My Irish immigrant parents would often go to Keansburg Beach, part of the Bayshore, located between the Township of Hazlet and the Township of Middletown, New Jersey. It has a long history as a summer resort, and many New York City dwellers would make the “long” trip to escape the sweltering heat and humidity of the City, for which it is famous. I write “long” because for a New Yorker, anything outside the metropolitan city is considered “long.”
Before World War II, Keansburg boasted a winter population of around five hundred hardy souls, but during the summer months this number exploded to ten thousand or more. An amusement park had been built in the early 1900s along with a thousand-foot long fishing pier. There were a few bars and restaurants along the waterfront, the former attractive to my parents.
Beginning at the age of five I accompanied my parents to wade in the cool ocean water.
On one particular Saturday, my parents left me alone on the beach and went to the boardwalk where there was a saloon. I mentioned before that they were both alcoholics, and parenting was the last thing on their minds at that moment. Perhaps they had asked someone to watch me; I’m sure not sure because it didn’t matter. After a bit, I left the beach towel and walked down along the pier to look into the water. While I was gazing over the edge of the pier someone pushed me off into the deep water. I don’t believe it was an accident. I can still remember hitting the water and going down, down, down; I didn’t know how to swim, so I just kept sinking like a rock. Things can be kind of funny when your life is in danger but you don’t know it, for I can still remember seeing this wooden pillar as I was sinking to the bottom. And then, everything turned black.
The next thing I knew I was back on a beach towel. There were a lot of people standing over me, including my parents. Sad thing it: I don’t remember if they were shook up by the incident. That I had survived must have been a miracle, for everyone around me was jabbering about how lucky I was to still be breathing. Eventually I learned that a man saw me being pushed off the pier, and he had immediately run over and dived into the water to save my life.
When I was much older I was told that the only other person on the pier was that very stranger who saved my life. The big unanswered question to this day is: would I have survived if that stranger had not seen me pushed? I call him my guardian angel.
From my earliest recollections, people saw things in me I didn’t know I had.
I attended a Catholic Grammar School, which was directly across from the tenement I lived in with my parents. We lived on the ground floor facing out to the street. We had no air conditioning or even an electric fan. In the summertime on extremely hot nights, I would sleep by an open window, hoping to cool my feet. Other people in these tenements would try to access cool air by resting on fire escapes, if they had one.
I don’t recall seeing a movie about the conditions the Irish and Italians were exposed to when they first came to America. Their children in their formative and constructive years didn’t fare too well either.
Scholastic aptitude was not emphasized in the immigrants’ households. Their main concern was working and providing food, clothes, and shelter for themselves and for their loved ones. They turned the responsibility of education over to the Church.
From the very beginning I was a slow learner. My parents didn’t take any interest in what I was doing in school. Contributing to my problem in learning was my fear of the nuns and the Christian Brothers. Combining the indifference of my parents and my fear of teachers, I hated school.
To make up for my poor performance in school and my lonely home life, whenever I could I would wander the streets of my neighborhood. Eventually, in Grammar School I received the nickname “Ned of the Hills.” I preferred to just walk alone. I guess I felt secure with myself. My home life was horrible due to the violence there. I was also sexually abused as a child but not by any of the Brothers. I won’t go into the details of those days except to say I didn’t know how to stop it. I was afraid to tell my parents. I was afraid of the perpetrator.
To sum up, my home life, my fear of school, and the sexual abuse I was exposed to greatly impacted my scholastic work.
I noticed in the third grade that my teachers were taking a greater interest in me. For example, Sister Bernadette told me one day that I was destined for greatness. I didn’t ask her what she meant, but I have always remembered what she said. I think she planted a seed of confidence in my young mind. I should point out that this same Sister slapped me around for touching an automobile, which was parked in front of our school. Looking back on that incident, since then I have always respected other people’s property.
The Christian Brothers I had in grammar school would occasionally take me for walks on non-school days. They would take me to their quarters on a few occasions for dinner and candy or ice cream.
The Principal considered me to be a “wise guy,” but even so they tried to talk me into becoming a Christian Brother after graduation. They would take me to a place called “Barry Town” where boys studied to become Christian Brothers. I figure that they saw something in me that had promise if only they could straighten me out.
After school each day I would go to church and pray to Jesus Christ. They probably saw my routine and figured I was worth trying to save. Or they read into my behavior a desire within myself to join a religious order.
Going to church each day started when I was in the fourth grade. Usually when I visited the church I loved the quietness, the aroma, and the burning candles. Most of the time I was the only person in the Church, and that is exactly how I liked it. I would kneel in front of the Crucifix and pray to Jesus Christ. I looked upon Jesus as my hero who was willing to give his life for his fellow man. To me that is a hero.
As much as I hated my father it could have been his behavior that influenced my teachers to take a greater interest in me. Whatever the reason, I am happy my Christian Brothers teachers took a special interest in me. Who knows, if they just treated me as a bad apple I could have spent a life of being a “wise guy.”
This was the one school I didn’t want to attend: the teachers were all Christian Brothers like the ones that I had in Grammar School. I didn’t relish the thought of continuing the rough and almost inhuman treatment for four more years, which I figured to be the last of my schooling.
La Salle Academy was (and still is, by the way) a private, all-boys high school in the New York City borough of Manhattan and part of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of New York. It was founded in 1848 by the Brothers of the Christian Schools. The Brothers were affiliated with a Roman Catholic religious teaching congregation founded in France by Jean-Baptiste de La Salle, circa 1681. The Brothers stand as the largest Roman Catholic lay religious order of men exclusively devoted to education. The New York State of Board of Regents granted La Salle a charter in 1896. In 1936, the Brothers built a five-story building to accommodate increasing enrollment. When I went there, the enrollment had already expanded to 950 students.
De La Salle said, describing his purpose of establishing the Brothers: “The spirit of this Institute is first, a spirit of faith, which should induce those who compose it not to look upon anything but with the eyes of faith, not to do anything but in view of God, and to attribute all to God.” (Rule 1718). He also said that “To touch the hearts of your students and to inspire them with the Christian spirit is the greatest miracle you could perform, and the one that God asks of you, since this is the purpose of your work.”
In retrospect, the defining of how to touch the hearts of students usually involved corporate punishment, as if the sole means of getting through to the spiritual soul and the physical mind was through the gluteus maximus. Repeatedly!
The Brothers Rule stated that the Mission of the Institute is “to provide a human and Christian education to the young, especially the poor, according to the ministry entrusted to them by the church.” Again, it was how they administered their mission and education that never came under scrutiny by higher authorities, and in keeping with the times and opinion of the day, corporate punishment was meted out regularly as an effective means for discipline and enforced order.
I never considered myself a “wise guy,” but the Brothers had a different opinion. I had a singular problem: what they termed as “talking back.” If I had question or an opinion about something, they didn’t appreciate that. In the so-called “good-ol’-days,” a good student merely listened and parroted whatever was taught. Critical thinking and learning how to analyze were not tolerated. And I might add original thinking, too. I became known as “Eddy But.” If the Brothers taught that the world was flat, there was no tolerance for either rebuttal or argument.
In my time in school the Brothers took liberties with smacking you around. In one incident, I was accused by a classmate of throwing his coat on the ground. I didn’t do it. The truth didn’t matter. I was the “Eddy But,” a trouble-maker, and even if I had been innocent, the Brothers seemed to take every opportunity to punish me. The teacher accepted the story of the accuser without question and told me I would have to stay after school. When the class was dismissed, it was only me and this big Christian Brother left in the room. See, another habit the Brothers used was to their physical chastising in private: they didn’t want any witnesses to later testify, which would not have happened anyway. Well, he promptly smacked me around, using only his hands. Naturally, I started crying. I was a punching bag, and it became a non-stop boxing drill. I hurt so bad that I lost all bladder control and wet my pants. Finally, when the Brother apparently exhausted himself, he was so filled with remorse that he also started crying, saying he was sorry. But the damage was done. You don’t whip the tar out of someone and then expect them to forgive and forget. I wanted to take vengeance, but who was I going to kick around and hurt. That would come much later.
This is only one instance of my getting smacked around.
As I related in the Introduction, I suffered many beatings by the Christian Brothers in Grammar School. There was no way I wanted to go to a Christian Brother High School. In the final year of Grammar School, I had to take several entrance examinations for different high schools. I was accepted by another Catholic high school, St. John’s University, which was not run by the Christian Brothers. I was so happy with this stroke of luck because many of my friends were going to attend the same school. I didn’t take the test for La Salle. I wanted no part of the Christian Brothers. St. John’s agreed to accept me under the condition that I would maintain a grade average of eighty or better. Boy, was I worried with this requirement. In school I only got one eighty, and that was in typing. My problem was simple: I didn’t know how to study, and I didn’t want to. My home life had not exactly been a cultural center. I knew all about metals, such as empty beer cans (ha ha), but that was about it.
I can’t help but think now, with all the outcry of sexual abuse making the news, that there is virtually little outcry against corporal punishment that was liberally administered, especially in the Catholic schools. Sexual abuse certainly scars an individual for life, and corporal punishment is equally damaging to the psyche, mental health, and ability to fit in within the society.
The Principal of the Grammar School heard I didn’t take the entrance examination for La Salle. The Principal approached my mother and told her—demanded, perhaps—that I should attend La Salle. He once told my mother that I was a “wise guy,” meaning that I was a bad egg and bound for trouble, maybe even prison. If she didn’t straighten me out they would. And I knew their medieval methods all too well. I told my mother no way. Well, the Principal otherwise convinced my mother that I belonged with the Christian Brothers. I guess they used the threat of my salvation if I didn’t attend. My mother eventually talked me into taking the test, so much I loved my mother that I would do anything for her, even though the testing process was over. I went to the school on a Saturday and took the test. I failed it intentionally. If they asked who was buried in President Grant’s tomb I would answer “I don’t know.” Like I said, I wanted no part of the Christian Brothers.
Surprise, surprise, they sent me an acceptance letter. The test was rigged! I was shocked, but my mother was pleased. She believed that La Salle was superior to the one I wanted to attend, primarily because La Salle had a reputation of being a demanding school, scholastically. I had only one last hope: I was convinced that I was not smart enough to continue at La Salle for very long and would wind up being asked to leave.
I entered high school in 1947. I was always a poor student. I was convinced I was just dumb, based on my experiences in Grammar School. My parents took no interest in my school work. They were both Irish immigrants and had very little schooling themselves while they were growing up. They relied on the Catholic Schools to educate their children; I am sure there exceptions to this point, but in my case it was true.
La Salle evaluated matriculating students and placed them according to four different grades: “A,” “B,” “C,” and “D.” Class “A” was comprised of the brightest kids. Class “D,” then, was comprised of the slower students. They also placed kids in classes with their peers. I assumed I would go into the “D” class because I knew I wasn’t smart. The lessons given in the “D” classes were not as demanding as they would be, say, in the “B” class. I was half right. They put me in the “B” class, where I was the dumbest person in the room. I had to attend summer school after my Freshman, Sophomore, and Junior years, because I was doing poorly academically.
For whatever reason I started getting private tutoring on weekends. My weekend teachers were the very same Christian Brothers I had in Grammar School, whom I hated and hoped to dance on their graves. To this day, I do not understand their ulterior motives for spending so much time and effort on me. After all, there was nothing unusual about me. What was they hidden agenda? As far as I know I was the only kid in the neighborhood with this special treatment.
The Brothers must have known about my violent home situation—The Rectory and the Convent were directly across the street—where my father constantly beat my mother, the frequent visits by police, and the general deteriorating environment I was confined to live in. One guess was that the Christian Brothers were concerned for my well-being. They wanted me under their control because they felt I was heading down a dark path. Looking back many years later, I realized that I was heading down the wrong path. Maybe they didn’t want that to happen. Perhaps they saw something in me that could be salvaged.
My only other guess as to why they took interest in me was because of the Longshoreman Union’s boss. By the time my Junior year came along, I was sick of school. The only thing I enjoyed was playing High School sports. I excelled in basketball and baseball.
As my Senior year started, I decided to quit school and become a Longshoreman and work on New York City’s West Side docks. I didn’t tell my parents about my plans. They had their own problems. I wanted away from the violence in my home life. Quitting school and working as a “made man” on the docks would give me enough money to make it on my own.
I had an uncle who was a big shot on these docks, and he promised me a nice job. My uncle was well connected with the Longshoreman’s Union, and men in power could get their relatives easily hired. He would be my ticket to getting a job. When I was sixteen that kind of job appealed to me. I knew all about corruption, so working on the docks was fine with me. Besides, somewhere along the line I learned not to be a Judge and Jury over other people. What people did to make their money was okay with me.
If you saw the movie “On the Waterfront” with Marlin Brando, that was the kind of connection I had through my uncle. In the movie, an ex-prize fighter turned longshoreman struggles to stand up to his corrupt union bosses.
My uncle had been convicted of murder at an early age and sentenced to life in prison. But through his mother’s connections in the New York Democratic Party, he was eventually paroled. Unfortunately, he went back to crime as a member of the “Westies,” a notorious West Side gang. When he was released from prison, he was given a big welcoming party. Who cares if he murdered two other men during a robbery attempt? Where I came from in New York, your future was either to become a fireman, policeman, sanitation worker, construction worker, or a crook: that was how things were among many first generation Irish immigrants.
My plan was to get out of High School as fast as I could and work on the docks. I played hooky and still failed to get expelled. The Brothers refused to give up on me and let me go.
I went to see the Principal, Brother Ambrose, whom I hated with a passion— and told him that I would not be returning for my Senior year. I used the excuse that my family could no longer afford the tuition because of my father’s drinking and addiction. I thought that it was a great reason. I was already a problem for school authorities, and I was certain they would be glad to get rid of me.
Then they dropped a bomb on me: an Athletic Scholarship for my Senior year. The scholarship meant free tuition; my excuse for quitting school went out the window. But I still wanted out.
The Principal spoke to my mother, but my behavior didn’t change. He went to see my father and told him I was a “smart-ass” or a “wise guy.” If I didn’t straighten up, I would be expelled. My father just listened without saying a word. If I hated him from before, I hated him even more for not even trying to stick up for me.
We left the school and started walking up Second Avenue to get the subway home. My father was very quiet and when he finally spoke his words that changed my life.
“The Principal is correct. You are a wise guy, and I don’t care if you finish High School.”
I was stunned! He didn’t care! That is all it took. Right then and there, at that moment, I decided to finish High School just to show my father my hate was so great that I would take his words and turn them into positive action. So, my greatest enemy became one of my greatest mentors. He challenged me, and I accepted that challenge.
As it turned out, staying in High School was one of the best decisions I made in my youth. As far as the Brothers, I am now forever grateful to them because I did graduate from an excellent High School. My grade average after four years was only seventy-eight. Seventy-five was needed to graduate. Despite all of my hate, anger, and resentment, something good came out of that pain and agony after all.
SPORTS CAREER AT LA SALLE ACADEMY
Fortunately, not all of my memories associated with La Salle were bad. They have been off-set with my sports abilities, which allowed me to excel on both the baseball and basketball teams.
From an early age, I had the ability to hit and catch a baseball. I showed some promise in basketball, but baseball was my love affair. My baseball idol was Ted Williams, a left-fielder for the Boston Red Sox. He spent his entire nineteen-year career with the Sox, taking four years out to fight in World War II. Whatever Ted said or did when it came to hitting, I tried to emulate. One of his daily habits was to squeeze a tennis ball to strengthen his wrists and forearms. I adopted the same routine, squeezing a tennis ball before class, in-between classes, and after classes.
I tried out for the Freshman basketball team—the very last day of the tryouts! I didn’t have my sneakers or my shorts with me. I tried out anyway, wearing my black woolen pants and running around n the court with my dress socks. I must have put on quite a show, slipping and sliding all over the court. I was sure I would not be selected, except maybe as a clownish team mascot. Besides, while I was trying out, the head basketball coach was already in his office. I figured he had zero interest in my potential.
With a dismal attitude, I checked out the Gym’s bulletin board where they posted the names of the players who had made the team. I was shocked! My name was on the list! How could they have selected me when the coach wasn’t there and didn’t see my try out?
Sophomore year: I made the Varsity Basketball team, and from then on—in my Junior and Senior years—I was not only the team’s starter but also the team’s leading scorer.
As I look back on making the Freshman basketball team, sometimes talent and desire come awake in High School. When I started getting Varsity sweaters I became very handsome if not desirable to the girls in my neighborhood. By the time I graduated I had received seven Varsity sweaters: three in basketball and four in baseball. Yes, many young ladies were happy with my athletic ability. My childhood sweetheart received four of them.
When baseball tryouts came I was well informed as to where and when. They were held in the Brooklyn Parade Grounds.
It was quite unusual for a Freshman to try out for the Varsity Baseball Team. Virtually no one makes it. But I had enough confidence in my ability to give it a shot. Who was selecting the baseball players? The same Varsity basketball coach who picked me for the Freshman basketball team without watching me try out. At the baseball tryouts the best opportunities for showing off their talents were given to the Upperclassmen. The team also had many returning players. I and another Freshman were the last two allowed to demonstrate our abilities. I was a hitter, and the other kid was a pitcher. For what seemed forever, I was relegated to sitting around watching everyone else trying out. Finally the coach told to take a couple of swings. On the mound was the team’s top pitcher. He was big, strong, and had a blazing fastball. I figured this pitcher would look to the plate and see a tall skinny Freshman. Fresh meat! He figured he could just blow me away with his fastball. I guessed right and prepared myself to see his fastball. He threw it, and I hit a sharp single to center field. That one swing allowed me to make the Varsity Baseball Team. I was the only Freshman to make the team; the pitcher didn’t make it.
During our third game of the season, we were facing the other team’s best pitcher. In the first three innings this pitcher was throwing a no–hitter. (Note: this pitcher eventually pitched for the Chicago White Sox.) I was sitting on the bench—actually, I was sitting on the last seat of the bench. All of a sudden the manager called out, “Hey, skinny kid, go up and pinch hit!” The manager didn’t even know my last name. I was just “the skinny kid.”
I picked up a bat, took a couple of practice swings. As I stepped up to the plate I realized this bigger and stronger pitcher would simply try to blow me away with his fastball. He threw, and I hit a single to right field to break up his no-hitter. That one swing kept me in the game, playing right field.
My one hit was the only one up till the last inning. The next time I faced this pitcher in this game I drew a walk. When my team’s last turn at bat came around we were losing two to nothing. The opposing pitcher got the first two hitters out. Then he walked two straight batters, which brought me to the plate. The tall skinny kid (me) strides to the plate, our team’s last chance. The pitcher didn’t learn from facing me earlier. He let fly his blazing fastball. I hit a foul ball. Same scenario. He throws his fastball, and I hit a tremendous drive down the left field line. I knew I hit it good, and it was going to clear the left field fence for a three-run homerun. It cleared the fence, but at the last second it went foul. Now I had two strikes on me. To this day I can still see the next pitch to me. It was a fastball right down the middle. I timed it beautifully, swung… and missed. I swear there was such velocities on his pitch that when I swung the ball jumped right over my bat. I couldn’t believe I missed it, but I did.
Still, getting that one hit got me a starting position on the Varsity Baseball team. I played two positions: short stop and center field. In my remaining years at La Salle I started every game.
(Note: I faced the same pitcher again later in my Freshman year. I got two line drive doubles to the left field corner. They were the only two hits we got in that game. There are just some pitchers who never learn not to underestimate the opposing batter. But after all I was just a tall skinny kid.)
In my Junior year I had a great baseball season. My school newspaper gave me the nickname “The Cardinal Clipper.” I am very proud of the title given to me.
One summer in the early Fifties I was hired by McKenzie and Company to do various clerical duties. I was a Sophomore in College at this time and on summer break.
Some of my duties included filing, typing, and posting ledgers. At the end of the day it was also my responsibility to lock up all the ledger books in the Company’s vault. There were no computers in those days.
One night as I was putting away the ledgers, someone locked the vault and turned the inside light off. I stood in the locked, dark vault thinking that this was a joke. I waited a while before I realized that this, indeed, was no joke. I started banging on the locked steel door and yelling for help. There was no response.
I don’t know how long I was in the vault before someone heard me banging and yelling. My boss had come back to the office because she had forgotten something. When she opened the door she was in the tears, saying, “I could have killed you!” It was she who had locked me in the vault and turned the light out without checking to see if anyone was in there.
Here is an account of the strange circumstance that brought her back to the office. She always wore white gloves, which was the custom of professional ladies in those days. When she got to the train station on her way home, she realized that she had forgotten her gloves. She told me she couldn’t decide whether or not to forget about the gloves and just get them the next day. At last, she decided to go back for the gloves. Thank God she did! I would have died if she didn’t come back: there was no ventilation in the vault.
John Bernard was my brother-in-law who married my sister Pat. Of all the many mentors I’ve had in my life, I consider him to be one of the best.
My sister, whom I never considered a great beauty, dated many young men. Since I was five years younger than my sister at the time, I really couldn’t judge the quality of the boys she was dating. I can’t remember much about them.
John was the one exception. One day he brought a stray dog home to my sister. My mother was hesitant about taking the dog in. When I saw the puppy it was instant love. My mother agreed I could keep the dog, but he would be my responsibility. I named the dog “Duffy,” and my love for him grew. I took excellent care of him, and we spent many a day in Riverside Drive (New York City), either chasing a ball or just lying in the grass, weather permitting. On many occasions when my father was abusing my mother, I would hold “Duffy” and cry. Physically, my father was a monster of a man, and I was helpless against him. Thank God for the dog: he got me through many sleepless nights.
Besides, my sister and I had a strange relationship. Being older than me, she got stuck baby-sitting me until I started Grammar School. Both of my parents worked. So, my sister was saddled with watching me and making sure I was properly fed. We bonded emotionally at an early age because, when my father was physically beating my mother, my sister and I would hold each other, crying. My sister and I bonded on an emotional level, but she was still tough on me when it came to watching me. I recall one day she made peas for my lunch, which I wouldn’t eat. She threw the peas in my face. I cursed her and ran out of our apartment. She chased me, caught me, and quickly slapped me around.
After she married my brother-in-law our relationship became very close. She wed John in September of 1949. John had done his military time in World War II and eventually graduated from New York University. Their wedding date is one day I will never forget. I had just turned sixteen. The wedding ceremony was beautiful. If you’ve never heard about an Irish wedding turning into a physical battleground, well brace yourself.
The reception was going nicely, but I kept my eye open for signs of a fight. Thanks to copious alcohol consumption, many of the Irish weddings that I attended before this had ended in a fight. My sister’s wedding proved to be no exception. An unmarried man at the wedding asked a married lady to dance. The male dancer let his hands caress the rear end of the married lady. That is how it all began: that was all it took to begin. The husband of the lady being fondled rushed on to the dance floor and punched the molester. The donnybrook commenced. (That’s where the name came from, don’t you know?) And what a fight it was!
My sister and her new husband ran for their lives while the melee was getting up steam. Eventually, my father entered the fray, and soon he was punching anyone in sight. The fight lasted a long time, because when good Irishmen get started, there is no fun in ending. Eventually the police came and broke it up. Well, it was just another Irish wedding. Besides, many Irish weddings end in fights. Another glorious fighting day occurs at the St. Patrick’s Day dances. In New York, they were held at Manhattan Center, and, without fail, riots occur annually.
My sister eventually disowned our parents because of their violent behavior after drinking. I should have done the same thing, but I thought I