions at Sarasota High, visiting the Ringling Winter Quarters, and watching trapeze artist Fey Alexander practice the death-defying triple: throwing in that Fey Alexander doubled for Cornell Wilde in The Greatest Show on Earth and for Tony Curtis in Trapeze, and how many of the gymnasts ended the day socializing at the Castaway Bar. I skipped being passed over for the North vs. South meet. And I was saving the Illinois invite for dinner.

Joe’s Original Italian Restaurant was just north of the Queensborough Bridge. Peggy’s sister Liz, a nurse at Manhattan’s Bellevue Hospital who lived in the area, recommended the place. I slipped the maître d’ a few dollars, nodding toward a nice spot by the window. He led us to the table with a red and white checkered tablecloth and chianti bottle candle coated with years of wax drippings.

Our order for a carafe of house red and calamari primo was taken by a red-vested, grumpy waiter, looking as if he’d been there since the place opened in 1896, the menu boasted. We then sat watching the rush of people along Second Avenue and listening to the restaurant’s excellent selection of Italian American crooners who would entertain us throughout the meal— Antonio Benedetto (Tony Bennett), Vito Farinola (Vic Damone), Genaro Louis Vitaliano (Jerry Vale), Frank Paul LoVecchio (Frankie Laine), Alfredo Arnold Cocozza (Mario Lanza), Dino Paul Crocetti (Dean Martin) and, of course, Frank Albert Sinatra.

With primo and wine served, followed by a happy salute, I told Peggy how Texas talking, and crewcut coiffured coach Charlie Pond approached me on Ledo Beach with an invitation to join his University of Illinois gymnastics team. 

“Remember when we saw The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance and John Wayne saying to Jimmy Stewart, ‘Wanna drink Pilgrim?’” I concluded. “Well, it was like that. Casual like. A take it or leave it offer.” 

“What exactly did the coach say?” Peggy asked, leaning eagerly toward me.

“Just would I like to go to the University of Illinois? And he’d send me some information. Abie, my Y teammate now at Illinois, encouraged me as did another Illinois gymnast from New York.”

“Paddy, that’s really something!” Peggy sat back in her chair, smiling.

“Now, it wasn’t a scholarship offer. So, how would I live out there? The only thing I can go on is that when talking to Abie, he said the coach would set things up. Set things up, no idea what that means.”

  “It’s a fantastic opportunity. I’m sure it will work out. If not, come back home. What’s to lose?” 

“What’s to lose? Like Mr. Glazer might not take me back at GAL if it didn’t work out? And like what’ll people say—Bird flies’ coop, landing flat on his ass.” 

Placing her hand gently on mine, Peggy said firmly, “You must change it.” 

 “And what about us?” 

Peggy smiled, about to say something, when grumpy appeared to take our main order. Over a delicious dinner, our talk veered off to other topics, letting Illinois rest a bit. After an excellent meal, Argo took us to Martell’s Tavern for dessert, Irish coffee, and New York Cheesecake. 

“To the University of Illinois!” Peggy lifted her cup, all smiles, blue eyes shining. 

“Please, say nothing to anyone. Okay? Illinois is no done deal.”

 “Catholic honor!” Laughing, she made the Sign of the Cross. 

We ended the night by the East River, cuddled in Argo under the Hell Gate Bridge. It was lovely. 

Still, I was a bit sad. Of course, I wanted Peggy to be proud of me over the invite—pretty sure she was. But I wanted her to say, or simply indicate, she’d miss me. To Peggy, we were just friends having fun—me, I’m lovesick, agonizingly so. 

***

Nothing from Charlie in February, March, or well into April. No matter. Peggy and I still hung out. My job and gymnastics were going great. Life was good. The Illinois idea had pretty much faded. Then, arriving home one night from the Y, a thick brown envelope lay on my cot:  return address The Office of Admissions, University of Illinois.

 “What’s that from Illinois?” Pop called from the living room.

“Hold on,” I answered, opening the envelope to find a university catalog and admissions information but nothing from Charlie himself. 

In the living room, Pop and Mom were watching I Love Lucy. I sat beside Pop and explained that I’d been asked to join the University of Illinois Gymnastics Team when in Florida. The envelope contained admissions materials. 

“So, what ya going to do?” 

“What do you think?” I asked, seriously wanting his advice. 

“Thro’ away all you worked fer ter play a sport,” he answered, eyes glued to the tube. Then, after a long pause, with a sorrowful shake of his head he said, “You’ll make a bloody fool of yerself.”  

I Love Lucy ended with raucous audience laughter. Pop pushed up from his recliner and switched to The Danny Thomas Show.

That was it from Pop and kind of expected. College meant little to him and unnecessary then (9% of US high school graduates attended college, far fewer from the working class). What bothered me was he didn’t acknowledge, not in the smallest way, that I was a real athlete, perhaps even capable of college-level competition. To him, I was his bum-legged polio kid on the verge of becoming a “bloody fool.” 

“What wus that al’ ’bout with him?” Mom asked when I got up to leave.

“Nothing, Mom.” 

***

I closed the curtain in my alcove and switched on my reading light. Stretched out on my cot, I paged through: 

The University of Illinois

Academic Catalogue 1956-57

Over the next few days, I assembled the application information. The hard part was the required essay describing my extracurricular activities and related experience. I wrote about my gymnastics participation and planned to build on my drafting experience by majoring in architecture. My sister Kate and her husband, John, a high school teacher, did some much-needed editing. 

I went to J. Walter Thompson to have the material copied and mailed with the help of one-armed Arnie, who ran the copy center near the messenger dispatcher’s desk. Arnie was a German soldier during WWII. In a battle with American forces, he was captured, sent to the United States, and spent two years in an Idaho prisoner-of-war camp. 

“Good volks in Idaho,” he told me in his German accent, “good food, no one zootin’ at me. Very good life there. An’ I stayed alive.” 

Me with the polio leg and Arnie missing an arm, we had something in common and became office friends when I was a messenger. Besides my Y swim coach, Mr. Morris, Arnie was the only other disabled person I knew. But we didn’t talk about disabilities except once. 

 “Arnie,” I asked, “happened to your arm? 

“Got lost in Belgium. Go back an’ find it von day. What yer say, come wi’ me? We vind maybe you a better leg.”

We shared a good laugh! 

_______________________________

Chapter 19

Leaving for College

August 1956

I climbed the steps of the four-prop DC 4, my eyes on the shapely legs of the stewardess above. In her sky-blue outfit and sailor-like cap, Million Dollar Smile welcomed me aboard. I made my way down the narrow aisle past passengers in their Sunday best, like myself, and slid into a window seat—for my first flight!

“Welcome aboard United Flight 117 to Chicago’s Midway Airport,” announced Million-Dollar-Smile, standing at the head of the aisle. 

The lovely stewardess demonstrated seatbelt buckling and the “If by chance it’s needed” oxygen mask procedure. A sudden blast then rocked the cabin, ending Million-Dollar-Smile’s presentation with an urgent, “Please fasten your seatbelts!”  

My eyes flashed to the outside. The twin, three-blade propellers were turning fitfully, engines sputtering like not hitting on all cylinders: Ain’t good, I’m thinking. 

Then a roar. The wing shuttering, propeller blades spinning hell-bent for leather vanish. We’re moving. Rumbling along the La Guardia Airport tarmac, I could see Rikers Island. No prisoners in sight. The plane then swung about, paused, engines pulsating like a sprinter’s heart at the starting blocks. We’re on the move again, gaining speed—faster, faster, faster— cabin vibrating like crazy, the force pushing me back into my sea. Then stillness, eerie silence, as fifty thousand pounds of metal rise in the air. 

Loved it! 

Forehead to the window glass, I could see the Astoria shoreline and the concrete Sanitation Pier jutting into the East River. After the tankers loaded with NYC sewerage pumped from the pier’s sewer pipes departed and the overspill had dissipated in the river, I swam there with other kids. All guys, no girls, but we shared the pier with old Italian men fishing for eel. I once asked one of them how he cooked the slimy snake-like creatures. 

“Ya skin ’em. Put in pan wi’ olive oil, gar-relic-a, and wine. Turn several times. Careful, not cook-a Anguilla to mooch.” 

“Yuck!” My kneejerk reaction.

“It’s a delizioso! Stupido!” he bellowed, putting his fingers to his lips and kissing them away. 

Not far from the Sanitation Pier was Luyster Creek and the long-abandoned Muff’s Boat House, another swimming spot. The creek was so polluted that when we emerged, we looked like hairy apes from the scum clinging to our bodies. 

The plane then banked over the Hell Gate and Triborough bridges with the vast Astoria Park swimming and diving pool between them. Not wanting the girls sneaking peeks at my leg, I didn’t go there, preferring to swim in the East River just north of the Hell Gate Bridge with a cadre of middle-aged guys. Pop also on some weekends. East River water was a bit cleaner than that surrounding the Sanitation Pier, and compared to Luyster Creek, pristine. 

However, sometimes at night, after the Astoria pool closed, a few buddies and I would strip to our skivvies, hide our clothes, scale the pool fence, and scramble up to the highest platform of the Olympic diving tower. Standing on the edge, pitch-blackness thirty-two feet below, I’d be scared as hell, worried my feeble leg might break apart on impact. But there was no chickening out. We’d leap together into four seconds of terror, plunge into the abyss, and surface with this tremendous exhilaration— then do it again!   

Now, over Manhattan, I searched the grid of streets below for familiar places: GAL, the Y, Chelsea—no luck, too far below. But rising in midtown like monoliths were the Empire State and Chrysler buildings. And spanning the East River were the Queensborough, Williamsburg, and Manhattan bridges, and lastly, the Brooklyn Bridge with its massive Gothic towers and spiderweb of cables; the best bridge of all.

 Another bank. We’re over New York Harbor, the Statue of Liberty, looking tiny, raising her torch to us as we climbed above pink cotton candy clouds. And then the city, My City, was gone—a spear to the heart. At that moment, I desperately wanted the plane to turn about, take me home, my inner voice crying out: You’re screwing up bad, fuckin’ bad!

“You, okay?” Million-Dollar-Smile, leaning over the empty seat beside me.

“I’m good,” I answered brightly, sucking in the sadness.  

“Would you care for something to drink?”    

“Yes, please.” I smiled.

She reached in, lowered my tray, and gave me a lovely whiff of roses while listing soft drinks and juices. Her voice hesitated, probably wondering how old this kid was, and then she continued naming the alcoholic beverages.

“Can I have a Heineken, please?” I asked, unbuckling the seatbelt to reach for my wallet. “How much is that?”

“No charge.” Another smile.

I grinned back: Horse Head Ralph and Angelo weren’t bullshitting, ‘Drinks is fuckin’ free.’ 

My heart stab and fit of buyer’s remorse drifted away in a mellow glow of alcohol; I’d jumped, no chickening out now. Opening The Fountainhead, a Peggy gift, I found my place in the 700-page tome. Ayn Rand’s individualism trumps collectivism philosophy sailed right over my head. The story, though, was inspiring. My academic goal is to get an architect degree at Illinois. Who knows, I could be the next Howard Roark designer of magnificent buildings. 

“Your lunch, sir.” Million-Dollar-Smile placed a tray before me: a full dinner and even a miniature bottle of red wine like the ones P.K. sold for a buck. 

Stomach full, I dozed off thinking of my last night parked in Argo by the East River exchanging farewells with Peggy—so sweet, so sad. It was also goodbye to my faithful companion. Argo had a lucky new owner awaiting.

***

“We are on our approach to Chicago’s Midway Airport,” the voice of Million-Dollar-Smile woke me. Please be sure your seatbelt is fastened, trays up, and the seatback is in the upright position.” We then dropped like a stone, nothing but gray outside, water droplets streaking the glass, ears popping. The wheels slammed the runway.

 I was in Chi-Town. 

Exiting Midway terminal into a soft rain, suitcase in hand, I approached a cabbie standing under a large yellow umbrella. 

“How much to Champaign?”

“That’s a hundred and fifty miles.” 

“That far?”

“Yup. Take you for fifty bucks. Off meter.”   

 “Nah, can’t afford that,” I mumbled.

 “Go by train,” the cabbie responded. “Panama Limited leaves Central Station at six. Stops at Champaign on its way to New Or-lins.”  

“I want to get there sooner than that.”  

“Try Greyhound. Or,” he added jokingly, “hitchhike.”

“Thanks,” I answered.

I returned to the terminal, found a bathroom, and changed into street clothes. Outside again, the cabbie directed me to the Cicero Ave bus going south. At West 22nd, he said I should transfer to a bus going west to US 43, which went straight south to Champaign-Urbana. 

An hour later, I was beside US 43 with my thumb up, the sun thankfully breaking through the overcast. In no time, a sixteen-wheeler pulled over, Growmark Agricultural Supplies plastered on the side. 

“Where ya goin’, kid?” 

“Champaign.”

“Hop in.”

“What’s ya name?” he asked as the rig pulled away.

“Pat.”

“Ron. Welcome aboard,” he answered cheerfully. 

Off we went, my elbow out the window, wind whipping my hair, sky clear, sun out. And in no time, there was nothing but fields of corn—high as an elephant’s eye—and a sweet smell in the air. 

Ron was big-bellied with an unshaven, jowly face and a drinker’s bulbous nose, about fifty, I guessed. A battered baseball cap with a blue and orange U.I. logo sat backward on his head. His cowboy booted foot kept the speedometer needle bouncing to either side of eighty: no Illinois open road speed limit back then. 

“Hurt ya leg? Saw ya limpin’ comin’ ta the truck,” he asked after a bit.

“Twisted an ankle,” I answered, not wanting to get into the polio thing. 

 “Ya goin’ to the University?” 

 “Yup.” 

“Played football there for two years. Popped my patella ligament and had to quit.” 

“Wow. That’s too bad. I’m going to be on the gymnastics team.”

“Gymnastics. The team’s good. Tops in the country,” Ron gave me an appreciative nod. “Where ya from?”

“New York City.”  

“Thought so. Got that Jimmy Cagney accent.” He glanced at me, mimicking the actor: “You’s ain’t no gangsta, is yous?”

“No. Working on it, though.” I laughed. 

Ron was a talker. While I watched the cornfields fly by, broken only by a distant farmhouse or silo, he told me he grew up on a farm, married, had no kids, lived in Rantoul, and was going home after two weeks on the road delivering farm supplies. Ron then went on to tell me everything about corn. 

“Looks like lots of good eating out there,” he started. “But ya won’t wanna be diggin’ into that ‘less ya a cow. It’s field corn. Also called dent corn. Fed mostly to livestock, and some is processed into cornmeal, corn starch, corn oil, and corn syrup. Dinner table corn, that’s sweet corn, bred for its sugar. It’s a shorter stock and a lighter green. Illinois black soil grows ’em both well—actually grow anything, wheat, oats, sorghum, peanuts, ya name it…”

I just listened, which he didn’t seem to mind. His smooth, baritone Burl Ives-like voice was pleasant, and time passed quickly. Rantoul. The road sign flashed by. But Ron kept going for another twenty miles beyond his hometown, taking me right into Urbana-Champaign. 

“Where exactly ya goin’?” Ron asked.

“Old Men’s Gym.”

“It’s Men’s Old Gym!” He laughed.

The rig pulled to the side of the road. Ron indicated the direction of Men’s Old Gym. I thanked him and slipped from the cab.

 “God bless,” he said with a kindly smile. 

Walking down Springfield Avenue, I glanced back. The rig hadn’t moved. I thought: He’s watching, wondering how that kid, clearly with more than a twisted ankle, can make it as an Illinois gymnast. 

The Growmark Agricultural Supplies rig roared back onto US 43. 

It was late afternoon when I entered the Men’s Old Gym to the sound of Chuck Berry’s “Maybelline” coming from a record player just inside the entrance to the gym, which was about two basketball courts in size. Abie hadn’t exaggerated. It was loaded with gymnastics apparatus, two of each, had a forty-by-forty-foot padded floor exercise area, a long tumbling mat, four trampolines, and a running track circled above the bright, airy space. 

I spotted Abie and Don practicing on the horizontal bar with several other gymnasts. I was about to start toward them when this bellow, like the bleating of a distressed sheep—”P-a-a-d!”—came from a glassed-in office just to my left. Inside sat Charlie, rocked back in his chair, ankles crossed on his desk, looking out at me over the top of a newspaper.  

“Come ‘ere!” He dropped the paper, waving me into his office. 

Charlie knew who I was and seemed to be expecting me, a good sign, though we hadn’t exchanged a word since Lido Beach. 

***

“Have a seat. How was yer trip?” 

“Pretty easy,” I answered, dropping my suitcase and taking a chair before his desk. “Flew into Midway and hitchhiked from there.”

“Hitchhiked?” Charlie laughed.  

Right then, Abie and Don came into the office cheerfully welcoming me. Everyone then seemed to be talking at once. In my excitement, I couldn’t keep track of all the chatter. The upshot, however, was I’d spend the night at Don’s Delta Chi fraternity, meet Charlie in the morning, and get formally admitted to the university.

Don Tonry then introduced me to the other gymnasts on the floor and took me to the equipment room. There, I met Don Easton, a small man in his sixties, who issued me a lock, locker number, soap, and towel. Don Tonry returned to his workout. I went to the locker room, spotless with no long-schlonged guys hanging around under steamy shower spigots. After stowing soap and a towel in my locker, I returned to the gym happy as a lark watching the gymnasts practice. It was incredible to me: Here I am, a student at the University of Illinois, well almost.

Later, lugging my suitcase, I went to a Campustown bar with some gymnasts, including four New Yorkers: Abie Grossfeld, Don Tonry, Gavin Blair, and Alan Harvey, whom I hadn’t met before. Assistant Coach Dick Zuber also stopped by the bar to introduce himself. Everyone was so super friendly that I felt already a part of the team, not knowing how great the team was. They’d won the Big Ten Conference and NCAA National Championships the last two years, 1955 and 1956.  

 

Left to Right Standing: Eric Stattin, Ken Stone, Mike Karon, Jon Culbertson, Mike Walters, Gavin Blair, John Davis, Don Tony, Frank Hailand

Front Kneeling: Coach Charlie Pond, Dan Lirot, Assistant Coach Dick Zuber

_________________________

Chapter Notes: 

* Gymnastics equipment 1950s Men’s Old Gym was primitive compared to today:  landing mats were 2-3 inches thick and stuffed with horsehair; no spring floor exercise areas or spring-loaded vaulting boards providing slingshot lift; no dowel handguards allowed for what in the ’50s would be impossible routines no landing pits for training—all wonderful innervations that have added to the safety and excitement of the sport. 

*Members of the 1955 and 1956 Big 10 and NCAA National Championship teams: Don Tonry, Mike Karon, team captain. Jon Culbertson, Dick Jirus, Ken Stone, Frank Blazek, Dan Lirot, Eric Stattin, Gavin Blair, Ed Gombos, John Davis, Frank Hailand, and Mike Walters. Abie, a freshman in 1956, was ineligible due to the NCAA rules

---

Chapter 20

Admission Denied

“Tell ’em you’re an athlete recruited for the gymnastics team,” Charlie stressed. 

Athlete recruited: I liked the sound of that. I went off armed with a campus map provided by Charlie and copies of what I’d sent to the University Office of Admissions and Records: 

“Tell ’em you’re an athlete recruited for the gymnastics team,” Charlie stressed. 

Athlete recruited: I liked the sound of that. I went off armed with a campus map provided by Charlie and copies of what I’d sent to the University Office of Admissions and Records: 

Immaculate Conception Elementary School diploma, 

Chelsea Vocational High School transcript and diploma, 

Delahanty School of Drafting Certificate, 

The letter about my extracurricular activities and experience related to my intended major, architecture. 

The campus was beautiful, with red brick buildings, freshly trimmed lawns, and giant trees, sixty, maybe eighty feet tall. I came to a large, open, grassy area crisscrossed by pathways. The Quad said the map. At the far end of the Quad was a large building with a domed roof, like the NYC Planetarium’s. Auditorium, marked on the map. My destination was that way. I took a pathway running along the side for the Quad flanked by overhanging giant trees whose branches formed a wonderful tunnel-like canopy. 

The pathway ended at the Office of Admissions and Records, designated on the map. The lobby inside was empty: summer break, I’d find out. I introduced myself to a silver-haired lady behind a bank teller-like counter, saying, as Charlie directed, “I’m an athlete recruited for the gymnastics team.” And I was there to register. 

“Gymnastics, that’s nice,” she smiled, her eyes magnified by round steel-rimmed glasses. “Let me have your notification letter.” 

“Notification letter? All my material is here,” I answered, handing her my folder. 

After glancing through the folder, she said, “Patrick, please wait here.” 

The counter lady then disappeared with my folder, leaving me wondering about this notification letter, thinking: Maybe Pop forgot to give it to me—on purpose.

A few minutes later, she’s back with a red-headed man in horn-rimmed glasses wearing a white shirt with an orange and blue striped bowtie and sporting a red-bearded man, Hemenway-styled— with his red head, red Hemenway beard, and thick-rimmed glasses; he kind of resembled a raccoon. 

“Did you receive your status letter, Patrick?” he said, like a cop doing an interrogation. “We sent them out last week.” 

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, you haven’t taken the necessary academic courses—math, foreign language, social sciences. And this Chelsea Vocational High School,” his voice snarly, “is not academically accredited.” Then, the coup de grâce: “You don’t qualify for admission to the University.”

I went numb. I wanted to say something, protest in some way. But what’s to say? There was no uncertainty— don’t qualify, period, end of story. 

Raccoon gave me a flat “goodbye.” No handshake. Didn’t even give me his name. It was like: Get your sorry dumb ass out-a here.

I left the Office of Admissions and Records in a daze and wandered aimlessly around campus, eventually finding myself back at the Quad. Plopping down on the grass, back against one of the massive trees, I sat sadly contemplating: Five minutes for Charlie to invite me, five minutes for Raccoon to reject me, separated by five months of go-no-go turmoil. There were no tears, just sad resignation. What is, is. 

Now what? I couldn’t go home to ridicule; Bird flies’ coop and lands on his ass. And Peggy, what should I tell her? I’m too dumb for college. And Pop, it would be tough to face him, to admit being, yes, a bloody fool. I needed out. Slowly, a plan took shape in my mind:

I’ll take the Panama Limited to New Orleans; it costs too much hitchhike. Being a big city, it’ll be easy to get drafting work. Tell everyone back home I got this terrific offer to be a draftsman at a top engineering firm, too good to turn down. 

And there’s an upside, New Orleans, I figured:

It would be an adventure—Mardi Gras, jazz, and the French Quarter. I’d get settled and invite Peggy to visit. Maybe she’d stay, and we’d get married. Probably the end of gymnastics, though. But who knows, there may be a good club there.

, went to Delta Chi, picked up my stuff, and headed for Men’s Old Gym to thank Charley and say goodbye. 

***

“You enrolled?” Charlie asked from behind his newspaper, feet on the desk.

 “I couldn’t,” I answered, stiff-upper-lip-like. 

 Charlie peeked over the top of his paper. “Couldn’t?” 

Standing before him, suitcase in hand, ready to get out of there, I quickly explained what had happened. Finishing, I thanked Charlie and turned to leave. 

 “Where yaw goin’, Paad?” 

“Probably hitchhike to New Orleans. Take the train, maybe.” 

“Yaw know how far Noo-are’-lins is—eight hundred miles. Seems a long way to hitchhike.” 

Charlie slid his feet from the desk and sat up in his chair, saying, “P-a-a-d! Be back at three for practice. Now, Get out-a ‘ere. “

“But…”

“Go on!”

Putting my suitcase aside, I left thinking: What the hell, no rush. Spend another night at Delta Chi. Leave tomorrow. 

Over a hamburger and Coke at Campustown, I began feeling a little optimistic: Perhaps Charlie can do something. Bit Raccoon didn’t mince words—don’t qualify. I then picked up a schedule at the East University Avenue train station. The Panama Limited would leave for New Orleans tomorrow at 10:34 p.m. One-way ticket, thirty bucks. 

I’ll hitchhike. 

***

Don Easton issued me workout stuff, including a cool UI Gymnastics t-shirt. Seeing a racquet of competitive gymnastics outfits with long white pants, I delicately asked if I could have long pants instead of shorts. 

“Sure, have both,” he said with a friendly smile. 

I practiced with the team, which began informally, like at the Y, with everyone doing their individual warm-ups. I decided to give the track a try. Jogging along with my off-kilter stride, the slow, low beating of a drum rose from the floor below. A flute came in with an easy swaying melody, then a clarinet. As I circled the track, one instrument after another took part—oboe, bassoon, trumpet, saxophone, violin: all sounded familiar to me from my LIC auditorium lunches. The repetitive sound grew louder with each added instrument, building slowly, methodically. The underlying rhythm was like one heartbeat of an army marching into battle. Then, with a thunderous finale, the music abruptly ended—a dead stop, as if the troops were no more. 

It was thrilling, like first hearing “Slaughter on Tenth Avenue” in the Long Island City High School auditorium. Finishing my jog, I went to the LP player to check the record label “Bolero” by Maurice Ravel. Besides the LP player was a stack of 78s including blues, jazz, pop, classical, country and folk, and even opera. During the workout, music continued adding to the wonderful mood of the gym, a mighty change from the shattering Y gorilla cage explosions. Men’s Old Gym was Gymnastics Heaven.

I tried to practice but kept screwing up, couldn’t concentrate, praying one minute Charlie could get me into the University and in the next minute having any hopes dashed by Raccoon’s blunt, don’t qualify. 

Showered and dressed after the lousy workout, I sat opposite Charlie in his office. 

“Paad, you’re twenty-one in December, according to your application?” Charlie said, sitting upright in his chair, tone serious.

“Yes, December 8th.” 

“Know what the GED exam is?” 

“No, I don’t.” 

Charlie explained that the General Educational Development Exam was a series of four tests to measure proficiency in “regular” high-school subjects. I would be eligible for the exam at twenty-one. Passed, and I’d receive a high-school equivalency diploma. 

“So, instead of hitchhiking to Noo-are’-lins, stay and take the GED. Do well, and you could be admitted. But there’s no guarantee. So, what yaw say?”

“Sure, okay,” I answered, thinking New Orleans was going nowhere. 

“Another thing,” Charlie said, “you go back to high school to prepare for the GED.”  

 “High school?” 

“Yup, The University of Illinois Laboratory School, Uni High. Just down the street.”

 I about laughed. First, there was LIC, then Chelsea, toss in the Delahanty Institute, and now this Uni High. Why not, as Pop would say, “In for a penny, in for a pound.” 

 “Okay, Charley, sounds good.”

“Grab your bag. Let’s go,” he said, popping up from his chair.

Our first stop was the Order of Moose Lodge in downtown Champaign, the best restaurant in town, according to Charlie, but not to eat. Charlie introduced me to the manager, Mr. Willis, a short, fat-bellied man dressed in a rumpled suit. Mr. Willis explained the arrangement. I’d get lunch and dinner daily served in the kitchen, except Sunday when I’d get just brunch. In return, I’d bus tables on Friday and Saturday nights and work banquets as needed. I could start meals that evening. 

The next stop was an old Victorian house on West Washington Street. There, I met the owner, Charlie’s mother, who was tall and thin, had silver hair, and a ready-to-bite expression. Here, the deal was for a room; I’d do yard work for Mrs. Pond and, on Saturday mornings, help at the Palaestrum—Palaestrum that got tossed out as if I knew what it was. At the pace of things, there was no opportunity to ask or what help was involved. 

Charlie then took off, leaving me and my suitcase with Mrs. Pond. 

“I’ll show you the room,” she grumbled, just short of growling, and grabbed my suitcase.

“I’ll get that,” I said.

“Follow me,” she demanded, suitcase in hand.

 With Mrs. Pond lugging my belongings in one hand and pulling on the banister for assistance with the other, I followed her to the second floor, where she stopped before the first doorway and dropped my suitcase.

“Yaw room,” Mrs. Pond said and rattled off, “bathroom down the hall. Necessities in a cabinet there. Towels are in the closet there. A washing machine is in the basement. You do your bedding. Dry things on the clothesline in the yard. Keep the room tidy and the bathroom spotless. And no loud music. I expect you’ll be quiet as a church mouse comin’-an’-goin’. No girls.” 

Handing me a front door key left. 

I brought my suitcase into the room, closed the door, and sat on the soft double bed, surveying my new digs. The room was large, the walls blueish and empty except for a full-length mirror by the door. There was a large window with sheer curtains, leafy tree branches just outside. A small desk and chair sat beside the window. Opposite the bed was a chest of drawers and a tall wardrobe. Next to the bed a night table with a lamp. Giant fan blades slowly rotated in the middle of the tall white ceiling. The smell, furniture polish. 

Spartan, but compared to my alcove at home, the height of luxury as well as private, quiet, and best of all, all mine.

I unpacked, placing an eight-by-ten black and white framed photo of Peggy on the night table: her long hair pulled back, face turned slightly dreamily looking into the distance — a super sexy professional headshot taken by a mutual friend who was a Sears Catalog photographer.  

Sitting at my desk, I wrote to Peggy, telling her about the Chicago flight, skipping Million-Dollar-Smile, the ride in trucker Ron’s eighteen-wheeler past never-ending fields of corn, the grand welcome by the coach and my new teammates, the beautiful campus with its giant trees and park-like Quad, and my great room. 

I said nothing about the Raccoon rejection or going back to high school, implying, but carefully not actually saying, that I was a bona fide University of Illinois freshman. I went off to find a mailbox and then to the Moose Lodge for dinner and met the kitchen squad. 

The following morning, Mrs. Pond introduced me to her other boarder, John T. Powell, from Cape Town, South Africa. He reminded me of Lieutenant Colonel Nicholson (Alec Guinness) in The Bridge on the River Kwai, even had the same uppity accent and mustache. I wasn’t sure I’d like him at first. He came off as pompous. In a brief conversation, I found out his family would be joining him and that he was a graduate student studying exercise science. I told John T. Powell a little about myself and that I would be going to Uni High. God knows what he thought about his ruffian housemate, who probably appeared a bit too old for a high school student. 

So, two days out of New York City, I’m a university reject, an unofficial UI gymnast, a twenty-year-old soon-to-be high school student, a yard guy working for a room, a Moose busboy hustling for food, something or another at this mysterious Palaestrum, with my future to be determined in six months by a GED exam. I’m a hobo in limbo!

_________________________________

Chapter 21

Limbo

On weekdays, I’d walk two miles from Mrs. Pond’s to Uni High. When my Uni High classes ended at noon, it was two miles to the Moose Lodge for lunch. Then, another two-mile trudge to Men’s Old Gym for practice (preparing for the 1956 AAU Nationals held in Chicago)—highlight of the day—followed a trudge back to the Moose Club for dinner and busing tables. Finally, a mile to my excellent room. I’d become as much a hiker as a gymnast.

Saturday mornings were spent at the Palaestrum. That turned out to be Charlie’s” private for-profit gymnastics studio,” a basketball side space on the second floor of an old downtown Champaign bank building equipped mainly with trampolines and a long tumbling mat. 

My job was to open the Palaestrum at 7:00 am each Saturday, clean the bathrooms and the balcony located above one side of the studio, and dry-mop the floor. Then, from nine to noon, I’d teach classes of elementary school kids basic tumbling and trampolining. 

Charlie’s “Cross-Pad Command Drill,” which I had to learn, guided my tumbling instruction warmup. The kids would line up along one side of the long tumbling mat and respond to my twenty or so commands, for example: 

“Straight Sitting!” (Sit on the mat, back and legs straight, toes pointed, palms on the mat, fingers forward), 

“Straight Lying!” (Sit on the back, arms at side, toes pointed),

“Bridge!” (Palms on mat behind shoulders, knees bent, push up into an arched position, a bridge),

“Front roll!” (Roll forward across the mat, tight tuck, toes pointed).

“Back roll! “

and so on.

Additionally, with Charlie’s guidance, I soon taught middle and high school students more advanced tumbling and trampoline skills. It was all a great learning experience that would pay off in the future. 

Friday and Saturday nights were spent busing tables at the Moose Club. The customers, waitresses, Ed, the bartender, busboys, and manager Mr. Willis were all white (Moose Lodges were segregated), and the kitchen staff were all black. 

Billy, the cook, was in his fifties and powerfully built, running his domain with an iron hand. Mama, a tiny bundle of energy, took orders from the waitresses, calling them out to Billy in rapid-fire. Billy couldn’t read. Mama also baked out-of-this-world pies and cobblers. A cook helper and dishwasher, jobs that turned over every few weeks, rounded out the kitchen help. 

The dining room was upscale, with thirty white linen-set tables. There was a small stage, and an upright piano played on weekends by itinerant entertainers out of Chicago who were terrific. They’d start with easy dinner music, then play and sing requests, performing about anything asked. The music was interspersed with lame jokes, veering off-color as the night progressed, as well as yarns about famous performers and amusing adventures on their travels. 

In a white Nehru-type smock, I bussed for Alice, who’d share a small portion of her nightly tips with me: my only income. Alice was thirtyish, had a terrific figure, and was always in good spirits, aided by sips of bourbon from a Coca-Cola bottle, refreshed as needed by bartender Ed. 

Nothing fazed Alice, not the dry table (no tip), nasty customers, drunk patting her fine butt, or her sometimes blundering busboy. Like on my first night following her to a table carrying an overloaded tray—the lazy man’s load, as Pop would say—I let the plates of steaks and baked potatoes slide off the tray and go crashing to the floor. It was like a bomb blast. Squatting beside me, cleaning up the mess, under the scornful eyes of our boss, John Willis, Alice whispered, “You’ve added drama to my night, Pat. We make a good team.” 

From then on, Alice was my waitress, and I her busboy, a relationship that would flower.

***

Like Chelsea Vocational High School, the University of Illinois Laboratory School’s exterior was gray-white granite with tall windows, and it enrolled approximately 300 students—end of similarities. 

Walking into the building was like stepping onto an Andy Hardy movie set. Uni High was brightly painted, black ceiling pipes weren’t hallway features, and there were no smells of burnt-out motors, cut wood, or auto grease. And not a brown or black face in sight. The students were all suburban-looking white kids, with guys wearing dress shirts, some with ties, and girls in fluffy crinoline skirts and puffed-sleeve blouses. I, the rough-hewn twenty-year-old, knowing no better, showed up on the first day in jeans and a white T-shirt, Chelsea style. 

I was enrolled in math, general science, and English classes and found sitting still for three hours to be difficult. So, I’d take a desk near the classroom door, slip away as if going to the bathroom, and sit on the steps outside the building. That didn’t last, though. The principal, calling me into his office, was clear: “Stay seated in class, pay attention, or leave.” For a nickel, I’d have been out of there lickety-split. But I was committed to getting into the University or at least giving it a good try.  

I settled down and even started dressing more appropriately, but I still didn’t wear a tie. Several students who were in my Palaestrum classes addressed me as Coach. That became my moniker, and the students quickly accepted me as a kind of fatherly or big brother figure. I was even asked to play a bartender in the school play, likely seen as the perfect role for an ex-pat New Yorker. I bowed out. Rehearsals conflicted with gymnastics practice. 

Additionally, my classmates were quick to assist me. For example, my science class went on a field trip to Kickapoo State Park, a few miles away. Our assignment was to collect and identify plants. Mrs. Gamble, the science teacher, showed us specimens before the trip, asking each time who in the class could identify the samples. The hands of about everyone shot up. Not mine. 

On the bus to Kickapoo, I jokingly said to one of my Palaestrum students sitting beside me: “Where I’m from, we plant bricks and grow buildings, many I can identify. Plants and trees, just green stuff.”  

As I wandered the park paths, searching aimlessly for specimens, kids began handing me leafy gifts: “Coach, this is a black oak, hickory, blue beech, sugar maple, basswood, ironwood, or whatever. “I carefully filed each specimen by name between the pages of my notebook. Got an A on the project. 

There’s a sad memory from that day, too. Returning from Kickapoo, the bus stopped at the Quad “to bear witness to the scourge of the Dutch elm disease,” as Miss Gable informed us. My daily treks hadn’t taken me to the central campus since the Racoon rejection. And the change was beyond belief. Downed tree, upturned massive roots, and branches scattered helter-skelter. It was as if a tornado had ripped the Quad. Not a tree was standing. 

Gathered outside the Illini Union looking over the devastation, Mrs. Gable explained the cause of the sorry sight: 

The Quad has lost ninety-four Dutch elms, killed by the bark beetle, one of approximately 6,000 species in the 247 genera of beetles within the subfamily Scolytidae. The tiny insects breed under the bark of dead elms and the twigs of healthy ones. There, they deposit spores of a pathogen in the feeding wounds as they eat the wood and foliage. The pathogens, in turn, block the tree’s water-conducting tissue, the xylem. The elms essentially die of thirst. 

She ended with what sounded like maybe a little dig at athletics: “The disease arrived, it’s believed, via a beetle that had hitchhiked on an Illini football fan’s car.” 

As far as academics were concerned, I learned more in those few months at Uni High than in three and a half years at Chelsea, which, of course, had different lessons to teach: grit and the electrician’s trade. My time at Uni High was also fun. And by curious twists of fate, I’d be a guest speaker several years in the future at the school’s Annual U-Club Banquet. 

***

Though I turned down the bartender part in the Uni High play, I accepted the role for a party at Charlie’s home. The affair honored Charlie’s selection as associate coach for the 1956 Melbourne Olympics. Abie, a member of the seven-man gymnastics squad, was away training at West Point’s US Military Academy. 

I arrived early and helped Charlie’s wife set up a bar in their large living room. Guests soon trickled in, men in suits looking very official and women decked out in party dresses. I filled their drink orders, nothing fancy: beer, wine, and lots of bourbon. They were a thirsty bunch. This was my first cocktail party, and the routine of the guests seemed to be to mingle, stop, chat, nod, and move on, as if by some rules. It looked super boring. The background music was a mellow mix of 1950s standards. Keeping the 45 RPMs spinning was also part of my bartender duties. 

At one point, a tall guy with hair parted down the middle like George Raft approached the bar. 

“Your name’s Pat,” he said crisply. “You’re at Uni High, right?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered, astonished.  

“Coach Pond said you’d soon be taking the GED exam.”

“Next month,” I answered, again taken aback.

“Hope it goes well. We’re looking forward to your joining our Illini family.“

“Thank you,” I answered, now totally flabbergasted.

“I’ll have a bourbon and water.” Drink in hand, George Raft strolled off with a friendly, “Good luck, Pat.”

I eagerly waited for Charlie’s return for a refill to find out who that kindly man was.

“Athletic Director Doug Mills,” Charlie said as I pointed out George Raft.

“He knows who I am?”

“Yup!” Charlie answered with a smile.

Imagine, il capo di capi of Illini athletics acknowledged me, knew what I was up to, and wished me good luck. I was genuinely flattered, though “Illini family” hit me as a tad hokey. 

***

I turned twenty-one on December 8, 1956, and took the GED. As the days passed, I became increasingly uneasy about the results. New Orleans again began percolating in my mind: even went to the university library to check on drafting job listings in the New Orleans Picayune.

No listings—a gaping hole in my escape plan.  

____________________

Chapter Notes:

*Why I was allowed to be a part-time Uni High student perhaps goes back to the beginning of the school in the latter half of the 19th century. Uni High was then a preparatory school for “older students no less than 15 years of age,” and the tradition stuck. https://www.uni.illinois.edu/about_uni/preface.shtml.  

*The bark beetles eventually wiped out all but 92 of the 1850 University of Illinois campus Dutch elms and took out many more those in the Champaign-Urbana area.

*1956 Melbourne Olympics. Men’s Gymnastics Team: Jack Beckner, Richard Beckner, Abie Grossfeld, Charles Simms, William Tom, Armando Vega, Karl Schier (alternate) Eugene Wettstone, Coach, Charlie Pond, Associate Coach. The US team placed sixth.  

_______________________________

Chapter 22

Admission Approved January 1957

GED results arrived and showed Charlie the scores. Without comment, he sent me back to the Raccoon. The same white-headed lady was behind the Office of Admissions counter and appeared surprised to see me. I handed her the GED results. As last time, she vanished. After what felt like forever, she returned, saying Professor Caldwell would see me and led me to his. Professor Caldwell nodded as I entered, motioning for me to sit down.  

“Patrick,” he said briskly with no further ado, “you have scored well at the College Ready level on all four GED exam sections, well enough to be admitted to the University,” a faint smile, “congratulations.”

 “Thanks…thanks a lot,” I said, as Raccoon morphed before my eyes into kindly Professor Caldwell.  

“Now, what about a major?” he asked. 

“I want to be an architect,” I answered brightly. “I’m already a mechanical-electrical draftsman.” 

“You will be on the gymnastics team, won’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then architecture won’t work. Design and drawing labs start at three and run until six or later. That will conflict with your athletics. Correct?”

“Yes, practice begins at three.”

“Well, it will have to be gymnastics or architecture.”

“Shit!” The word slipped out.  

“Patrick!” 

“Sorry, sorry…just happened.” 

Letting my slip of the lip go by, he went on. “Have you given thought to a major other than architecture?” 

“Coaching.” 

“Coaching is not major per se. You might consider the College of Health, Physical Education, and Recreation. There, you can become qualified as a teacher and coach.” 

“That’s good,” I said, remembering Abie and Don were in that college.

Dr. Caldwell then briefed me on the next steps needed to enroll. When finished, he smiled and shook my hand, saying brightly, “Welcome to the University of Illinois, Patrick.”

I’m in! 

Armed with information about my college and registration procedures, I returned happily to Men’s Old Gym thinking: Forget Rand’s Howard Roark. I’ll be a college gymnastics coach like Charlie Pond.  

A week or so before the start of my first semester as a bonified college freshman, I was leaving practice when Charlie barked from his office:

***

 “Paad, get in ‘ere.”

Feet on the desk, chair rocked back, face behind The Champaign • Urbana Currier, Charlie said as I entered, “Y’all go see Red Pace in the mornin’. He’s in Huff Gym.” 

“What for?” I asked. 

“Just go,” Charlie answered as if annoyed by the question.

I dutifully went to Huff Gym in the morning and found the office door labeled Coach Pace, Assistant Athletic Director. I knocked and was invited in. “Welcome, Pat.” Coach Pace said, coming from behind his desk to shake my hand. 

He was a small man with a shock of red hair. And I was again surprised that, like Athletic Director Dug Mills, he knew who I was. Coach Pace then went back behind his desk, thumbing through a long box containing small envelopes as I sat in a chair before him, looking around the office. 

As expected, on his office walls were photos of UI sports teams. But oddly interspersed among them were shots of dancing couples in formal dress. Also, strangely out of place was a glass case containing trophies topped with dancing figures. 

Coach Pace pulled an envelope and handed it to me, saying I was assigned building something, can’t recall the name, and told me how to get there. Inside the envelope was a building key and a card that allowed me to obtain books and materials at the campus bookstore — for free. Coach Pace then said I should report to the equipment manager, Mr. Easton, in Men’s Old Gym for my “work assignment.” He wished me good luck. 

***

My new home was a dull-gray barracks building, one of many relocated to campus from nearby Chanute Air Force Base after World War II to accommodate the influx of GI Bill students. The barracks, not far from Memorial Stadium, looked from the outside like an elongated Monopoly House. Inside were double rooms flanking a hallway, a communal shower/bathroom, a “galley” with hotplates, a double sink, and a long table with chairs. 

At the far end of the barracks from the entrance were “house monitor” quarters: initially, I’d guessed, the Master Sergeant’s billet. Our house monitor was Assistant Football Coach Jess McClay, a six-foot-tall, power-lifter-built ex-Marine with an Eric von Stroheim-like scar running across his cheek—a fierce-looking guy. My barracks mates mainly were football players, a few baseball players, and my roommate, Jack Wiley. Jack was a laid-back tumbler from Fresno, California, and owner of a pristine white 1950 Mustang Coupe with red leather seats. 

Constant jabber, sudden hollering, clashing radio stations, and fits of horseplay, I soon found out, penetrated the plywood walls like they were paper. That went on until the barracks emptied for classes and athletic practices and when Coach McClay called for a lights-out at 10 am. Even then, anal discharges and nocturnal groans seeped through the flimsy walls— the quiet and solitude of my Limbo dwelling at Mrs. Pond’s was soon a much-missed luxury.

The barracks hyperactivity was kept within reasonable limits by Coach McClay, except in mid-December, just after I moved in. The football players were at loose ends, having ended their season with two wins, two ties, five losses, and no bowl game. On this occasion, Coach McClay was away on a recruiting trip or something.

Coming home from my Saturday night Moose shift, approaching the barracks, I could hear Chicago blues singer Muddy Waters’ “Hoochie Coochie Man” blasting from inside. Opening the barracks door, I was greeted by a ceiling-high evergreen creatively decorated for Christmas: dangling knives and forks, 45 RPM singles discs, paper airplanes, a sneaker, a jockstrap, strings of paperclips, toilet paper garland, and topped with an aluminum foil star. 

The smell, usually testosterone-infused bodies, was that of fried chicken. I went down the hall, edging through a gaggle of beer-guzzling giants to the galley. Two footballers were working over the sink, one plucking feathers from a chicken, the other gutting a bloody bird, with live chickens squawking away in burlap sacks on the floor.

At a hotplate stood our star middle linebacker, fork in one hand, beer in the other, cooking away while gyrating to Eartha Kitt’s “Santa Baby,” Muddy Waters’ follow-up. The semi-bald chicken cook was Ray Nitschke, who’d go on to a fourteen-year career as a stellar career with Vince Lombardi’s Green Bay Packers. 

There’d be no sleep that night. I sampled a drumstick from the galley table and went off for a couch at Delta Chi, where Don and his fraternity brothers always welcomed me. Roommate Jack Wiley had already taken refuge at the frat. When Jack and I returned the following day, everything was back in order, except the bizarre Christmas tree still stood there. 

As it happened, Coach McClay had returned sometime during the night, closed the partying down, and made the partiers clean up their mess. In the meantime, UI police discovered a campus evergreen had been cut down and hulled off. They somehow identified persons of interest and shared their suspicions with AD Doug Mills, who passed that on to head football coach Ray Elliot, who contacted Coach McClay—crime solved. 

That night, Coach McClay lined us up in the barracks hallway, threw open the barracks door, grabbed the Christmas tree, bric-a-brac flying all over, and sent it sailing into the street. Next, storming up and down the line, he tore into us with Drill Sargent intensity, his jagged Eric von Stroheim appearing scar chalk white across his flaming red cheek. 

Bottom line: “Your sorry asses will be kicked out of the University if anything like this happens again. And you’ll pay for and plant a goddamn replacement tree.” 

Before dawn, a few mornings later, with a cold wind blowing and wet snow falling, Coach McClay marched us to the crime scene. 

There was a sizeable evergreen, roots wrapped in burlap, and two shovels were awaiting. As ordered by Coach McClay, we stood in a circle around the sorry stump of the stolen tree. He selected two footballers to dig as we watched, shivering in solemn silence: A scene worthy of Ingmar Bergman at his darkest.” 

Finally, with the stump dug up and the replacement tree planted, Coach McClay, without comment, dismissed us snow-covered culprits. With the two diggers lugging the stump and shovels, the football players went off with Coach McClay. The baseball players went their way. Jack Wiley and I headed to Campustown in search of warmth and breakfast. 

Later, everyone living in the barracks paid up what they could to pay for the evergreen replacement. The chickens, the police later determined, were stolen from a farm near Memorial Stadium. The owner, a UI football fan, didn’t press charges or ask for compensation: 

Hail to the Orange, Hail to the Blue,

Hail Alma Mater,

Ever so true (so true).

***

In the spring semester of ’58, I was finally a bonified UI freshman and a member of the Illini gymnastics team. And according to Charlie, as quoted in the Daily Illini, I was one of:   

The greatest gymnastics group assembled anywhere in the United States—college, AAU, or anything else. Our squads have won the past two NCAA national champion championships. We should take a third one this year and be loaded for the future. ^[1]

However, as a freshman, I couldn’t compete for the team because of the NCAA “Year of Readiness.” A rule meant “To help athletes adjust to academic life on campus.” The rule served little purpose. I’d spent as much time practicing as the upperclassmen, performed “exhibition only” in dual meets, my score not counting, and competed in the Chicago Midwest Open, representing the Palaestrum. The NCAA eventually dropped the dumb rule.

In the Midwest Open, I did okay, placing fourth on rings and in the top ten on horizontal bar and parallel bars, giving me a nice psychological boost: I was an okay gymnast able to compete at the college level. Illinois won the team competition and, as Charley predicted, went on to win the Big Ten Championship but placed only second to Penn State in the National Championships.  

At the end-of-season banquet held at the Moose Lodge, Abie was named most valuable, and Don was elected Captain for the 1957-58 season. Each eligible team member received a varsity letterman jacket. I earned “freshman numerals,” which came with a white cotton sweater sewn with a large orange 57. Really nice!

 Charlie then announced the special team awards. I surprisingly got one, a wooden plaque with a copper plate inscribed: 

University of Illinois

Freshman Scholar-Athlete of The Year

Patrick J. Bird

Gymnastics

1957

That honor was bestowed on me after I had been enrolled for just one semester and had yet to take my first-semester final exams. The reason I was the only freshman on the team: but as Mom would say, “Paddy, yer doesn’t want ter luk a gift ‘horse in the mouth.” Freshman Scholar-Athlete of The Year, a nice resume line. 

So, thanks to the openness of Uni High, the GED exam, and above all, Charlie taking a chance on a semi-educated, working-class “gang-sta” with mismatched legs, my college career had been launched.

Life was perfect but for Peg o’ My Heart.

____________________

Chapter Notes:

*I didn’t have an athletic scholarship as we know them today, which was rare in the “minor sports” at the time, but “work assistance.” My work, if you can call it that, was before gymnastics practice folding towels taken from Don Easton’s equipment room dryer: it took maybe twenty minutes. Many afternoons, there weren’t towels to fold. 

*1956-1957 University of Illinois gymnastics team: Abie Grossfeld, Don Tonry, Gavin Blair, Mike Karon, Frank Hailand, Alan Harvey, Jim Blazek, Dan Lirot, John Davis, Mike Walters, Pat Bird.

---

^[1] Novak, Mark S. Daily Illini, 27 February 1957. https://idnc.library.illinois.edu.

______________________________

Chapter 23

Peggy’s Visit March 1957

It was warm and sunny driving north on US 40, windows down, smelling the furrows of black dirt running straight as arrows across the fields. The corn— high as an elephant’s eye—was gone. The only green was the odd John Deere working the soil off in the distance. I felt terrible, well, a little bad, having pressured Jack Wiley into lending me his beautiful ’50 Mustang Coupe. As I drove off, he looked like some poor soul parting with the love of his life 

Peggy and I had exchanged letters regularly over the last months, hardly steamy though my passion crept onto the pages. In my letter about the Gymnastics banquet, I took a shot in the dark and proposed she visit. It was a good time with the end of the competitive season. She didn’t reply to that in her next couple of letters. Then came a response— “Yes. When?” 

I was at Midway two hours early, parked, found the observation deck, and waited, and waited. The PA finally announced the arrival of Peggy’s flight. I watched, heart pounding, as the DC 6 taxied into its spot. The propellers roared to a stop. Stairs were maneuvered into position. The hatch swung open. A stewardess looked out and then disappeared back into the plane. More waiting!

A passenger appeared. He started down the steps, then another, another. Slowly, one by one. Then there was Peggy. I beelined to the gate. At last, 

“Hi,” she said, coming towards me wearing a satin green dress, high heels, hair loose over her shoulders: very much the New York sophisticate. 

“Welcome to Chicago!”

We gently kissed, her fragrance so lovely, so familiar. 

“Peg, you look terrific.” 

 “And you, too, Paddy.” 

“Well, let’s go get your luggage!” 

On the way to baggage claim, Peggy excitedly recounted the flight, her first. Like mine a year earlier, her high points were flying over Manhattan and the surprise lunch with a mini bottle of complimentary wine. Bags in hand, we made our way to Jack’s sleek Mustang.

“What’s this?” Peggy said as I unlocked the door.

“Transportation—courtesy of my roommate and fellow gymnast.” 

 “It’s lovely,” she said, sliding into the fine leather seat. “Not quite Argo, of course.” 

“Never!” I responded, and we laughed together. 

Soon, we were out of the city, passing the black fields, me blathering nervously about Illinois farming, à la trucker Ron. My eyes were continually drawn to Peggy, elbow out the window, the wind tussling her hair. She looked happy and somehow older—my lovely girl had become a dazzling woman. 

It seemed like no time before we pulled up in front of Mrs. Pond’s house, where I’d arranged for her to stay. Mrs. Pond greeted Peggy in her no-frills Texan manner.

A brisk handshake and, “Pleased ta meet yaw.” 

Mrs. Pond then ordered sharply, “Take the lady on up ta yaw old room.”

Climbing the stairs, Peggy whispered, “She seems mean?”

“No. Not at all. Just her way.”

“Hope so. Does anyone else live here?” 

“Not now. A guy from South Africa did when I was here. He’s gone.”

I opened the door to the room. Peggy stepped inside before me, saying, “It’s lovely, Paddy, so big.” 

She walked around, taking it all in. The room was sparse, clean, and comfortable as I had left it. I took her down the hall to see the bathroom and the giant claw-foot tub. 

“Can’t wait to stretch out there. It’s enormous,” Peggy said and went about checking out the contents of the cabinets. “Wow, there’s everything here.”

Peggy put her arms around me back in the room, saying, “It’s all very nice.”

 As we kissed, my body trembling with desire, I gently moved us toward the bed.

“Not now, Paddy,” she said softly while gently breaking us apart. “I must try that lovely tub.”

“Yes. Sure.” I smiled, stepping back. “I’ll come back at seven if that’s okay. We’re having dinner at the Moose Lodge.” 

“Terrific!” Peggy said and placed a quick kill softly on the lips.

I was flying high, driving to the Monopoly House as reality sunk in. Peggy, she’s here. And “Not now, Paddy,” that had to mean—but later.

***

I returned in my beat-up but presentable suite with my teaching outfit in my rucksack—praying I’d be going straight from Mrs. Pond’s to my Saturday morning Palaestrum classes. I stashed the rucksack in the entranceway. Passing the living room, I heard voices. There sat Peggy and Mrs. Pond side by side on the couch. 

“Yaw can take the car tonight, Paad,” Mrs. Pond said, looking up as I entered. 

The offer was a pleasant surprise since I hadn’t asked to borrow the car: a ’52 green Hudson in which I’d occasionally drive her to the market when living in the house. 

 “Not tonight, thank you, Mrs. Pond. We’re going to the Moose Lodge. We’ll walk the few blocks,” quickly adding, “How about tomorrow? I’d like to take Peggy to Kickapoo State Park.”

“Will see.” 

Peggy stood—stunning in a figure-hugging blue dress—saying, “Nice talking to you, Mrs. Pond.” 

“Y’all’ ‘ave yaself a fine time, now,” Mrs. Ponded responded with a trace of a seldom-seen smile.

“What did you and Mrs. Pond talk about?” I asked, walking along Washington Avenue. “You seemed to be getting along pretty well. “

“Nothing much. I went downstairs to see what I could of the rest of the house while waiting for you. She was in the living room and invited me to join her. We only talked for a short while before you arrived. She wanted to know if I was comfortable or needed anything. I said I was fine and really liked the house. She told me she moved from Dallas five years ago to be with her son and family and bought it. It’s too big for her, she said, but it’s what she’s used to. She was very nice. And her Texas accent was fun.” 

 “John Wayne’s mom.” I laughed.  

When we entered the Moose Lodge, Mr. Willis was standing with a group. His beady eyes latched on to me, ample jowls sagging into a frown. Message: Ya should be here working, not romancing.

Alice came right up to us when we stepped into the dining room. She knew we were coming. It was her idea that I take Peggy there for dinner. After introductions, Alice led us to one of her tables with a prominent RESERVED sigh. The table was near the piano. There, Tommy Reed was playing dinner music. Tommy recognized me with a smile and a nod. I nodded back, hoping Peggy caught the cool greeting—Rick to Sam in Casablanca.

 As Alice walked off with our Cutty Sark and water orders, Peggy leaned toward me, whispering, “Reserved table. Greeted by the waitress and the piano player. You’ve outdone yourself, Paddy.” 

I’m thinking: I’m on a roll!

“That’s who you wrote about?” Peggy sat back, eyes on Alice at the bar getting our drinks

“Yeah—that’s her, my boss,” I said lightheartedly.

 “She’s good-looking. Somehow, I thought she was older.” Peggy looked back at me, adding with a sly smile, “Got eyes for you, you know.“

 “Nah! No way.” 

I smiled to myself: Peggy’s jealous.

We brought each other up to date over dinner. And I came clean about having been at Uni High and the GED. My letters between August and December gave the impression that I was in college, not back in high school. Peggy took the confession well, actually praising me for hanging in there. Disappointment crossed her face when she heard my major was physical education and coaching instead of architecture. I explained why.  

Peggy told me about her new job as a secretary for an advertising agency, her parents and moving from the apartment to a “real house” in Rocky Point, Long Island, with her dad’s retirement, and that she was moving in with her sister Liz who has a fourth-floor Manhattan walkup near the Queensborough Bridge. She also mentioned some new friends, including a”nice guy” named Jimmy: “A talented actor. You’d like him.” She went on to tell me how nice guy actor Jimmy once took her sightseeing on his Vespa: “It was great fun seeing the citythat way. We rode all over.” 

Vespa Jimmy came down on me like a ton of bricks. I imagined her snuggled tight against him as they tooled around Manhattan. And who knows what other fun they were having. 

My inner voice flashed red: Say nothing! You’ll make an ass of yourself! 

I managed to be ho-hum. But each time Peggy said Jimmy, it was a knife to the heart. Thank goodness, Tommy’s bright voice broke in with a melody of cabaret standards, reviving my jubilant mood. I parked Vespa Jimmy. 

Everything else was excellent aside from the Jimmy jolt, from food to music. Even Tommy’s occasional lame jokes, which I’d heard before, added to the evening; they were new to Peggy, who responded with a happy laugh. Tommy ended his evening’s gig as he always did with the bittersweet:

So long, it’s been good to know ya,
It’s a long time since I’ve been home,
And I’ve gotta be driftin’ along.

With that, Peggy excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. I signaled Alice. She came over with a big smile, placed the check face down on the table, and walked off. I flipped it over to inspect the damage—it was blank. I glanced over at Alice, standing at her station. She grinned at me devilishly. I turned the check back over, placing a five-dollar bill under it.  

Peggy returned and, seeing the check, said, “Let me contribute.” 

Before responding, she turned over the check, looked at me, and then at Alice. She shook her head, saying, “You can take the boy out of The City…but!” 

“Yup!” I agreed with a laugh.

I put a few dollars in Tommy’s tip jar, drawing a playful, “Good luck tonight, Pat.” Peggy and Alice exchanged little waves. 

We left by way of the kitchen, where I intended to introduce Peggy to Mama and Billy. All hands were rushing about closing. We continued out the rear door. Outside, a vast red moon lit the night. 

“A harvest moon,” Peggy said, taking my hand. “So beautiful. Feels like you can reach out and touch it.” 

“Would you like to stop for a nightcap?” I asked. 

“I’d rather go back to Mrs. Pond’s.” A slight smile. “Wouldn’t you?” 

“Yes,” I answered, tingles racing up my spine.

***

We inched up the squeaky stairs, trying not to disturb Mrs. Pond, me with my rucksack. The stealth and scotch set us off giggling like kids up to no good. I eased open the door to the room, closed it with a quiet click, and dropped the rucksack. We stood a moment, moonlight flooding the room, and looked at each other as if unsure of the next move. 

“I’ll be right back,” Peggy said quietly.

She kicked off her shoes and left the room carrying a small satchel. I folded down the top cover, undressed, and got under the sheet: my right side down the middle of the bed so she wouldn’t encounter the polio leg right away. I waited and watched the slowly turning fan overhead, thinking expectantly but nervously: After our many sizzling dalliances in Argo and never going all the way—this was it! 

Peggy returned in a silky black slip and came toward me, gorgeously radiant in the soft moonlight. Standing by the bedside, smiling shyly, she slowly lifted the hem of the slip, unveiling her slim, creamy, and enticingly delicious body. Sliding in beside me, our bodies touched, and we kissed tenderly, then passionately, yielding to sexual pleasure more exquisite than ever imagined. As our excitement peaked to that splendid moment of penetration, I went soft. We maneuvered longingly and easily. My erection quickly returned. But again, at the critical moment, I wilted. Then again, and once more. Each time, my arousal demanded more of our effort. Frustration mounted, and passion waned. I rolled from Peggy, pulling the sheet over my failed manhood in madding defeat.

“I’m sorry,” I moaned pathetically. 

“It’s okay, Paddy. Let’s rest and try again,” Peggy responded softly, turning to kiss me gently. 

We lay side by side, watching the lazily spinning ceiling fan. After a while, we “tried again”—a phrase as unsexy as our effort. 

“Sorry. So sorry,” I sighed, on the verge of tears. 

Peggy curled up against me under the sheet, whispering lovingly, “There’s nothing to be sorry about. It was lovely. We’re just tired. Let’s get some sleep now.” 

We gently kissed, and Peggy turned away, saying encouragingly, “We had such a fine day. And I’m really looking forward to tomorrow. Good night, Paddy.”

Peggy was soon breathing peacefully, the delicate warmth of her body resting against me. I was wide awake, hearing my inner voice showing no mercy: Nothing to be sorry about—that’s one crock of shit! No two ways about it, you fuck’n flunked!

***

Peggy was all dressed, looking lovely in casual white slacks and a blue blouse when I woke up. She greeted me cheerfully with a kiss and, “Good morning—Patrick!”

Still, I forced out an upbeat, “Good morning—Margaret!” Wrapped in the sheet, I went off with my rucksack to the bathroom to prepare for my Palaestrum teaching. 

We then snuck from the house like two naughty kids, hoping not to be caught by Mrs. Pond, and headed for a downtown coffee shop. It was a beautiful morning, and Peggy talked away about our “spectacular” dinner at the Moose Lodge and how friendly Alice was—”Hope she doesn’t get in trouble about the tab.” I assured her that wouldn’t happen. 

I wanted to say something about my—un-spectacular—night-ending performance, other than another feeble, I’m sorry. I was desperate to convince Peggy somehow that the malfunction wasn’t a polio problem. But I hadn’t the words. 

Over breakfast, I outlined a proposed plan for the day: “Perfect, Paddy. I want to see everything!” Her continued enthusiasm and lovely smiling face raised my spirits—the visit is salvageable, and I’ll surely redeem myself tonight.

 At the Palaestrum, Peggy, warmly welcomed by Charlie, settled down on the balcony while I taught my classes. Muriel Davis later showed up. She was a top national gymnast who, along with Abie, had competed at the ’56 Melbourne Olympics. Muriel lived in Indianapolis, an hour’s drive to Champaign, and was there to train with some of the advanced competitive Palaestrum girls following the morning classes. I introduced Peggy and Muriel at a break, and they then sat together on the balcony. 

After my sessions with the little ones, Charlie and I worked individually with advanced students on tumbling and trampoline. 

“You have a lovely way with the little ones,” Peggy said as we left the Palaestrum at about noon, another nice emotional boost. She also said she enjoyed talking to Muriel. 

“Muriel competed in the last Olympics, you know?”

“She didn’t mention that,” Peggy answered, surprised. “We discussed books. We read a lot of the same writers. And she was interested in my life in New York. She wants to visit sometime, and we exchanged phone numbers. Maybe we’ll get to see her again?”

“I don’t know. Muriel lives in Indianapolis and may go right home from the Palaestrum.” 

We lunched at the Illini Union cafeteria, looking out onto the treeless Quad, which was in the process of being replanted. I tried to describe how giant Dutch Elms once flanked walkways and were killed by a bark beetle invasion. It was hard to describe the devastation to the campus’s beauty. After lunch, we strolled around campus, bustling with students. 

“It’s so peaceful,” Peggy commented at one point, “You know, Paddy, I’d be happy here. Who wouldn’t?” 

I was back to flying high, packed to the ears now with confidence. 

I’d written to Peggy about the football players and their wild goings-on, including the Christmas tree and fried chicken affair. When we arrived at the Monopoly House, she wanted to go in. But the sign beside the door was clear: Girls Not Allowed. There were naturally clandestine exceptions; that was when Coach McClay was away. Peggy waited outside while I dropped off my rucksack and changed into regular clothes.

 Men’s Old Gym was next. There, Peggy met some of the gymnasts, including Jack Wiley—thanking him for the lone of the “lovely car”—and Abie, whom she’d heard a lot about but had never met. As planned, I dressed out for a quick workout in my usual garb, including the leg-concealing competition pants. 

Peggy had never seen me do gymnastics, aside from showing off at Astoria Park with one-arm handstands on the parallel bars and circus-like giant swings around the chinning. She sat outside Charlie’s office—music filling the gym—her eyes on me, certainly not my sleek, powerful body teammates. As I began demonstrating my derring-do on the horizontal bar, which would, without a doubt, impress Peggy, Muriel entered the gym. She and Peggy vanished into Charlie’s empty office—so much for derring-do. 

From the gym, we walked around Campustown and had an early dinner of pizza and Cokes. It was early evening when I left her at Mrs. Pond’s house to “freshen up .”The day went by without a word about the previous night’s debacle. Back at the Monopoly House, I ran into Ray Nitschke. On a whim, I asked if he knew of a downtown place with live Saturday night entertainment.

“The Tumble Inn on Neal Street. Good ol’ country music. Work there in the off-season sometimes.” He then laughed, “Tell them Nitschke sent ya. Ya get a break on the bill, or they’ll toss ya out.”

***

A steel guitar, bass, and drums were blasting rockabilly on a small stage at the rear of the crowded Tumble Inn. We found a table and ordered a pitcher of beer. It wasn’t long before the rockabillies, thankfully, ended their sets. Then, one after another, other performers took the stage: dualling guitarists, a harmonica virtuoso, individual and group singers, a fiddler-concertina duo, a guy striking spoons against his knee whacked out a feverish rhythm, a clog-dancing couple in fancy western garb. It was “amateur night,” and every excellent and awful performance got wild applause. Loud, nonstop, and not conducive to conversation. Still, it was great fun, and we stayed until the end. 

We strolled along afterward, laughing and joking about the night’s entertainment, the giant red moon lighting our way back to Mrs. Pond’s. The closer we got, the more nervous I became. It wasn’t, could I redeem myself? I was sure of that, just had to be relaxed and calm. But would I be invited to do so? Or had the damage been done? 

Peggy fidgeted endlessly to unlock the door. I’m worried the racket will wake Mrs. Pond, who’d surely shoo me off. The lock clicked. She pushed the door open and turned to me with a sad-eyed smile.

“Paddy, I’d like to go up alone. I’m tired. It’s been a long day for both of us.”

“You sure?” I said as my heart sank like a stone. “We had a great day. And I’m looking forward to tomorrow.” 

She placed her soft hands on my cheeks and gently kissed my lips. With all my heart, I wanted to pull her into my arms but capitulated to reality—I’d failed her miserably. 

“That’s fine,” I responded, arms draped limply at my sides. “I’ll see you about nine then. Okay?”

“Great!”  

Hiking back to the Monopoly House, the building misery of rejection dragged me down an even deeper hole, thinking: she has to believe my incompetent lovemaking is a hopeless polio thing like the feeble leg. 

Self-pity, sure—but that’s where my stupid head was.

***

The old Packard windows down, breathing in a beautiful day, we wandered the farmland back roads to Kickapoo State Park. Peggy was lively, full of excited words about all we’d been doing and the people she’d met. I had recovered, pretty much. My delight with Peggy’s visit hadn’t diminished in the slightest; love conquers all. And in my illogical optimism, there’s tonight.  

At Kickapoo, we spread out a Mrs. Pond’s blanket at a sheltered spot on the rise overlooking the Middle Fork River. And while we picnicked on deli sandwiches and cokes, I entertained Peggy with the story of my Uni High biology class outing. That got a good appreciative laugh. We then just stretched out side by side, enjoying the scent of early Spring and watching the blackbirds circling in a cloudless sky. 

“You wrote of a Chicago train that stops at Champaign.” Peggy, after a while, interrupted the lovely quietly.

“The Panama Limited.”

“Does it have a dining car?”

“Must. It goes all the way to New Orleans.”

“Maybe I could take it to Chicago?”

“Nah, I’ll drive you. We’re all set up with Jack’s car.”

“The train would be fun…breakfast in the dining car,” she answered dreamily.

“Well, we can do that. We’ll check the schedule when we get back,” I answered, watching a bird swoop down after something tasty.

“Maybe I’d go alone.”

I rolled over and propped up on my elbows, looking at her. Arms pillowed behind her head, the sparkling blue Vermilion River beyond—it was a beautiful picture. 

“Go alone!?” 

“You wouldn’t have to borrow Jack’s car or miss classes. Anyway, it was just something I was thinking about.” 

Her head then turned, smiling. She moved against me. We cuddled and kissed while I gently maneuvered for redemption. Her body language responded subtly, but the message was clear—no copulation at Kickapoo. We cuddled and caressed, still in absolute heaven. 

Later, we strolled hand in hand through the park. The intimacy and walk had eased the shock of Panama Limited. Suppose she wants to take the train to Chicago without me, okay, anything to make Peggy happy. And trying to convince her otherwise, on top of my sorry sack performance, could sour the entire trip. 

Peggy said no more about the train idea, likely picking up my adverse reaction. It was late evening by the time we got back to Champaign. We moseyed around Campustown, Peggy window shopping, and stopped for a hamburger supper. While waiting for our order, Peggy left the restaurant. Returning, she went straight to the ladies’ room. Moments later, she appeared and playfully sashayed to the table in a black, long-sleeved, button-up shirt discreetly embossed with a UI logo. 

“Like it?” she asked, doing a pirouette. “It’s to remember this amazing time together!”

“Love it!” I answered

“Still want to take the train tomorrow?” I gingerly asked as we ate, feeling the notion was still brewing in her mind.

“Would be nice. But not necessary,” Peggy replied, seeming to downplay the idea.

 “We can stop by the train station if you like and check the schedule,” I said, trying to please instead of letting her answer slide, which would likely have ended the matter.

“You don’t mind?” 

 “I’m good.” My inner voice yelling: Bull shit!

 It was still early when we got back to the house. Mrs. Pond invited us to sit and talk about our day. While the two ladies chattered away, I sat quietly, aching to feel Peggy’s softness, smell the scent of her hair, make love, and prove my malfunction was a fluke. But having run into Mrs. Pond, that wouldn’t happen right away.

The conversation finally wound down, and we all stood. Peggy shook hands with Mrs. Pond, thanking her and saying she’d be leaving early in the morning. Peggy then walked with me to the door.

“What time should I come back? Maybe go to a movie. Psycho is at the Orpheum. The Daily Illini said it was great,” I asked.

 “Paddy, it was a fabulous day. But I must soak in that delightful tub once more, pack, and get a good night’s sleep.”

“It’s still early,” I softly protested.

“Tomorrow will be a long day. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“Yeah. It’s an early train.” I smiled, stiffening the frustration and touch of anger.

We kissed more fondly than sexually.

Hoping to spend some busing time with Alice, I headed to the Moose Lodge. Alice and the dinner time hustle-bustle will lift my hopeless mood. Also, Tommy will be at the keys.

***

The 7:15 am Panama Limited chugged slowly from the station, the love of my life aboard in her silky green dress. I watched sad, discouraged, feeling a resurging hellish jealously — Vespa-fucken-Jimmy is awaiting. 

C’est la vie! 

Chapter 24

Sad NYC Summer

The night before I was to get on the road to NY, I’d worked at the Moose Lodge, a good tip night with all the graduation celebrations. The Monopoly House was semi-dark and quiet, with no macho energy in the air when I got home. Most everyone, including roommate Jack Wiley, had left for the summer. Getting the letter from my mail slot, I went to my room and plopped on the bunk. Though I wrote to Peggy a half-dozen times following the visit, this was just her second response. The first was a kind of thank you letter. 

I opened the envelope. A one-pager. Bottom line: “We won’t see much of each other when you get home. I’m dating someone…” My reaction was naturally one of sadness, though, given the trip disaster, not surprise. 

I lay there staring at the ceiling, letting a few tears flow. Jealously soon took over: “Someone”—no mystery there: Vespa-fucken- Jimmy!

 I seized Peggy’s picture from the nightstand and flung it across the room, hitting the plywood wall with a shattering of glass. My inner voice was then right on me: What the fuck ya expect? She’s no novitiate in a nunnery but beautiful and single in Manhattan. I got up, retrieved Peggy’s photo, and cleaned up the mess.

***

The following morning, I was on my way: an 895-mile hitchhike through Illinois, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and into New York City. With luck, it would take about twenty hours. I’d been looking forward to the adventure on the road and the lovely prize at the end—now a journey to be endured with but a cot in the dreary Astoria apartment waiting. 

What the hell? Onward.

Twelve hours and four rides into the uneventful trip, the driver dropped at a diner near the Pennsylvania Turnpiked Harrisburg exit. Over a burger and coffee at a diner, I decided to stop for the night. There was no great rush. The waitress recommended a $10 motel down the road, adding, “Ya may wanna stop in at Richard’s across the way from the motel. It’s Dauphin County barn night. A big ta-do.” 

Checked into the motel, I strolled over to Richard’s, a log and stucco roadhouse lit up like Christmas. Inside, it was barn-like with a high timber ceiling from which hung an enormous fixture made of antlers wound with strings of lights. On a stage to the rear of a large dancefloor, a shapely buckskin-outfitted woman, backed by a country quartet, was playfully singing:

I’m just a girl who cain’t say ‘no’,
I’m in a terrible fix!
I always say, ‘Come on, let’s go’ just when I oughta say ‘nix.’

I ordered a beer at the bar, served in a Kerr Jar. “Cain’t say ‘no“ ended to a roar of applause. Couples, lots of boots and Stetsons, took the dance floor, the singer now crooning, I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry—perfectly fitting my mood.  

I chug-a-lugged the beer and ordered another. At the end of the sad song, beautifully delivered, the singer jumped from the stage while the band struck up a brisk jig-like tempo. The dancers formed three lines facing the band and singer. On cue, led by the singer, everyone began performing a series of short dance steps in unison: forward and back, side to side, hopping and shuffling. It was like Irish step dancing with the ridged torso and dour Celtic faces replaced by loose bodies and happy smiles.  

Richard’s, that’s about all I remember of that heart-aching hitchhike—except for the welcoming Manhattan skyline. 

***

Pop had work waiting for me as a night janitor in a new Mid-town Manhattan office building. He’d arranged it through his union contacts: good pay, tax-free, with cash handed out at the end of each shift. But the hours were lousy: 11:00 PM to 7:00 AM. 

My task was to clean six bathrooms each night, two on three floors. The foreman was a roly-poly runt, Rick, with a crappy attitude: “No read’n. No sleep’n. Just fuck’n clean’n. Got it?” Each night at precisely 11:00 PM, Rick—the prick as referred to by the crew—would let the four of us in by the service entrance. We’d follow him to a basement locker room, put on blue coveralls, and Rick would take us to our assigned floors with our cleaning cart. Two-and-a-half hours later, the elevator would return, and Rick would move us to our second floor. Two-and-a-half hours after that, it was on to floor three. 

I had the first three floors above the lobby. Dark, locked offices enclosed the area off the elevator on each of them. There were no windows to the outside. And the quiet was deadening, only the buzzing of the dim fluorescents under frosty glass ceilings—all in all, spooky. 

I’d clean the sinks, toilets, urinals, and stall walls, replace the toilet paper, fill the soap and towel dispensers, empty the trash, and finish up by mopping the tile floors: thirty minutes per bathroom at most. With ninety minutes to kill before Rick came to move me, I’d sit back to the elevator door and take a smuggled-in book from my “lunch” bag containing a deli sandwich and coke. I’d read until the elevator hummed and the door vibrated. 

Rick would find me diligently working away in a bathroom, and we’d do a “walk trou’.” He was a real Sherlock Holmes. “Ya didn’t polish the chrome good ’nuff,” pointing to a water spot on a faucet. “The toilet paper rolls are on ass-backward. Got-a roll out over the top.” He’d even squat and run a finger under the sink drainpipe to pick up a speck of dirt. “Fucken filthy!” 

In the intense boredom of the long night, Peggy would surface. I tried to bury the misery. But like an itch that had to be scratched, I’d scratch away, flaring up all the desire, longing, and self-doubt. 

There was also the difficulty of sleeping during the day. The Astoria apartment was hot, with no AC, and uncomfortable. By mid-afternoon, I was up with little to do until going off to the Y at five. Anchored by Pesha, the team was still great, having just won another National YMCA Gymnastics Championship.^[1]

After a workout and dinner at the Times Square Automat, I’d occasionally take in a movie to kill time before work. Mostly, though, I’d aimlessly roam the city streets, stopping now and then to check out the progress of a Midtown skyscraper emerging slowly from massive holes.^[2] Once, just once, I wandered to the Queensboro Bridge neighborhood where Peggy lived with her sister. I thought about what to do if I saw her—but what if she’s with Vespa-Fucken-Jimmy?

Kill the asshole! My inner voice suggested. 

***

Weekdays were lousy, except for gymnastics workouts. Weekends could be fun, usually hanging out with Pesha and his girlfriend, Mary, who lived on the Upper East Side. We’d meet with them at Jim McMullen’s, a neighborhood 3^rd Ave dive between 76^th and 77^thStreet. The girls were good drinking buddies. There was nothing romantic on my end, but through them, I became a “friend forever” with a Ziegfeld Follies Girl, Betty Crawford.

We visited Betty and her reclusive housemate Dorie one sweltering night. Their tenement was across the street from Jim McMullen’s. Mary and her friends had known the old ladies for years and looked after them, doing things like shopping and cleaning. 

Armed with a case of Rheingold and a fifth of Seagram’s 7, we climbed to the fourth floor of the tenement. Betty, expecting us, answered the door. She was six feet tall and wearing a sleek yellow kimono-style dress with her silver hair pulled back sharply into a bun. Very stately. But her face—powdered white, pink rouged cheeks, scarlet painted lips, and penciled-in eyebrows—creepy, like she’d been done up by a mortician having a bad day.

We entered directly into the living room, a typical railroad flat layout, and jammed with heavy old furniture and dimly lit by several tasseled shade lamps. The windows were wide open and faced out onto a fire escape. Fifteen feet beyond that was the ghastly trestle of the 3rd Ave L. The trains no longer blasted past the window. The L section from 143^rd Street to 47^th Street was scheduled for demolition. 

Framed black and white photographs of women in elaborate showgirl costumes, some in see-through negligees—a few wonderfully naked—covered the room walls. There was also a large, gold-framed color poster of smiling flapper girls flanking the caption: 

Drinking got underway: beer for Pesha and me, whiskey for the eight ladies, including the never-to-be-seen Dorie. She hid behind a door that opened just enough for an arm to emerge and accept a whiskey from Betty. Old 78s, some 10″ and cut only on one side, were played on an RCA wind-up victrola — John McCormick, Enrico Caruso, Jimmy Rodgers, Jeanette MacDonald, and Nelson Eddy, as well as the big band jazz of Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman, and Glenn Miller. It wasn’t long before Mary and friends were doing their versions of the Charleston, Black Bottom, and Shimmy. 

‘Neath the South Sea Moon

Ziegfeld Follies 1922

The Winter Garden’s

Tenth Annual Review

Meanwhile, Pesha and I sat on a couch with Betty as she flipped through albums of signed celebrity photos: Eddie Cantor, W.C. Fields, Ed Winn, Jimmy Durante, Lucille Ball, a very young Bob Hope, and many more I didn’t recognize. All the while, Betty talked away in happy nostalgia: “Dancing in seven shows a week… out all night after… met all the headliner…rolled in the sack with more than a few…male or female, didn’t matter…was up for anything…such a time it was…the age of wonderful nonsense.”

Well into the night, Betty let slip that it was her birthday. I left the flat, her unaware, and found an all-night grocer. When I got back, Mary took the goods to the kitchen. Then, returning with a tray of candle-lit Hostess Cupcakes, we belted out a rousing Happy Birthday. Betty, clearly touched, blew out the candles in a series of huffs and puffs, each attempt accompanied by our whooping applause. 

After eating the “birthday cake,” I was back on the couch beside Betty. Pesha and Mary sat together across the room, and the girls were on the fire escape. The music had paused.

“Betty, do you miss the trains going by?” I asked, expecting a resounding no.

“Yes, I will, quite a bit,” she said, sadness in her voice. “There was comfort in the passing clamor and watching passengers flying by, everyone off to somewhere with something to do. Brought of life to this dreary flat.”

I then asked about the poster. 

“Take a look,” she said, painfully rising from the sofa. 

“That’s me. Not at all bad looking, wouldn’t ya say.” Betty pointed to one of the girls.

“Very pretty,” I answered.

Betty led me to the other side of the room, asking, “What’s with the leg?”

I hated that question but answered, “Had Polio.” 

“Thought so. Me, too. But I was left without a trace, thank the Lord.” Then, pointing at a crisp black-and-white photo, she said, “Look closely. My favorite picture.”

It was an overhead shot of a lovely nude girl reclined on a white sheet-like background with her beautiful face turned from the camera. Long wavey air flowed down over one breast, the other lusciously bare. A slightly flexed leg discreetly covered her hips while one arm reached out as if beckoning a lover. 

“Well?” Betty asked softly, looking at me, her eyes twinkling and lips showing a turn of a smile. 

“It’s you?” I smiled at her. 

“Yup, in all my glory.” Somehow aware I was the cupcake caterer, she added devilishly, “If that were me now, I’d be yours tonight in loving thanks for your thoughtfulness.” 

Her palms were then on my cheeks as she placed an ungranny kiss square on the lips. Releasing me, grinning ear to ear, she said, “But dearie, that’s the best I can do with this chicken-skinned sack of old bones. Too bad, too—you taste delicious. Well, as it is, we’re friends forever.” 

I was genuinely flattered. And for once, I’d done something good while stewed. Tallying up my deeds in the afterlife, maybe Hostess Cupcakes will nullify Piccolo Trumpet.  

With the heavy drinking weekends like the Ziegfeld Follies night, Peggy heartachingly close yet out of reach, and given the depressing job—I had to get my sorry self out of New York City; the sooner, the better.

When I told Rick I was quitting to go back to school, he gave me a so-what shrug, saying, “No problem. Got lots a guys look’n for woik.” 

At the end of my shift on my last Friday, Rick handed me my pay, cash as always, rumbling, “There’s a little extra in there. Good luck.” 

Pop, as expected, was ticked when I told him I’d quit: “You should ‘uv stood ‘wi yer commitment. Won’t be able ter get ya work again.”

***

At the Port Authority Bus Terminal on West 42^nd Street, I boarded a 40-foot-long two-level humpback Greyhound Scenicruiser. I’d sprung for a front-row seat facing an 8-foot-long, 3-foot-tall window overlooking the first-level roof—could see everything. Soon, I was cruising down Ninth Avenue for the Lincoln Tunnel exit out of The City with no idea when I’d return. And that was fine.

I spent most of my time to Chicago reading Worst Journey in the World.  The dark story of Captain Robert Falcon Scott’s 1913 expedition to the South Pole. My front seat companion was an old lady dressed in black on her way home from her sister’s funeral, she said, and nothing more. 

I transferred to a regular Greyhound in Chicago and was soon on US 40, passing the never-ending fields of ripe corn stalks, once more as high as an elephant’s eye. It was all tranquil, quiet, and so wonderfully dull. The Monopoly House was alive, with hyped-up footballers back on campus to prepare for the season opener against UCLA. 

I dropped into my bunk and slept like a baby. 

_________________________________

Chapter 23

Peggy’s Visit March 1957

It was warm and sunny driving north on US 40, windows down, smelling the furrows of black dirt running straight as arrows across the fields. The corn— high as an elephant’s eye—was gone. The only green was the odd John Deere working the soil off in the distance. I felt terrible, well, a little bad, having pressured Jack Wiley into lending me his beautiful ’50 Mustang Coupe. As I drove off, he looked like some poor soul parting with the love of his life 

Peggy and I had exchanged letters regularly over the last months, hardly steamy though my passion crept onto the pages. In my letter about the Gymnastics banquet, I took a shot in the dark and proposed she visit. It was a good time with the end of the competitive season. She didn’t reply to that in her next couple of letters. Then came a response— “Yes. When?” 

I was at Midway two hours early, parked, found the observation deck, and waited, and waited. The PA finally announced the arrival of Peggy’s flight. I watched, heart pounding, as the DC 6 taxied into its spot. The propellers roared to a stop. Stairs were maneuvered into position. The hatch swung open. A stewardess looked out and then disappeared back into the plane. More waiting!

A passenger appeared. He started down the steps, then another, another. Slowly, one by one. Then there was Peggy. I beelined to the gate. At last, 

“Hi,” she said, coming towards me wearing a satin green dress, high heels, hair loose over her shoulders: very much the New York sophisticate. 

“Welcome to Chicago!”

We gently kissed, her fragrance so lovely, so familiar. 

“Peg, you look terrific.” 

 “And you, too, Paddy.” 

“Well, let’s go get your luggage!” 

On the way to baggage claim, Peggy excitedly recounted the flight, her first. Like mine a year earlier, her high points were flying over Manhattan and the surprise lunch with a mini bottle of complimentary wine. Bags in hand, we made our way to Jack’s sleek Mustang.

“What’s this?” Peggy said as I unlocked the door.

“Transportation—courtesy of my roommate and fellow gymnast.” 

 “It’s lovely,” she said, sliding into the fine leather seat. “Not quite Argo, of course.” 

“Never!” I responded, and we laughed together. 

Soon, we were out of the city, passing the black fields, me blathering nervously about Illinois farming, à la trucker Ron. My eyes were continually drawn to Peggy, elbow out the window, the wind tussling her hair. She looked happy and somehow older—my lovely girl had become a dazzling woman. 

It seemed like no time before we pulled up in front of Mrs. Pond’s house, where I’d arranged for her to stay. Mrs. Pond greeted Peggy in her no-frills Texan manner.

A brisk handshake and, “Pleased ta meet yaw.” 

Mrs. Pond then ordered sharply, “Take the lady on up ta yaw old room.”

Climbing the stairs, Peggy whispered, “She seems mean?”

“No. Not at all. Just her way.”

“Hope so. Does anyone else live here?” 

“Not now. A guy from South Africa did when I was here. He’s gone.”

I opened the door to the room. Peggy stepped inside before me, saying, “It’s lovely, Paddy, so big.” 

She walked around, taking it all in. The room was sparse, clean, and comfortable as I had left it. I took her down the hall to see the bathroom and the giant claw-foot tub. 

“Can’t wait to stretch out there. It’s enormous,” Peggy said and went about checking out the contents of the cabinets. “Wow, there’s everything here.”

Peggy put her arms around me back in the room, saying, “It’s all very nice.”

 As we kissed, my body trembling with desire, I gently moved us toward the bed.

“Not now, Paddy,” she said softly while gently breaking us apart. “I must try that lovely tub.”

“Yes. Sure.” I smiled, stepping back. “I’ll come back at seven if that’s okay. We’re having dinner at the Moose Lodge.” 

“Terrific!” Peggy said and placed a quick kill softly on the lips.

I was flying high, driving to the Monopoly House as reality sunk in. Peggy, she’s here. And “Not now, Paddy,” that had to mean—but later.

***

I returned in my beat-up but presentable suite with my teaching outfit in my rucksack—praying I’d be going straight from Mrs. Pond’s to my Saturday morning Palaestrum classes. I stashed the rucksack in the entranceway. Passing the living room, I heard voices. There sat Peggy and Mrs. Pond side by side on the couch. 

“Yaw can take the car tonight, Paad,” Mrs. Pond said, looking up as I entered. 

The offer was a pleasant surprise since I hadn’t asked to borrow the car: a ’52 green Hudson in which I’d occasionally drive her to the market when living in the house. 

 “Not tonight, thank you, Mrs. Pond. We’re going to the Moose Lodge. We’ll walk the few blocks,” quickly adding, “How about tomorrow? I’d like to take Peggy to Kickapoo State Park.”

“Will see.” 

Peggy stood—stunning in a figure-hugging blue dress—saying, “Nice talking to you, Mrs. Pond.” 

“Y’all’ ‘ave yaself a fine time, now,” Mrs. Ponded responded with a trace of a seldom-seen smile.

“What did you and Mrs. Pond talk about?” I asked, walking along Washington Avenue. “You seemed to be getting along pretty well. “

“Nothing much. I went downstairs to see what I could of the rest of the house while waiting for you. She was in the living room and invited me to join her. We only talked for a short while before you arrived. She wanted to know if I was comfortable or needed anything. I said I was fine and really liked the house. She told me she moved from Dallas five years ago to be with her son and family and bought it. It’s too big for her, she said, but it’s what she’s used to. She was very nice. And her Texas accent was fun.” 

 “John Wayne’s mom.” I laughed.  

When we entered the Moose Lodge, Mr. Willis was standing with a group. His beady eyes latched on to me, ample jowls sagging into a frown. Message: Ya should be here working, not romancing.

Alice came right up to us when we stepped into the dining room. She knew we were coming. It was her idea that I take Peggy there for dinner. After introductions, Alice led us to one of her tables with a prominent RESERVED sigh. The table was near the piano. There, Tommy Reed was playing dinner music. Tommy recognized me with a smile and a nod. I nodded back, hoping Peggy caught the cool greeting—Rick to Sam in Casablanca.

 As Alice walked off with our Cutty Sark and water orders, Peggy leaned toward me, whispering, “Reserved table. Greeted by the waitress and the piano player. You’ve outdone yourself, Paddy.” 

I’m thinking: I’m on a roll!

“That’s who you wrote about?” Peggy sat back, eyes on Alice at the bar getting our drinks

“Yeah—that’s her, my boss,” I said lightheartedly.

 “She’s good-looking. Somehow, I thought she was older.” Peggy looked back at me, adding with a sly smile, “Got eyes for you, you know.“

 “Nah! No way.” 

I smiled to myself: Peggy’s jealous.

We brought each other up to date over dinner. And I came clean about having been at Uni High and the GED. My letters between August and December gave the impression that I was in college, not back in high school. Peggy took the confession well, actually praising me for hanging in there. Disappointment crossed her face when she heard my major was physical education and coaching instead of architecture. I explained why.  

Peggy told me about her new job as a secretary for an advertising agency, her parents and moving from the apartment to a “real house” in Rocky Point, Long Island, with her dad’s retirement, and that she was moving in with her sister Liz who has a fourth-floor Manhattan walkup near the Queensborough Bridge. She also mentioned some new friends, including a”nice guy” named Jimmy: “A talented actor. You’d like him.” She went on to tell me how nice guy actor Jimmy once took her sightseeing on his Vespa: “It was great fun seeing the citythat way. We rode all over.” 

Vespa Jimmy came down on me like a ton of bricks. I imagined her snuggled tight against him as they tooled around Manhattan. And who knows what other fun they were having. 

My inner voice flashed red: Say nothing! You’ll make an ass of yourself! 

I managed to be ho-hum. But each time Peggy said Jimmy, it was a knife to the heart. Thank goodness, Tommy’s bright voice broke in with a melody of cabaret standards, reviving my jubilant mood. I parked Vespa Jimmy. 

Everything else was excellent aside from the Jimmy jolt, from food to music. Even Tommy’s occasional lame jokes, which I’d heard before, added to the evening; they were new to Peggy, who responded with a happy laugh. Tommy ended his evening’s gig as he always did with the bittersweet:

So long, it’s been good to know ya,
It’s a long time since I’ve been home,
And I’ve gotta be driftin’ along.

With that, Peggy excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. I signaled Alice. She came over with a big smile, placed the check face down on the table, and walked off. I flipped it over to inspect the damage—it was blank. I glanced over at Alice, standing at her station. She grinned at me devilishly. I turned the check back over, placing a five-dollar bill under it.  

Peggy returned and, seeing the check, said, “Let me contribute.” 

Before responding, she turned over the check, looked at me, and then at Alice. She shook her head, saying, “You can take the boy out of The City…but!” 

“Yup!” I agreed with a laugh.

I put a few dollars in Tommy’s tip jar, drawing a playful, “Good luck tonight, Pat.” Peggy and Alice exchanged little waves. 

We left by way of the kitchen, where I intended to introduce Peggy to Mama and Billy. All hands were rushing about closing. We continued out the rear door. Outside, a vast red moon lit the night. 

“A harvest moon,” Peggy said, taking my hand. “So beautiful. Feels like you can reach out and touch it.” 

“Would you like to stop for a nightcap?” I asked. 

“I’d rather go back to Mrs. Pond’s.” A slight smile. “Wouldn’t you?” 

“Yes,” I answered, tingles racing up my spine.

***

We inched up the squeaky stairs, trying not to disturb Mrs. Pond, me with my rucksack. The stealth and scotch set us off giggling like kids up to no good. I eased open the door to the room, closed it with a quiet click, and dropped the rucksack. We stood a moment, moonlight flooding the room, and looked at each other as if unsure of the next move. 

“I’ll be right back,” Peggy said quietly.

She kicked off her shoes and left the room carrying a small satchel. I folded down the top cover, undressed, and got under the sheet: my right side down the middle of the bed so she wouldn’t encounter the polio leg right away. I waited and watched the slowly turning fan overhead, thinking expectantly but nervously: After our many sizzling dalliances in Argo and never going all the way—this was it! 

Peggy returned in a silky black slip and came toward me, gorgeously radiant in the soft moonlight. Standing by the bedside, smiling shyly, she slowly lifted the hem of the slip, unveiling her slim, creamy, and enticingly delicious body. Sliding in beside me, our bodies touched, and we kissed tenderly, then passionately, yielding to sexual pleasure more exquisite than ever imagined. As our excitement peaked to that splendid moment of penetration, I went soft. We maneuvered longingly and easily. My erection quickly returned. But again, at the critical moment, I wilted. Then again, and once more. Each time, my arousal demanded more of our effort. Frustration mounted, and passion waned. I rolled from Peggy, pulling the sheet over my failed manhood in madding defeat.

“I’m sorry,” I moaned pathetically. 

“It’s okay, Paddy. Let’s rest and try again,” Peggy responded softly, turning to kiss me gently. 

We lay side by side, watching the lazily spinning ceiling fan. After a while, we “tried again”—a phrase as unsexy as our effort. 

“Sorry. So sorry,” I sighed, on the verge of tears. 

Peggy curled up against me under the sheet, whispering lovingly, “There’s nothing to be sorry about. It was lovely. We’re just tired. Let’s get some sleep now.” 

We gently kissed, and Peggy turned away, saying encouragingly, “We had such a fine day. And I’m really looking forward to tomorrow. Good night, Paddy.”

Peggy was soon breathing peacefully, the delicate warmth of her body resting against me. I was wide awake, hearing my inner voice showing no mercy: Nothing to be sorry about—that’s one crock of shit! No two ways about it, you fuck’n flunked!

***

Peggy was all dressed, looking lovely in casual white slacks and a blue blouse when I woke up. She greeted me cheerfully with a kiss and, “Good morning—Patrick!”

Still, I forced out an upbeat, “Good morning—Margaret!” Wrapped in the sheet, I went off with my rucksack to the bathroom to prepare for my Palaestrum teaching. 

We then snuck from the house like two naughty kids, hoping not to be caught by Mrs. Pond, and headed for a downtown coffee shop. It was a beautiful morning, and Peggy talked away about our “spectacular” dinner at the Moose Lodge and how friendly Alice was—”Hope she doesn’t get in trouble about the tab.” I assured her that wouldn’t happen. 

I wanted to say something about my—un-spectacular—night-ending performance, other than another feeble, I’m sorry. I was desperate to convince Peggy somehow that the malfunction wasn’t a polio problem. But I hadn’t the words. 

Over breakfast, I outlined a proposed plan for the day: “Perfect, Paddy. I want to see everything!” Her continued enthusiasm and lovely smiling face raised my spirits—the visit is salvageable, and I’ll surely redeem myself tonight.

 At the Palaestrum, Peggy, warmly welcomed by Charlie, settled down on the balcony while I taught my classes. Muriel Davis later showed up. She was a top national gymnast who, along with Abie, had competed at the ’56 Melbourne Olympics. Muriel lived in Indianapolis, an hour’s drive to Champaign, and was there to train with some of the advanced competitive Palaestrum girls following the morning classes. I introduced Peggy and Muriel at a break, and they then sat together on the balcony. 

After my sessions with the little ones, Charlie and I worked individually with advanced students on tumbling and trampoline. 

“You have a lovely way with the little ones,” Peggy said as we left the Palaestrum at about noon, another nice emotional boost. She also said she enjoyed talking to Muriel. 

“Muriel competed in the last Olympics, you know?”

“She didn’t mention that,” Peggy answered, surprised. “We discussed books. We read a lot of the same writers. And she was interested in my life in New York. She wants to visit sometime, and we exchanged phone numbers. Maybe we’ll get to see her again?”

“I don’t know. Muriel lives in Indianapolis and may go right home from the Palaestrum.” 

We lunched at the Illini Union cafeteria, looking out onto the treeless Quad, which was in the process of being replanted. I tried to describe how giant Dutch Elms once flanked walkways and were killed by a bark beetle invasion. It was hard to describe the devastation to the campus’s beauty. After lunch, we strolled around campus, bustling with students. 

“It’s so peaceful,” Peggy commented at one point, “You know, Paddy, I’d be happy here. Who wouldn’t?” 

I was back to flying high, packed to the ears now with confidence. 

I’d written to Peggy about the football players and their wild goings-on, including the Christmas tree and fried chicken affair. When we arrived at the Monopoly House, she wanted to go in. But the sign beside the door was clear: Girls Not Allowed. There were naturally clandestine exceptions; that was when Coach McClay was away. Peggy waited outside while I dropped off my rucksack and changed into regular clothes.

 Men’s Old Gym was next. There, Peggy met some of the gymnasts, including Jack Wiley—thanking him for the lone of the “lovely car”—and Abie, whom she’d heard a lot about but had never met. As planned, I dressed out for a quick workout in my usual garb, including the leg-concealing competition pants. 

Peggy had never seen me do gymnastics, aside from showing off at Astoria Park with one-arm handstands on the parallel bars and circus-like giant swings around the chinning. She sat outside Charlie’s office—music filling the gym—her eyes on me, certainly not my sleek, powerful body teammates. As I began demonstrating my derring-do on the horizontal bar, which would, without a doubt, impress Peggy, Muriel entered the gym. She and Peggy vanished into Charlie’s empty office—so much for derring-do. 

From the gym, we walked around Campustown and had an early dinner of pizza and Cokes. It was early evening when I left her at Mrs. Pond’s house to “freshen up .”The day went by without a word about the previous night’s debacle. Back at the Monopoly House, I ran into Ray Nitschke. On a whim, I asked if he knew of a downtown place with live Saturday night entertainment.

“The Tumble Inn on Neal Street. Good ol’ country music. Work there in the off-season sometimes.” He then laughed, “Tell them Nitschke sent ya. Ya get a break on the bill, or they’ll toss ya out.”

***

A steel guitar, bass, and drums were blasting rockabilly on a small stage at the rear of the crowded Tumble Inn. We found a table and ordered a pitcher of beer. It wasn’t long before the rockabillies, thankfully, ended their sets. Then, one after another, other performers took the stage: dualling guitarists, a harmonica virtuoso, individual and group singers, a fiddler-concertina duo, a guy striking spoons against his knee whacked out a feverish rhythm, a clog-dancing couple in fancy western garb. It was “amateur night,” and every excellent and awful performance got wild applause. Loud, nonstop, and not conducive to conversation. Still, it was great fun, and we stayed until the end. 

We strolled along afterward, laughing and joking about the night’s entertainment, the giant red moon lighting our way back to Mrs. Pond’s. The closer we got, the more nervous I became. It wasn’t, could I redeem myself? I was sure of that, just had to be relaxed and calm. But would I be invited to do so? Or had the damage been done? 

Peggy fidgeted endlessly to unlock the door. I’m worried the racket will wake Mrs. Pond, who’d surely shoo me off. The lock clicked. She pushed the door open and turned to me with a sad-eyed smile.

“Paddy, I’d like to go up alone. I’m tired. It’s been a long day for both of us.”

“You sure?” I said as my heart sank like a stone. “We had a great day. And I’m looking forward to tomorrow.” 

She placed her soft hands on my cheeks and gently kissed my lips. With all my heart, I wanted to pull her into my arms but capitulated to reality—I’d failed her miserably. 

“That’s fine,” I responded, arms draped limply at my sides. “I’ll see you about nine then. Okay?”

“Great!”  

Hiking back to the Monopoly House, the building misery of rejection dragged me down an even deeper hole, thinking: she has to believe my incompetent lovemaking is a hopeless polio thing like the feeble leg. 

Self-pity, sure—but that’s where my stupid head was.

***

The old Packard windows down, breathing in a beautiful day, we wandered the farmland back roads to Kickapoo State Park. Peggy was lively, full of excited words about all we’d been doing and the people she’d met. I had recovered, pretty much. My delight with Peggy’s visit hadn’t diminished in the slightest; love conquers all. And in my illogical optimism, there’s tonight.  

At Kickapoo, we spread out a Mrs. Pond’s blanket at a sheltered spot on the rise overlooking the Middle Fork River. And while we picnicked on deli sandwiches and cokes, I entertained Peggy with the story of my Uni High biology class outing. That got a good appreciative laugh. We then just stretched out side by side, enjoying the scent of early Spring and watching the blackbirds circling in a cloudless sky. 

“You wrote of a Chicago train that stops at Champaign.” Peggy, after a while, interrupted the lovely quietly.

“The Panama Limited.”

“Does it have a dining car?”

“Must. It goes all the way to New Orleans.”

“Maybe I could take it to Chicago?”

“Nah, I’ll drive you. We’re all set up with Jack’s car.”

“The train would be fun…breakfast in the dining car,” she answered dreamily.

“Well, we can do that. We’ll check the schedule when we get back,” I answered, watching a bird swoop down after something tasty.

“Maybe I’d go alone.”

I rolled over and propped up on my elbows, looking at her. Arms pillowed behind her head, the sparkling blue Vermilion River beyond—it was a beautiful picture. 

“Go alone!?” 

“You wouldn’t have to borrow Jack’s car or miss classes. Anyway, it was just something I was thinking about.” 

Her head then turned, smiling. She moved against me. We cuddled and kissed while I gently maneuvered for redemption. Her body language responded subtly, but the message was clear—no copulation at Kickapoo. We cuddled and caressed, still in absolute heaven. 

Later, we strolled hand in hand through the park. The intimacy and walk had eased the shock of Panama Limited. Suppose she wants to take the train to Chicago without me, okay, anything to make Peggy happy. And trying to convince her otherwise, on top of my sorry sack performance, could sour the entire trip. 

Peggy said no more about the train idea, likely picking up my adverse reaction. It was late evening by the time we got back to Champaign. We moseyed around Campustown, Peggy window shopping, and stopped for a hamburger supper. While waiting for our order, Peggy left the restaurant. Returning, she went straight to the ladies’ room. Moments later, she appeared and playfully sashayed to the table in a black, long-sleeved, button-up shirt discreetly embossed with a UI logo. 

“Like it?” she asked, doing a pirouette. “It’s to remember this amazing time together!”

“Love it!” I answered

“Still want to take the train tomorrow?” I gingerly asked as we ate, feeling the notion was still brewing in her mind.

“Would be nice. But not necessary,” Peggy replied, seeming to downplay the idea.

 “We can stop by the train station if you like and check the schedule,” I said, trying to please instead of letting her answer slide, which would likely have ended the matter.

“You don’t mind?” 

 “I’m good.” My inner voice yelling: Bull shit!

 It was still early when we got back to the house. Mrs. Pond invited us to sit and talk about our day. While the two ladies chattered away, I sat quietly, aching to feel Peggy’s softness, smell the scent of her hair, make love, and prove my malfunction was a fluke. But having run into Mrs. Pond, that wouldn’t happen right away.

The conversation finally wound down, and we all stood. Peggy shook hands with Mrs. Pond, thanking her and saying she’d be leaving early in the morning. Peggy then walked with me to the door.

“What time should I come back? Maybe go to a movie. Psycho is at the Orpheum. The Daily Illini said it was great,” I asked.

 “Paddy, it was a fabulous day. But I must soak in that delightful tub once more, pack, and get a good night’s sleep.”

“It’s still early,” I softly protested.

“Tomorrow will be a long day. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“Yeah. It’s an early train.” I smiled, stiffening the frustration and touch of anger.

We kissed more fondly than sexually.

Hoping to spend some busing time with Alice, I headed to the Moose Lodge. Alice and the dinner time hustle-bustle will lift my hopeless mood. Also, Tommy will be at the keys.

***

The 7:15 am Panama Limited chugged slowly from the station, the love of my life aboard in her silky green dress. I watched sad, discouraged, feeling a resurging hellish jealously — Vespa-fucken-Jimmy is awaiting. 

C’est la vie! 

Chapter 24

Sad NYC Summer

The night before I was to get on the road to NY, I’d worked at the Moose Lodge, a good tip night with all the graduation celebrations. The Monopoly House was semi-dark and quiet, with no macho energy in the air when I got home. Most everyone, including roommate Jack Wiley, had left for the summer. Getting the letter from my mail slot, I went to my room and plopped on the bunk. Though I wrote to Peggy a half-dozen times following the visit, this was just her second response. The first was a kind of thank you letter. 

I opened the envelope. A one-pager. Bottom line: “We won’t see much of each other when you get home. I’m dating someone…” My reaction was naturally one of sadness, though, given the trip disaster, not surprise. 

I lay there staring at the ceiling, letting a few tears flow. Jealously soon took over: “Someone”—no mystery there: Vespa-fucken- Jimmy!

 I seized Peggy’s picture from the nightstand and flung it across the room, hitting the plywood wall with a shattering of glass. My inner voice was then right on me: What the fuck ya expect? She’s no novitiate in a nunnery but beautiful and single in Manhattan. I got up, retrieved Peggy’s photo, and cleaned up the mess.

***

The following morning, I was on my way: an 895-mile hitchhike through Illinois, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and into New York City. With luck, it would take about twenty hours. I’d been looking forward to the adventure on the road and the lovely prize at the end—now a journey to be endured with but a cot in the dreary Astoria apartment waiting. 

What the hell? Onward.

Twelve hours and four rides into the uneventful trip, the driver dropped at a diner near the Pennsylvania Turnpiked Harrisburg exit. Over a burger and coffee at a diner, I decided to stop for the night. There was no great rush. The waitress recommended a $10 motel down the road, adding, “Ya may wanna stop in at Richard’s across the way from the motel. It’s Dauphin County barn night. A big ta-do.” 

Checked into the motel, I strolled over to Richard’s, a log and stucco roadhouse lit up like Christmas. Inside, it was barn-like with a high timber ceiling from which hung an enormous fixture made of antlers wound with strings of lights. On a stage to the rear of a large dancefloor, a shapely buckskin-outfitted woman, backed by a country quartet, was playfully singing:

I’m just a girl who cain’t say ‘no’,
I’m in a terrible fix!
I always say, ‘Come on, let’s go’ just when I oughta say ‘nix.’

I ordered a beer at the bar, served in a Kerr Jar. “Cain’t say ‘no“ ended to a roar of applause. Couples, lots of boots and Stetsons, took the dance floor, the singer now crooning, I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry—perfectly fitting my mood.  

I chug-a-lugged the beer and ordered another. At the end of the sad song, beautifully delivered, the singer jumped from the stage while the band struck up a brisk jig-like tempo. The dancers formed three lines facing the band and singer. On cue, led by the singer, everyone began performing a series of short dance steps in unison: forward and back, side to side, hopping and shuffling. It was like Irish step dancing with the ridged torso and dour Celtic faces replaced by loose bodies and happy smiles.  

Richard’s, that’s about all I remember of that heart-aching hitchhike—except for the welcoming Manhattan skyline. 

***

Pop had work waiting for me as a night janitor in a new Mid-town Manhattan office building. He’d arranged it through his union contacts: good pay, tax-free, with cash handed out at the end of each shift. But the hours were lousy: 11:00 PM to 7:00 AM. 

My task was to clean six bathrooms each night, two on three floors. The foreman was a roly-poly runt, Rick, with a crappy attitude: “No read’n. No sleep’n. Just fuck’n clean’n. Got it?” Each night at precisely 11:00 PM, Rick—the prick as referred to by the crew—would let the four of us in by the service entrance. We’d follow him to a basement locker room, put on blue coveralls, and Rick would take us to our assigned floors with our cleaning cart. Two-and-a-half hours later, the elevator would return, and Rick would move us to our second floor. Two-and-a-half hours after that, it was on to floor three. 

I had the first three floors above the lobby. Dark, locked offices enclosed the area off the elevator on each of them. There were no windows to the outside. And the quiet was deadening, only the buzzing of the dim fluorescents under frosty glass ceilings—all in all, spooky. 

I’d clean the sinks, toilets, urinals, and stall walls, replace the toilet paper, fill the soap and towel dispensers, empty the trash, and finish up by mopping the tile floors: thirty minutes per bathroom at most. With ninety minutes to kill before Rick came to move me, I’d sit back to the elevator door and take a smuggled-in book from my “lunch” bag containing a deli sandwich and coke. I’d read until the elevator hummed and the door vibrated. 

Rick would find me diligently working away in a bathroom, and we’d do a “walk trou’.” He was a real Sherlock Holmes. “Ya didn’t polish the chrome good ’nuff,” pointing to a water spot on a faucet. “The toilet paper rolls are on ass-backward. Got-a roll out over the top.” He’d even squat and run a finger under the sink drainpipe to pick up a speck of dirt. “Fucken filthy!” 

In the intense boredom of the long night, Peggy would surface. I tried to bury the misery. But like an itch that had to be scratched, I’d scratch away, flaring up all the desire, longing, and self-doubt. 

There was also the difficulty of sleeping during the day. The Astoria apartment was hot, with no AC, and uncomfortable. By mid-afternoon, I was up with little to do until going off to the Y at five. Anchored by Pesha, the team was still great, having just won another National YMCA Gymnastics Championship.^[1]

After a workout and dinner at the Times Square Automat, I’d occasionally take in a movie to kill time before work. Mostly, though, I’d aimlessly roam the city streets, stopping now and then to check out the progress of a Midtown skyscraper emerging slowly from massive holes.^[2] Once, just once, I wandered to the Queensboro Bridge neighborhood where Peggy lived with her sister. I thought about what to do if I saw her—but what if she’s with Vespa-Fucken-Jimmy?

Kill the asshole! My inner voice suggested. 

***

Weekdays were lousy, except for gymnastics workouts. Weekends could be fun, usually hanging out with Pesha and his girlfriend, Mary, who lived on the Upper East Side. We’d meet with them at Jim McMullen’s, a neighborhood 3^rd Ave dive between 76^th and 77^thStreet. The girls were good drinking buddies. There was nothing romantic on my end, but through them, I became a “friend forever” with a Ziegfeld Follies Girl, Betty Crawford.

We visited Betty and her reclusive housemate Dorie one sweltering night. Their tenement was across the street from Jim McMullen’s. Mary and her friends had known the old ladies for years and looked after them, doing things like shopping and cleaning. 

Armed with a case of Rheingold and a fifth of Seagram’s 7, we climbed to the fourth floor of the tenement. Betty, expecting us, answered the door. She was six feet tall and wearing a sleek yellow kimono-style dress with her silver hair pulled back sharply into a bun. Very stately. But her face—powdered white, pink rouged cheeks, scarlet painted lips, and penciled-in eyebrows—creepy, like she’d been done up by a mortician having a bad day.

We entered directly into the living room, a typical railroad flat layout, and jammed with heavy old furniture and dimly lit by several tasseled shade lamps. The windows were wide open and faced out onto a fire escape. Fifteen feet beyond that was the ghastly trestle of the 3rd Ave L. The trains no longer blasted past the window. The L section from 143^rd Street to 47^th Street was scheduled for demolition. 

Framed black and white photographs of women in elaborate showgirl costumes, some in see-through negligees—a few wonderfully naked—covered the room walls. There was also a large, gold-framed color poster of smiling flapper girls flanking the caption: 

Drinking got underway: beer for Pesha and me, whiskey for the eight ladies, including the never-to-be-seen Dorie. She hid behind a door that opened just enough for an arm to emerge and accept a whiskey from Betty. Old 78s, some 10″ and cut only on one side, were played on an RCA wind-up victrola — John McCormick, Enrico Caruso, Jimmy Rodgers, Jeanette MacDonald, and Nelson Eddy, as well as the big band jazz of Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman, and Glenn Miller. It wasn’t long before Mary and friends were doing their versions of the Charleston, Black Bottom, and Shimmy. 

‘Neath the South Sea Moon

Ziegfeld Follies 1922

The Winter Garden’s

Tenth Annual Review

Meanwhile, Pesha and I sat on a couch with Betty as she flipped through albums of signed celebrity photos: Eddie Cantor, W.C. Fields, Ed Winn, Jimmy Durante, Lucille Ball, a very young Bob Hope, and many more I didn’t recognize. All the while, Betty talked away in happy nostalgia: “Dancing in seven shows a week… out all night after… met all the headliner…rolled in the sack with more than a few…male or female, didn’t matter…was up for anything…such a time it was…the age of wonderful nonsense.”

Well into the night, Betty let slip that it was her birthday. I left the flat, her unaware, and found an all-night grocer. When I got back, Mary took the goods to the kitchen. Then, returning with a tray of candle-lit Hostess Cupcakes, we belted out a rousing Happy Birthday. Betty, clearly touched, blew out the candles in a series of huffs and puffs, each attempt accompanied by our whooping applause. 

After eating the “birthday cake,” I was back on the couch beside Betty. Pesha and Mary sat together across the room, and the girls were on the fire escape. The music had paused.

“Betty, do you miss the trains going by?” I asked, expecting a resounding no.

“Yes, I will, quite a bit,” she said, sadness in her voice. “There was comfort in the passing clamor and watching passengers flying by, everyone off to somewhere with something to do. Brought of life to this dreary flat.”

I then asked about the poster. 

“Take a look,” she said, painfully rising from the sofa. 

“That’s me. Not at all bad looking, wouldn’t ya say.” Betty pointed to one of the girls.

“Very pretty,” I answered.

Betty led me to the other side of the room, asking, “What’s with the leg?”

I hated that question but answered, “Had Polio.” 

“Thought so. Me, too. But I was left without a trace, thank the Lord.” Then, pointing at a crisp black-and-white photo, she said, “Look closely. My favorite picture.”

It was an overhead shot of a lovely nude girl reclined on a white sheet-like background with her beautiful face turned from the camera. Long wavey air flowed down over one breast, the other lusciously bare. A slightly flexed leg discreetly covered her hips while one arm reached out as if beckoning a lover. 

“Well?” Betty asked softly, looking at me, her eyes twinkling and lips showing a turn of a smile. 

“It’s you?” I smiled at her. 

“Yup, in all my glory.” Somehow aware I was the cupcake caterer, she added devilishly, “If that were me now, I’d be yours tonight in loving thanks for your thoughtfulness.” 

Her palms were then on my cheeks as she placed an ungranny kiss square on the lips. Releasing me, grinning ear to ear, she said, “But dearie, that’s the best I can do with this chicken-skinned sack of old bones. Too bad, too—you taste delicious. Well, as it is, we’re friends forever.” 

I was genuinely flattered. And for once, I’d done something good while stewed. Tallying up my deeds in the afterlife, maybe Hostess Cupcakes will nullify Piccolo Trumpet.  

With the heavy drinking weekends like the Ziegfeld Follies night, Peggy heartachingly close yet out of reach, and given the depressing job—I had to get my sorry self out of New York City; the sooner, the better.

When I told Rick I was quitting to go back to school, he gave me a so-what shrug, saying, “No problem. Got lots a guys look’n for woik.” 

At the end of my shift on my last Friday, Rick handed me my pay, cash as always, rumbling, “There’s a little extra in there. Good luck.” 

Pop, as expected, was ticked when I told him I’d quit: “You should ‘uv stood ‘wi yer commitment. Won’t be able ter get ya work again.”

***

At the Port Authority Bus Terminal on West 42^nd Street, I boarded a 40-foot-long two-level humpback Greyhound Scenicruiser. I’d sprung for a front-row seat facing an 8-foot-long, 3-foot-tall window overlooking the first-level roof—could see everything. Soon, I was cruising down Ninth Avenue for the Lincoln Tunnel exit out of The City with no idea when I’d return. And that was fine.

I spent most of my time to Chicago reading Worst Journey in the World.  The dark story of Captain Robert Falcon Scott’s 1913 expedition to the South Pole. My front seat companion was an old lady dressed in black on her way home from her sister’s funeral, she said, and nothing more. 

I transferred to a regular Greyhound in Chicago and was soon on US 40, passing the never-ending fields of ripe corn stalks, once more as high as an elephant’s eye. It was all tranquil, quiet, and so wonderfully dull. The Monopoly House was alive, with hyped-up footballers back on campus to prepare for the season opener against UCLA. 

I dropped into my bunk and slept like a baby. 

_________________________________

Chapter 23

Peggy’s Visit March 1957

It was warm and sunny driving north on US 40, windows down, smelling the furrows of black dirt running straight as arrows across the fields. The corn— high as an elephant’s eye—was gone. The only green was the odd John Deere working the soil off in the distance. I felt terrible, well, a little bad, having pressured Jack Wiley into lending me his beautiful ’50 Mustang Coupe. As I drove off, he looked like some poor soul parting with the love of his life 

Peggy and I had exchanged letters regularly over the last months, hardly steamy though my passion crept onto the pages. In my letter about the Gymnastics banquet, I took a shot in the dark and proposed she visit. It was a good time with the end of the competitive season. She didn’t reply to that in her next couple of letters. Then came a response— “Yes. When?” 

I was at Midway two hours early, parked, found the observation deck, and waited, and waited. The PA finally announced the arrival of Peggy’s flight. I watched, heart pounding, as the DC 6 taxied into its spot. The propellers roared to a stop. Stairs were maneuvered into position. The hatch swung open. A stewardess looked out and then disappeared back into the plane. More waiting!

A passenger appeared. He started down the steps, then another, another. Slowly, one by one. Then there was Peggy. I beelined to the gate. At last, 

“Hi,” she said, coming towards me wearing a satin green dress, high heels, hair loose over her shoulders: very much the New York sophisticate. 

“Welcome to Chicago!”

We gently kissed, her fragrance so lovely, so familiar. 

“Peg, you look terrific.” 

 “And you, too, Paddy.” 

“Well, let’s go get your luggage!” 

On the way to baggage claim, Peggy excitedly recounted the flight, her first. Like mine a year earlier, her high points were flying over Manhattan and the surprise lunch with a mini bottle of complimentary wine. Bags in hand, we made our way to Jack’s sleek Mustang.

“What’s this?” Peggy said as I unlocked the door.

“Transportation—courtesy of my roommate and fellow gymnast.” 

 “It’s lovely,” she said, sliding into the fine leather seat. “Not quite Argo, of course.” 

“Never!” I responded, and we laughed together. 

Soon, we were out of the city, passing the black fields, me blathering nervously about Illinois farming, à la trucker Ron. My eyes were continually drawn to Peggy, elbow out the window, the wind tussling her hair. She looked happy and somehow older—my lovely girl had become a dazzling woman. 

It seemed like no time before we pulled up in front of Mrs. Pond’s house, where I’d arranged for her to stay. Mrs. Pond greeted Peggy in her no-frills Texan manner.

A brisk handshake and, “Pleased ta meet yaw.” 

Mrs. Pond then ordered sharply, “Take the lady on up ta yaw old room.”

Climbing the stairs, Peggy whispered, “She seems mean?”

“No. Not at all. Just her way.”

“Hope so. Does anyone else live here?” 

“Not now. A guy from South Africa did when I was here. He’s gone.”

I opened the door to the room. Peggy stepped inside before me, saying, “It’s lovely, Paddy, so big.” 

She walked around, taking it all in. The room was sparse, clean, and comfortable as I had left it. I took her down the hall to see the bathroom and the giant claw-foot tub. 

“Can’t wait to stretch out there. It’s enormous,” Peggy said and went about checking out the contents of the cabinets. “Wow, there’s everything here.”

Peggy put her arms around me back in the room, saying, “It’s all very nice.”

 As we kissed, my body trembling with desire, I gently moved us toward the bed.

“Not now, Paddy,” she said softly while gently breaking us apart. “I must try that lovely tub.”

“Yes. Sure.” I smiled, stepping back. “I’ll come back at seven if that’s okay. We’re having dinner at the Moose Lodge.” 

“Terrific!” Peggy said and placed a quick kill softly on the lips.

I was flying high, driving to the Monopoly House as reality sunk in. Peggy, she’s here. And “Not now, Paddy,” that had to mean—but later.

***

I returned in my beat-up but presentable suite with my teaching outfit in my rucksack—praying I’d be going straight from Mrs. Pond’s to my Saturday morning Palaestrum classes. I stashed the rucksack in the entranceway. Passing the living room, I heard voices. There sat Peggy and Mrs. Pond side by side on the couch. 

“Yaw can take the car tonight, Paad,” Mrs. Pond said, looking up as I entered. 

The offer was a pleasant surprise since I hadn’t asked to borrow the car: a ’52 green Hudson in which I’d occasionally drive her to the market when living in the house. 

 “Not tonight, thank you, Mrs. Pond. We’re going to the Moose Lodge. We’ll walk the few blocks,” quickly adding, “How about tomorrow? I’d like to take Peggy to Kickapoo State Park.”

“Will see.” 

Peggy stood—stunning in a figure-hugging blue dress—saying, “Nice talking to you, Mrs. Pond.” 

“Y’all’ ‘ave yaself a fine time, now,” Mrs. Ponded responded with a trace of a seldom-seen smile.

“What did you and Mrs. Pond talk about?” I asked, walking along Washington Avenue. “You seemed to be getting along pretty well. “

“Nothing much. I went downstairs to see what I could of the rest of the house while waiting for you. She was in the living room and invited me to join her. We only talked for a short while before you arrived. She wanted to know if I was comfortable or needed anything. I said I was fine and really liked the house. She told me she moved from Dallas five years ago to be with her son and family and bought it. It’s too big for her, she said, but it’s what she’s used to. She was very nice. And her Texas accent was fun.” 

 “John Wayne’s mom.” I laughed.  

When we entered the Moose Lodge, Mr. Willis was standing with a group. His beady eyes latched on to me, ample jowls sagging into a frown. Message: Ya should be here working, not romancing.

Alice came right up to us when we stepped into the dining room. She knew we were coming. It was her idea that I take Peggy there for dinner. After introductions, Alice led us to one of her tables with a prominent RESERVED sigh. The table was near the piano. There, Tommy Reed was playing dinner music. Tommy recognized me with a smile and a nod. I nodded back, hoping Peggy caught the cool greeting—Rick to Sam in Casablanca.

 As Alice walked off with our Cutty Sark and water orders, Peggy leaned toward me, whispering, “Reserved table. Greeted by the waitress and the piano player. You’ve outdone yourself, Paddy.” 

I’m thinking: I’m on a roll!

“That’s who you wrote about?” Peggy sat back, eyes on Alice at the bar getting our drinks

“Yeah—that’s her, my boss,” I said lightheartedly.

 “She’s good-looking. Somehow, I thought she was older.” Peggy looked back at me, adding with a sly smile, “Got eyes for you, you know.“

 “Nah! No way.” 

I smiled to myself: Peggy’s jealous.

We brought each other up to date over dinner. And I came clean about having been at Uni High and the GED. My letters between August and December gave the impression that I was in college, not back in high school. Peggy took the confession well, actually praising me for hanging in there. Disappointment crossed her face when she heard my major was physical education and coaching instead of architecture. I explained why.  

Peggy told me about her new job as a secretary for an advertising agency, her parents and moving from the apartment to a “real house” in Rocky Point, Long Island, with her dad’s retirement, and that she was moving in with her sister Liz who has a fourth-floor Manhattan walkup near the Queensborough Bridge. She also mentioned some new friends, including a”nice guy” named Jimmy: “A talented actor. You’d like him.” She went on to tell me how nice guy actor Jimmy once took her sightseeing on his Vespa: “It was great fun seeing the citythat way. We rode all over.” 

Vespa Jimmy came down on me like a ton of bricks. I imagined her snuggled tight against him as they tooled around Manhattan. And who knows what other fun they were having. 

My inner voice flashed red: Say nothing! You’ll make an ass of yourself! 

I managed to be ho-hum. But each time Peggy said Jimmy, it was a knife to the heart. Thank goodness, Tommy’s bright voice broke in with a melody of cabaret standards, reviving my jubilant mood. I parked Vespa Jimmy. 

Everything else was excellent aside from the Jimmy jolt, from food to music. Even Tommy’s occasional lame jokes, which I’d heard before, added to the evening; they were new to Peggy, who responded with a happy laugh. Tommy ended his evening’s gig as he always did with the bittersweet:

So long, it’s been good to know ya,
It’s a long time since I’ve been home,
And I’ve gotta be driftin’ along.

With that, Peggy excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. I signaled Alice. She came over with a big smile, placed the check face down on the table, and walked off. I flipped it over to inspect the damage—it was blank. I glanced over at Alice, standing at her station. She grinned at me devilishly. I turned the check back over, placing a five-dollar bill under it.  

Peggy returned and, seeing the check, said, “Let me contribute.” 

Before responding, she turned over the check, looked at me, and then at Alice. She shook her head, saying, “You can take the boy out of The City…but!” 

“Yup!” I agreed with a laugh.

I put a few dollars in Tommy’s tip jar, drawing a playful, “Good luck tonight, Pat.” Peggy and Alice exchanged little waves. 

We left by way of the kitchen, where I intended to introduce Peggy to Mama and Billy. All hands were rushing about closing. We continued out the rear door. Outside, a vast red moon lit the night. 

“A harvest moon,” Peggy said, taking my hand. “So beautiful. Feels like you can reach out and touch it.” 

“Would you like to stop for a nightcap?” I asked. 

“I’d rather go back to Mrs. Pond’s.” A slight smile. “Wouldn’t you?” 

“Yes,” I answered, tingles racing up my spine.

***

We inched up the squeaky stairs, trying not to disturb Mrs. Pond, me with my rucksack. The stealth and scotch set us off giggling like kids up to no good. I eased open the door to the room, closed it with a quiet click, and dropped the rucksack. We stood a moment, moonlight flooding the room, and looked at each other as if unsure of the next move. 

“I’ll be right back,” Peggy said quietly.

She kicked off her shoes and left the room carrying a small satchel. I folded down the top cover, undressed, and got under the sheet: my right side down the middle of the bed so she wouldn’t encounter the polio leg right away. I waited and watched the slowly turning fan overhead, thinking expectantly but nervously: After our many sizzling dalliances in Argo and never going all the way—this was it! 

Peggy returned in a silky black slip and came toward me, gorgeously radiant in the soft moonlight. Standing by the bedside, smiling shyly, she slowly lifted the hem of the slip, unveiling her slim, creamy, and enticingly delicious body. Sliding in beside me, our bodies touched, and we kissed tenderly, then passionately, yielding to sexual pleasure more exquisite than ever imagined. As our excitement peaked to that splendid moment of penetration, I went soft. We maneuvered longingly and easily. My erection quickly returned. But again, at the critical moment, I wilted. Then again, and once more. Each time, my arousal demanded more of our effort. Frustration mounted, and passion waned. I rolled from Peggy, pulling the sheet over my failed manhood in madding defeat.

“I’m sorry,” I moaned pathetically. 

“It’s okay, Paddy. Let’s rest and try again,” Peggy responded softly, turning to kiss me gently. 

We lay side by side, watching the lazily spinning ceiling fan. After a while, we “tried again”—a phrase as unsexy as our effort. 

“Sorry. So sorry,” I sighed, on the verge of tears. 

Peggy curled up against me under the sheet, whispering lovingly, “There’s nothing to be sorry about. It was lovely. We’re just tired. Let’s get some sleep now.” 

We gently kissed, and Peggy turned away, saying encouragingly, “We had such a fine day. And I’m really looking forward to tomorrow. Good night, Paddy.”

Peggy was soon breathing peacefully, the delicate warmth of her body resting against me. I was wide awake, hearing my inner voice showing no mercy: Nothing to be sorry about—that’s one crock of shit! No two ways about it, you fuck’n flunked!

***

Peggy was all dressed, looking lovely in casual white slacks and a blue blouse when I woke up. She greeted me cheerfully with a kiss and, “Good morning—Patrick!”

Still, I forced out an upbeat, “Good morning—Margaret!” Wrapped in the sheet, I went off with my rucksack to the bathroom to prepare for my Palaestrum teaching. 

We then snuck from the house like two naughty kids, hoping not to be caught by Mrs. Pond, and headed for a downtown coffee shop. It was a beautiful morning, and Peggy talked away about our “spectacular” dinner at the Moose Lodge and how friendly Alice was—”Hope she doesn’t get in trouble about the tab.” I assured her that wouldn’t happen. 

I wanted to say something about my—un-spectacular—night-ending performance, other than another feeble, I’m sorry. I was desperate to convince Peggy somehow that the malfunction wasn’t a polio problem. But I hadn’t the words. 

Over breakfast, I outlined a proposed plan for the day: “Perfect, Paddy. I want to see everything!” Her continued enthusiasm and lovely smiling face raised my spirits—the visit is salvageable, and I’ll surely redeem myself tonight.

 At the Palaestrum, Peggy, warmly welcomed by Charlie, settled down on the balcony while I taught my classes. Muriel Davis later showed up. She was a top national gymnast who, along with Abie, had competed at the ’56 Melbourne Olympics. Muriel lived in Indianapolis, an hour’s drive to Champaign, and was there to train with some of the advanced competitive Palaestrum girls following the morning classes. I introduced Peggy and Muriel at a break, and they then sat together on the balcony. 

After my sessions with the little ones, Charlie and I worked individually with advanced students on tumbling and trampoline. 

“You have a lovely way with the little ones,” Peggy said as we left the Palaestrum at about noon, another nice emotional boost. She also said she enjoyed talking to Muriel. 

“Muriel competed in the last Olympics, you know?”

“She didn’t mention that,” Peggy answered, surprised. “We discussed books. We read a lot of the same writers. And she was interested in my life in New York. She wants to visit sometime, and we exchanged phone numbers. Maybe we’ll get to see her again?”

“I don’t know. Muriel lives in Indianapolis and may go right home from the Palaestrum.” 

We lunched at the Illini Union cafeteria, looking out onto the treeless Quad, which was in the process of being replanted. I tried to describe how giant Dutch Elms once flanked walkways and were killed by a bark beetle invasion. It was hard to describe the devastation to the campus’s beauty. After lunch, we strolled around campus, bustling with students. 

“It’s so peaceful,” Peggy commented at one point, “You know, Paddy, I’d be happy here. Who wouldn’t?” 

I was back to flying high, packed to the ears now with confidence. 

I’d written to Peggy about the football players and their wild goings-on, including the Christmas tree and fried chicken affair. When we arrived at the Monopoly House, she wanted to go in. But the sign beside the door was clear: Girls Not Allowed. There were naturally clandestine exceptions; that was when Coach McClay was away. Peggy waited outside while I dropped off my rucksack and changed into regular clothes.

 Men’s Old Gym was next. There, Peggy met some of the gymnasts, including Jack Wiley—thanking him for the lone of the “lovely car”—and Abie, whom she’d heard a lot about but had never met. As planned, I dressed out for a quick workout in my usual garb, including the leg-concealing competition pants. 

Peggy had never seen me do gymnastics, aside from showing off at Astoria Park with one-arm handstands on the parallel bars and circus-like giant swings around the chinning. She sat outside Charlie’s office—music filling the gym—her eyes on me, certainly not my sleek, powerful body teammates. As I began demonstrating my derring-do on the horizontal bar, which would, without a doubt, impress Peggy, Muriel entered the gym. She and Peggy vanished into Charlie’s empty office—so much for derring-do. 

From the gym, we walked around Campustown and had an early dinner of pizza and Cokes. It was early evening when I left her at Mrs. Pond’s house to “freshen up .”The day went by without a word about the previous night’s debacle. Back at the Monopoly House, I ran into Ray Nitschke. On a whim, I asked if he knew of a downtown place with live Saturday night entertainment.

“The Tumble Inn on Neal Street. Good ol’ country music. Work there in the off-season sometimes.” He then laughed, “Tell them Nitschke sent ya. Ya get a break on the bill, or they’ll toss ya out.”

***

A steel guitar, bass, and drums were blasting rockabilly on a small stage at the rear of the crowded Tumble Inn. We found a table and ordered a pitcher of beer. It wasn’t long before the rockabillies, thankfully, ended their sets. Then, one after another, other performers took the stage: dualling guitarists, a harmonica virtuoso, individual and group singers, a fiddler-concertina duo, a guy striking spoons against his knee whacked out a feverish rhythm, a clog-dancing couple in fancy western garb. It was “amateur night,” and every excellent and awful performance got wild applause. Loud, nonstop, and not conducive to conversation. Still, it was great fun, and we stayed until the end. 

We strolled along afterward, laughing and joking about the night’s entertainment, the giant red moon lighting our way back to Mrs. Pond’s. The closer we got, the more nervous I became. It wasn’t, could I redeem myself? I was sure of that, just had to be relaxed and calm. But would I be invited to do so? Or had the damage been done? 

Peggy fidgeted endlessly to unlock the door. I’m worried the racket will wake Mrs. Pond, who’d surely shoo me off. The lock clicked. She pushed the door open and turned to me with a sad-eyed smile.

“Paddy, I’d like to go up alone. I’m tired. It’s been a long day for both of us.”

“You sure?” I said as my heart sank like a stone. “We had a great day. And I’m looking forward to tomorrow.” 

She placed her soft hands on my cheeks and gently kissed my lips. With all my heart, I wanted to pull her into my arms but capitulated to reality—I’d failed her miserably. 

“That’s fine,” I responded, arms draped limply at my sides. “I’ll see you about nine then. Okay?”

“Great!”  

Hiking back to the Monopoly House, the building misery of rejection dragged me down an even deeper hole, thinking: she has to believe my incompetent lovemaking is a hopeless polio thing like the feeble leg. 

Self-pity, sure—but that’s where my stupid head was.

***

The old Packard windows down, breathing in a beautiful day, we wandered the farmland back roads to Kickapoo State Park. Peggy was lively, full of excited words about all we’d been doing and the people she’d met. I had recovered, pretty much. My delight with Peggy’s visit hadn’t diminished in the slightest; love conquers all. And in my illogical optimism, there’s tonight.  

At Kickapoo, we spread out a Mrs. Pond’s blanket at a sheltered spot on the rise overlooking the Middle Fork River. And while we picnicked on deli sandwiches and cokes, I entertained Peggy with the story of my Uni High biology class outing. That got a good appreciative laugh. We then just stretched out side by side, enjoying the scent of early Spring and watching the blackbirds circling in a cloudless sky. 

“You wrote of a Chicago train that stops at Champaign.” Peggy, after a while, interrupted the lovely quietly.

“The Panama Limited.”

“Does it have a dining car?”

“Must. It goes all the way to New Orleans.”

“Maybe I could take it to Chicago?”

“Nah, I’ll drive you. We’re all set up with Jack’s car.”

“The train would be fun…breakfast in the dining car,” she answered dreamily.

“Well, we can do that. We’ll check the schedule when we get back,” I answered, watching a bird swoop down after something tasty.

“Maybe I’d go alone.”

I rolled over and propped up on my elbows, looking at her. Arms pillowed behind her head, the sparkling blue Vermilion River beyond—it was a beautiful picture. 

“Go alone!?” 

“You wouldn’t have to borrow Jack’s car or miss classes. Anyway, it was just something I was thinking about.” 

Her head then turned, smiling. She moved against me. We cuddled and kissed while I gently maneuvered for redemption. Her body language responded subtly, but the message was clear—no copulation at Kickapoo. We cuddled and caressed, still in absolute heaven. 

Later, we strolled hand in hand through the park. The intimacy and walk had eased the shock of Panama Limited. Suppose she wants to take the train to Chicago without me, okay, anything to make Peggy happy. And trying to convince her otherwise, on top of my sorry sack performance, could sour the entire trip. 

Peggy said no more about the train idea, likely picking up my adverse reaction. It was late evening by the time we got back to Champaign. We moseyed around Campustown, Peggy window shopping, and stopped for a hamburger supper. While waiting for our order, Peggy left the restaurant. Returning, she went straight to the ladies’ room. Moments later, she appeared and playfully sashayed to the table in a black, long-sleeved, button-up shirt discreetly embossed with a UI logo. 

“Like it?” she asked, doing a pirouette. “It’s to remember this amazing time together!”

“Love it!” I answered

“Still want to take the train tomorrow?” I gingerly asked as we ate, feeling the notion was still brewing in her mind.

“Would be nice. But not necessary,” Peggy replied, seeming to downplay the idea.

 “We can stop by the train station if you like and check the schedule,” I said, trying to please instead of letting her answer slide, which would likely have ended the matter.

“You don’t mind?” 

 “I’m good.” My inner voice yelling: Bull shit!

 It was still early when we got back to the house. Mrs. Pond invited us to sit and talk about our day. While the two ladies chattered away, I sat quietly, aching to feel Peggy’s softness, smell the scent of her hair, make love, and prove my malfunction was a fluke. But having run into Mrs. Pond, that wouldn’t happen right away.

The conversation finally wound down, and we all stood. Peggy shook hands with Mrs. Pond, thanking her and saying she’d be leaving early in the morning. Peggy then walked with me to the door.

“What time should I come back? Maybe go to a movie. Psycho is at the Orpheum. The Daily Illini said it was great,” I asked.

 “Paddy, it was a fabulous day. But I must soak in that delightful tub once more, pack, and get a good night’s sleep.”

“It’s still early,” I softly protested.

“Tomorrow will be a long day. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“Yeah. It’s an early train.” I smiled, stiffening the frustration and touch of anger.

We kissed more fondly than sexually.

Hoping to spend some busing time with Alice, I headed to the Moose Lodge. Alice and the dinner time hustle-bustle will lift my hopeless mood. Also, Tommy will be at the keys.

***

The 7:15 am Panama Limited chugged slowly from the station, the love of my life aboard in her silky green dress. I watched sad, discouraged, feeling a resurging hellish jealously — Vespa-fucken-Jimmy is awaiting. 

C’est la vie! 

Chapter 24

Sad NYC Summer

The night before I was to get on the road to NY, I’d worked at the Moose Lodge, a good tip night with all the graduation celebrations. The Monopoly House was semi-dark and quiet, with no macho energy in the air when I got home. Most everyone, including roommate Jack Wiley, had left for the summer. Getting the letter from my mail slot, I went to my room and plopped on the bunk. Though I wrote to Peggy a half-dozen times following the visit, this was just her second response. The first was a kind of thank you letter. 

I opened the envelope. A one-pager. Bottom line: “We won’t see much of each other when you get home. I’m dating someone…” My reaction was naturally one of sadness, though, given the trip disaster, not surprise. 

I lay there staring at the ceiling, letting a few tears flow. Jealously soon took over: “Someone”—no mystery there: Vespa-fucken- Jimmy!

 I seized Peggy’s picture from the nightstand and flung it across the room, hitting the plywood wall with a shattering of glass. My inner voice was then right on me: What the fuck ya expect? She’s no novitiate in a nunnery but beautiful and single in Manhattan. I got up, retrieved Peggy’s photo, and cleaned up the mess.

***

The following morning, I was on my way: an 895-mile hitchhike through Illinois, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and into New York City. With luck, it would take about twenty hours. I’d been looking forward to the adventure on the road and the lovely prize at the end—now a journey to be endured with but a cot in the dreary Astoria apartment waiting. 

What the hell? Onward.

Twelve hours and four rides into the uneventful trip, the driver dropped at a diner near the Pennsylvania Turnpiked Harrisburg exit. Over a burger and coffee at a diner, I decided to stop for the night. There was no great rush. The waitress recommended a $10 motel down the road, adding, “Ya may wanna stop in at Richard’s across the way from the motel. It’s Dauphin County barn night. A big ta-do.” 

Checked into the motel, I strolled over to Richard’s, a log and stucco roadhouse lit up like Christmas. Inside, it was barn-like with a high timber ceiling from which hung an enormous fixture made of antlers wound with strings of lights. On a stage to the rear of a large dancefloor, a shapely buckskin-outfitted woman, backed by a country quartet, was playfully singing:

I’m just a girl who cain’t say ‘no’,
I’m in a terrible fix!
I always say, ‘Come on, let’s go’ just when I oughta say ‘nix.’

I ordered a beer at the bar, served in a Kerr Jar. “Cain’t say ‘no“ ended to a roar of applause. Couples, lots of boots and Stetsons, took the dance floor, the singer now crooning, I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry—perfectly fitting my mood.  

I chug-a-lugged the beer and ordered another. At the end of the sad song, beautifully delivered, the singer jumped from the stage while the band struck up a brisk jig-like tempo. The dancers formed three lines facing the band and singer. On cue, led by the singer, everyone began performing a series of short dance steps in unison: forward and back, side to side, hopping and shuffling. It was like Irish step dancing with the ridged torso and dour Celtic faces replaced by loose bodies and happy smiles.  

Richard’s, that’s about all I remember of that heart-aching hitchhike—except for the welcoming Manhattan skyline. 

***

Pop had work waiting for me as a night janitor in a new Mid-town Manhattan office building. He’d arranged it through his union contacts: good pay, tax-free, with cash handed out at the end of each shift. But the hours were lousy: 11:00 PM to 7:00 AM. 

My task was to clean six bathrooms each night, two on three floors. The foreman was a roly-poly runt, Rick, with a crappy attitude: “No read’n. No sleep’n. Just fuck’n clean’n. Got it?” Each night at precisely 11:00 PM, Rick—the prick as referred to by the crew—would let the four of us in by the service entrance. We’d follow him to a basement locker room, put on blue coveralls, and Rick would take us to our assigned floors with our cleaning cart. Two-and-a-half hours later, the elevator would return, and Rick would move us to our second floor. Two-and-a-half hours after that, it was on to floor three. 

I had the first three floors above the lobby. Dark, locked offices enclosed the area off the elevator on each of them. There were no windows to the outside. And the quiet was deadening, only the buzzing of the dim fluorescents under frosty glass ceilings—all in all, spooky. 

I’d clean the sinks, toilets, urinals, and stall walls, replace the toilet paper, fill the soap and towel dispensers, empty the trash, and finish up by mopping the tile floors: thirty minutes per bathroom at most. With ninety minutes to kill before Rick came to move me, I’d sit back to the elevator door and take a smuggled-in book from my “lunch” bag containing a deli sandwich and coke. I’d read until the elevator hummed and the door vibrated. 

Rick would find me diligently working away in a bathroom, and we’d do a “walk trou’.” He was a real Sherlock Holmes. “Ya didn’t polish the chrome good ’nuff,” pointing to a water spot on a faucet. “The toilet paper rolls are on ass-backward. Got-a roll out over the top.” He’d even squat and run a finger under the sink drainpipe to pick up a speck of dirt. “Fucken filthy!” 

In the intense boredom of the long night, Peggy would surface. I tried to bury the misery. But like an itch that had to be scratched, I’d scratch away, flaring up all the desire, longing, and self-doubt. 

There was also the difficulty of sleeping during the day. The Astoria apartment was hot, with no AC, and uncomfortable. By mid-afternoon, I was up with little to do until going off to the Y at five. Anchored by Pesha, the team was still great, having just won another National YMCA Gymnastics Championship.^[1]

After a workout and dinner at the Times Square Automat, I’d occasionally take in a movie to kill time before work. Mostly, though, I’d aimlessly roam the city streets, stopping now and then to check out the progress of a Midtown skyscraper emerging slowly from massive holes.^[2] Once, just once, I wandered to the Queensboro Bridge neighborhood where Peggy lived with her sister. I thought about what to do if I saw her—but what if she’s with Vespa-Fucken-Jimmy?

Kill the asshole! My inner voice suggested. 

***

Weekdays were lousy, except for gymnastics workouts. Weekends could be fun, usually hanging out with Pesha and his girlfriend, Mary, who lived on the Upper East Side. We’d meet with them at Jim McMullen’s, a neighborhood 3^rd Ave dive between 76^th and 77^thStreet. The girls were good drinking buddies. There was nothing romantic on my end, but through them, I became a “friend forever” with a Ziegfeld Follies Girl, Betty Crawford.

We visited Betty and her reclusive housemate Dorie one sweltering night. Their tenement was across the street from Jim McMullen’s. Mary and her friends had known the old ladies for years and looked after them, doing things like shopping and cleaning. 

Armed with a case of Rheingold and a fifth of Seagram’s 7, we climbed to the fourth floor of the tenement. Betty, expecting us, answered the door. She was six feet tall and wearing a sleek yellow kimono-style dress with her silver hair pulled back sharply into a bun. Very stately. But her face—powdered white, pink rouged cheeks, scarlet painted lips, and penciled-in eyebrows—creepy, like she’d been done up by a mortician having a bad day.

We entered directly into the living room, a typical railroad flat layout, and jammed with heavy old furniture and dimly lit by several tasseled shade lamps. The windows were wide open and faced out onto a fire escape. Fifteen feet beyond that was the ghastly trestle of the 3rd Ave L. The trains no longer blasted past the window. The L section from 143^rd Street to 47^th Street was scheduled for demolition. 

Framed black and white photographs of women in elaborate showgirl costumes, some in see-through negligees—a few wonderfully naked—covered the room walls. There was also a large, gold-framed color poster of smiling flapper girls flanking the caption: 

Drinking got underway: beer for Pesha and me, whiskey for the eight ladies, including the never-to-be-seen Dorie. She hid behind a door that opened just enough for an arm to emerge and accept a whiskey from Betty. Old 78s, some 10″ and cut only on one side, were played on an RCA wind-up victrola — John McCormick, Enrico Caruso, Jimmy Rodgers, Jeanette MacDonald, and Nelson Eddy, as well as the big band jazz of Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman, and Glenn Miller. It wasn’t long before Mary and friends were doing their versions of the Charleston, Black Bottom, and Shimmy. 

‘Neath the South Sea Moon

Ziegfeld Follies 1922

The Winter Garden’s

Tenth Annual Review

Meanwhile, Pesha and I sat on a couch with Betty as she flipped through albums of signed celebrity photos: Eddie Cantor, W.C. Fields, Ed Winn, Jimmy Durante, Lucille Ball, a very young Bob Hope, and many more I didn’t recognize. All the while, Betty talked away in happy nostalgia: “Dancing in seven shows a week… out all night after… met all the headliner…rolled in the sack with more than a few…male or female, didn’t matter…was up for anything…such a time it was…the age of wonderful nonsense.”

Well into the night, Betty let slip that it was her birthday. I left the flat, her unaware, and found an all-night grocer. When I got back, Mary took the goods to the kitchen. Then, returning with a tray of candle-lit Hostess Cupcakes, we belted out a rousing Happy Birthday. Betty, clearly touched, blew out the candles in a series of huffs and puffs, each attempt accompanied by our whooping applause. 

After eating the “birthday cake,” I was back on the couch beside Betty. Pesha and Mary sat together across the room, and the girls were on the fire escape. The music had paused.

“Betty, do you miss the trains going by?” I asked, expecting a resounding no.

“Yes, I will, quite a bit,” she said, sadness in her voice. “There was comfort in the passing clamor and watching passengers flying by, everyone off to somewhere with something to do. Brought of life to this dreary flat.”

I then asked about the poster. 

“Take a look,” she said, painfully rising from the sofa. 

“That’s me. Not at all bad looking, wouldn’t ya say.” Betty pointed to one of the girls.

“Very pretty,” I answered.

Betty led me to the other side of the room, asking, “What’s with the leg?”

I hated that question but answered, “Had Polio.” 

“Thought so. Me, too. But I was left without a trace, thank the Lord.” Then, pointing at a crisp black-and-white photo, she said, “Look closely. My favorite picture.”

It was an overhead shot of a lovely nude girl reclined on a white sheet-like background with her beautiful face turned from the camera. Long wavey air flowed down over one breast, the other lusciously bare. A slightly flexed leg discreetly covered her hips while one arm reached out as if beckoning a lover. 

“Well?” Betty asked softly, looking at me, her eyes twinkling and lips showing a turn of a smile. 

“It’s you?” I smiled at her. 

“Yup, in all my glory.” Somehow aware I was the cupcake caterer, she added devilishly, “If that were me now, I’d be yours tonight in loving thanks for your thoughtfulness.” 

Her palms were then on my cheeks as she placed an ungranny kiss square on the lips. Releasing me, grinning ear to ear, she said, “But dearie, that’s the best I can do with this chicken-skinned sack of old bones. Too bad, too—you taste delicious. Well, as it is, we’re friends forever.” 

I was genuinely flattered. And for once, I’d done something good while stewed. Tallying up my deeds in the afterlife, maybe Hostess Cupcakes will nullify Piccolo Trumpet.  

With the heavy drinking weekends like the Ziegfeld Follies night, Peggy heartachingly close yet out of reach, and given the depressing job—I had to get my sorry self out of New York City; the sooner, the better.

When I told Rick I was quitting to go back to school, he gave me a so-what shrug, saying, “No problem. Got lots a guys look’n for woik.” 

At the end of my shift on my last Friday, Rick handed me my pay, cash as always, rumbling, “There’s a little extra in there. Good luck.” 

Pop, as expected, was ticked when I told him I’d quit: “You should ‘uv stood ‘wi yer commitment. Won’t be able ter get ya work again.”

***

At the Port Authority Bus Terminal on West 42^nd Street, I boarded a 40-foot-long two-level humpback Greyhound Scenicruiser. I’d sprung for a front-row seat facing an 8-foot-long, 3-foot-tall window overlooking the first-level roof—could see everything. Soon, I was cruising down Ninth Avenue for the Lincoln Tunnel exit out of The City with no idea when I’d return. And that was fine.

I spent most of my time to Chicago reading Worst Journey in the World.  The dark story of Captain Robert Falcon Scott’s 1913 expedition to the South Pole. My front seat companion was an old lady dressed in black on her way home from her sister’s funeral, she said, and nothing more. 

I transferred to a regular Greyhound in Chicago and was soon on US 40, passing the never-ending fields of ripe corn stalks, once more as high as an elephant’s eye. It was all tranquil, quiet, and so wonderfully dull. The Monopoly House was alive, with hyped-up footballers back on campus to prepare for the season opener against UCLA. 

I dropped into my bunk and slept like a baby. 

______________________________

Chapter 25

1957- 1958 Gymnastics Season

Misery and Elation

At the beginning of the Fall semester a notice on the barracks door ordered all residents to report to Coach Pace for new living assignments. I was casually puffing a cigarette when I entered the athletic office complex: an occasional vice picked up hanging out with Pesha and his East Side girls. Two large men in gym clothes, likely football coaches, were talking to Coach Pace, dressed in a suit and tie. 

“Get rid of that!” Coach Pace barked, his head shaking in disbelief.  

“Sorry, sir.” 

I quickly crushed the butt out on the sole of my shoe and pocketed the remains while Coach Pace turned back to the gym-clad men. 

“One of Charlie’s New Yorkers,” I could hear him inform them.

Both men looked over at me. “Are you guys going to retake the Big Ten again this year?” one asked.

            “Coach says we will. The NCAA, too,” I answered respectfully.

“Good luck,” the two men said in unison.

“Wait in my office, Pat,” Coach Pace followed up.

“That’s the polio kid Charlie recruited?” I overheard one of the men ask Coach Pace,

“Yep,” he answered. “Another of his New Yorkers.”

Coming into his office, Coach Pace gave me a foul look, went to his desk, and thumbed through a long box of small envelopes. I stood before him, eying the cabinet of curious dance trophies, dying to ask about them. Given my imprudent arrival, I thought better of it. 

“You’re moving into the Fourth Street Residences, Barton Hall. Room number, key, and meal card are inside the envelope,” Coach Pace said with an edge as he took an envelope from the box and handing it across the desk. “You’ll work additional hours in the equipment room. Mr. Easton will schedule them. The sooner you move, the better. They’re getting ready to raze your building.”  

Opening the envelope, I pulled out a meal card, inspecting the heavenly gift that would end my trudging to the Moose Lodge twice a day for meals. 

“Coach, how do the meals work?” 

“You eat in the cafeteria at Barton Hall. On Sundays, there’s just breakfast and lunch. Show the cashier the card. Anything else?”

“No, Coach.” Then curiosity got the better of me. “Those your dance trophies?”

“Yes, they’re mine,” he answered with a little smile as if pleased by my interest. “My wife and I compete in ballroom dancing.” His tone then again went unpleasant. “See you anywhere with a cigarette in your mouth, you’re on your way back to where you came from.” 

“Yes, sir!” 

Packing up and leaving the barracks was sad as living with the crazy footballers was fun. And despite my screwed-up leg, they respected me as a fellow athlete. It was a special time.

When I opened the door to 424 Barton Hall, team captain Don Tonry was lying in his skivvies on the lower bunk, his shoulder wrapped in bandages. Don had torn the clavicle bone from his scapula following last season:  a devastating setback for a gymnast, like a sprinter snapping an Achilles Tendon. Ironically, the injury didn’t happen performing gymnastics but during a required Coaching Wrestling class, part of our physical education major’s curriculum. 

 “Hey Don,” I greeted him, “finally tossed your sorry ass outta Delta Chi?” 

“Yeah, on account of the uncouth company I’d invited to the frat. You got the top bunk!” 

The Barton Hall accommodations were the height of luxury compared to the barracks; everything was new and sparky, and the sound didn’t blast or creep through the walls. Then, of course, there was the wonderful meal card eliminating the long walks to the Moose for lunch and dinner. My student-athlete life had taken another upswing.

For Don, it was the opposite, and his got misery worse. Soon after I’d settled into our room, he started experiencing sharp, burning chest pain. He had pleurisy. With that and the shoulder injury, Don was out for the season, a huge downer for him and a significant loss to the team; last season he’d accounted for half the team points in both our Big Ten and NCAA Championships wins.  

***

Several weeks into the semester, my luck turned. I got mononucleosis and life in general took a nosedive. The infection put me in the hospital for a week. When released, I was weak and thin as a rail. And gymnastics, classes, studying, Palaestrum teaching, everything was drudgery. On top of that, heart-aching thoughts of Peggy, that I had securely park, were again eating away at me. 

 I just couldn’t shake this sense of hopelessness. I was in a major funk that got worse. One morning, having breakfast in the Barton Hall cafeteria, I opened the Daily Illini to the sports page. There, in screaming bold letters, was: 

Bird Not Living Up to Expectation

It was a season-opener article with Charlie claiming, “Will win it all” and praising one of my teammates after another, ending his bravado with: 

I had high hopes for Bird, who becomes eligible as a sophomore this season. But his lack of effort puts the team in jeopardy. We were counting on him to help us win our ninth consecutive Big Ten and third straight NCAA Championship. He’s not living up to expectations.^[1]  

Charlie was saying to everyone—teammates, classmates, professors, the Moose Lodge crew, and my Palaestrum kids—I’m a loser. I had to do something to straighten myself out! 

Help came by way of a flyer passed out in my Psychology 101 class:

Depressed, Anxious, Stressed?

Free help is available at The Student Health Center.

Overcoming Mom and Pop’s long-rooted first commandment—Thou Shall Not Complain! — I made an appointment. 

When I entered his Student Health Center office, Dr. Edelson appeared to be sitting behind his desk. He then came toward me— he hadn’t been sitting but standing. He was maybe five feet tall and wearing a navy-blue blazer over his slightly humped back. I guessed, in his forties. 

“Hi, your Patrick?”  

“Yes.”

“Let’s sit over here.” After we made ourselves comfortable facing each other in nice wing chairs, he inquired, “So, tell me, why are you here?” 

“Don’t know for sure. Just down in the dumps, I guess, ” I answered uneasily. 

And so, my funk recovery began. The first several sessions were tough, with lots of grueling silence. Dr. Edelson, however, gently pried me open: “Tell me more about that…Yes, and then…Oh, how did it make you feel…” Eventually, I talked about my concerns: not holding up my end in gymnastics, academic laziness, Peggy dumping me, the whole fuckin’ catastrophe as I saw it. Well, not quite everything. I omitted the unsuccessful sex with Peggy, too embarrassing, and polio concerns, believing that was simply a girl thing for me to manage. 

Dr. Edelson gently touched on polio. I brushed it off with a brisk, “no problem.” Therefore, we went on without disturbing the elephant in the room.  

Simply hearing myself express what I felt inside gradually raised my spirits. Dr. Edelson listened attentively, saying little. It was grueling for me. I’d often leave the sessions wondering how, day in and day out, he could stomach my garbage and surely that of others. A job from hell—worse by far than cleaning toilets for Rick. Over six sessions, the school’s limit on free counseling, my black cloud gradually floated away. 

Walking me from his office at the end of our last session, Dr. Edelson touched indirectly but clearly on the polio in a friendly way, not so much like therapist-to-patient.

 “Patrick, you know, I’d have given anything to be a gymnast when I was a youngster. That would have been my sport. But I wasn’t built for athletics.” He smiled, looking up at me. “But in life, we play the hand we’re dealt. The cards are what they are. Playing well that’s the challenge and the real reward. It’s in the end embracing the game and doing our best.” He chuckled and added, “Trite, maybe, but true.”

 Coming from Dr. Edelson, who had surely wrestled with his physical challenges and to me had clearly succeeded, that advice, hackneyed or not, left a lasting impression— play your cards well, embrace the game. 

For the remainder of my time at Illinois, Dr. Edelson regularly attended home meets. However, our interactions were acknowledging nods or little waves. That was nice. 

***

By the December Chicago Midwest Open, the traditional start of the season, I was back in the game. The Midwest was a big deal—” a little national championship,” as Charlie called it—as we’d go up against some of our major competitors in our pursuit of another Big Ten and NCAA title. 

We stayed at a 1920s hotel on Michigan Avenue with large neon letters above the top floor: 

Allerton Hotel

Tip Top Tap

And the competition was held at the University of Illinois, Navy Pier. To my surprise, the school was on an actual pier jutting some 3000 feet out into Lake Michigan. At the end of the pier was a large gym resembling a Quonset Hut. There were no grand red brick buildings, no grass, no trees, and no Quad. The campus was essentially water. 

            During the two-day event, I was as so often about blinded by competition anxiety, even came flying off the horizontal bar, luckily uninjured. Pommel horse and parallel bars went okay, and I placed fourth on the rings. My scores, however, still didn’t count toward the team total due to the dopey NCAA freshman rule. So, I was competing once more for the Palaestrum.

My scores would count for the team, starting at the beginning of the next month, January 1958, the beginning of my sophomore year. Anyway, the Mid West was a confidence builder. I could compete at the college level. And Illinois won the competition but only by a few points indicating a very challenging season ahead. 

After the competition, we ate at The Berghoff German Restaurant on West Adams Street, which reminded me of Hans Jaeger’s in Yorktown, scene of the piccolo trumpet return. Back at the hotel, I took the elevator to Allerton’s 23rd floor to check out the Tip Top Tap, which was first-class with tall windows overlooking all lit up Chicago. Even the lights of Navy Pear were visible as white specks extending out into Lake Michigan. 

I ordered a beer at the bar, as expensive as the setting. On a postcard showing a night scene from the Tip Top Tap, I scribbled a note to Peggy telling where I was and why, closing with: 

The postcard pic is what I can see from my bar stool. Hardly our Manhattan skyline, but very pretty. Miss The City! Miss you a hundred times more!! LOVE Pat XXXOOO. 

I tore up the card and returned to my room. 

***

Over Christmas break, Charlie and some of the team attended the National Gymnastics Clinic in Sarasota, Florida, where Charlie had invited me to come to Illinois. Other team members went home. Broke, I stayed in Champaign to make some pocket money bussing for Alice.

One day, working out alone in Men’s Old Gym, Joan Powell, Charlie’s secretary, invited me to spend Christmas Eve with “the family.” Joan was the wife of John T. Powell, my co-boarder at Mrs. Pond’s. She and their two boys, ages five and six and students in my Palaestrum class, had come from South Africa to join her husband. 

I gladly accepted the offer. When I arrived at the Powell home, Christmas music played, logs were ablaze in the fireplace, and a beautifully decorated tree commanded the living room. After a warm welcomed by Joan and John and excitedly greeted by the kids, we all sat around the fire, chatting easily, drinking non-alcoholic eggnog, and munching goodies: a Norman Rockwell holiday scene worthy of the Grand Central Station Atrium. 

After a while, John took me into the kitchen and gave me a “most secret assignment.” I then snuck out the back door and circled the house wearing a floppy red Santa hat and carrying a pillowcase filled with neatly wrapped presents. As instructed, I banged three times on the front door. The door swung open. John, Joan, and the wide-eyed kids stood before me, the fire and lovely tree all sparkly behind them. 

Controlling my jitters, I read from a card John provided, feigning a deep Father Christmas voice: 

In comes I, old Father Christmas,

Be I welcome, or be I not?

I hope old Father Christmas,

I will never be forgot,

As I bear gifts and good tidings,

Jesus Christ is born!

John’s baritones voice answered:

Nowell, Nowell, Nowell,

Welcome, my lord Christmas,

A welcome from us all.

Come in. Nowell, Nowell.

Joan responded, waving me forward into the house with a sweeping bow:   

Come in, Lord Christmas,

Come in and make good cheer,

And be right merry!

I entered to clapping and cheering while the kids scrambled for the pillowcase. 

It was the best Christmas Eve of my life—by a long shot. Besides this Yul-tide gift, Joan Powell would eventually play an essential part in the launch of my coaching career.

***

Except for Don, still rehabilitating from pleurisy complications, everyone had returned by January 2nd for twice-a-day workouts before the start of classes. The Daily Illini, with a photo of Abie and me holding iron crosses side by side on the rings, gave its forecast for the season: 

The Illini, labeled this year by Coach Pond as “small but mighty,” are favored to repeat as Big Ten Champions—for nine in a row. Pond has only eight men on his squad, but as he puts it, “They’re eight good men. We will be just as strong as ever. Abie Grossfeld will be our number one man, replacing our ailing team captain, Don Tonry. And I have high hopes for Pat Bird, who is eligible this season. ^[2]

We had seventeen dual meets and the Big Ten and NCAA championships ahead of us. The drives to away meets were tedious and long: such as the University of Minnesota, sixteen hours round trip, Michigan State at East Lansing and Michigan at Ann Arbor, twelve hours. I’d, of course, diligently pack course material to study, which seldom happened. A good book, the scenery, and long naps took priority.  

In late February, we went in two cars to Iowa City, 500 miles, to suffer our first dual meet loss to the University of Iowa, which was anchored by future twelve-time NCAA All-American Sam Bailie. Except for this loss, we were undefeated going into the Big Ten Championship hosted at the University of Iowa. This time, we flew to Iowa City on a UI Athletic Association plane, a big treat after all the interminable road trips. And as it turned out, there was an unexpected adventure in store for me. 

The Big Ten competition went down to the wire, with us battling away with Iowa, Michigan, and Michigan State. We finally prevailed winning Charlie’s ninth consecutive Big Ten Gymnastics Champion. Everyone came through, with Abie being our major point-getter. In addition to the team title, we won three events.  Abie took the all-around and parallel bars while our Frank Hailand won the tumbling champion. My contributions were third on the rings and fourth on parallel bars, not great but essential points.

Afterward, we went directly to the airport for our flight home. Standing in the cold waiting to board the plane, the pilot announced that due to heavy incoming weather the aircraft was overloaded. Someone had to stay behind. 

My hand shot up. 

Charlie gave me some cash, I happily waved as the plane disappeared into the wild, dark yonder, and took a cab to the downtown hotel where we’d stayed.  Registered, my travel bag in the room, I went out and bought a road map. Returning, I dined on an “Iowa-fed sirloin” washed down with a glass of beer in the top-drawer hotel restaurant. A fine kickoff for my adventure.

Back in my room, I spread the map on the bed and penciled in my intended 250-mile hitchhiking route to Champaign. Not bad, about half the distance from Champaign to New York City. The following morning, I checked out of the hotel, stopped for breakfast at a downtown diner, and carefully reviewed my route. It wasn’t a straight shot with numerous twists and turns from one state road to the next (no Interstate 80 back then), likely meaning lots of different rides. 

 “Gonna be a two-day whopper, they say,” the waitress proclaimed while refilling my coffee.

I looked out the window. It had started snowing. Then, in like five minutes, the snow was whipping horizontally down the street, whiting out the buildings across the way. Watching wistfully, an unsettling scenario crept through my mind:

I’m dropped in the middle of nowhere. Nothing but fields of blowing snow. Waiting, arms hugging my chest. Bitter cold. Ears freezing, no hat. Fingers stinging, no gloves. Waiting and waiting. No ride. I start walking. The skinny leg goes numb, little muscle insulation. On and on, snow deepening. Exhausted, freezing, I topple over. So comfy warm under the thick white blanket, a lovely sleep. A ride comes. I’m in the back of a pickup, frozen stone-cold dead. 

From the diner, I slogged through the driving snow to the Iowa City Greyhound Station. It took over nine hours through on-and-off blizzard conditions to reach Chicago where I board the Panama Limited and had a fine dinner in its dining car. Not quite the adventure envisioned, but an excellent break from training, competitions, and school. 

The NCAA Championships were held at Michigan State University, a return road trip to East Lancing. Thirty-two teams were represented. Again, nail-biting competition. Michigan State, as it turned out, emerged as our main rival. Going into the final events, the Spartans were in first place, slightly ahead of us. Frank Hailand and Allan Harvey then took first and second, respectively, in tumbling. 

The completion ended with Jenison Field House dead quiet. It was taking unbelievably long for the final team standings to be announced. Something was up. Then 6th place, 5th place, 4th place, 3rd place were declared, another forever pause before the loudspeaker blasted: 

For the first time in the history of NCAA gymnastics, the national championship is a tie—Michigan State University, 79 points! The University of Illinois, 79 points!

The crowd went wild at the Spartan’s triumph, as we did to ours. It was the height of excitement, truly fantastic!  

***

We celebrated our 16-1 season and Big Ten and NCAA team titles at the Moose Lodge. Abie was named 1959 captain-elect, and Frank Hailand and Alan Harvey shared the most valuable honors. Athletic Director Doug Mills praised the team up, down, and sideways and presented each of us with a wristwatch with 1958 NCAA Champions printed on its white face. So cool. I also received my first varsity letter, sewn on a blue jacket with yellow leather sleeves. Also, very cool. 

Then later that semester came a surprise.  I was inducted into Sachem, the plaque accompanying the honor reading:  

The purpose of this Men’s Honor Society is to recognize and encourage those who show promise in the field of student life and affairs and who have proven, through their personal attributes and participation in university activities, that they are leaders in thought and action.

So, eight years after joining the West Side YMCA, with Lady Luck riding shotgun for me, I was a University of Illinois student, a varsity letterman, an okay competitor on a Big Ten and NCAA Championship team, and on top of that, I had the dubious distinction of being a proven leader in thought and action—  Mom whispering in my ear: “Yer doesn’t want ter be luk’in a gift ‘orse in the mouth, Paddy.” 

 ___________________

Chapter Notes:

*1957-58 team:  Pat Bird, Jim Blazek, John Davis, Bob Diamond, Eddie Gombos, Abie Grossfeld, Frank Hailand, Alan Harvey, Jim Walters. Richard Dick, team manager. Gill Brinkmeyer, Charles’ assistant coach.

*At the 1958 NCAA Championships, Abie won the all-around, horizontal bar, and floor exercise and was second on parallel bars; Frank Hailand and Alan Harvey took one and two in tumbling, and John Davis placed second on pommel horse. Still, like at the Big Ten, underlings like me were essential. Unfortunately for me, the ring was not an individual championship event, just part of the all-around. That would change the next year, 1959.

^[1] Daily Illini. 22 November 1958. https://idnc.library.illinois.edu.

^[2] 20 January 1958. https://idnc.library.illinois.edu.

---

_________________________________________

Chapter 26

Summer With Alice

A week after the team banquet, Charlie called me into the Palaestrum office following my classes. 

“Paad, what yaw doing over the summer?” 

“Going home.” 

“Why stay here? Run the Palaestrum while I’m at my camp.”  

“You want me to run the Palaestrum!” I had about fallen over in total surprise.  

“Sure. You’re good with the kids. Parents like yaw. And it would be a great experience. You’d be Director.” 

“Sounds good, Charlie. Appreciate the opportunity,” I answered casually while bursting with delight, thinking: Director! Has a nice ring to it. Also, I’d little reason to spend the summer in NYC, though I was looking forward to the hitchhiking venture and perhaps another Dauphin County Barn Night. 

Charlie outlined my director responsibilities: teaching, seeing that all classes were covered, supervising instruction, dealing with parents (always a pain in the ass), signing up new students, opening and closing the Palaestrum, and keeping the place clean. Charlie’s secretary, Joan Powell, would collect the fees and handle the paperwork. 

The pay wasn’t much, but Charlie sweetened the pot with what he called “free summer lodging” in a house on West Green Street. However, it wasn’t quite free as I’d discovered. I had to mow the extensive lawn with an old, dull push mower. Not living and dining in Barton Hall, I’d also be back working at the Moose Lodge for lunch and dinner.  

A big plus for staying in Champaign was training. Don, who had recovered from his shoulder injury and Pleurisy, and Abie would be in town training for the 1958 World Championships to be held in Moscow in late July. They’d be inspiring workout buddies, and I’d train far harder than I would at the West Side Y. 

That night, lying in bed, thrilled and flattered that Charlie would place the Palaestrum in my hands, a wrenching jolt of regret hit me. If I went home, I’d have at least a chance of getting back together with Peggy. After a moment of torment, good sense prevailed. Peggy wouldn’t happen. She’s got Vespa-Fuckin’-Jimmy. I’m history. Accepting that, I rolled over and slept very well. 

***

My summer routine consisted of attending the Moose Lodge for meals, participating in long training workouts, fulfilling my director duties, and busing for Alice. Without schoolwork, competitions, and time on my hands, I soon began working with Alice several nights during the week in addition to weekends. 

After finishing up one night, Alice asked if I’d like to go for a drink—a pleasant surprise. Leaving the Moose Lodge, she suggested we drive to an Ivesdale “juke joint” where we could dance. 

Dance! 

The word sent a shiver down my spine, though not with past intensity. I could now dance, after a fashion. I was required to take Teaching Dance as part of my PE curriculum, taught by none other than Coach Pace, our assistant AD, who boasts a cabinet full of dance trophies. Back then, men’s and women’s PE departments were separate—ne’er the twain shall meet. So, in Coach Pace’s class, guys dance with guys. 

There were a couple of dozen students in dance class, ranging from hulking footballers, soaring basketball players, scrawny runners, flat-nosed wrestlers, and head-shaved swimmers to a mixed bag of baseball players. We learned the Lindy Hop, Jitterbug, Tango, Bunny hop, and Cha-cha—while crashing into one another like Coney Island bumper cars. And there were the slow dances. Grim-faced, eyes averted, we’d circle the gym floor at arm’s length to the likes of Patti Page’s “Tennessee Waltz,” The Penguins’ “Will You Be Mine,” Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore.” In our unease, we’d naturally laugh and kid one another. But Coach Pace kept the class from becoming a laugh fest. After the six-week class, I could manage, in my hoppity-hoppity way, what was to take place on a dance floor.  

So, Alice and I climbed into her old Ford pickup and drove thirty minutes to the Village of Ivesdale, population 250. The juke joint was like Richard’s, my Harrisburg hitchhiking stop, with a stage and a large dance floor. The band consisted of two guitars, fiddle, double bass, drums, accordion, and a cowboy-garbed male vocalist who sang like Gene Autry, even did the famous Autry buckaroo yodel.  

When we entered, Gene Autry was singing, “Cold, Cold Heart.” I trailed Alice as she made her way through the crowd, greeting friends along the way. We settled into a table near the dance floor and ordered beers from a waitress who immediately appeared. Alice had gone to grade school with her. The beers arrived. We downed them in a gulp. Alice then led me to the dance floor for my first dance with a girl. 

We did a leisurely Lindy, Alice smoothly accommodating herself to my ungainly effort. It was an exuberant experience being on the dance floor, part of the action, instead of that half-soused observer sitting and watching at the Irish dances.  

Well into the night, three guys, obviously tanked, came to our table. Alice knew them, she stood up, and they started talking. With the music and noise, I couldn’t make out what was being said. Suddenly, one guy grabbed Alice’s arm, pulling her toward the dance floor. 

“Hey —back off!” I jumped to my feet while Alice broke away and dropped angrily into her seat. 

“Sit down, crip!” the arm-grabber shot back.  

As I stepped from the table on attack, my chair slid back and hit something. I spun around, thinking another jerk was behind me. Instead, there were three of my ex-barrack’s football mates. 

“Y’all okay, Pat?” inquired hulking football center Tootsie Tewallie. 

“Not sure,” I replied, turning back to face the foe who were grinning defiantly at me. 

The hostile threesome then walked off, the grabber calling over his shoulder, “Nice seein’ ya again, Alice.”

I introduced Alice to my rescuers, who then strolled off to a nearby table where Ray Nitschke and another footballer sat. They gave me a thumbs-up, and I returned the same.

“What are those guys all about, Alice?” I asked, sitting back down.

“Just locals. Friends of my husband, Reilly. They’re harmless.”

“Husband! You’re married?” 

“Was. He died two years ago,” she answered with little emotion.

“Sorry, that’s too bad. What happened?”

Alice then told the story of Reilly’s strange demise, in a matter-of-fact tone at first, then gradually becoming sad:

We had a small farm, she began, where we raised black hogs. They’re huge, you know. Grown males can weigh 700 pounds, females 500. Reilly’s been around hogs all his life and treated ’em like pets. One animal, Ellie, he’d raised from a piglet, showed her as a kid at the State Fair in Springfield and won a blue ribbon. When selling time came, he wouldn’t let Ellie go. She lived for twenty years. Reilly cried like a baby when the animal died of E. coli.

Anyway, we married young, me just seventeen. After a few years, it wasn’t much of a union, mainly because of Reilly’s drinking. He was a mean son-of-a-bitch when drunk, not physically so, just foulmouthed and verbally abusive. 

Then, two years ago, coming home from a night out, Reilly parked by the barn, not at the house as usual. He got a pail of slop from the barn for the hogs—you don’t go feeding hogs in the middle of the night, so he had to be totally out of it— and he took the slop into the main pen holding a half-dozen hogs.

I found him the next morning face down in the mud and hog manure, the empty slop pail beside him, and the hogs milling about. The hogs not only ate the slop but also chewed on Riley. In any case, he was dead.”

“Wow!” I shook my head in disbelief. “That’s horrible.” 

“Yeah, seeing Riley all messed up like that was bad.” Alice’s lips turned down as if about to cry. “I don’t miss him. Still, he was an okay guy. There was no autopsy. The coroner said it was a stroke that killed him, not the hogs, probably playing down the awfulness for my sake. That was the end of Reilly. Also, the hogs. Sold ’em all off quick as I could.”

I reached over and took her hand. She smiled and then said, “Enough of that crap. Come on. Let’s go.”

We passed the three jerks drinking at a table, their mean faces following us.

***

“It’s late,” Alice smiled at me as we drove from the juke joint. “Stay at the farm. I’ll take you back in the morning.”

“Sure, thanks,” I answered, excitedly hoping for more than staying. 

The pickup was soon wobbling and scraping down a rutted lane as it approached a typical Illinois farmhouse, square-built, with three windows on top and three below, and a covered porch. As we pulled up to the house, a barn and fenced-in areas were off to one side. Site of the hog feast, I’m thinking. 

Inside the farmhouse, Alice took my hand and led me up a dark staircase to her bedroom. I was tense as hell: What if again I couldn’t do it? In a burst of delightful stripping and caressing, Alice taking charge as ably as on the dance floor. 

Shazam! — flaccid wimp morphs into mighty Captain Marvel

***

Alice and I began spending time together at the farmhouse. Unlike her work-focused Moose Lodge persona, at the farmhouse, she was a free spirit, waltzing to country music all stark naked around the kitchen, me watching with delight. 

As the summer passed, I helped Alice with the endless farm chores, including putting my Chelsea-acquired skills to work updating the house’s electric wiring. We’d sometimes drive through the countryside, Alice advancing my agrarian education— contour farming, crop rotation, peanut blight—but nothing about hog-rearing. We danced in Ivesdale, encountering no problems from the lurking jerks. And we’d simply hang out listening to music on the porch: nothing ardently deep, just two good friends and coworkers sharing lots of sex.

            And yes, I had enough time and energy to fulfill my director duties and train hard alongside my World Gymnastics Championships-bound teammates. 

__________________

Chapter Notes:

Charlie Pond’s National Summer Palaestrum Camp for boys and girls, aged 8 to 18, was located on Elk Lake in Michigan.

*1958 US Men’s World Gymnastics Team Roster: Larry Banner, Jack Beckner, Abie Grossfeld, Art Sherlock, Don Tonry, Armando Vega, Tom Maloney, Coach, and Jerry Hardy, Manager  

___________________________

Chapter 27

The Florida Road Show

By late August, Abie and Don had returned from the World Gymnastics Championship, the US men’s team placing seventh. The USSR cleaned up, winning the men’s and women’s team titles and twelve of the fourteen gold medals. Russia’s Boris Shakhlin won the all-around, pommel horse, parallel bars, and horizontal bar, and his teammate, Albert Azaryanin, took gold on the rings. I’d soon be meeting these Russian champions. 

Pesha also showed up in Champaign. A big surprise. He’d quit his New York City Welfare Department job to train with Abie and Don for the 1960 Olympics tryouts. Pesha, with a degree from the City College of New York, enrolled in UI courses to qualify as a physical education teacher and coach. In addition, Fred Orlofsky, also a member of the 1958 US World Champion team, joined the Olympic hopefuls. I knew Fred. He trained at the Swiss Turners in Union City, New Jersey, across the Hudson River from Manhattan.  

Charlie let Pesha and Fred move into the Palaestrum office, which they furnished from the Salvation Army Thrift Shop, including a Victrola and a stack of old 78rpm records. Both also joined me as Moose Lodge busboys, working for meals. 

Listening to records with Pesha and Fred in their new lodging, Pesha updated me on what was happening in Manhattan. The West Side Y had won two more National YMCA Gymnastics Championships, with Pesha taking the all-around each time. Attila’s wife and daughter had escaped Hungary and joined him in Wisconsin. Attila had been hired as the athletics director at the Milwaukee Turners. As for Hell’s Kitchen, Horse Head Ralph’s swag shop and PK’s numbers operation were going strong. Angelo was back working at Pier 88 after two years as a stevedore in Labrador. Gordie was a NYC cop and married Hellen, a Turner’s gymnast. Mary and her Eastside buddies still hung out at Jim McMullen’s Bar and assisted Betty Crawford and mysterious Dorie. 

With the start of the Fall semester, I was back bunking with Don at Barton Hall, carrying my usual fifteen-hour course load, training hard, teaching at the Palaestrum, and occasionally busing for Alice. Our steamy summer romance had cooled. I hadn’t had the time to spend at the farm; actually, I wasn’t invited. I guessed that she’d hooked up with someone else.

Days shot by into December, and our first competition, as always, the Chicago Midwest Open. Once again, we won the team title. I did better than the previous year, scoring well on rings, parallel bars, and horizontal bar. We stayed at the Allerton once more and celebrated at The Berghoff Restaurant. I skipped the Tip Top Tap this time, not wanting the beautiful Chicago nightscape to stir up Peggy feelings, though my summer with Alice had put them at rest —well more or less. 

***

Over Christmas break, most of the team was going to the National Gymnastics Clinic in Sarasota. Charlie invited me to go at his expense, but expected some payback. A busload of Palaestrum gymnasts and a few parents would be making the thousand-mile journey, with the Palaestrum gymnasts performing tumbling and trampolining exhibitions along the way in exchange for accommodations and meals. Charlie’s deal was that I’d travel on the bus and put the young kids through a souped-up cross-pad drill before the advanced gymnasts performed, including our superstar tumbler, Hal Holmes. He who would end each show with a series of spectacular tumbling runs, the last one ending with a double-back flip, an unusual feat at the time.  

We piled into an old GMC bus, a trampoline strapped to the top. Charlie and his family led the way in a station wagon. The exhibitions were fun and successful, and our hosts put out great potluck feasts. However, traveling on a rickety bus with squirmy kids and hovering parents was awful, as were the sleeping accommodations, which consisted of cots on gym floors. I’d instead curl up comfortably in the back seat of the bus. 

The final exhibition was held in Pensacola, Florida, to be followed the next day by a tour of the Naval Air Station, led by Dicky Browning, a jet pilot stationed at the base. I’d never met Dicky, but I knew he was one of Charlie’s great tumblers, having won five national championships. I also discovered that he was a celebrity, to boot. 

One day, while flipping through a LIFE Magazine in Charlie’s office, I came across a series of time-lapse photos of a tumbler performing a layout back dive over a high jump bar. The caption read: University of Illinois gymnast Richard Browning clearing the high jump bar at 7 feet 2 inches, beating the current world high jump record by 4.5 inches. When I asked Charlie about the article, he went off on a rant. 

“Dicky broke the world high jump record right out there in the gym. And USA Track & Field wouldn’t acknowledge it. An illegal two-foot takeoff, they claimed. I showed ’em the slow-motion film. No question, Dicky’s right foot was off the mat before his left. A one-foot takeoff! Legal! The record was never acknowledged by USA Track & Field, though. But Dicky did make The Guinness Book of Records as the world’s greatest tumbler. The record still stands!” 

I’d have liked to have met Dicky, but I’d enough of parents and kids and decided to skip the tour and go on alone to Sarasota.

“Gonna walk, Paad?” Charlie asked, a little annoyed, when I told him my plan.

“Hitchhike,” I answered.  

“Guess y’all know what y’all’re doin’.” Charlie laughed. “See ya at the Lido Beach Casino—if ya not roadkill.” 

At daybreak, off I went, uplifted by the pending adventure. My first ride was with a quiet trucker, no talk or radio, which suited me fine. He took me across the Panhandle, four hours of beautiful Gulf views and the fresh salty smell in the air. He dropped me at a nowhere place called Perry. My next ride was in a late-model Buick. The driver, Tom, was middle-aged and dressed in a tidy suit and tie. We shared the stock introductory exchanges: who we were, where we came from, where we were going, and why. Tom said he was a pencil wholesaler from Tallahassee on his way to Tampa for a business meeting. 

US 19 south out of Perry is pine forests, occasionally interrupted by our flying past flatbed trucks piled with logs. To ease the monotony, I jokingly asked Tom, “How does the lead get into the pencil?”

“First, it’s not lead but a mix of graphite with clay,” he said, sparking up as if I’d asked the world’s most critical question: 

It’s called lead because the discoverer of graphite thought he’d found lead. The pencil is cedar, a pine like the logs on the flatbeds we passed. So, how does the graphite get inside? Well, was done at first by hand. Today, it’s by machines. But the basic process is the same. The cedars are cut into long, thin slats, grooves are carved into the slats, graphite is placed in the grooves, and a second grooved slat is glued on top. That’s planned into a hexagon shape. Yellow paint is applied, making the two slats look like one solid piece. They’re cut into pencil lengths, tin eraser fittings are added—ergo, a pencil!” 

With a bright smile, Tom handed me a yellow pencil etched in black with #2 American Lead Pencil Co. 

Question was answered, I fetched my anatomy book from my rucksack, and fell asleep trying to memorize the twenty-seven bones of the hand. The next thing I knew, the car had stopped. And there’s Tom leaning over me, his hand between my legs, hot cigarette breath in my face.

 “What the fuck!” I shouted, shoving him off.

“Nothing! Nothing!” He threw his hands up in defense. “Just waking you. We’re in Tampa. I turn off here.”

“Yeah!” I responded, hastily gathering my belongings.  

“You got 60 miles to go yet,” Tom said, centering back in his seat. “Maybe you’d like to stay in Tampa—on me. Take you to Sarasota in the morning.”

“No, thanks,” I said, opening the door. 

“C’mon. Put you up at the Floridan Palace. It’s a first-class hotel. Has a great restaurant, too.” 

I pushed the door shut. And Tom spun off.

The remainder of the trip on US 41 was slow, with short rides and long waits. By late evening, I was in Sarasota, walking across the Ringling Causeway. The setting sun was streaking the blue-sky red orange, 

and turning a scattering of white clouds pink. It was magnificent, near-divine— half-expected credits to roll: 

Produced and Directed by

GOD

All Rights Reserved

Over the bridge, I continued along John Ringling Blvd, through St. Armand’s Circle, and then a lovely barefoot stroll along the Gulf shore, the darkening sky now a fiery red. The Lido Beach Casino in sight, way down the beach, a cold beer awaiting at the Castaway Bar. 

***

Six of us Illini gymnasts stayed in the home of two friends of Charlie’s on Sarasota Bay, middle-aged guys dressed in upscale casual attire. One of our hosts, with a breathy gay voice, toured us around the spacious place, pointing out where we could sleep. I settled into a chaise lounge on a screened-in porch overlooking the bay, our other host graciously providing a pillow and blanket.  

That night, lying under a dazzling sky, I could make out the North Star and the Big and Little Dipper above me, almost like I could reach up and touch them. The Bear, Fish, Ram, Bull, Crab, and Lion I’d heard of but couldn’t then. After a while, a longing for Peggy arose in the lovely quiet to be scuttled with sexual thoughts of Alice. I slept soundly.

Like the first time at the National Gymnastics Clinic four years earlier, instruction was at Sarasota High School, showing off on Lido beach, and evening socializing at the Castaway. There I was again, visiting the Casino seahorses, still gazing expectantly out over the Gulf. The site was as lovely as remembered.

We didn’t go to the Ringling Winter Quarters, which I’d hoped for. The circus had moved to Venice, Florida. And again, my shameful polio leg kept me from a swim in the so inviting Gulf. The major non-gymnastics event was a party our lodging hosts threw for the UI contingent. It was a classy, catered affair in their large backyard. A mariachi band, consisting of two guitars, an accordion, and a trumpet, set the evening’s mood. 

Dressed as best we could, we six house guests settled in at the makeshift bar. Soon after the festivities got into full swing, a van arrived. We watched six luscious girls climb out, glorious golden tans highlighting their tight white shorts and matching halters. Our breathy-voiced host ushered the gorgeous creatures before the mariachi band and, with great flair, introduced the “Dazzling darlings from Cyprus Gardens. The Water Ski Capital of the World!” 

The dazzling darlings then circulated through the crowd, making nice, our lustful eyes glued on them. And to our delight, they then joined us at the bar. Following introductions, we brought the girls beers, refreshed ourselves, and strolled with the ladies to the end of a long dock. It was a golden sky evening, mariachi music floating in the air— Perfect!

We paired off. My match was a tweedy-voiced beauty full of words about performing, before her Cyprus Garden stint, as a Weeki Wachee Springs mermaid swimming behind the glass of a theater embedded in the side of the spring. 

“I could hold my breath underwater for four minutes,” she proudly chirped, “as long as Navy UDT (Underwater Demolition Team) divers.” 

It was all delightful and wonderfully sexy standing close beside her in the romantic setting. Naturally, we, the house guests, were thinking that our generous hosts had undoubtedly invited the girls to entertain us well into the night, perhaps even beyond. 

Well, wrong! After an hour or so— “Time to go, ladies!” one of the lovelies barked, master sergeant-fashion. “It was wonderful…nice meeting you, …thanks for the beer,” my waterskiing mermaid hurriedly said, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and sauntered off. 

So, there we stood, horny as two-peckered goats, gawking at six lovely butts swaying their way down the dock. We followed and waved goodbye to the Cypress Gardens van as it pulled away. Back at the bar, laughing and accusing one another of driving the girls off, we all knew or thought we knew that our hosts were gay. And one amongst us speculated we were being set up for their purposes. There was no hanky-panky that night, as far as I know—our speculator’s wishful thinking, perhaps.

The clinic was once more a reality check. I’d signed up for the culminating North vs. South Meet as in 1955. Being a much-improved gymnast, I felt I’d be selected at least to compete on the rings. It didn’t happen again. I watched the outstanding performances from the Sarasota High School gymnasium stands. Most impressive were the guys from California, some we’d battle with for the 1959 NCAA Championships. 

I wasn’t discouraged at being passed over for the competition meet but more determined, musing in Eliza Doolittle fashion: If they can do it, ducky, so can I.

__________________

Chapter Notes:

*The US men’s team placed seventh at the 1958 Gymnastics World Championship in Moscow. It was the first time the US had sent a men’s team. We did not field a women’s team until 1962.

*Fred Orlofsky, after training with the UI team, would attend Southern Illinois University, where he would win the 1961 NCAA title on rings and placed second in the all-around in 1961, 1962, and 1963. He was also a member of the 1960 Olympic Team.

*Dicky Browning would be listed for twenty years in The Guinness Book of Records as “the world’s greatest tumbler,” from 1955 through 1975. Browning’s high jump wouldn’t be broken until John Thomas (USA) posted a world record of 7 ft 1/4 in 1960.

^[1] Daily Illini, 8 January 1959.

^[2] Daily Illini, 6 March 1959. https://idnc.library.illinois.edu.

^[3] Daily Illini, 10 March 59. https://idnc.library.illinois.edu.

Chapter 28

1958-59 Gymnastics Season

Betsy, Partying Fins, Ahab-Elect

At the start of my junior year of competition, Charlie, with his usual bravado, boasted in The Daily Illini: “We’re going to be tough to beat this year. It’s a veteran squad, and Don Tonry is back. Along with Abie Grossfeld, Don will be the backbone of the team. The squad is small again, eight men. There’s no room for error. Everyone must stay focused and healthy,” Charlie also announced the coming exhibition by the Finnish National Team sponsored by U.S. State Department in the Spirit of Cultural Diplomacy. “They’re tremendous, placing fourth behind the Soviet Union, Japan, and Czechoslovakia at the 1958 World Championships.” ^[1]   

We began strong again, winning the Chicago Midwest Open and dual meets against Iowa State, Indiana, and Wisconsin. The Finnish National Team then arrived for their exhibition which was a resounding success.  Thirty-five hundred spectators filling Huff Gym Arena for the Friday night affair that included a recital by a “world-class baritone” and accompanying pianist both from Finland’s National Opera as well as a demonstration by the Finnish World Rhythmic Gymnastics Champions: dance-like routines with ribbons and hoops to music. 

Saturday morning after the exhibition, I’d finished teaching when the Finns arrived at the Palaestrum with some of my teammates and 1956 U.S. Olympic Team member Muriel Davis.  Shat had also performed at the exhibition. The Finns immediately took to the trampolines, not yet available in Finland, laughing and flipping wildly. After they settled down, and in the “Spirit of Cultural Diplomacy,” a plan was hatched with the Finns, all spoke English, for a gymnasts-only party at the Palaestrum following the evening Moose Lodge dinner to be held in their honor. 

With cash contributed by U.I. gymnasts, tasks were divvied up. Mine was to borrow a large stockpot and ladle from the Moose Lodge. Pesha, still living in the Palaestrum with Fred Orlofsky, went with some Finnish guys to buy vodka and soda water. Muriel took the girls shopping for fresh fruit, including apples, oranges, lemons, and a large bag of sugar and plastic cups. All the ingredients destined for the stockpot to produce the Finnish national drink, Sima: sweet, delicious, and, I’d find, potent as hell.

After the dinner and lofty speeches by Charlie and the dignitaries, all the gymnasts were back at the Palaestrum. Sima was scooped out—the night was launched. At one point, I went to the balcony with a drink and settled on a couch to watch the celebration below. Several Finns, clearly three sheets to the wind, were playing “trampoline challenge”: one did a trick, another added a more difficult one, and so on—very dicey. 

One of the Finnish girls, Sima in hand, appeared on the balcony, seemingly exploring. She came over and sat beside me on the couch.

“Olavi.” She offered her hand. 

“Pat,” I said, shaking it.

While watching the happenings below, we chatted and sipped our drinks. At one point, I cheerfully mentioned that we looked forward to a visit next year by the Russian National. 

“That so. Finns dislike Russia!” she responded with a disapproving shake of the head. 

“Thought Finland was like Hungary, buddy-buddy with Russia,” I responded.

“No. We’re not like Hungary! We’ not buddy-buddy with Russia!” 

At that moment, I thought Olavi was about to storm off. Instead, she shifted titillatingly closer, a seductive move, so I hoped. But sadly, not so. It was to hear better over the ruckus below. Then, in her lovely Ingrid Bergman accent, she gave me a quick geopolitics lesson. 

“Finland has an eight-hundred-mile north-south border with Russia. Did you know that?” she asked.

“No, I didn’t,” trying to remember the location of Finland.

 “Well, that border didn’t stop Russians from attacking us in 1939 and again during WWII, taking 10% of our prime territory and killing one hundred thousand of us; everyone knew someone who’d died as a result of the invasions. But the Russians, they lost many more than we did. And the war was costing them too much as Russia was also fighting WWII. So, a Friendship Treaty was signed. Treaty, yes, the killing stopped. Friendship, no — they kept our land! They also hold a hammer over our heads. Russia supplies about all our fuel. And Finnish winters are cold, dark, and very long. Buddy-buddy with Russia, Pat, no!” 

Olavi then jumped to her feet, smiling, and said, “Come, we need more Sima. Vittu Venäjä!”

“Vit-tu- en?” I muttered.

“Vittu Venäjä! Russia be damned!” 

The party lasted for half the night until a Finnish coach showed up and ordered his half-drunk team back to the hotel. I was also in no shape to walk to Barton Hall and sacked out on the balcony couch, thinking about what Olavi said wondering: What will the Russian gymnasts really be like. 

***

With the graduation of John Davis, our Big Ten and NCAA pommel horse champion, I was back competing regularly in that event, though I was no John Davis. My parallel bars, horizontal bar, and particularly my performance on rings were going well. I’d won, for instance, all my events but the horizontal bar at the Wisconsin dual meet. Admittedly, the Badgers didn’t have a strong team, and Charlie held out Abie and Don. And occasionally, on the rings, I’d hit a routine so clean and effortless time slowed, thought vanished, a Zen-like experience. Landings overall were also consistent, with no bobbles or steps.

Following the Finnish exhibition, we defeated Minnesota, Southern Illinois, Colorado, and the Air Force Academy in eight days over the mid-semester break. We were on our way to an undefeated dual meet season. Then before an away meets with Michigan and Michigan State, there was a bye weekend—and I used it to be screwed up! 

Alice invited me to go horseback riding at Moraine View State Park, which is not far from Champaign. We remained uninvolved romantically since the summer fling but remained good friends, but now without benefits. I’d never been on a horse. But having seen all the great movie cowboys—Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Hoot Gibson, Tex Ritter, Randolph Scott, and Gary Cooper— galloping madly after bad guys as if there was nothing to it, and given my gymnastics training, riding a horse, piece-o’-cake. 

The horse renter brought out Betsy. “A mellow old nag,” he assured me, learning I was a greenhorn. As I walked up beside Betsy, Alice, holding Betsy’s noseband, said quietly, “Pat, wrong side. You mount from the left.” 

Walking around to the Betsy’s left side, I knew I had a problem. Once I got my left foot into the stirrup, my polio leg wouldn’t have the extension strength to help lift me up into the saddle. 

I stood looking at Betsy for a moment, considering my dilemma. Alice was whispering in Betsy’s ear as the horse became restless, probably picking up my hesitancy. I then grabbed the saddle horn with one hand, the rear of the saddle with the other, and with a weak jump but powerful pull, I vaulted up and over the horse and plopped into place. Betsy swung her head wildly as if in protest: Ain’t no fucken way ta mount me! 

Reins in hand, head up, back straight in proper Gary Cooper style, I grinned triumphantly at Alice. Smiling back, she released Betsy, mounted her steed, and took off at a trot. Betsy automatically followed, me bouncing in the saddle with one hand clutched to the saddle horn: totally out of sync with the animal.  

When we rode at a less punishing walking pace, I asked Alice, “Why couldn’t I mount from the right?” 

“Horses are one-sided. They learn things like mounting, haltering, and leading on one side and know nothing about the procedures on the other.”

“But why the left?”

“In the olden days, soldiers carried their swords on the left for easy reach with their right hand. They had to mount from the left, so swinging their leg over the saddle, they didn’t get jabbed in the butt by their sword.” 

“Learn something new every day,” I laughed.

We rode around for a few hours, then picnicked, and rode more. It was fun but at a cost. My inner thigh muscles got stretched out and bruised disjointedly bouncing on Betsy. Afterward, Alice dropped me at Barton Hall, and I could feel the soreness. But the next day, I could hardly walk. More importantly, I couldn’t hold my legs together during my gymnastics routines. When Charlie asked what my problem was, I confessed. 

“Better be mended by Michigan and Michigan State!” he angrily growled. 

I spent a good bit of time in the training room whirlpool tub. By the time we got to Ann Arbor, I had recovered, but not enough. My routines were sloppy, costing critical team points. We lost to Michigan, 58-54. Everyone else on our team had done their job but me. The next day at East Lansing, we scraped by Michigan State, but my performance was no better.

In the Daily Illini article following the Michigan and Michigan State competition, Charlie praised Newt Loken, the Michigan coach, his team, and our guys. And he dropped the hammer on me: “We should have beat Michigan. We’re a better team. But Bird didn’t come through. At the Big Ten, we will beat Michigan and win the championship if Pat doesn’t let us down again.” ^[2]

There were no more Happy Trails on Betsy. 

***

We entered the 1959 Big Ten Championships with that one loss to Michigan— which I owned— and saw the Wolverines as our number one challenge, followed by Michigan State. Still, as Charlie stressed, “Being returning conference winners, everyone will be gunning for us.”

Eight of us made the three-hour trip to Bloomington, Indiana. As expected, it was a tough meet. Michigan gave us a run for our money in the preliminaries but fell apart in the finals. Michigan State, however, pushed us all the way. We managed to stay just ahead of the Spartans and won the Big Ten Title, an unprecedented tenth consecutive conference win for Charlie. Abie and Don dominated, taking one and two in the all-around. Don also won floor exercise. My contribution was third place on rings and pommel horse and fifth on parallel bars.

Next up, the big one: the 1959 NCAA Championships at the University of California. I was among the six competitors chosen to make the trip to Berkeley. On the day we left, Charlie, seeking his fourth national title in the last five years, waxed away to the Daily Illini, also giving me a little extra boost:

Naturally, I think it will be between Penn State and Illinois for the team title. Besides our tremendous one-two punch of Grossfeld and Tonry, Pat Bird, Ed Gombos, Jim Blazek, and Allen Harvey will add valuable points to the team total. My boys could place as low as 4-5 in their events, and we’d still win the meet. That would be our fourth in the last five years. Pat is of international caliber in each of his events. He proved that this year at the Big Ten. He’ll do it again at the NCAA competition. ^[3]

***

As the plane banked over San Francisco Bay, descending into San Francisco International through a thick fog, I got a glimpse of the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz Island—”Home of Al Capone!” announced the pilot. “The Rock’s escape-proof.”

Strange, I thought, no one had escaped. It seemed like an easy swim, maybe two miles, from “The Rock” to the mainland: unaware of the 55-degree water temperature, the powerful tidal currents that could sweep escapees into the Pacific, and the jaws of hungry great whites.

San Francisco downtown appeared next out the plane window. With all its hype, the city didn’t look like much, a couple of dozen tall buildings, but not that tall. Stack three atop the other, maybe you’d have an Empire State Building. What stood out was the white, Ferry Building Clock Tower. The pilot said proudly, “It’s 240 feet tall. One of the highest structures in the city.” I was unimpressed: New Yorker arrogance.

From the airport, we drove over the Bay Bridge to Berkeley, seeing nothing but fog, and stayed on the University of California campus. The competition took place in Harmon Gym, a cavernous 17,000-seat basketball arena. It was a brutal contest, as expected, and in the end came down to us and Penn State, as Charlie predicted. The Nittany Lions won. We came in second, taking gold in just one event, Don Tonry in Floor Exercise, as opposed to five golds the previous year. We all accumulated points, with Abie and Don, as always, leading the way. My best placement was a disappointing seventh on rings because of a lousy landing: sixth would have put me in the finals. 

It was a clear day driving back over the Bay Bridge the next morning. Below small boats raced about, sailboats tacked looking to catch the wind, and ferries went this way and that. In the distance, the Golden Gate glowed bright red in a bright yellow sunrise rise sun sky. It was magnificent. And the downtown seemed more impressive; the buildings weren’t that puny. Overall, Tony Bennett’s “…city by the bay” was indeed an imposing sight, and would in time become my second favorite, after Manhattan naturally. 

***

The team banquet was again a Moose Lodge affair, with Larry Stewart, voice of the Illini, serving as master of ceremonies. He started the evening on a super high note, calling us the “Yankees of college gymnastics.” Athletic Director Dough Mills added his praise and lauded Charlie’s record (Overall 17-8, Big Ten 1st, NCAA 2nd). 

Charlie then announced the team’s “Most Valuable,” Don Tonry. No surprise there. “Paad,” Charlie next called out, “come up here!” 

I was clueless until Abie, current team captain, and Don, past captain, joined me at the podium—then dawn breaking over marble head. As Charlie began speaking, I stood stiff as a board, trembling inside, deaf with anxiety, until his voice rose in a finale: “Captain of the 1960 Illini Gymnastics Team—Paad Bird!”

I looked at Charlie, like, now, what? “Our captain-elect will have a few words to say,” he said, smiling back at me.

I took the podium to formally address a group for the first time in my life. Squeezing the sap from the pine, words stumbled out: “This is somein’. Thanks, thanks. I mean thanks a lot. I’ll never fit these guys’ shoes,” turning to Abie and Don, “not as gymnast or captain, or, for sure, telling jokes like Abie.” That got a laugh losing me up a bit. “But I’ll do my best. It’ll be a great year again next year.” I finished, glancing at Charlie, “We won’t let you down, Coach! It’ll be eleven in a row!”

The room burst into applause. Charlie, Abie, Don, Doug Mills, and Larry Stewart then said kind words to me with warm handshakes. I was, for the moment, King of the Hill. Wonderful! 

Charlie then presented varsity letters and freshman numerals, closing the affair with: “I expect the 1959-1960 team to finish in the top three in the Conference. I’ll be surprised if it wins an eleventh title. All the proven big guns—Olympians, NCAA, and Conference Champions—will be gone.”

 Then, looking directly at me, Charlie added, “But I don’t think the team wants to break our traditional winning record.” 

Charlie’s shift from his usual will-win-it-all optimism jolted me, but I shook it off. Who knows? That’s next year. My concern now was to finish the semester and then summer in New York. 

Leaving the banquet, I spotted Pesha at the bar talking to Ed, the bartender. Pesha had waited tables and did not attend the banquet. I went over to them. Ed greeted me and went about closing the bar. 

“So, Pat, Abie told me on the way out your team captain,” Pesha said.

 He waited tables that evening and not an official team member didn’t attend the banquet. “C’mon, let’s celebrate.”  

We went to Beasley’s, a bar catering primarily to blacks, which Pesha favored for its cheap beer. Our conversation turned right to the summer. Pesha and roommate Fred Orlofsky planned to stay in Champaign to train along with Abie and Don for the Pan-American Games tryouts. Pesha also said that in early June, he and Abie were attending the National Turnverein Gymnastics Championships in Louisville, Kentucky, with Pesha as a competitor and Abie as a judge.

I now had a New York City travel plan.  

Chapter Note:

The 1958-59 Illini Team members were Gordon Claycomb, Tom Ruppert, Alan Harvey, Pat Bird, Jim Blazek, Abie Grossfeld, Eddie Gombos, and Don Tonry. Glenn Wilson, a champion tumbler and trampolinist from Western Illinois University, was assistant coach.

Chapter 29

NYC Summer of Romance

We drove one of Charlie’s two cars to Louisville, a four-hour journey punctuated by small talk and Abie jokes. As a judge, Abie had a free two-bedroom at a downtown hotel. He claimed one bed, Pesha the other. I was offered the floor. Instead, I upgraded to a free couch on the hotel’s conference room floor, empty and ghostly at night but comfortable. 

The 1959 American Turners National Festival was held at the Riverside Turners Club on the Ohio River outside of Columbus. The site included a gymnasium, playing fields, bar and restaurant, and boat dock. In addition to the Turnverein Gymnastics Championship, there were competitions in other sports, including track and field, swimming, and volleyball.   

The Turnfest was also a cultural event featuring art exhibits, music, dance performances, and, of course, traditional German food, including mett (raw ground beef seasoned with salt and pepper), pickled eggs, pretzels dipped in mustard, and my favorite, currywurst: fried pork sausage topped with curry-flavored ketchup. In good Teutonic tradition, there was naturally beer. Lots of beer! One popular drinking challenge was building a wall out of empty beer cans, one can wide. Walls could extend twenty feet or more. The challenge was that the beer can contents had to be chugalugged before a drinker set a contribution in place. Walls toppled. 

While Abie judged and Pesha competed, Pesha eventually placed second in the all-around and won several events. I watched the competition, as well as sporting and other events, ate, and sampled the various brews. It was entertaining, but after the two days, I was anxious to get on the road.

It was early evening when I got out of the car beside U.S. Route 40 outside Indianapolis and bid my companions goodbye as they went on to Champaign. Thumb up, I was off to NYC, which turned out to be a surprisingly easy trip. My first ride was an eighteen-wheeler. After eight-plus hours of the driver’s chatter with fellow over-the-road guys and constant talk radio, I was dropped off at the New Castle, Pennsylvania Turnpike Exchange. Following a bite to eat at a truck stop, my second ride, roughly six hours, was with another long hauler. He kindly went out of his way and took me right to the Newark, New Jersey, Amtrak Station.

The sun peeked over the Manhattan skyline as the train approached the North River Tunnel under the Hudson River to Penn Station. I was emotional, almost to the point of tears. Hadn’t realized just how homesick I was. It was good to be home.

When I entered the apartment, Mom and Pop were in the kitchen. Pop was fixing breakfast, and Mom was at the kitchen table. Pop looked the same. Mom appeared strikingly older; the M.S. had obliviously progressed. They warmly welcomed me. Then, as I put my gear on my cot, I was startled to see a large, framed photo of me holding an iron cross on the rings hanging on the wall opposite the hallway alcove. Pop’s work for sure, I smiled—the message, never to be spoken, proud of you, son. 

“Nice picture, Pop,” I said, returning to the kitchen to join them for breakfast. 

“Had the clip’n you sent blown-up,” he responded, putting a plate of bacon, eggs, and fried tomatoes before me. “Got yourself work lined up?”

“No, not yet.” 

“Can try to get you on at the Graybar as an elevator operator if you like.” 

Skipping out on bathroom cleaning for Rick had apparently been forgiven or forgotten.

“Thanks, Pop. Appreciate it. But I’m looking for work as a draftsman.” 

***

Before leaving, I’d checked the New York Times help-wanted pages at the U.I. library and taken down contact information for several positions; the draftsmen market was hot. I made a few calls and scored an interview with a Manhattan company. When asked over the phone about my background, I was prepared: I had graduated from the Delahanty Institute of Drafting, worked as a draftsman for GAL for three years, and then resigned to travel around the country. I was now ready to settle back in NYC. 

Why the travel lies? Well, I figured no one would hire and train me for specific jobs knowing I’d quit in eight weeks to return to college. My bet was that I wouldn’t be thoroughly vetted, given the demand for mechanical/electrical draftsmen and my portfolio, including GAL jobs, which was pretty good. It would naturally be embarrassing if caught, but no big deal. I’d just move on and try another company. 

Dressed appropriately and armed with my tube of samples, I went for an interview the following day. A receptionist in this very fancy office suite asked me to fill out an application form. She was the only one around—good sign, no obvious competition.

The receptionist took my application and drawing samples and disappeared. Forty-five minutes later, she led me into an office and introduced me to a gray-headed guy in a shirt and loose tie sitting behind a desk. He was scowling, my sample tube before him. Another guy stood off to the side. He was dressed in a dark suit, giving me a sour look as if something rotten had just come through the door. The behind-the-desk guy didn’t rise or offer his hand; he just motioned for me to take the seat across from him. 

“Your work is fine,” he said right off the bat. “And a Mr. Glazer at GAL was high on you.”

My heart dropped! He’d checked.

“But Mr. Glazer said you quit to go to college.” Leaning toward me, lips compressed, eyes drilling into me, he grumbled, “So, why the application bullshit!”

I fessed up. 

“Goddam, dumb for a college boy, particularly not checking us out before applying. If you had, you’d have found that we’re mostly government contractors, and many of our projects are highly sensitive. Therefore, you must pass a U.S. Government security clearance to be a drafting technician here. You falsified your application. That’s a federal offense. You can get up to ten years in Leavenworth.”

I glance at the standing sour puss, thinking: FBI, waiting to cart me off.  

“You’ve made a stupid mistake,” the desk guy continued as he rolled my sample tube across the desk to me. “Get ya ass out of here.”

I stood, tube in hand, and went for the door. Sour puss—surely FBI—stepped beside me. While opening the door, he handed me a slip of paper, saying flatly, “Here’s the address of a job shop in Williamsburg looking for draftsmen. Your GAL machine experience will look good. Be honest with them. “Good luck, kid”. A trace of a smile. “One Illini to another.”

“Thanks! You went to Illinois?”

No response as he shut the door on me. 

So as Lady Luck would have it, and perhaps help from a fellow Illini, I bypassed Leavenworth and went to Brooklyn.

***

My drafting table was beside a wide-open window overlooking bustling Williamsburg’s Hewes Street, three stories below. Fifteen of us toiled away in the dingy loft-like area, no AC and cooled somewhat by large rattling fans at each end. My work was drawing manufacturing schematics of parts for unknown machines. The boss, Mr. Hyden, was a gray-bearded Hasidic Jew with a raggedy gray beard and dressed to type: white shirt, wide black suspenders, black trousers draped over black shoes, and a black yarmulke bobby pinned to the back of his head. 

Besides running the job shop, Mr. Hyden had a thriving sideline selling condoms packaged by the gross to Hasidic guys; sometimes there’d even be a waiting line. Active prevention of pregnancy was against Hasidic interpretations of the Torah commandment: “Be fruitful and multiply,” a fellow draftsman sarcastically informed me. Given the dowdy, carriage-pushing women surrounded by gaggles of kids passing regularly under my window, Mr. Hyden was maybe peddling a faulty product. 

Production pressure was intense, Mr. Hyden periodically hanging over my shoulder, urging: “Dat’s good. Just speed it up.” Even lunch was grabbing a bagel and coffee from Abel’s Bagels across the street and carrying it lickety-split back to the drafting table. I didn’t mind the pressure; the work was interesting, and time passed quickly. Additionally, the pay was off the books, as when cleaning bathrooms for Rick, specifically a cash envelope on Fridays, with no withholdings. 

That first Friday, payday flush, I got off the Astoria BMT at Lexington Avenue and 59th Street, found a bar, ordered a beer, and carried it to a payphone booth at the back of the establishment. Flipping through the white pages, there it was. I dialed the number.

“Hello,” the familiar voice answered; tingles of joy racing through me. 

“It’s me.”

A moment of silence. 

“Paddy, you’re home?”

“For the summer,” I answered, rushing right to the question, “Want to have a drink or something?”

Quiet again, I’m thinking: Vespa-fuckin’-Jimmy is there. 

“When?”

“Now.”

“Now!” Peggy laughed. “Paddy, I just got in from work. Where are you?”

“A bar up on Lexington.”

Another pause.

“I’ll meet you at the 60th Street Bloomingdale’s entrance in thirty minutes, okay?”

“Sure. That’s great,” I replied.

“See you in a bit.”

 I returned the receiver to its cradle, smiling, patting myself on the back: A shot in the dark and a bull’s eye. Back at the bar, I checked my 1959 NCAA Gymnastics Championship wristwatch every minute. 

“Big date?” the bartender asked, picking up my unease as he refilled my glass.

“Gigantic!”

***

People streamed up and down the subway steps and in and out of Bloomingdale. Peggy was already five minutes late. Panic: Damn, she ain’t coming!  

“Paddy.”

I spun around, about knocking Peggy over.

“Sorry.” I smiled awkwardly. 

We stood, blocking the sidewalk for a moment, looking at each other. Peggy was lovely in a white pullover and jeans, now sporting shoulder-length hair. 

“C’mon,” Peggy broke the trance. “This is a madhouse. Let’s go to P.J. Clark’s, okay?”

“Let’s do it!”

We zigzagged through the mob to 3rd Avenue. There I stopped dead, stunned, as if seeing Quad absent the majestic Dutch elms for the first time. The L was gone! It had been replaced by four lanes of honking cabs, cars, trucks, and shrieking ambulances jockeying their way downtown.

“God, Peggy. What a difference!”  

“Yeah,” she sighed. “Don’t miss the clamor of the trains and the Avenue’s sunless gloom. Still, it’s sad.”

“L’s torn down, skyscrapers replacing the old neighborhoods. Progress, I guess.”  

P.J. Clarke’s is a classic upmarket saloon on the northeast corner of 55th Street and 3rd Avenue. Those supposedly in the know claim Johnny Mercer wrote “One for My Baby” on the back of a napkin for Frank Sinatra, who, supposedly, regularly closed the place. 

The saloon was mobbed and deafeningly loud with a Friday after-work crowd, mostly front-office guys in $300 suits and a few well-turned-out women. We lucked out and squeezed onto stools at the bar just vacated as we entered. Beers ordered, leaning our heads together to hear each other, we chatted away. On Peggy’s end, it was about her recent promotion to Executive Assistant to the Marketing Manager at the advertising agency where she worked. In my excitement, I rattled on about my Brooklyn drafting job and how I got it, which generated a laugh, the visit of the fun-loving Finns, our team’s success, and slipping in being elected team captain. 

The bartender leaning over the bar interrupted me, asking if we planned to eat there. If so, he’d take our table reservation, as there was at least an hour’s wait. 

“Hungry, Peggy?” I asked.

“Always!” A broad smile, looking at the bartender. “Can eat at the bar?”

“No problem.” 

We ordered the bar’s acclaimed bacon cheeseburger, the “Cadillac Burger,” christened so by Nat King Cole: another supposedly. 

`”It’s like old times, Paddy!” Peggy said happily. I chanced a light kiss and was rewarded with a tender response. 

After dinner, we strolled to Sutton Square Park and sat on a bench overlooking the East River. The Queensborough Bridge towered almost above us, its lights casting an orange glow on the still water—wonderfully romantic, despite the din of bridge traffic. Slipping my arm over Peggy’s shoulder, she leaned into me.

“I’m… I’m in Analysis,” Peggy said softly after a bit of snuggling. “My psychiatrist would like to meet you.”

These least amorous words ever spoken shook me from my erotic mood. Peggy seeing a psychoanalyst wasn’t a great surprise. Freud was everywhere back then, from blockbuster movies like Spellbound and The Snake Pit to being touted by the rich and famous: “Analysis made him a new man, says Cary Grant…Marlon Brando claims the principal benefit of acting was the money to pay for my therapy.”^[1]  

What took me aback was, “My psychiatrist would like to meet you.” 

“Meet me! Why?”

“Just to talk.”

“We’ll see,” I answered.

 I knew that wouldn’t happen. Being important enough in Peggy’s life to be a subject in her Analysis was really flattering and somehow encouraging. But I wasn’t a Freud fan. Paying a psychiatrist big bucks, year in and year out, to listen to bitching about parents, childhood, and life, in general, seemed pointless to me at the time, believing troubles are inevitable; suck it up. Need help over a rough patch? See a counselor as I did and move on. 

“You don’t want to?” she asked, eyes on the water.

“Nah, not really,” I answered.

“That’s fine,” she answered, with a little that’s okay squeeze.

Peggy then gently removed my arm from around her shoulders, asking, “Want to see the flat? Just up the block.”

“Yes. I’d like that”— an understatement if there ever was one!

Her building was a six-story walk-up on 1st Avenue, a typical turn-of-the-century tenement with zigzagging street-side fire escapes. We entered a door about concealed between two shops. Inside was a small hallway and a never-ending staircase. Peggy bounded up the steps like a gazelle, me lumbering at her heels. At the sixth-floor landing, she clicked open two deadbolts securing the flat door.

We entered a long room with two windows at the far end overlooking an adjacent rooftop. The furnishings were sparse: a sofa, two mismatched loungers, and a round wooden table with chairs. Below the windows was a sink, stove, and mini refrigerator. Sitting a few feet from the kitchen area was the main feature —a giant, porcelain clawfoot tub.  

“Peggy,” I declared, “you’ve stolen Mrs. Pond’s tub.”

She gave me a playful glance and said softly, “If you’re staying, try it in the morning.”

Redemption at last!

***

With Liz spending weekends with her boyfriend, the flat was ours from Friday evening until Monday morning, along with all of Manhattan and my draftsman job cash to enjoy it. We saw great movies like Anatomy of a Murder, Ben-Hur, Gigi, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, and The Seventh Seal, and took in Broadway shows like Gypsy, Fiddler on the Roof, and West Side Story. We also spent evenings at Central Park concerts. 

And we ate well. Our favorite nightly eatery was Genaro’s, located on East 60th Street, directly across from the Queensborough Bridge exit ramp and a few blocks from our flat. The small, time-worn bistro, operated by an elderly Italian couple, had just a half-dozen wooden tables and was decorated with a large, faded mural of a gondola. The menu was scribbled on a sidewalk chalkboard, listing one daily “il secondo” each day: Velo Parmigiana, Ossobuco, Salsiccia e Pepperoni, Saltimbocca. Italian arias flowed from wall speakers. And Genaro’s had this unique feature, a bocce court in the backyard. Sipping wine before dinner, we’d watch the Italian guys play while pretending to be a grand couple in a Fellini-like Italian village. 

Malachys on Third Avenue was on our drinking itinerary, as it has been in the past. The first night we returned, we were surprised to see a half-dozen young women at the bar, and we joined them.  

“What’s this? Ladies at the bar?” I asked when Malachy came to take our order.

“Yer see, the Barbizon Hotel fer Women is jist ’round the corner, as yer may know,” he said apologetically. “Some of the lovely ladies started comin’ in an’ sittin’ themselves at the bar. Dare they sit. So grand an’ al’. Well, ay ‘adn’t the heart ta chase dem aff ter a table. And now who wud?”  

“And your Irish tradition?” I asked, loving the blather. 

“Ah, yer see, Irish traditions, they’re loike the wild geese. They cum. An’ then they go.”

We laughed, Malachy joining in, as did several “lovely ladies” overhearing the conversation.  

Our main activity, second to making love, was walking. We’d walk over the Queensborough and Triboro Bridges to our Astoria and the Williamsburg Bridge into Brooklyn to where I worked. We’d walk to street fairs in Little Italy, Chinatown, and German Town, sampling the ethnic food. Or we’d simply wander about Manhattan. 

On one excursion, we went to P.K.’s Candy Store in Hells Kitching, thinking I could show Peggy Ralph’s swag shop and, for kicks, buy her an ill-begotten something. The West 48th Street neighborhood was quiet, just kids playing stickball. P.K. was on a stool behind the counter, reading the Daily Racing Form, store empty, when we entered. 

“Who’s da maal, Pat?” He asked, his wrinkled, pale face glancing up, a cigarette, half ash, dangling from his lip. 

It was as if he’d seen me just yesterday rather than two years ago. I introduced “da maal.” P.K. greeting Peggy with a nod and grunt.

“Ralph’s shop open?” I asked.

“Not today. Monday, maybe. Come back then,” he answered, nose back buried in the Daily Racing Form. 

I took two Cokes from among the beers in the cooler. About to pay, P.K. mumbled without looking up, “On de house. See ya Monday.”

Peggy laughed as we left the store to head up 10th Ave for Central Park. 

“What’s so funny?”

“Maal! Never been called that before.”

“Yeah, P.K. calls women maals, like in the gangster movies. Implies hooker. He doesn’t mean anything by that, though. Just P.K.’s way.”

“Hooker.” Peggy laughed again. 

On a park bench, drinking our Cokes and watching the Hansom Cabs trot by, I told Peggy about the Hell’s Kitchen I knew, including the dock scams, the numbers racket, the railroad flat swag store, and Angelo and Horse Head Ralph’s great Cuba adventure. 

She was all ears, enjoying a slice of Manhattan’s underworld. 

***

The summer breezed delightfully by with work, me trying to keep in shape at the Y, and living most weekends with Peggy. It was heaven. But the clock ticked away towards departure. Separation anxiety was creeping in, accompanied by a good dose of Vespa-fuckin’-Jimmy paranoia. 

One night, for example, we went to the Cherry Lane Theatre in Greenwich Village to see a play set in a dilapidated Irish farmhouse where this old couple drank while bickering and whining endlessly about their crappy lives together. Meanwhile, fellow inebriates staggered on stage, Peggy’s brother Pat one of them, bellowing in incomprehensible, over-the-top Irish brogues. There was then heavy arguing and a fistfight, and the play ended finally with a drunken singalong led by a fine Irish tenor, which, for me, the tenor being the only enjoyable part of the play.

Pat invited us to a jam-packed after-party at a nearby apartment. There, I trailed Peggy from group to group, feeling entirely out of place with little to contribute to the conversations about the “gloriously captivating,” “fantastically acted” play; I found it depressing as hell. Hit too close to home, I guess.

I escaped the scrums with a beer and watched the action from a quiet corner, scanning the gathering for a possible him, Vespa-fuckin’-Jimmy: numerous possibilities. Mainly, though, my eyes were on Peggy, moving easily about and chatting happily away, seeing a new side of my inward-looking, thoughtful gal. She was clearly in her element—but not at all my scene.

In deep conversation, Peggy then went— arm in arm —to the bar with a tall, middle-aged guy nattily dressed in a blue blazer, black T-shirt, and jeans. Jealousy spiked. I walked over to do whatever to ensure my dominance, or something like that, thinking perhaps it was him. 

“Paddy,” Peggy introduced me, “this is Tommy, the play director.” So relieved, it wasn’t my nemesis; almost hugged the guy.

We finally departed for the subway, Peggy asking brightly, but with a note of concern. “Did you have a good time? Liked the play?”

“Yeah, interesting,” I answered blandly, my insides grumbling: Ya gotta be fuckin’ kidding! 

***

Peggy and I had dinner with my folks at the Astoria apartment a week before my planned return to Illinois. In attendance were the usual group: Mom and Pop, my brothers Billy and Johnny, Mom’s sister Margaret, and their drunken brother, Uncle Gary, who could easily have been a character in the Cherry Lane Theatre production. My sister Kate was about to give birth, so she and her husband were absent from work. 

The meal, cooked by Mom and assisted by Aunt Margaret, was delicious, featuring roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, finished off with homemade apple pie. Mom was still a fine cook despite her Multiple Sclerosis. 

Pop and Uncle Gary got well into the booze, putting an edge on the affair. After dinner, I cleared the table in the living room, where we ate Sunday and holiday meals at an expandable all-purpose mahogany table. When I entered the kitchen with a stack of dishes. Pop was there, pouring himself a whiskey. Peggy, looking beautiful, was at the sink doing dishes. 

“Yell never keep that one, Paddy. Don’t be get’n yer ‘opes up,” Pop said, nodding toward Peggy. 

Translated in my mind: With the bum leg, you’re not man enough for her.

It was a solid, sorry blow, but taken without a response as there was truth in what Pop said. Peggy was a prize ready to be snatched away again after I’m gone. Pop’s remark triggered the same tortuous stay-go dilemma experienced when first considering Illinois. 

My fantasy throughout the summer was that Peggy and I would marry at City Hall and happily go off to Illinois together. Fat chance. Cuddled in Peggy’s little bed, we’d whisper loving words. Marriage was never one of them. God forbid I directly pop the question— likely be run bare-assed from the flat, never to see or hear from Peggy again. 

***

Liz was at the flat one Saturday doing whatever with Peggy. It was late August. Exiled for the weekend, I went to the Y. Taking my stay-go frustrations out on the speed bag— go, go, go; stay, stay, stay. Pesha, to my surprise, came into the boxing room. He explained he hadn’t made the 1960 Olympic gymnastics team. So, he came home for a few weeks. 

Leaving the Y together after the boxing session and a short gymnastics workout, Pesha said, “Gotta show you something.”   

We walked down West 63rd Street, crossed 6th Avenue, and partway down the street, he stopped before a big shiny motor scooter parked at the curb.

“Like it?” He asked, smiling.

“Nice,” I answered, thinking he’d noticed the scoter and it attracted him.

“It’s a Special Deluxe 299 Progress. Just bought it.”

“It’s yours?” I asked, looking closely at the machine, which was about twice the size of a Vespa.

“Yup! Give ya a ride. I’m going to meet up with Gordie. He’s working in The Berlin at Pier 88.”

Stowing our gym stuff under the long seat, off we went. 

“Thought Gordie was a cop,” I inquired as we cruised south on 11th Avenue.  

“He quit the cops after passing the city Fire Department exam. Begins fireman training in a few weeks and working the docks until then.”

“Why’d he quit the cops?”

“He got stationed at the 10th Precinct, hoping to be posted anywhere else. The 10^thPrecinct covers Hell’s Kitchen. Gordie knows of stuff going down in the neighborhood. If local guys get busted, they might think he ratted. Besides, Gordie didn’t like the job—walking the beat, hassling people. It’s better to be a fireman, he concluded. It’s a smart decision.”

The pier guard greeted Pesha like an old friend, passed us through to the pier, and we parked the Progress inside the gate. The covered pier, extending three hundred yards into the Hudson River, was bustling with high-lows, small trucks, pushcarts, dollies, and whatnot. We made our way to an opening outside and walked down the wharf, Berlin’s massive black hull rising three stories above us. 

Pesha spotted Buddy Gordie’s older brother, whom he was looking for, on the Berlin’sdeck, loading a conveyor belt moving cargo to the wharf. He approached the three guys unloading the belt, clearly recognizing them as well.

“Buddy, ya got visitors!” one of the dockers shouted.  

Buddy waved and stopped loading while the belt kept moving until its cargo was offloaded. Then, the belt reversed. Pesha hopped on. I followed. The rise was steep, like the first hill of the Coney Island Cyclone. The polio leg was straining to help keep me balanced. The massive ship’s hull rocked against the pier pilings, me thinking: Fall, I’m smooched fish bait. 

When I jumped a bit of balance from the conveyor to the deck, Buddy, a little weathered-face guy absent his brother’s good looks, couldn’t resist a smart-ass remark: “Looked like ya enjoyed the ride, Pat.”

“Yeah, fuckin’ fun,” I answered. 

Pesha and I climbed a ladder into the hold, which stunk of rotten vegetables. A crew was unloading egg crates from a cargo net and stacking them in a huge walk-in refrigerator. The crew included Gordie and an older version of Pesha, his father, who had worked the docks since immigrating to the United States from Yugoslavia as a young man. They looked rushed. So, with little more than a “Hi,” we kept going with Pesha calling to Gordie, “We’re gonna tour the ship.”

“Meet ya in the bar on the upper deck,” Gordie answered. “Be a couple of hours.”

We freely roamed the seven decks of the Berlin from engine room to wheelhouse, all very quiet, peering into the open doors of spotless cabins, wandered through a large dining room set up as for a fancy affair, and passing a library, barbershop, beauty salon, massage room, gym, small indoor swimming pool, and an infirmary. 

Our excursion ended at the Promenade Tavern, so designated by a brass plate over the entrance. Another brass plate beside the entrance gave the Berlin’s particulars: 

Built in England 1925

18,600 Tons

Service Speed 16.5 Knots

Cargo/Passenger Ship

Carries 1,557 Passengers

127 First Class, 482 Second Class, 948 Third Class

The deserted tavern was small and quite classy, with oak-paneled walls, several matching tables and chairs, a thick blue carpet, a bar featuring a polished copper top, and half-dozed tall-back, blue-cushioned stools. We went behind the bar and helped ourselves to tall glasses of beer; Schofferhof scrolled on the ivory tap handle. 

Guzzling the delicious brew, we poured seconds and went and sat at the bar, where Pesha announced with a happy smile that he’d been appointed Illini assistant gymnastics coach. I was hardly surprised and delighted by the news. Pesha was perfect for the job, an elite national gymnast with a college degree and well-liked by Charlie and the team. He said he’d soon return to Champaign by way of stowing his Special Deluxe 299 Progress in the trunk of a car he’d deliver to St. Louis and ride the scooter the rest of the way.

“Come along?” he said.

“Two of us on the Progress—with our stuff? Ya kiddin’?” 

“It’s big. We’d manage.”

“Anyway, I’m not sure I’ll go back.”

“What! Not go back?”

In brief, I explained my current relationship with Peggy, outlined my stay-or-go dilemma, and stated that I had decided to stay. 

“That’s fuckin’ nuts. We can win the Big Ten again, maybe the NCAA. And you’re what, a year from graduating? You’re thinking with your cock, Pat, not your head. This is bull shit. Ya come’n with me,” Pesha said, reaching across the bar to pull us another Schofferhofround.

At that point, Gordie and Buddy strolled into the bar, followed by Angelo, the ex-Army stevedore who had returned from Labrador. They went right for the Schofferhof tap and then joined us. 

“How was the tour?” Gordie asked.

Pesha was about to give an account when Buddy jumped in: “Mulligan’s (long-time Irish Mob boss) just heard is bein’ replaced by Spillane. Spillane, he’ll be good for us. He’s a polished guy but tough as nails. Being married to Maureen (daughter of Hell’s Kitchen Democrat district leader Eugene McManus) is a major political connection.”

Buddy went on about a convention center to be built on Eleventh Avenue between 34th and 38th Streets, emphasizing, “With Spillane in on the project, there’ll be good jobs, buckets of loose cash floating around. And he’ll keep the fuckin’ wops outta it.”

The conversation next turned to the increase of container shipping threatening dockers’ jobs and the drugs, long banished by the Irish Mob, seeping into the neighborhood. Schofferhof and neighborhood gossip flowed for the rest of the afternoon, all interesting and entertaining to this uninformed outsider. Then, when leaving, Buddy went behind the bar, took two bottles of German brandy, and stuck them into his belt under his shirt, creating a pregnant-like bulge. 

Sure, as hell, he’ll be caught, I’m thinking. 

We disembarked the Berlin down a gangway, thankfully, having had too many Schofferhofs to handle the cargo belt. Leaving the pier, Buddy pulled a bottle out of his pants and handed it to the guard, who nodded casually and placed the schnapps in his carry-on bag.

Pesha transported me to the Seventh Avenue BMT station. When I got off the machine, he asked, “Well, what is it? Comin’ with me or not?”

“Yeah, guess so,” I answered drearily. 

***

We had dinner at Genaro’s the Saturday before my departure. Peggy wore the black shirt with the orange U.I. logo, bought in Campustown —a nice touch. Afterward, we took a cab downtown to The Seven Steps, which we had yet to visit during our whirlwind summer.  

Red devotional candles, piano player in a red gown, disco globe circling the dance floor, sexy waitresses hustling about— nothing had changed, so it seemed. Then, after settling into our table, we noticed a difference. More opposite-sex couples were dancing and at the tables. Also, the stools around the grand piano were gone, a disappointment as we looked forward to another singalong. 

Soon after our drinks arrived, a woman in a long, flowery dress went to the piano. She exchanged a word with the piano player, who began softly playing, building to a brisk tempo, and the women started singing, L’amour est un oiseau rebelle. Peggy and I smiled at each other, recognizing the delightful aria often played at Genaro’s Bistro. Thanks to Peggy’s high school French, I understood the opening words, “Love is a rebellious bird.” The aria finished and brought the house down. 

When I asked about the performance, the waitress informed us it was open mic night, drawing many show people. And more fine performances followed: arias, show tunes, popular songs, even a little Burl Ives, “Call Me Mr. In-Between,” delivered by a flamboyant gay guy. There was also some audience participation. A short-cropped blond in blue blazer, red shirt, and gray slacks stepped to the piano where she magically morphed into wholesomely sweet Doris Day singing, Que Sera, Sera, the house joining in for the carouse: “… whatever will be will be…”

It was another splendid night. But nothing’s perfect. Neither at the Seven Steps nor during that night cuddled in Peggy’s little bed was there an “I’ll miss you, Paddy.” Or better still, “Please don’t go!” with a sprinkle of tears. On the contrary, Peggy was adamant, “Paddy, go—get the college degree.” During our goodbye night at the flat, I urged Peggy to visit me again in Champaign, receiving a so-so, “That really would be nice. We’ll see.”

So ended a most glorious summer with me still teetering on the edge of love’s uncertainty.

***

Pesha picked me up in Astoria at 5:00 a.m. in a four-door blue 1958 Chevy Impala. The handlebars and front wheel of the Progress scooter protruded from under the tied-down trunk lid. Nine hours out of New York City, me mostly driving and Pesha sleeping, we pulled into a St. Louis shopping plaza. There, we unloaded the Progress and our gear, not wanting to hand over the car with its rear bumper nearly dragging the pavement from the wait of the Progress. Pesha delivered the Impala to a garage a few blocks away, while I tied our baggage to the scooter’s rack, the gangly load a bit uncertain.

The first half of the journey from St. Louis was along Route 66 to Springfield, Illinois, Pesha driving at his mopey pace, sixteen-wheelers shooting by with angry horn blasts, their draft about blowing us from the highway. At Springfield, one hundred miles and five hours into the perilous journey, we turned east on Route 36 toward Decatur on a relatively quiet two-lane road. 

Two hours later, now pitch dark, we make a wide turn coming into Decatur and are blinded by the lights of an oncoming truck. The scooter swerved, skidded on a patch of gravel, and over we went, sending the machine and riders sliding sideways down the road, spewing out luggage along the way. We were fine except for a few scrapes, and the Progress still functioned. Reloading our stuff, we carried on, with Pesha now driving at a jogging pace. 

Twenty-five hours out of New York City, we’re finally in front of Pasha’s home-sweet-home. Whipped, and thankful to be in one piece, I spent the remainder of the night on the Palaestrum balcony couch. In the late morning, Pesha dropped me at Men’s Old Gym. 

I showered, changed clothes, and went to the Athletic Association Office to get my room assignment, Barton Hall, and meal ticket. With the Barton Hall cafeteria closed for the summer, I put my gear in my room and headed off to seek some food from Mama. 

Walking the familiar two miles to the Moose Lodge felt like I’d never left town, summer, but this fabulous dream. I was happy. I’d made the right decision. As for Peggy, I’d had little choice but to resign myself. 

Que Sera, Sera.

____________________

Chapter Note:

* Not accepting her NYC psychiatrist’s invitation to meet with him would prove to be a significant error. In 1965, Peggy was diagnosed with schizophrenia, manifested by delusions and hearing voices. She underwent extensive electroshock therapy, 24 sessions, and would, for the rest of her life, suffer from the disease.

* One For My Baby (And One More for the Road), performed, was written by Harold Arlen (music) and Johnny Mercer (lyrics) in 1943 for the musical film “The Sky’s the Limit.” Frank Sinatra recorded it eleven years later. 

Chapter 30

1959-1960 Season

Pesha picked me up in Astoria at 5:00 AM in a four-door blue 1958 Chevy Impala. The Progress Scooter handlebars and front wheel were sticking out from under the tiedown trunk lid, weighing the car’s back end down to within inches of the road. 

Pesha was content riding shotgun while I drove most of the way. Like me, he was a quiet guy. We rode along like a couple of Trappist monks vowed to silence. Nine hours out of New York City, we pulled into a St. Louis shopping plaza and unloaded the Progress and our gear, not wanting to hand over the car with its rear bumper nearly dragging the pavement. Pesha delivered the Impala to a garage a few blocks away while I tied our baggage to the scooter rack. 

The first half of the journey from St. Louis was along Route 66 to Springfield, Illinois, with Pesha driving at his mopey pace. It was like riding straddling an ironing board as a passenger: no springs, no backrest, and legs cramped in one position. Sixteen-wheelers kept shooting by our creeping scooter with an angry blast of its horn and about blowing us off the highway. After a hundred miles and about five hours of the risky torture, we turned east on Route 36 at Springfield toward Decatur. The road narrowed and was relatively quiet. It was now about dark. 

Making a wide turn coming into Decatur two hours later, now night and pitch black, the lights of an oncoming truck blinded us, and we hit a patch of gravel on the shoulder. The Progress swerved wildly, toppled over, and skidded on, leaving our luggage scattered about behind. We were okay except for a few scrapes. The Progress still functioned. Reloading our stuff, we carried on, Pesha now driving at a little more than a walking pace. It took three hours to do the last sixty miles.  

Three in the morning and twenty-five hours on the road, we pulled up to the Palaestrum, Pasha’s home sweet home. Whipped and thankful to be in one piece, I spent the remainder of the night on the Palaestrum balcony couch. In the late morning, Pesha dropped me off at Men’s Old Gym. I showered, changed clothes, and went to the Athletic Association Office to see about my meal ticket and room assignment. Again, Red Pace had me assigned to Barton Hall. 

With the Barton Hall cafeteria still closed for the summer, I went off to the Moose Lodge to grub a dinner from Ma’am. Walking my familiar two-mile route, it felt like I’d never left town, my glorious summer but a dream. Though aching for Peggy, I was happy. Stay or go? I’d made the right decision. 

***

During my freshman, sophomore, and junior years, we compiled a 60-10 overall record, 20-2 in the Big Ten, won three consecutive Big Ten Championships, tied with Michigan State for a National NCAA Championship, and were NCAA runners-up twice, behind Penn State. All the greats from these teams had now graduated except for Abie, our leading scorer, who’d finish graduate in January. With all the big guns gone, I was naturally apprehensive about our outlook, doubly so as the team captain. And the pre-season Daily Illini article didn’t help: 

Pond, seeking his 11^th consecutive Conference Crown, is usually a refreshing contrast among college coaches, most of whom have a guarded outlook toward the success of their team. University of Illinois gymnastics coach Charlie Pond, who has guided the Illini since 1949, has few equals at getting out on a limb. Pond usually predicts the success of his teams and frequently gives the scores by which he thinks they will win. This season, the coach is not making any predictions. We again have a strong squad, he said. But there, young, untested in college competition, with only one returning letterman, Pat Bird, our team captain. So, we could run into some sophomore-itis. Still, I’m optimistic. 

For the forever-optimistic Charlie, that meant we likely wouldn’t keep the decade-long conference winning streak going, to say nothing of our NCAA chances. As team captain, I felt like Ahab: all the shellbacks cashed out and setting off after Moby Dick with a crew of polliwogs.^[1]

            We got off to a good start, winning the December Midwest Open Championship at Chicago’s Navy Pier. However, we had significant help, as one shellback, our past top scorer, Abie Grossfelt, was eligible until January. Abie won the all-around and scored the most points in all his events. Our other all-around performers, Ray Hadley from Chicago and John Salter from Pasadena, California, didn’t quite meet their first challenge. Ray, expected to place second to Abie in the all-around, took fifth place after falling from the high bar—sophomore-itis got us. As for me, I was a sorry third on the rings after bobbled my landing badly, but with my other events, I racked up the second-highest number of team points behind Abie. 

Then at the start of the dual meet season, our top-side horse performer was declared scholastically ineligible. Without him, and Abie having graduated, we were down to a five-person crew. Michigan State, our first opponent, destroyed us. Fortunately, by the next meet, three transfers from UI at Navy Pier became eligible.^[2] Still, we lost two more dual meets, including one to Iowa and another to non-conference foe Southern Illinois, an up-and-coming team. 

Another Big Ten title, a long shot. We had talent, our losses were close, and sophomore-itis, most inconstancy, was waning. Additionally, I was having my best personal season, often second in total team points, behind Ray Hadley, and undefeated on the rings in dual meets. My taking the conference title on the rings, perhaps the national championship, too, seemed well within reach.

***

A week before the Big 10, there was a happy event. Judge Fredrick F. Green married Abie and Muriel at Charlie’s home. They’d been a couple for a year or so. Pesha was the best man. I was groomsman. It was a full house, including the entire team, Muriel’s family and friends, some of Abie’s fraternity brothers, and a representative from the pres.

I wrote to Peggy about the event, enclosing a newspaper clipping showing Muriel, beautiful in a three-quarter white wedding dress, and Abie, elegant in a dark suit pinned with a white Boutonniere. I once again nudged Peggy about coming for a visit.  

***

The Big 10 Championships were held in early March at the University of Minnesota. Michigan State and Iowa State, who had beaten us in dual meets, we seen as our main competition. They both had their problems and slipped behind us. We were in second place late in the meet, just 1.5 points behind Coach Ralph Piper’s Minnesota squad—the Cinderella team.

 The Big 10 team title came down to the final event, rings, and the last two performers: me against Minnesota’s Bob Schwarzkopf. The arena was dead quiet. Bob went up first, scoring 9.35 out of 10. The crowd erupted like the title was in Minnesota’s pocket. I stepped under the rings, battling my usual anxiety—my inner voice pleading: Stick the god fucken’ landing!

Assistant coach Pesha boosted me up, saying, “Go get ‘im, Pat. Ya got it made”

My routine felt great to the last handstand before the dreaded dismount. I had to go for broke and land perfectly to win the event title and secure our Big 10 team title. The good leg hit the mat, absorbing the impact, the skinny one applying all its feeble strength to keep me balanced. Knees bent, fighting for stability, I stood slowly. I’d stuck it. A moment later, the public-address system blared—”Score! 95.5! The highest individual score of the competition.”

I was the Big 10 Still Rings Champion, and we won the 1960 conference title. I was the team hero for a few fulfilled moments, basking in the praises of elated teammates and coaches. But the real team savior, our Queequeg, was Ray Hadley. He scored almost half of our team’s points and won the all-around and free exercise events. Another of our champions was Al Barasch, taking gold in tumbling. Everyone on the team contributed —the polliwogs came through when it counted. The white whale didn’t take Ahab down.

We celebrated at Charlie’s Café Exceptionale in downtown Minneapolis, an upscale establishment featuring linen tablecloths, chandeliers, and tuxedoed waiters. Four roving violinists even serenaded us. 

“Exceptionale dining for an exceptional team,” as the happy Charlie put it in his toast to us.

Back at the hotel, I sent a postcard to Peggy picturing the elegant Tudor-style exterior of Charlie’s Café Exceptionale, scribbling: 

We won the Big 10 Championship!

I won the Rings.

Love Pat

PS—write soon. Miss ya!

***

Spring break soon followed the Big 10 Championships. Barton Hall was about emptied, including my roommate, a guy I hardly ever saw as he spent most nights at his fraternity house. One evening after a hard practice preparing for the NCAA Championships, I was in my room trying to memorize the 26 bones of the foot for anatomy without them putting me to sleep. Then came a surprise knock on the door. It was Pesha. 

“Abie and Muriel are back from New York,” he said. 

The newlyweds were staying in Champaign. Abie was pursuing a master’s degree, and he and Muriel were training for the 1960 Rome Olympics trials. They had driven to New York to visit Abie’s parents. Muriel hadn’t met them. 

“C’mon, let’s go.” Pesha said, “We’ve invited to their new digs.” 

            When we entered the apartment, a brownish-red object about the size of a large cat, very strange-looking, was at our feet, sniffing away. The animal had an elongated, dog-like snout, raccoon-like face markings, little stick-up rat ears, and a long, upright, ringed tail. 

            “Gina!” Muriel called out. 

The creature skedaddled off, emitting a woofing sound, and leaped into her arms. 

“What the hell’s that?” I asked. 

“A coatimundi,” Muriel answered, petting Gina, who was wrapped around her like an infant. “She’s a native of South America. I purchased it from a pet store in New York. A wedding present for myself—you like her?”

“She’s cute.” Gina was, except for the menacing clawed feet.

“Cute?” Abie, sitting on a couch, called out, “It’s a turbo-powered monkey-dog!”

 “We got something for you too, Pat,” Muriel said, giving me a sly smile. 

She turned away and slowly opened their bedroom door. I’m thinking: What the hell is this all about? I was dumbfounded as Peggy stepped. It was unreal, like being woken from a dream and unsure what I was seeing was real.

“Well, Paddy,” Peggy said, smiling beautifully, “say something, or I’ll go back home.” 

“Wow! You’re here!” I blubbered.

“In the flesh.” 

We came together laughing, hugged, and kissed to the applause of Abie, Muriel, and Pesha—Gina indeed would have joined in if not clutched to Muriel like a rag doll.

Peggy and I slept that night in our clothes, cuddled under a blanket, heads on couch pillows, on the apartment floor. We rented a furnished one-room flat with a small porch that had been converted into an unheated kitchen the next day. It was the first one we saw, and in our excitement, we took it right off the bat. 

That night, I proposed over a candle-lit pizza dinner and a two-dollar bottle of Manischewitz wine. 

“Peggy, you think maybe we should get married.”

“Is that a proposal, Paddy?” She chuckled.

“Yes, guess so.”

“Of course!”

Laughing, we jumped to our feet and tumbled playfully into our bed, crashing the mattress and springs to the floor with the report of a cannon blast.

“Paddy,” Peggy, on top of me, grinning, “Can you imagine what the neighbors must be thinking?”

“Let’s not disappoint.” 

It was Heaven!  

***

Peggy had a little cash left from what she’d borrowed from her brother Pat for the trip. That mainly went to buy necessities for the flat. I’d moved from Barton Hall but went to the cafeteria at dinner time and took what food I could back to the flat. That, and what I grubbed from Mama at the Moose Lodge, was the base of our diet. I also made a few bucks bussing for Alice. We were still good friends, but nothing more than that. 

Within a couple of weeks, Peggy secured a job as secretary to Dr. Laura Huelster, the Chair of the Department of Physical Education for Women. They hit it off, and Peggy, on her secondhand Schwinn bike, peddled off cheerfully each morning to Freer Hall (Women’s Gym). 

We were married by Judge Green in Abie’s and Muriel’s apartment on March 15^th. Peggy wore a chic white wedding dress, looking gorgeous, that she and Muriel found at the Salvation Army Secondhand Store. Abie was the best man, Muriel was the bridesmaid, and Pesha was the groomsman. Charlie and the team attended the ceremony. It was a fabulous time, but for one mishap. 

Behind our backs during the cake cutting, Gena stuck her long snout into the bowl, mostly vodka, and sucked it about dry. The half-soused coatimundi then rolled herself up into a furry ball to sleep it off. At the time, it was a pain. She’d finished off the libations. Still, the drunken coatimundi is a nice little memory. 

Wedding gifts were not expected. But we did get a fantastic one. Charlie had arranged for Peggy to fly with the team to the NCAA Championships at Penn State University in an athletic association plane. How he managed that, I don’t know. ^[3]

We left for Penn State on March 17^th, St. Patrick’s Day—an excellent omen! [4]That morning, I got a nice boost in the Daily Illini: ^[5]

Pat Bird, captain of the Illini team and Big Ten still ring champion, will be a contender for national honors. Pond feels that Bird is the finest rings man in the nation and should come through with a fine performance in the NCAA. This will be Bird’s last meet as an Illini, and he hopes to close out a brilliant career with a national title.

“Brilliant career. Nice hype,” I said jokingly after reading the write-up to Peggy over breakfast. 

With an undefeated dual meet season and a Big Ten title under my belt, my confidence was riding high—I had a realistic shot at the title.

***

We had a beautiful room at Penn State’s Nittany Lion Inn, our honeymoon suite with a very sturdy bed. Peggy was excited about the coming competition. She’d never seen me compete or been to a gymnastics meet. I was as anxious as ever for myself and my team. Twenty-eight teams would be competing, some 200 gymnasts in all. A tough two-day competition was ahead, with day one featuring preliminaries and day two the finals.

Over four thousand spectators filled Penn State’s Rec Hall for the final competitions—the largest crowds I’d ever seen for gymnastics. The finals included eight events^[6] with eight slots per event, excluding ties, determined by placements in the preliminary competition. The only event decided in the preliminaries was all-around. Ray Hadley placed fourth. 

The teams likely to win the championships took two-thirds of the slots—Southern California and Michigan each with nine, Penn State with eight, and the University of California and Illinois with seven apiece.^[7]

The finals are especially grueling. We were at times in first place, then second and first again—the crowd going wild every time a Penn State performer finished a routine. Going into the last event, still rings, we were in third place and had won two events, Ray Hadley, floor exercise, and Al Barash tumbling. Penn State was solidly in first place, with California in second place. We could be the runner-up if CAL screwed up on rings and I didn’t. 

I was the fifth performer. My anxiety was at max, so I had no idea how those before me scored. Pesha boosted me up: “Go get ’em, Pat!” As I hung there momentarily, the anxiety subsided. I went all out. My performance felt strong, steady, and right on the mark, up to the handstand before my dismount —a layout flyaway. The execution had to be soaring, with perfect form, ending in a solid landing to make up for the element’s relative simplicity. I let loose, rising high in the air on release. My feet then hit the mat; the right leg, as always, took the impact, while the left steadied me. My torso was a bit too far forward. And I took a god damn stumbling step—score 91! 

With that step, my dream of becoming a national champion vanished. I wound up in third place, three-tenths of a point behind the winner, Sam Garcia of So. Cal., and one-tenth of a point out of second place, Penn State’s Jay Werner. I was devastated. Of course, I knew in my head after qualifying fourth in the preliminaries, I wasn’t a shoo-in for first. Still, I was devastated—wishful thinking, surely, I’d win, gone amok. 

When I went to the winner’s stand to collect a sorry bronze medal, I got battered again. Two other guys crowded onto the third-place platform spot with me.^[8] My inner voice bellowed: Un-fucken-believable. Ya, but one-third of third!

Medal handed out, I shuffled back to my seat, shrugging off congratulations from my coaches and teammates, and flung the booby prize into my gym bag. The anguish didn’t end there. Humiliation was waiting. Slumped on a locker room bench after the competition, the USC coach and three-time Olympian Jack Beckner came up to me. 

“Hey Pat, let’s have a look at the medal you got,” he said.

“Sure,” I grumbled, handing the medal over, thinking he wanted to compliment me.

“This is the first-place gold medal. Belongs to our guy, Sam Garcia.” 

He dangled the medal in front of me to prove his point. Sure enough, gold was swaying at the end of a blue ribbon. Jack handed me the dull, brownish, third-place bronze medal. He then abruptly walked off. 

Now I’m sitting there feeling doubly awful. Jack Beckner, Sam Garcia, the USC team, and who knows who else probably thought I wanted to keep the gold to claim I was a national champion later. I’m not only a loser now but a cheat. Could have cried. Maybe I did. 

By the time I met up with Peggy, I’d pulled myself together. She greeted me happily with a kiss and a hug, and said, “Paddy, you were fantastic. I’m impressed!” 

Penn State won the title. So. Cal. placed second. We were third. Charlie seemed satisfied with that, as did Ray Hadley and Al Barasch with their gold. My disappointment with not winning rings faded quickly. The locker room encounter with Jack Beckner took longer. 

Oh! The crap we live with.

***

Athletic Director Doug Mills and Charlie praised us up-down-and-sideways at the team banquet. Ray Hadley was named the most valuable and Bill Lawler Team Captain. Charlie thanked Pesha, giving him much credit for our successful season. Unfortunately, Pesha would not be returning as assistant coach. He’d been drafted and wound wind up as secretary to a battalion commander in Panama.^[9]

Charlie said some nice things about me, the only graduating senior, layering it on thick. Peggy, sitting beside me, was all smiles. At the end of all the accolades and awarding of varsity letters and freshman numerals, Athletic Director Doug Mills announced that the Russian National Gymnastics Team would finally be visiting the University next fall semester: USSR visa problems canceled the expected exhibition scheduled for last fall. He also announced that we’d host the 1961 NCAA Gymnastics Championships. 

Charlie ended the evening predicting: “With the eligibility of our great freshman class, we’re going to win the national championship next year.”^[10]  Grinning broadly at the Daily Illini reporter in the front row, he added, “You can quote me on that!”

Lady Luck in 1953 latched an unlikely athletic prospect to the coattails of some of the era’s great gymnasts and coaches. Through their assistance and kindness, I became a good college side horse, horizontal bar, and parallel bars performer, was the Big 10 still rings champion, as well as an  NCAA All-American. Along the way, I was elected the Illini team’s most valuable player and team captain. 

The banquet marked the end of my competitive gymnastics career with the feeling that Lady Luck couldn’t keep pampering me—she does, in spades. Though not without a touch of sadness.

____________________

---

^[1] Sophomores: John Salter, Mike Aufrecht, Gene Kirby, John Goodrich, Ray Hadley, John Lawler. 

^[2] UI Navy Pier transfers Hank Klausman (all-around), and Al Barasch (tumbling and trampoline) became eligible due to an NCAA change in transfer rules.

^[3] Team: Roy Schmeissing, Bob Cason, Ray Hadley, John Salter, Hank Klausman, Pat Bird, Al Barasch, Bill Lawler, John Goodrich, and Gene Kirby.

 ^[5] “Gymnasts Embark for NCAA.” Daily Illini 17 March 1960.

^[6] Events: Floor exercise, parallel bars, high bar, side horse, still rings, and tumbling as well as rope clime and swinging rings which were not Big 10 gymnastics events.

^[7] UI finals qualifiers: Ray Hadley floor exercise, side horse, and parallel bars, Bill Lawler side horse, Goodrich rebound tumbling (trampoline), Al Barash tumbling, and Pat Bird rings.

^[8] NCAA 1960 Still Rings results: Winner, Sam Garcia, University of Southern California, score 94; second Jay Werner, Penn State University, 92;  tied for third Pat Bird, University of Illinois, Bob Lynn, University of Southern California, and Art Shurlock, University of California, Berkley, 91.

^[9] Between 1954-1962, from the end to the Korean War until the escalation in Viet Nam, the “peacetime” by lottery inducted more than 1.4 million American men. Vietnam War Website: cherrieswriter.com 

^[10] 1960 UI freshman class: Frank Culberson, Ken Donofrio, Tom Ford, Mike Hackelman, Hal Homes, Gary Waffle, Warren Wakerlin.

Chapter 31

Summer 1960

Soon after the team banquet, Peggy and I moved into a WWII prefab bungalow in Illini Village Married Student Housing, a 250 sq ft. miniature of my freshman year Monopoly House. It had a living room, a kitchenette with a three-burner stove and fridge, two bedrooms, and a bathroom with a shower. A black potbelly, coal-burning stove heated the place and glowed fiery red until I mastered the damper. Our Lilliputian home was private heaven, having been brought up in tiny, people-packed city apartments.

It even had an entertaining view. From our front steps, we could watch the new Assembly Hall under construction on the far side of Mount Hope Cemetery. As the furrowed precast concrete sections came together to form the dome, it was like witnessing the creation of a giant upside-down scallop shell. 

One morning, we heard a continuous, insistent “chuck-chuck-chucking” sound, not loud but persistent. We went outside to see a miniature locomotive circling the edge of the scallop shell, which stood twenty feet above the ground. An engineering graduate student living next door, Tim McTaggart, also observing the action, informed us that the locomotive was wrapping the dome edge with wire so that the dome wouldn’t collapse when the internal scaffolding is removed. The amount of wire to be used, he said, would stretch to Chicago and back twice—”a fact every good Illini should know.” 

Sitting on the steps watching the chugging locomotive circling twenty-four hours a day became our glass of wine before dinner ritual. One evening, I casually asked Peggy why she had suddenly left NYC. 

“To be with you.” She put her arm over my shoulder and gave me a genital squeeze. “What else?”

“But so sudden?”

Peggy removed her arm and looked off toward the scallop shell. I could feel her mood change as if a dark cloud descended on her. 

“If I tell you, Peggy said, not looking at me, “if you promise not to ask any more about it when I finish, nothing! We drop it forever. Okay?”

“Wow! That’s asking a lot,” I replied, sensing something terrible had happened to her. 

“Promise!” Peggy insisted, looking at me.

“Doesn’t sound fair. Forever?

“Forever.”

“Okay.” I was annoyed but had to know. 

She looked off toward the scallop shell and began. Her words were slow and deliberate, as if she were carefully reconstructing a scene in her mind.

“Liz was working the night shift at Bellevue. I was in bed sleeping when I heard the front door open. Thinking it was Liz, I thought nothing of it and went back to sleep. Suddenly, I’m awake again. And there’s Liz’s boyfriend, the artist guy, sitting on the edge of the bed. He was naked and grinning at me. I thought at first it was a dream. Then it wasn’t.”

Peggy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He threw back the covers and was on top of me. I struggled, pleading for him to stop. It was like this couldn’t be happening. I yelled, pounded him, shouting, it’s not right.”

Peggy looked at me, her eyes swollen. “When he finished, the son-of-a-bitch said, “Say nothing to Liz. It’s our secret”. Like what had happened was okay—consensual. Right after, he dressed and left the flat.” 

Peggy wiped away a tear with her hand and turned back to the scallop shell.

“I was angry and scared,” she went on. “And there was the unbearable thought of facing Liz with it. She loves the shit! And maybe she wouldn’t believe me. Or think I seduced him. I knew I had to get out of the flat.”  

She stopped. I waited silently, sorrow and rage churning inside me. 

 “My mind was all messed up. I didn’t tell Liz when she came home. Then, Muriel called the next day by some wonderful chance of fate. She was at Abie’s folks and asked if we could get together. I was delighted. We got along really well when I met her.

“We met at Bloomingdale’s dining room. Muriel was all sparky and happy, telling me about the wedding, Abie’s parents, and so on. As we were about to leave, I asked her when they’d be going back to Champaign. The next week, she said. And I asked if I could go with them. Muriel looked surprised but said, “Sure, plenty of room if I can put up with Gina.” I hadn’t told her I’d been raped or anything.” 

Peggy smiled, facing me again, and chuckled. “Of course, I had no idea who, or what, Gina was. I was going to write and let you know I was coming. But I’d likely arrive before the letter. Anyway, I took sick leave from work, not knowing if I’d be back or not, and packed what I could carry. Abie and Muriel picked me up when Liz was still working in the early morning. Hadn’t told her I was leaving. With her nursing at night and staying at the boyfriend’s on weekends, we hadn’t seen much of each other.” 

Peggy took a deep breath and said, “So, Paddy, that’s it.” 

“Sorry, Peggy,” I said quietly, feeling the inadequacy of the barren response. I put my arm around her, pulling us close, my heart aching with sorrow and anger raging in my mind. 

After a few moments, I asked, “You still haven’t told Liz?”  

Peggy lifted her finger to my lips. “No more. You promised.” She removed my arm and stood, adding, “Now let’s go see what’s inside the Assembly Hall.” 

We walked hand in hand across Mount Hope Cemetery. True to my word, I’d dropped it—forever. Repressing my thoughts, though, wasn’t possible. The horrible scene, conjured up in my head, would slash through unexpectedly, my inner voice seething with a vengeance:  Get Horse Head Ralph ta cut his balls off! Better still, slip away and have the pleasure of whackin’ the son-of-a-bitch yaself. Ridiculous, but such thoughts were, in a way, consoling.

***

That summer, Abie and Muriel were away training for the 1960 Rome Olympics set for September.^[1] They also lived in Illini Village while Abie completed a master’s degree. The campus had pretty much emptied out. It was a laidback time for me, with no classes and competitions, and Peggy’s secretarial job had tapered off.

I got summer work painting barns to supplement the few bucks I earned from Charlie for directing the Palaestrum on Saturday mornings. I’d convinced a contracting team, Ed, and teenage son Joe, that I had lots of house painting experience when living in New York. In the morning, Peggy would bike off to work. And I’d be picked up by my painting partners. 

Along with the income, painting barns further advanced my farming and hog knowledge, imparted by Alice. It was my first day on the job. I’m up the side of a barn on a very tall extension ladder. Going up and down and swinging the ten-inch-wide brush, no problem. But a wasp nest nestled under the eaves was another matter. So, I’m stretched out from the ladder to jab my paint-saturated brush into a wasp nest that looked like and was the size of a human brain. The idea was to seal in the wasps quickly. “Could be ten thousand nasty buggers inside,” Ed had informed me when explaining the nest removal technique earlier, “just waiting ta attack ya!” 

The ladder began seriously wobbling as I frantically jabbed the brush into the nest. I grabbed the ladder with both hands, dropped the paintbrush, and looked down. Three stories below, two black hogs, five-hundred-pounders at least, were licking the paint-spattered ladder rungs and nudging them with their snouts. 

They then started feasting more aggressively. The ladder began bouncing off the barn—bang, bang, bang. Holding tight to the ladder with one hand, I grabbed the eve, trying to steady myself. My eyes were on the wasp nest. It seemed sealed. Still, several wasps buzzed about outside. And I began hollering for help, hoping to scare off the massive beasts below. 

The top of the ladder now started sliding sideways toward the wasp nest. I pulled it back into position, my hollering rising to a shriek. As I looked down in panic, a hog was looking up, its snout barn red, as if I was disturbing its meal. The ladder then began dancing about under me, straining my hold on the eve. I’m thinking, this is it. I’ll fall, get knocked out, and be eaten like Alice’s husband.

Then came a high-pitched whistle, like the shrill from a boiling tea kettle. The ladder stopped moving. The beasts turned away and lumbered off toward the farmer coming through the gate to the pen. The old guy greeted each animal, vigorously scratching each behind the ear.  

“Ya gotta put Harriet and Maggie in the hog house,” he shouted up to me, clinging to the ladder and eve for dear life. “Paint makes ‘im sick! Ya should know dat.” 

I climbed down from my near-death experience. The farmer sauntered over, hogs following. “This is Harriet, and here’s Maggie,” he said in a friendly manner, patting each ugly hog head. “Hogs is gentle creatures just look’n for a little lov’n’, particularly Harriet and Maggie here. They’d like a scratch.”

I gave each bristly head a scratch, each looking beady-eyed at me as if I were their new loving friend. The farmer led the waddling tonnage off to the hog house, calling me back over his shoulder, “Mind what yer doin’ next time!”

 I retrieved my brush and climbed up the ladder to finish off the wasps; I knocked the nest, hopefully fully paint-sealed, from the eve with a sharp blow of the heavy brush. 

Lessons learned: Wasps reside in the eaves of the brain. A single nest houses tens of thousands. Hogs are gentle, loving creatures until they’re not—case in point, Alice’s ex. 

Barns, wasps, and Hogs aside, that quiet summer in our little place was fabulous. We had surprise visitors, my brother Billy, just out of high school, and his friend Jack. They were hitchhiking to California, planning to catch a tramp steamer to Australia, which they did.^[2]

***

Peggy and I spent many summer evenings discussing what’s next after my February graduation, when I’d be certified to teach high school physical education, health education, and general science, and coach gymnastics. That August, I applied for a job coaching and teaching science at Niles Township High School in Skokie, Illinois. I went for an interview on a Friday, received an offer, and the principal gave me a few days to consider it. The high school gymnastics facilities were comparable to those at Men’s Old Gym, teaching science was ideal, and the salary in the upscale suburb just outside Chicago was excellent. It was tempting, but I turned down the offer. 

My goal remained clear, and Peggy was all for it—college coaching.^[3]  We’d decided to stay put in our blissful abode while I earned a master’s degree, a prerequisite for a college job. We could make it on Peggy’s salary, I’d continue at the Palaestrum, and maybe, too, I get an assistantship. Charlie showed up near the end of the summer at the Palaestrum after Saturday classes. He’d returned after closing his camp. 

“What’s yaw plan Paad for after graduation?” he asked after discussing Palaestrum matters.

“Plan to stay and get a master’s degree.”  

“Paad, ya like to be assistant coach?”  Charlie’s words rolled out casually—like John Wayne asking, Wanna whiskey, Pilgrim? —and exploded in my head like a bomb blast 

Suppressing the urge to throw my arms around Charlie, I replied with Steve McQueen cool, as was my way with him, “Yes, Charlie, I’d like that.” 

“Come by the gym office Monday. Will talk.” He smiled and was gone. 

After locking the Palaestrum, I was off lickety-split to Illini Village. Bursting through the door, I called out, “Peggy! You won’t believe this!” 

---

^[1] 1960 Men’s Gymnastics Team: Larry Banner, Jack Beckner, Garland O’Quinn, Fred Orlofsky, Abie Grossfeld, Don Tonry, Jon Culbertson (alternate), Tom Maloney, Coach.   Women’s Team: Doris Fuchs Brause, Muriel Davis Grossfeld, Betty Maycock, Teresa Montesfusco, Sharon Lee Richardson, Bail Sontgerath Whitney, Janet Bachna, Coach.

^[2] After a year, tending bar at the American Club in Australia and then tramping around Europe, Billy returned to the University of Illinois and earned a BA in history degree.

^[3] At the time, there were approximately 140 collegiate men’s gymnastics teams reported: Grossfeld, Abie Science of Gymnastics Journal: A History of United States Artistic Gymnastics, Vol. 2 Issue 2, (June 2010) 8. 

CHAPTER 32

1960-1961 Gymnastics Season/Assistant Coach

The evening before the start of the season at the Chicago Midwest Open in November, Charlie invited me to a nickel-dime-quarter polka game with several of the other Big 10 coaches. This annual event was an opportunity for me, as his new assistant, to meet the coaches of our conference competition, particularly: Newt Loken, the quiet and reserved Michigan coach; George Szypula, Michigan State coach with a quirky Joe E. Brown grin; and Minnesota’s stogy smoking “dean of Big Ten Coaches” Dr. Ralph Piper.

The next day’s competition or the didn’t get a mention. The focus was on the cards and surprisingly intense given the meager stakes, with Ralph Piper often clearing the table. It was an honor to be included, even at the periphery, among some of the best coaches in the country. And it was fun, broke about even.

The meet itself wasn’t fun. We had the largest squad in Charlie’s career, featuring major new talent from the Chicago suburbs.^[1] Still, we finished second to Southern Illinois, a rising national team anchored by old friends from New York.^[2] It was Charlie’s first Midwest Open defeat. It was a disheartening start for my first outing as a college coach. Our Achilles’ Heel was consistency, not ability, as we saw at the beginning of last year. We worked hard on our return from Chicago, training seven days a week, centering on our Achilles’ Heel. Over the week from Christmas to New Year’s, Charlie took the team to Sarasota, Florida, for the National Gymnastics Clinic. He let me bow out of the trip to spend the break with Peggy. 

Our first holiday together as bride and groom was a dream, despite the almost constant icy Illinois rain that we kept hoping would turn to enchanting yuletide snow. Still, we had the black potbelly stove and a snuggly bed to keep us warm. We ate meals before our one holiday decoration, a candle-spinning angel chime. We took walks during breaks in the weather through campus, into Campustown for ice cream treats, and across Mount Hope Cemetery to check on the Assembly Hall’s progress. We read, listened to music, made love, and simply hung out. 

We flew off to Minneapolis in early January for our first conference meet. We beat the Golden Gophers by a good margin. The guys looked much better than they did at the Midwest Open. Next came the long-anticipated exhibition with the USSR National Gymnastics Team—the women had won the ’60 Olympics, and the men placed second to Japan, taking 26 of the 43 Olympic gymnastics medals. That included Larisa Latynina’s gold in the women’s all-around and Boris Shakhlin in the men’s all-around. It was a huge occasion for us. 

Diplomatically, it was also significant. The Cold War had been escalating with a growing fear of an intentional or accidental catastrophe. Families were building basement bomb shelters. Burt, the Turtle, taught children how to “duck and cover” to protect themselves against a nuclear explosion; good luck there. Russia had shot down our U-2 spy plane and taken the pilot, Frances Gary Powers, prisoner. The Cuban Missile Crisis was coming down the pike. And Slim Pickens would soon bull-ride an H-Bomb out of the belly of a B-29 in Dr. Strangelove —whooping and waving his Stetson on the way to Mutually Assured Destruction.^[3]  “Goodwill Tours” by the US and USSR, including athletic teams, entertainers, and symphony orchestras, were seen as one way to keep the world from going MAD. 

Several of us exhibited alongside the Russians before an overflow crowd in Huff Gym. The event opened with a recital by a large-bodied Russian operatic diva accompanied by a pianist. My Palaestrum kids followed, perfuming a hyped-up cross-pad drill. Five-year-old Johnny Horn stole the show with his skill and comical responses to my bogus commands, tossed out for laughs. Leonid Yakovlevich Arkayev, the Russian head coach, presented Johnny with a medal at the end of the act. The crowd loved that. Our great tumbler, Hal Holmes, next wowed everyone, including the Russians, with a tumbling demonstration that included a double back somersault, a unique skill at the time. 

Performances in the other gymnastics events followed. For my part, I competed on the rings alongside Albert Azaryan, an Olympic and three-time World Champion in the event. He was something. With his rippling muscles, chiseled features, coal-black hair, and Stalin-like mustache, he looked like a Mosfilm star. Azaryan went up first with Larry Stewart, “voice of the Illini,” introducing him as “The best ring man the world has ever known!” 

The Russian lived up to the hype. Azaryan pivoted around upon completing his routine, waving to the crowd, which showed its appreciation with wild applause. I watched the champion, dreading my impending humiliation. 

“And now,” Larry Stewart back on the mic, “our Big Ten Champion, NCAA All American, past team captain, and now assistant coach of the winningest gymnastics team in the nation…” I approached the rings, the eyeballs of over 5000 spectators on me, including Peggy, somewhere in the stands. Charlie boosted me up, saying, Go for it, Paad!  

My performance was perhaps my best ever, ending with a no-step, no-bobble landing. The crowd was then on its feet, clapping and cheering, sending chills up and down my spine. 

“Paad, take a bow,” Charlie said as I walked to the sideline. 

As I did, my eyes found Peggy—standing, waving, all smiles. Azaryan then came forward and patted my back, saying, “Molodets!” (Good job). The crowd loved the gesture. And naturally, I was super flattered to be praised by “The best ring man the world has ever known!” 

Truth be told, equating my performance with the Russian is likening a pidgin to an eagle, both fly—Azaryan soared 

Azaryan and I were the last performers. The audience remained standing and applauded until all the performers left the arena together. The enthusiastic crowd reaction was undoubtedly a sign of appreciation for an incredible gymnastics exhibition. Perhaps, too, it was expressing relief at seeing that the Russians looked like us and reacted like us. They weren’t some crazies on the verge of triggering the end of the world.  

One regret about the Russian visit. We didn’t get to party as with the gregarious Fins. The kybosh, I guessed, was due to the twin mean-looking USSR guys always hanging around, likely to keep the gymnasts in line or from defecting—like Attila Farkas escaping his Hungarian minders by climbing down a Rotterdam hotel drainpipe.

Saturday morning after the exhibition, the Russians stopped by the Palaestrum on their way to the airport. Classes had finished. And the Russians, like the Finns, went right for the trampolines. Additionally, I had an informative conversation with Yuri Titov, who placed third in the 1960 Olympics all-around competition. He told me that all Soviet elementary school children participate in gymnastics, “the major developmental activity.” The “gifted” remain in gymnastics, and others go on to sports, where their abilities are better utilized”. As a result, there are approximately two million competitive gymnasts in Russia, with 400,000 of them being women. 

Yuri also mentioned that all his teammates are paid gymnastics teachers and coaches. He made the point, sounding a little irked, that the US sports establishment criticizes Russian athletes as professionals for that. 

“You teach gymnastics and get paid for it.” He smiled, “So, Pat, you are a fellow professional. True, yes?” 

“Guess so,” I answered.

***

The morning we left for Ann Arbor for the Big Ten Championships, the story in the Daily Illinibegan:

One of the outstanding records in sports history goes on the line here today when the 53^rd annual Big Ten gymnastics meet opens with Charlie Pond’s Illinois team seeking an unprecedented 12^th consecutive championship. The meet, which Pond expects to be the roughest of his coaching career, shapes up as a three-team battle between the Illini, Michigan, and Michigan State.^[4]

Rough it was. We’d lost only one conference dual meet, and that was to Michigan, and the championship was on their turf. Through the preliminaries and late into the finals, we managed to get by Michigan State and won three individual firsts, missing out on a fourth by a few tenths of a point; Michigan’s Rich Montpetit, an Olympian from Canada, slipped past Ray Hadley in the all-around competition.^[5] In the end, Michigan won the Big Ten for the first time. We placed a second, breaking the twelve-year Illini winning streak, but had little time to lick our wounds. 

Following the Big Ten catastrophe, we hosted 28 teams and 150 individual performers for the 1961 NCAA Gymnastics Championships—another disaster. Hal Holmes, expected to win tumbling, contracted viral pneumonia the day before the meet and was shipped off to Burnham City Hospital. Leading point-getter, Ray Hadley, tore a chest muscle in the preliminaries and was out of the meet. The rest of the team just couldn’t offset these losses. 

We placed fifth in the NCAA—the lowest showing in Illinois’ history. And we didn’t win a single event—another first for Illini gymnastics.^[6]  We were all devastated. Charlie, however, tried to be philosophical in accounting to reporters: 

There’s nothing you can say when you lose your two top gymnasts. The meet would have been interesting had they been there. Holmes would have been a cinch 11-pointer in tumbling, and Hadley could have meant at least 30 points.

And at the team banquet, Charlie tried to be upbeat but didn’t quite muster his usual exuberance. It was a somber affair. The high points were Ray Hadley being elected captain of the 1961-62 team, Hal Holmes being named Most Valuable Player, and the awarding of varsity letters and freshman numerals.^[7]  The Athletic Director, Dug Mills, said some nice words. Our voice of the Illini toastmaster, Larry Stewart, tried to end the banquet on a high note. “Wait till next year!” That hit me wrong. It was the chant of the downtrodden Brooklyn Dodgers who, after winning five pennants, fell each time to the Yankees in the World Series.^[8]  

***

On the steps of our Illini Village abode, drinking coffee the morning after the banquet, spring in the air, and the Assembly Hall about finished, our conversation focused on what now? 

In February, I received my undergraduate diploma: “Admitted to the Degree of Bachelor of Science and entitled to all the rights and honors thereto appertaining.” And I had started on a master’s degree. Completing the MS degree was a given, as it was a prerequisite for a college coaching position, which remained the primary goal. There was also the idea that I’d stay at UI and pursue a Ph.D. in exercise science. But that would mean at least three more years without full-time employment. Still, it could work with Peggy’s salary, a possible assistantship, Palaestrum teaching, and Charlie keeping me on as assistant coach. Considering our Big Ten and NCAA losses, continuing as assistant coach wasn’t a sure thing. More likely, Charlie was going to sack me. Everything was up in the air. 

A few days later, I was in the gym working out when Charlie called out from his office.

“Paad! Come here!” 

Feet on the desk, chair tilted back, he motioned me to take a seat when I entered the office, figuring this is it—I’m history. He then slid his feet from the desk, tilting his chair forward. My back stiffened. Here it comes.

“Paad. Goin’ to Bo-ge-tar to train a Columbia team for the ’63 Pan-Am Games,” he said casually.

“When?” I muttered, my mind on being sacked.

“June. Be gone for a year. You’ll be actin’ head coach.”^[9]

His statement was presented not as a question but as a done deal. Ho-ly-shit shot to the tip of my tongue, but didn’t let it out.

“Up for it, Paad?”

“Sure, Charlie. Sounds good,” I answered coolly. 

Stealing a line from six-time world heavyweight champion Rocky Graziano—somebody up there likes me!

^[1] Ray Hadley, team captain Bill Lawler, Frank Culberson, Ken Donofrio, Tom Ford, Mike Hackelman, Gary Waffel, Warren Wakelin, Hal Holmes, John Salter, Hank Klausman, and Jack Goodrich; Al Barasch and Pat Bird who would finish their eligibility in the first semester. 

^[2] Fred Orlofski from the Swiss Turners in Union City, NJ, across the Hudson River from Manhattan, and Bruno Klaus from the New York Turner’s— site of my idiotic piccolo trumpet caper. 

^[3] Dr. Strangelove starring Peter Sellers, Gorge C. Scott, Slim Pickens, Sterling Hyden and directed by Stanley Kubrick.

^[4] Jim Tognacci. “Gymnasts Aim For No. 12,” Daily Illini. 3 March 1961.

^[5] Ray Hadley won floor exercise, Bill Lawler side horse, and Hal Holmes tumbling.

^[6] Penn State won, followed by Southern Illinois, Southern California, and Michigan. 

^[7] Varsity letters were awarded to Bill Lawler, Mike Aufrecht, Roy Schmeissing, Bob Glomb, Bob Cason, Ron Howorth, Gene Kirby, Al Juodikis, John Salter, Warren Wakerlin, Hal Holmes, Ray Hadley, and Dale Grace. Bill Flood, Chuck Reitz, and Steve Gold received freshman numerals.

^[8] World Series losses to the Yankees followed Dodger Pennant wins: ’41,’47,’49’, ’52, and ’53: thus, wait until next year echoed among Brooklyn fans.

^[9] Charlie’s trip was sponsored by the State Department in conjunction with a competitive grant awarded by Senator William Fulbright (D-Ark)—The Fulbright Scholarship.

___________________________________

Chapter 33

1961-62

Acting Head Coach

The summer doldrums gave way to the excitement of a new academic year and my duties as Illini Acting Head Gymnastics Coach. Besides coaching duties, I’d be teaching his Fall Semester Circus Stunts class. The course included unicycling, tightrope walking, juggling balls, beanbags, hoops, and dumbbells. I’d never done any of that. 

“Paad, I’ll teach you?” Charlie said, reassuring me before exiting for Borgata, Colombia. 

 To supplement Charlie’s maybe an hour of instruction, I borrowed a turn-of-the-century book on juggling from the library, along with grand old photos and a current book on unicycling. Also, I’d had plenty of practice at the Palaestrum talking students through tumbling activities I couldn’t demonstrate. So, I wasn’t at a total loss. I came clean to the students about my deficiencies on the first day of class. No one withdrew. 

Regarding coaching, I was in good shape. Charlie had hired Dick Mulvihill^[1] to take over my Palaestrum responsibilities. UI diving coach and fellow graduate student Don Leas volunteered to assist with the tumblers and trampolinists when not busy with his own diving team.^[2] Roy Schmeizing, our second-best all-around performer, who was out of commission with a broken finger and slated to graduate at mid-term, became my assistant coach. And I had Charlie’s part-time secretary, Joan Powell: the wife of John T. Powell, who invited me to share that wonderful 1958 Christmas Eve with his family. Joan handled most of the non-coaching aspects of my job, including arranging travel and other details. 

All but one member of the 1960-61 squad was back.^[3] They’d all stayed in reasonable shape over the summer and returned full of enthusiasm. Fall training went well. Everyone was performing better than they had last season. Departing for our first competition in early December, the Chicago Midwest Open, I had high hopes of winning the meet, retaking the Big Ten title, and possibly winning the NCAA championship — oh, the joy of boundless optimism. I was riding high.

The first night in Chicago before the competition, I again joined the polka-playing coaches, as I had the year before, as an assistant to Charlie. This time, Minnesota’s coach, Ralph Piper, invited me. I won a few bucks. As with last year, however, the competition was a disaster. Our rainmaker, Ray Hadley, still nursing the pectoralis injury from last year’s NCAA Championships, fell off the side horse and screwed up his parallel bars and high bar routines. Our other guys did no better, missing routings one after another. The only bright spots were side horse, won by Mike Aufrecht, and Hal Holmes taking first in tumbling. At the end of the two-day competition, we placed a disappointing fourth behind Southern Illinois, Michigan, and Michigan State.

At the traditional post-Midwest dinner at Berghoff’s, I tried to be upbeat with a short pep talk. Lacking Charlie’s panache, gloomy faces met my words. The Daily Illini sports page banner the following Monday didn’t help:

At Bird’s Midwest Open Coaching Debut Illini Plummets to its Lowest Place in History. 

Right off the bat, I’m a loser as a coach. Circus Stunts was the only upbeat note ending the fall semester. Unicycles were careening across the gym floor, the tightrope was in full use, and duo-juggling teams were passing about balls, bean bags, rings, and clubs. 

Over the holidays, we trained hard, with two-a-day workouts and a three-day break for Christmas. By the new year, the team was again all fired up. And my confidence was back on track, enhanced by an article in the Daily Illini: ^[4]

In many respects, Bird appears to be the direct opposite of the flat-topped Texan he’s subbing for. He isn’t the flamboyant figure Pond is, but he’s already captured the complete respect of his team. One of Pat’s most prominent boosters is Abie Grossfeld. “I think Pat is the finest coach I’ve seen,” the two-time Olympian noted. “He’s done an extremely fine job in handling the team.” Illinois ace all-around performer Ray Hadley was quick to give Bird a pat on the back. “Pat’s the best coach I’ve worked under. He has given the team quite a boost since he took over,” Hadley commented.

The over-the-top praise was admittedly suspect, coming from an old friend and the team captain, but still, I took it to heart. For our first dual meets, we drove to Ann Arbor to take on Michigan, last year’s Big Ten champs, and then on to East Lansing and Michigan State. We won both. Next came Southern Illinois, winners of the Midwest Open. Again, we won. Over the next three months, the dominoes kept falling one after another. 

Going into the Big Ten Championships at Ohio State, we were, for the first time in Illini gymnastics history, 7-0 in dual meets and the odds-on favorite to take the Big 10 team title. But fate proved otherwise. The Daily Illini summed it up:^[5]

The Birdmen’s undefeated team found out the hard way the importance of all-around depth Saturday. Although the squad won half of the events, it fell short, finishing third behind Michigan and Michigan State. Illinois was never ahead of Michigan but had the lead over the Spartans going into the last event, the rings. But MSU’s Dale Cooper put on the best performance of the meet, easily winning the event and snatching a second-place team finish from the Illini.

Third place in the Big Ten. A massive letdown for the guys. For me, devastation. The “finest coach ever seen” ultimately led his team to the worst Big Ten Championship finish in 13 years. 

A possible redemption opportunity awaited at the University of New Mexico with the NCAA Championships. According to my calculations, with twenty-five teams scattering the points far more widely than in the Big Ten, we had a shot at one of the top three spots. And we’d beaten three of the leading national contenders in dual meets, Michigan, Michigan State, and Southern Illinois. 

***

But there were lots of ifs for the seven-man squad: Hadley takes first or second in the all-around, repeats as floor exercise champion, and does well in his other events; Lawler and Aufrecht place in the top five on side horse; Hal Holmes wins or takes second in tumbling; Wakerlin, Glomb, and Grace come through with solid performances. This was all within the team’s capabilities. And there was the biggest if of all—if there were no injuries. 

Well, the team went all-out. But no cigar. Southern California won, Southern Illinois was second, Michigan third, and we placed fourth—just a measly half-point behind Michigan. Our individual winner was Mike Aufrecht, who took the gold on the side horse.

***

I made my first public speech ever at the team banquet. Standing at the podium, everyone gazing up at me like pups waiting for a treat, I about panicked. Expecting as much, I had every word written down and repeatedly practiced, putting the most positive spin on the season:

We had an undefeated dual meet season, the first in a decade. Though placing only third in the Big Ten, we took four gold, three silver, and one bronze in individual performances—more hardware than any other team. At the NCAA, we beat all our Big Ten Conference rivals except Michigan, which squeezed us into third place. And placing fourth against the top twenty-five teams in the nation was quite something—and better than last year’s fifth-place finish.

I recognized the contributions of each squad member, including highly deserved praise for our rainmaker, Ray Hadley. Ray accounted for one-third of the team points posted during our 7-0 dual meet season and about half the points at the Big Ten and NCAA championships. Also, I thanked Roy Schmeizing and Don Leas for their great help. Letters were awarded.^[6]Ray Hadley was named MVP, and Warren Wakerlin was elected Captain. Athlete Director Doug Mills closed the occasion, proclaiming our greatness, eloquently supported by the “voice of the Illini,” master of ceremonies, Larry Stewart. 

So ended my stint as the Illini’s acting head gymnastics coach. Most coaches would consider it a success. But I was spoiled, having the good fortune of competing on four Big 10, one NCAA, and a YMCA championship team. I felt, too, I’d let down the team, Charlie, and the gymnast who had contributed to the Illini’s eleven-season winning streak. I had a heartache, sharp and deep, my inner voice harping away: Maybe coaching just ain’t ya thing. 

^[1] Ray Hadley, Hal Holmes, Bill Lawler, Mike Aufrecht, Bill Flood, Bob Glomb, Dale Grace, Hank Klausman, Doug Posey, John Salter, and Warren Wakerlin.

Chapter 34

1962 US Wheelchair Games 

The Gizz Kids, Epiphany, Sad Visit Home 

After the banquet ending the 1961-1962 Gymnastics Season, Peggy and I stopped at The Tumble Inn on our way home. It was quiet; just a few couples pressed together on the dance floor, swaying soulfully to Elvis Presley:

Love me tender,

Love me sweet…

“Paddy, I’m so proud of you,” Peggy said, placing her hand on mine as we sat at the bar. “Such a great gymnastics season and a wonderful banquet.”

“Thanks. The banquet went well.” 

I said nothing about my deep misgivings concerning the season’s outcome. What’s done is done. 

“Guess what,” I said as the bartender put beers before us.

“What?” Peggy answered, peaking at me as she sipped from her glass. 

“I’ve been asked to swim in the National Wheelchair Games.” 

“Is this a joke?” Peggy, half smiling, returned her glass to the table. 

“No, it’s true. The games  will be held at Queens College in Flushing, New York.”

 I told her that Casey Clark, a fellow graduate student, had come by the Men’s Old Gym office that morning. Casey, I explained, worked at the Disability Resources & Education Services, a unit in my college that sponsored the Gizz Kids, athletes with physical disabilities. 

Casey said the Gizz Kids would compete in swimming, track and field, archery, table tennis, and bowling. They were after their third straight National Wheelchair Games title. He asked if I’d swim for the team, having seen me swim in a college-required lifesaving class. I don’t use a wheelchair, responding with the obvious. Not all the athletes use wheelchairs, Casey said. Your polio leg qualifies you. 

“What did you say?” Peggy asked, clearly surprised.

“Maybe. First, I’d talk it over with you, having been gone a lot over the season.”

“When are they going?” 

“Next Thursday. Return on Monday.”

“There’s nothing to talk over. Do it, Paddy. It will be a great experience,” adding with a playful smile, “I’ll somehow manage without you for a few more days.”

***

In the Huff Gym parking lot at five AM Thursday, I watched folded wheelchairs, crutches and canes, athletic equipment, and baggage stowed in the bowels of an old Greyhound. The guys then made their way aboard, chattering and laughing. Casey Clark and Henry Bowman, the track coaches, and swim coach Chuck Elmer helped those who couldn’t walk or needed assistance.

The Gizz Kids were a mixed-age group with a few who looked as old as me, maybe older. Viet Nam vets, I guessed, and would learn correctly. They were clearly close-knit with all the chatter, laughter, and friendly jousting. The Gizz Kids all aboard, I followed the coaches and took the front seat. Casey and Chuck sat across the aisle while Harry disappeared to the back of the bus. The seat beside me was empty, as were those for several rows back.

When we got on the road, Casey welcomed everyone, said a few uplifting words about the trip, and introduced me as the Illini acting gymnast coach and “our adjunct swimmer.” I stood and waved, receiving a muted response that made me feel unwelcome but made sense. There I was, an outsider, an unknown quantity, competing in the Gizz Kids national championship, having not shared a minute of their months of hard training. 

“Comfortable, Pat?” Chuck Elmer asked while sitting beside me.

“Best seat in the house.” I smiled.

“You play bridge or whist?”

“Nope. Just poker.”

“Too bad. That’s the main activity back there,” Chuck said, nodding over his shoulder. “Most of them, including Bowman, will play nonstop to New York.”

Chuck went on to explain that swimmers are classified based on their degree of functional disability. He had entered me in the 50-yard crawl, 50-yard backstroke, and 50-yard breaststroke with the least disabled, Category Four. 

When he finished, I asked, “Where did the strange name Gizz Kids come from?”

 “Some wheelchair guys can’t control their bladder and are hooked to a urinary drainage bag called a gizz bag—ergo, Gizz Kids.” Chuck laughed. “These guys can always find humor in their predicaments. You should hear their jokes about their piss sacks, usually related to sex—brutal! Nothing about their situations is sacred.” 

I read some of Michener’s Hawaii for most of the trip and slept. A few times, walking to the bathroom at the rear of the bus, I watched the card playing. It was all solemn and hushed, except for an occasional burst of “fuck!” Along the Pennsylvania Turnpike, the bus had engine trouble, which took about three hours to

 repair. With the delay, it was the middle of the night when we finally arrived at the hotel, where I roomed with Chuck. 

At 8:00 a.m., after a light buffet breakfast, we swimmers made our way as a group to the nearby Queen’s College Aquatic Center to change and ready ourselves for the competition. The loud locker room was a shocker, packed with disfigured bodies—polio legs, one leg, and no legs; atrophied arms, half arm, missing arm; no hand, no foot, twisted spines; dwarfish, and guys shaking with cerebral palsy. 

Not the Greek sculpted gymnastics bodies I changed with almost daily. Since being released from the Reconstruction Home as a little kid, the few physically disabled people I encountered were begging on New York streets. The only one I knew personally was my doppelganger, Mr. Morris. Like when first seeing him limping toward me on the Y pool deck, my impulse was denial and escape from the bizarre place. 

Pulling my swimsuit over the polio leg, there was no denying —I’m one with these oddities, like it or not. Onward to the pool!

We sat together as a team on the lower bleachers. Our first competition came up soon after settling in, a 50-yard freestyle for those who couldn’t use their legs. Contestants in goggles and caps were pushed to the poolside by assistants, Chuck pushing one of our swimmers. Some competitors had to be lifted into the water. Others slid easily from their chairs to the deck and over the side, just like our Gizz Kid. 

The starting pistol cracked. The swimmers were off, pulling all-out through the water, the encouraging screams of coaches and supporters echoing at ear-shattering levels. We won the heat. I was on my feet, clapping and cheering along with my teammates. The swim meet felt like any I’d attended. Disabilities vanished in the excitement as the competition moved from event to event by classification. The Gizz Kids were cleaning up

My classification—weakness affecting the legs, missing feet, and missing leg below the knee—was up in the early afternoon. In my first event, crawl,  I was edged out of first place by a below-the-knee amputee and came in fourth in breaststroke and fifth in backstroke. Each time I received exuberant congratulations from fellow Gizz Kids, their joyful, friendly faces overshadowed any sign of their impairment. I was as fired up as I’d been in any competition, whether competing or coaching. 

By late afternoon, the day’s swimming events were over. Queens College was a few miles from my folks’ apartment. The possibility of going home for a quick visit had been in my mind. With nothing remaining on the swim team schedule, Chuck was okay with me leaving and even volunteered to take my gear back to the hotel. 

The Flushing Main Street L station was a short walk from the Aquatics Center. I took the IRT to the Queens Plaza station, which was busy with Long Island High students as I crossed over for the BMT to Astoria. Bittersweet memories of the lonely school hours and the joy of biking about on my great Schwinn New World delivering telegrams raced through my head. That seemed so long ago. And it was: nine years.

The BMT pulled slowly from the station and turned sharply north, wheels squealing and sparking, to Astoria. I was excited and apprehensive. I kept Mom and Pop informed about how Peggy and I were doing, but they seldom wrote back. I had no idea how things were going at home, particularly for Johnny. Homelife for the eleven-year-old living with Pop’s drinking and Mom’s multiple sclerosis ups and downs. I had my brother Billy and sister Kate share the misery when I was growing up. Johnny was on his own, never knowing when the subsequent turmoil would erupt. 

“Woe’s dare?” Mom called out to the sound of the apartment buzzer.

“It’s Paddy. You remember me, don’t you?” I responded.

The door pulled open to Mom standing there with her stick.

“Ah, so’tiz yer Paddy, indeed,” she said quietly. 

“High, Mom,” I said, gently hugging her small, frail body.

 “Come in, come in. Yer’ ill ‘av a cup tay?”

“Nothing could be better, Mom.” 

Sitting across the kitchen table from me, Mom’s shoulders slumped, her hands trembling to lift her teacup, and that once bright smile was now sad and strained. I explained why I was in town, saying, without elaboration, that I was in a swimming competition at Queens College. I told her about Peggy and me living in Illini Village, that we’d likely stay in Champaign while I continued my graduate work, and so on. Most of what I said seemed to float by her. She said nothing in response. As my monologue petered out, I inquired about Johnny’s whereabouts. 

“He’s at Margaret’s (Mom’s unmarried sister). Peas in a pod, they are. She treats ‘im loike a prince, she does.” Mom chuckled approvingly. “An’ ‘ere let me show yer the card from yer brother.”

As she got up slowly, it seemed her entire body ached. Mom retrieved the card from a cupboard. The card showed a picture of the Sidney Harbor Bridge, a mirror image of New York’s Hell Gate Bridge. Billy’s message:

Hi, Everyone,

I’m in Australia, bartending at the American Club in Sidney. All goes well with me. I hope things are good at home!

Love, Billy

“Billy seems to be doing fine. And Kate wrote saying she and John are living out on the island.” 

“Ah yes, and doin’ well, too, wi’ five children.”

“And where’s Pop?” I asked, handing her back the card.

“Ach!” Mom shook her head in disgust. “Walking Blackie. A short walk, he said. Stopped off someplace, the ol’ goat has. Been gone fer ‘ours.”

“Blackie?”

“Tim Burk’s dog, so ’twas. Your father brought him home from the wake. No one else would have the ancient creature. The drink yer know got Tim, God rest his soul, sorosis of the liver.” 

“I’ll go see if I can find Pop,” I said, standing up. “Then I have to get straight back to the swim team.”

“Ah, yes, yer do that, now. Nice yer stopped by darlin’,” Mom said as if my visit was a regular occurrence. 

 While stooping over to kiss Mom goodbye, Mom gripped my arms while her narrow eyes in their dark hollows squinted up at me: “Paddy, yer doin’ gran’, yer are. May God bless yer an’ yer lovely Peggy.” 

The words were little more than a whisper.

I crossed the Street to Browns Tavern and stepped inside the doorway. As ever, the place was smoky, stinking of stale beer, and loud with fits of inebriated laughter competing with the jukebox blaring Tennessee Ernie Ford’s rendition of cranking out Sixteen Tons:

A poor man’s made out of muscle and blood,

Muscle and blood and skin and bones,

A mind that’s weak and a back that’s strong…

No Pop and Blackie. I walked up the Street past Pop’s Candy Store, no Nazis guards about, to O’Donnell’s Bar and Grill, which was relatively tame. Again, not there. 

I then went up 29th Street, passing by my elementary school, now called the Immaculate Conception Academy. The sight brought back memories of the “Sisters of the Sacred Heart” ruling their classrooms by blackboard pointer and fear of damnation. Still, without the eight years of quality education provided by those dedicated nuns, I’d never have scored well enough on the GRE to be admitted to the University of Illinois. And, of course, the Immac is where Peggy first enchanted me. Had I a hat, I’d have tipped it in heartfelt appreciation. Thank you, Sisters.

I investigated The Irish Oaks across the Street from the Immaculate Conception church and then McGrath’s on 31^st Street. Not there. Lastly, I looked through the window of O’Hanlon’s Bar at the foot of the steps up to the L.  Just a few feet from me, at the end of the bar, was Blackie, sitting ears raised in anticipation. I watched Pop pour beer from his glass into a bowl before Blackie. Pop then said something. Blackie dropped his head and feverishly slurped away. Pop turned from Blackie to his gaggle of buddies, all laughing away. The scene brought back a flash memory:

Show us the bum leg, Paddy…no, I can’t, Pop…ah, sure ya can…no, Pop, please… c’mon, what’s the ‘arm, son.

I turned away and climbed the stairs up to the Ditmars Boulevard train platform, my inner voice lamenting, “Wolf, he got it backward.” Ya can go home again—but it’s the same fucken sadness as remembered. 

Sunday, I cheered on my track and field teammates:  the Gizz Kids winning about every event. A brief team award ceremony in Queens College gym followed the track and field competition. Our paraplegic team captain pushed himself to the podium to collect the University of Illinois Gizz Kid’s third consecutive National Wheelchair Championship trophy. 

Spirits were naturally high on the bus heading home, with the guys congratulating one another, including me. And the wheelchair guy who won discus and javelin invited me to play whist. After declining, saying I didn’t know how, he insisted: “It’s easy, not like bridge, and much more relaxing.” I caught on quickly enough, but I couldn’t last, and was back in my seat by midnight, sound asleep with James Mitchener’s epic on my lap. 

Peggy welcomed me home with loving arms and a late breakfast. As I dug into eggs and bacon, I filled her in on the bus trip and competition, including the various disabilities represented, how competitors were classified, and, of course,  the Gizz Kids winning the national title. 

After breakfast, we sat drinking coffee on our steps, the sun reflecting brightly off the white clamshell roofing of the finished auditorium. I told Peggy about the sad visit with Mom and the sight of Pop and Blackie in O’Hanlon’s, saying I didn’t go into the bar as I had to get back to the hotel. I didn’t want to get into the bum leg thing. Peggy and I never talked about my polio. It was like a mutually accepted “let sleeping dogs lie.” 

“Well, Paddy, was the experience worth it?” Peggy asked.

“For sure! The team won a national championship!” I answered, smiling. “And on the trip home, I learned to play whisk. Also, Casey asked if I’d like to swim with the team regularly.”

“You going to?”

“Sure, I told him if I’m not coaching gymnastics.”

I didn’t know how to explain to Peggy, or anyone, that the trip reinforced what UI therapist Dr. Edelson had kindly said: “We all must play the cards dealt as best we can. Trite but true.” The Gizz Kids played their hands with style, dignity, humor, and acceptance—champions on and off the athletic stage. Again, hackneyed, but so true. They represented what I aspired to be, but I was a slow learner at times.

The following day, the News-Gazette sports page headlined: Kids Sweep To Third National Chair Title.^[1]

Illinois mighty Gizz Kids swept to fifteen championships, smashed two old records, set 12 new ones, and took a decisive victory in the 6^th National Wheelchair Games. It was their third successive title. Coach Casey Clark and assistant Henry Bowman were named to coach the United States wheelchair team in the International Games near London later this summer. The US team will include ten members from UI.

^[1] Rodger Ebert, “Kids Sweep To Third National Chair Title,” The News Gazette, 5 August 1962.

---

_______________________________

---

About the Author: Patrick J. Bird. Ph.D. has authored The Gymnast: Disability, Sport, and Romance; A Rough Road; Easter Sunday 1956. He has also published in magazines such as Scientific America (online), Women’s Health, Cooking Light, as well as academic journals, and written for thirteen years a weekly column, “Keeping Fit,” for the New York Regional Times Group and St. Petersburg Times. Dr. Bird has BS and MS degrees from the University of Illinois and a PhD from the University of Minnesota. He has held academic and administrative positions at the Universities of Florida, Virginia, Minnesota, and Illinois and had coached gymnastics at Illinois and Minnesota in his early career. Pat is married with three children, one of whom is deceased, and lives in Gainesville, Florida. Contact me or comment at: pbird@ufl.ed.

The Gymnast and other books by Patrick J. Bird are available at Amazon.com: books, Kindle eBooks, Barnes & Noble and bookstores.  

A Rough Road is the precursor to The Gymnast: Disability, Sport, and Romance.  

Press Release: During the polio epidemic of 1940, four-year-old Paddy finds himself ensconced for nineteen months in a “reconstruction home” far from his family. Since all the other children are at least twice his age, he is placed in a room, initially by himself, instead of one of the dormitories. Enduring aching loneliness, painful treatments, and lengthy, frustrating rehabilitation sessions, Paddy learns to overcome his fears and to prevail physically and emotionally through his interactions with a colorful cast of hospital staff—from the friendly giant orderly Johnny Cant and the lighthearted Nurse Kelly to the no-nonsense physical therapist Ma Gillick, an evangelical swimming instructor Mr. Cooney, and the imposing and frightening Dr. Strasburg and his mean assistant Nurse McCormick. 

Perhaps most important to his “reconstruction” however, is the arrival of roommate Joey. An adventure loving, bedridden youngster with spina bifida, three years Paddy’s senior, Joey introduces Paddy to the joys and tomfoolery of boyhood and inspires him with his physical and mental toughness. Then, there are the infrequent—but significant—visits from Paddy’s mom, who is sure the Blessed Virgin will cure him, and his pop, who fears in his heart that he will have a cripple for a son. 

Finally, after spending over one-third of his entire life to that point in the “reconstruction home,” and forever changed by his experiences, Paddy returns home to the family he loves and missed so terribly. 

An uplifting and surprising recollection of author Patrick J. Bird’s childhood treatment for polio, A Rough Road is a testament to the innate will and spirit of children faced with difficult challenges. With a stunning facility for place, voice, and character, as well as the accurate portrayal of the developing (often counterproductive) medical procedures of the period, A Rough Road can be a walk down memory lane for some, a lesson in history for others, and a moving experience for all. This emotionally true depiction of a major segment of childhood spent largely isolated from family and friends is a testament to the capability of children to overcome even the most difficult of times. Told primarily from the vantage point of the child, the narrative is delivered with candor, humor, and the unbridled honesty only a child’s voice can provide. A Rough Road is a reminder of the transformative power of the human experience.