The Prep We Remember: Looking Back at 125 Years of Pride & Glory

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Looking Back at 125 Years 01 "Pride 8· .Glory"

ST. PETER'S PREP OFFICE OF THE VICE PRESIDENT 144 GRAND STREET¡ JERSEY CITY, N.J. 07302 • (201) 547-6420 /434-4400

JAMES C. HORAN

January 1999

Dear Friends of the Prep, In 1997, we all learned a new word-"quasquicentennial"-as St. Peter's Prep celebrated the 125th anniversary of its charter. As part of our ongoing recognition of this milestone, we invited the members of the Prep family to share their fondest memories of this special institution.

The following submissions represent seven decades, and after much internal discussion of how best to organize them (e.g., by theme), we decided to print them chronologically and, thus, allow the stories toflow in a linear fashion. In hindsight, it seems to make the most sense,providing a nice mix of SUbject matter and formats.

We sincerely thank those who took the time to share with us their favorite observations and anecdotes. As expected, some are humorous; others are, poignant. . Upon reading them, we are sure you will agree that, collectively, they paint a wonderful portrait, capturing the essence of the school's Jesuit tradition and its role in cultiVating young men of competence, conscience and compassion. They also provide an insight into the unique bond that exists between Prep students and their classmates, as well as between students and teachers, players and coaches.

Finally, for the uninitiated, this collection may help explain why whenever Prep grnduFltes are brought together, there is never a lack of stories and reminiscences about their days at Grand & Warren (occasionally to the chagrin of spouses!). For purposes of this publication, they appear virtually as submitted, with "editing" consisting mostly of an occasional grammatical or factual correction . . As always, projects such as this one are a team effort. Our thanks go out to my colleagues on the executive board of the Prep Alumni Association for their immense creative input and support; to Rosemarie Flood for her attractive design of this special booklet; to Jim DeAngelo, '85 for his help with proofreading, and to our volunteer typists for their hours at the keyboard.

Finally, a very special thanks to Jerry DeFuccio, '43 for his art direction of the illustrations, and to his colleague Warren Sattler for executing the drawings. They certainly help the. stories spring to life.

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'70

Vice President for External Affairs

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eligious

V~tolerance.

Halting lectures when the Greek bells toll.

Bayonne Special Trolley pulls up on Warren St. (out of custom) and hauls Prep boys non-stop to Greenville Police Stationthey said for disturbing the peace. Parents enter, pay fine.

Joe McGeady, Class of '32

wouldn't mention his name, even if I could remember it. After all, it was more than fifty years ago. Suffice it to say that my classmate would feel right at home with Leo Gorcey, Huntz Hall, Billy Halop and the rest of the Dead End Kids. Our English assignment that weekend was to read three poems from (if memory serves me correctly) Palgrave's "Golden Treasury." One of the poems was "Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat," by Thomas Gray. It told the story of the hapless cat who fell into the fishbowl, and after eight attempts at survival, finally succumbed to a watery death. This took place after "The pensive Selima reclined, gazed on the lake below." . On the following Monday, our English teacher, Mr. Boyle, a Jesuit scholastic and a wonderful human being, looked at our hero and remarked, "I don't suppose you took the time to read any of the poems."

"Oh, yes I did, Mister," came the reply. "I read the one about the dead cat."

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Bill McDonald, '38

remember freshman year-February 1934. It was the middle of the Great Depression and I, along with three of my fellow graduates from St. Aedan's School, entered the Prep. Yes, I said February. At that time, some of the Catholic elementary schools graduated twice a year. We were placed in class 1M (for mid-year). There were only twenty-one students in this class, consisting of new entrants and some from the previous semester's class who had flunked the last term. As a result, the mid-year classes were not included among the elite of the school.

Mr. Martin Rooney was our Latin Teacher. Big, burly Marty would walk up and down the aisles between the desks and give a gentle tap to the back of the head of any student he thought was not paying attention. He was really excited when our class was tops in Latin composition in the Province Examinations.

I remember sophomore year. Our class was located in the Science Building (later to be known as the Freshman Building and, currently, the Humanities Building). Every now and then a funeral mass was held in the .---~ Orthodox Church across Grand Street. The entrance into the Church was hailed by the ringing of the bells. Class would halt until they stopped ringing. We would ~ again pause as the body was removed ~ from the Church and the bells :\, rang again. One time the ~ pallbearers almost dropped the casket.

This provided some entertainment for us.

At that time, the students remained in the classrooms between periods and the teachers

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2 ran through the halls to their next classes. This gave us some time to rqise a little hell. Then, the teacher would arrive, his academic robe flying behind him, puffing somewhat.

Going to confession, third period on Thursday: Confessions were held in the lower church. As you finished confessing, the priest would slip you a pink card through a small slot in one corner of the screen. As you exited the church you had to stamp this card. Then you had two or three minutes to get back to your class. Sometimes, this required.a sprint down Grand Street. , The Jesuit Basketball Tournament: Prep defeated Fordham Prep in the final by a score of 22-20. In those days, there was a center jump after each basket and if you had a center taller than six foot, you hatl control orthe'ball. , I remember junior year. Mr. McGill was our chemistry teacher. He would sit up front and keep an eye out for anyone not paying attention. Once he spotted a student in another world or having a conversation with another, he would fling a blackboard eraser with great accuracy at the inattentive student. He had a good average of hits.

Mr. Pitts, S.J., became our French teacher in third year. He arrived some three days into the fall term: he had been studying in France and his ship was late docking in New York. He came into the class, stood in, front of us and spoke in French for some minutes. He then asked us what he had $aid.

Nobody stirred until Bob Ford stood and said that he had caught some reference to the beauty of the French language. Even though we did not impress "Alabama," we immediately gave him this nickname in imitation of the famed convict/athlete, Alabama Pitts of Sing Sing prison. We found our Mr. Pitts to be a great teacher and a good friend. Once we got him laughing, we could talk ourselves out of Jug. I remember senior year. Mr. Bromirski was our physics teacher. When he proctored an exam he would mount the top of a six~foot ladder, take out the New York Times, punch a hole in the middle of the paper and sneak looks every now and then to make sure that we were not cheating.

When we had a free period, six or seven of us would pile into Joe Nolan's LaSalle, a real tank of a car, and dash up to a'pizzeria on First Street. Then a mad dash to get back to Class. The brakes on Joe's car were not the best, and one'time we thought we were going to total a car in our path-a near miss.

We graduated in January, and many of us matriculated to St. Peter's College. In June we attended the formal graduation from the' Prep in the College's Collins Gym. Ernie Baker, '38

CONFESSIONS THAT ST. AUGUSTINE NEVER WOULD HAVE MADE ack in the spring of 194.2 a bit of doggerel, comparing one of the Prep teachers to a comic strip character called "Ookle the Dictator," appeared on the bulletin board of the Senior Room in the old Science Building. The impudent verse so enraged the principal, the Rev. Francis J. , Shalloe, S.J., better known in those days as "Big Frank," that he threatened to expel the would-be poet on the spot if his identity ever was determined. Most members of the Class of '42 knew who the culprit was, but since this was not West Point and no one felt a moral obligation to rat on the guy who did it; the authorship of "Ookle the Dictator" has remained a carefully guarded secret all these fifty-five years.

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3 Well, let me say now, I did it-with myoid Underwood with the wobbly "W." What's more, I am fully prepared to turn in myoid Prep diploma. Of course, I cannot drop it off personally to Big Frank since he is off somewhere in the Grand & Warren of the skies wearing a gold AMDG pin, but I am willing to hand it over to whoever is in charge of tidying up after those who never learned that "insubordination is detrimental to the character of the undergraduate student," no matter how many times they had to scribble it in Jug. Lest you think this is an empty beau geste and that there is nothing of the Raskolnikov or Montressor in me (without the ax or trowel, of course), I would like to use this opportunity to record at least one more confession. With Francis W. Farley, '42, I slipped the word out that a good number of the seniors, who had spent four years learning Latin but not one hour learning the Lindy, were prepping for the Senior Prom in a little dance studio on Union Street, Jersey City, where the instructor didn't pull down the shades, allowing the curious to observe that the seniors' dancing partners were I.ittle girls in the fourth grade, regular students at the school and much better dancers than the clumsy Prep neophytes.

Who knows where these little girls are today, but they deserve the gratitude of several red-faced Prepsters who subsequently danced gracefully with their dates to the music of the one McFarland Twin who showed up at the Prep prom at Collins Gym. Done. As Nathan Detroit said, "So sue me, put a bullet right through me."

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Eugene C. Flinn, '42

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remember] My one and only touchdown scored as right halfback on Prep's varsity football team on Election Day over rival Lincoln High School. Final score: Prep 13, Lincol(l 6our first victory over Lincoln in eight years.

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hile translating from Greek to English from Xenophon's Anabasis for Father Riordan, I read the phrase "Kai (?) Kai," word for word. Father asked, "Are you sure?" I replied yes, I was sure. He questioned me a few more times. The more he asked, the surer (or more stubborn) I became.

Finally, Father said, "How does this sound?" and translated the three words as an "idiom," with a totally different slant. From then on, when someone would translate, Father would say, "Is that right, Mr. Adams?"

"That's right, Father."

Thus it is written in our yearbook under "Passing in Review." o

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Jim Adams, '43

Joe Gourley, '42

A PREP REMINISCENCE

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he glittering sunlight of the last of May 1943 turned the corner of Grand & Warren. The last of the Province exams had been distributed throughout classroom Senior 4D by teachers who were relative strangers to our learning domain. The designated proctor was either Mr. Joseph Sinnott or Mr. William Kruse, the latter being both librarian and instructor Of French. Whatsoever, the proctor at the blackboard was immersed in chalking a "time pie," complete with fifteen-minute segments that would tell us how much measurable grace remained before handing in our blue 'books. The exam was English, not exactly a foe, as were some of our other subjects. Still, English, beyond its syntax and excerpts of literature and prose and poetry, demanded the writing of a composition, which was always time-consuming.

The English exam could be approached calmly, taking the questions one after another. Momentarily, I looked to the left of me, and then to the right. Two desks empty, one desk empty. Three classmates had left in March and April, for military service, Suddenly, the authoritative figure of Principal Rev. Francis J. Shalloe, S.J., appeared at the door. He tugged at the sash around his waist, a familiar sort of "exclamation" before he spoke. His subsequent oration was intended for the students who were without ties, dressed simply in short-sleeved sport shirts open at the collar: 0

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"Those in improper attire will leave the classroom, immediately. Just because you are graduating June 7th is no reason not to conform to the long-established St. Peter's Prep dress code!"

At least sixteen banished Prepsters sped past Father Shalloe and clattered down the stairs, only to join subordinates of Senior E, A, C, B in the locker room, down below.

With a determined yank at my own tie knot, I returned to the exam. It wasn't twenty minutes later that all the "exiled" returned to the classroom, wearing every shape and make of neckwear. There was an accessory designed specifically for a tuxedo-a bow tie-strapped exultantly around one individual's neck.

I suppose we all undercut the "time pie," finishing the exam in unison, hurrying for a conclave in the locker room. There we found the amiable custodian, Ernie, the veritable predecessor to the present comic strip character, Andy Cappo Ernie was the father of seven sons. He simply ran home and gathered up all the ties in the closets. I had a castoff catcher's mitt inmy locker. I passed it around, extending it for donations. I'd say we collected about thirty dollars .. .for Ernie.

Jerry DeFuccio, '43 y neighborhood was densely populated with Prepsters, " "'schoolmates if not classmates: the Dohertys proximate to Lincoln Park, the Bannons a curb beyond St. Dominic Academy, the Carlsons, three houses and an apartment building beyond my house on Duncan Avenue, and a thoroughly ingratiating young man who lived on Jewett, who intended to go to Prep. I knew him from summer camp, Camp Notre Dame, and his name was Joe Cooney.

My pediatrician father had the usual packed reception room of mothers and infants when I observed fellow graduate Gene Bannon going up our front steps. I believe Gene was home from service and working as a "detail-man" for CIBA Pharmaceuticals. Gene wanted to introduce my father to samples of new medications. Father accommodated Gene Bannon by listening to his line in our rear dinning room.

I was mighty proud of Gene, exultant to call him a fellow Prepster. While my father was examining the samples, I asked Gene, "What does 'CIBA' mean?" Gene looked at my Dad and then at me, with a smile the longitude and latitude of his face. He responded, "It means, 'ghrist, I'm .!2etter Already!'"

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Jerry DeFuccio, '43

ur textbook was Till Eulenspiegels Lustige Streiche, the pranks of a merry jester. A German classic, Till Eulenspiegel really lived and died in Schleswig in 1350-the Jerry Lewis of his day! Father Martin A. Schmitt, S.J., alias "Moose," was our German teacher. He could discern that we were restless, distracted, and uncertain those days in late May 1943, as we seniors were absorbed in recruiting manuals: Join The Marines, Army, Navy. He simply said: 'The Army will straighten out you men!"

Of German extraction, Fr. Schmitt had 0. shortwave radio in his room and would listen to propaganda emanating from the Reich, though we were certain he was on "our side." One day he came to class with a large bandage around one hand. We deduced he had touched one of the hot tubes in his short-wave radio. Rather than a spasm of laughter, we all moved closer to his desk. Funny, when report cards were delivered to our classroom on a late afternoon, Mr. Schmitt always looked at my card. My math usually deterred me from a clean sweep! At graduation, some fathers accepted their sons' diplomas. My best friend, Joseph McDonnell, had already left for the Marines. In a day or so, I went down to Prep to clean out my locker. Fr. Schmitt was alone in the schoolyard. He called me over: "DeFuccio, take care of yourself!"

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Jerry DeFuccio, '43

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onsidering all the memorable incidents and personalities at the Prep, you may have another screenplay comparable to "A Yank At Oxford," starring Robert Taylor, 1938.

I spent 4Y2 years at the Prep (prefreshman, having graduated grammar school mid-year). My associates then were Harold Browski and Jim Orlando, now an eminent attorney. In 1939, there was a structure just beyond the schoolyard, the old Opera House~ The red Montgomery bus let us off right there. The building was abandoned, though drunkards occupied the doorway. . The legendary and dynamic Father Rush Rankin, on his way to teach at the College, flushed the drunks from the doorway with his lethal umbrella. We cheered for what was termed "Rank lojustice."

Jerry DeFuccio, '43

FIELD OF GLORY QUOTES FROM LEGENDARY TEACHERS ~

r. Ray Cotter, reading general school announcements at the end of class: "Band practice at 3:15.

Remember to bring your piano."

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Fr. Emmet Norton, at the beginning of the first Greek class: 'The purpose of this course is to make it unnecessary for you ever to have to say; 'It's Greek to me.' " Mr. Ed McNally, sometime during the first English period of the semester: "Gentlemen, it's only fair to advise you that I have my ears thoroughly cleaned twice a year, so that in addition to the sound of pins dropping, I can hear any malicious whisper you might utter."

Bob Guth, '44

igh School Field wasn't the kind of place you associated with greatness. Physically in the shadow of Jersey City's Medical Center, it was overshadowed in terms of heroic design by Roosevelt Stadium, modestly named for the man whose WPA programs funded its construction. That grand arena was an ideal location for the drama of the Prep-Dickinson rivalry to play itself out every Thanksgiving Day. Alas, Roosevelt Stadium wasn't available for the big game in 1943-something to do with the War, probably.

Lucky for High School Field: Its existence was ennobled that day by the performance of a spunky Prep athlete.

Standing behind the goal posts, you could appreciate the Prep linemen's efforts to create temporary openings, which the running backs weren't exploiting effectively. There wasn't much to be hopeful about. We were on our way to being swamped and shut out in the last game of a lessthan-illustrious season.

Then something really big erupted around the 50-yard line: A lot of motion and commotion. What is this thing zig-zagging toward the end zone, leaving dazed defenders in its wake? Eight legs stabbing the air in all directions?

No, only two, acting like an out-of-control helicopter. It's Joe Cooney, number 62, a junior. Isn't he supposed to be playing JV basketball? One marveled at his brazen show of force and felt grateful not to be in his path as he crossed the goal line to thunderous sounds of joy.

We did indeed lose big that day, but at the same time, Joe Cooney became the rightful owner of the trademark "Crazy Legs," although someone else expropriated it a few

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6 decades later. More important, he lifted the hearts of the entire Prep community. His act of defiance seemed to say, "See? We really know how to play this game, and if it were really important, we'd run allover you."

It might be an exaggeration to call High School Field hallowed ground, but it's satisfying to imagine that the space. above and around it still echoes that triumphant moment. On Thanksgiving Day 1943, a determined Prepster provided a shot of Pride & Glory that lasted throughout the school year, and way beyond.

Bob Guth, '44

TROTTING ON GRAND STREET

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hey use "Cliff Notes" today, mostly for book reports, but Latin "trots" were the big thing at Prep in the 1940s. You . got them from Barnes & Noble, whose only store at the . time was in New York, so you had to take the tubes (PATH today) or get one of your fellow scholars to pick up copies of those translations from Latin into English (Xeroxes hadn't been invented yet). ~.

It was Fr. William Riordan's senior Latin class, and the work at hand was Caesar's Gallic Wars-"Omnes Gallia in tres partes divisa est," or something like that. Or was that freshman Latin?

Anyway, it involved a battle and some soldier, maybe Caesar himself, jumping on a horse.

In those years, academic ethics permitted the use of trots, with some restrictions. For instance: even though Fr. Riordan provided a quick translation of every night's assignment, you could use a trot at home to get over the rough spots and reduce the anxiety about being singled out for a recitation the next day. The big taboo was on reading directly from the trot when called upon in class.

Academic ethics aside, there was a typographical error in the trot then in circulation, and thereby hangs this tale. The horse in question was misspelled "honse." Eventually, the terrifying possibility of being called upon became a reality for a certain hapless senior (who shall remain nameless, mainly because I don't remember who it was). That day's lesson included the defective passage, and when the victim got to "honse," he enunciated it clearly, without batting an eye.

Silent pandemonium! Glances of dismay being exchanged between unbelieving classmates! Can this guy be the only one on earth who wasn't aware of it?

Father Riordan didn't bat an eye, either. With the faintest hint of amusement on his face, he entered a tidy zero in his mark book. He knew about the typo, too.

Bob Guth, '44

A SPORTS LEGEND WANNABE ecoming a football hero seemed to be the thing to do in the summer of 1942, what with all the girls at St. AI's and St. Dominic gushing about nothing else. So it was that I hauled my handsome 135-pound frame to a flinty dirt lot downtown for the Prep football tryouts. It was exciting to put on a real football uniform and have Tommy Myers address me as if I were a real football player.

Running around the field and doing calisthenics were sweaty exercises. But no sweat; they prolonged, for a few days, the illusion of being on the team. Then came !he scrimmages. After hanging

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on the sidelines as long as I could get away with it, I had to face the moment of truth, as well as some beefy seniors (I was about to enter my junior year). I knew from my touch football background that I wasn't much of a passer or pass catcher, or a runner, for that matter. So I decided to be a guard-left or right, offensive or defensive. It didn't matter; I was versatile. That decision turned our to be fatally flawed.

I had the misfortune to be put on a scrimmage line against Dick Phalon, a classmate. Like accident victims everywhere, I awoke confused, supine on a hard surface and seeing lots of blue sky. Dick was saying something like, "Are you O.K., pal?". I had always considered him a nice guy, an intellectual, literary type. He'd never mentioned anything about being descended from a long line of steamrollers. I spent the rest of that day lurking around the sidelines, wondering w~at other positions I could tryout for. I c o u l d n ' t " think of any. ,~~ ~ "-~ The following day Coach Myers announced the -.....~ l.s: ~~~~ ~.~-'I"\.~ first cut. Guess who was in it? Actually, he was .....~ -:,. ~ ~ too much of a gentleman to use that word .. He simply read the names of the lucky ones who were still on the team and said that everyone else should turn in his uniform. I dutifully did so-but only after I had my sister take a couple of dramatic snapshots of me, shoulder pads and all, in the backyard: one making a sensational over-the-shoulder catch, and one hunkered down, snarling, in the guard position.

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Bob Guth, '44 ne of my favorite [Prep stories] involves James Marr, our dramatic coach. He was a wonderful old man, full of stories of touring with the great stars of his youth, all the way back to the Booths. He made the theater sound like a marvelous series of one liners and shrewd observations on life.

I was in two plays, "Twelfth Night" in my junior year, playing Sir Toby Belch, and "The Taming of the Shrew" in my senior year, playing Petruchio. Everyone seemed to think I was pretty good. Adding to my dreams of glory was my mother, who had girlhood fantasies of becoming an actress. Soon I was convinced that the theater was my destiny. I would out-Barrymore the great ham himself.

When I confided this ambition to Mr. Marr one afternoon at the end of a rehearsal, he said: "Come with me." In ten minutes of fast walking, we got well beyond the range of wandering Jesuits and he guided me into a saloon. He ordered me a rye and ginger ale and the same for himself.

When the drinks arrived, he picked his up and said: "You're a good kid, and a pretty damn good performer. But take it from me-"You're too intelligent to be an actor." He then spent a half hour disillusioning me about the theater, describing it as mostly populated by pinheads and egomaniacs.

"Some have talent, others don't-but talent has nothing to do with who succeeds," he said. He added that someone had told him that I had talent as a writer. "Now there's a field that takes brains. Go into that."

I took his advice. But he did not entirely extinguish my fondness for the theater. I've been doing research for some years on a series of novels based on an American theatrical family. I hope to start writing them in a year or so.

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Thomas Fleming, '45

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• DIMLY REMEMBERED FACT When the war in Europe ended on 8 May 1945, a general amnesty was granted regarding all outstanding JUG sentences. I know because I had a week's detention. All students were assembled in the school yard. I believe Fr. Lynch made the announcement.

REGARDING THE SENIOR PROM What started out to be a little joke turned out to be a wonderful gesture. Come time to vote for the Prom Queen and somebody suggested Clem O'Sullivan's wife should receive the prize. Everyone laughed, but then it was decided that it was not really a bad idea. She was named Prom Queen and I believe she got a cigarette case. Years later I met Mr. O'Sullivan on the Greenville bus and he mentioned how pleased both he and his wife were about that.

HORSEPLAY IN THE CLASSROOM Jimmy McDaniels would sometimes grab somebody's lunch and say, "Take a bite and pass it." Some people did both, some did one, some did none. When it got to Jim Fox in the back of the room, he recognized the by-now well-bitten sandwich as his own. Just then the bell rang and McDaniels, who sat in the first row, headed for the door.. Fox threw the sandwich up to the front of the room and it hit the blackboard, the lettuce and tomato slithering down the board. Clem O'Sullivan, who had his back turned while at the front desk, saw it and demanded to know who did it. Of course, no one would admit to it. Clem said, "I want the person who threw that to come up here and pick it up." Still, no one moved or admitted to it. Clem then said, "All right, then we'll get Fr. Farricker [the principal]." Jimmy Fox then said, "He won't pick it up, either." Just another day in 4-E.

REGARDING J. HUDSON MITCHELL This concerns Jesuit humor and chastisement. The English grammar book was written by Fr. Donnelly. Also, we had covered the poem "When I Was Young and Twenty" that week.

While covering a lesson, Mr. Mitchell had occasion to ask a student where his book was, and the student answered that he had loaned a friend the grammar book. Quick as a wink, Mr. Mitchell said, "Give pearls away and rubies, but not your Fr. Donnelly. Report to Jug this day." A neat tie-in.

Gerald J. Fitzgerald, '47

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elow is a story which I have often told at Prep reunions. I have also been reminded about this incident many times by my classmates.

Although I loved sports, I was generally not an athlete. However, I did have some talent as a baseball pitcher, and after I pitched in some sandlot leagues in Jersey City, I was fortunate enough to make the Prep team under the legendary coach Bill Cochrane. I achieved some reputation for my fastball pitch and somehow got the nickname "fireball."

In my sophomore year, during a varsity game against Lincoln High School at the old High School Field on Montgomery Street, our team was getting beaten pretty badly, and Cochrane sent me to the bullpen to warm up. To my surprise, I was called in to relieve, and Bill came to the mound to give his young pitcher some advice.

He told me that the first batter I would face, a fellow named Ted Lukachek, was a home run hitter.

In his typical slow drawl he said, "This kid can hit. , , Keep the ball low to him." "", ... , I took the sign, wound up, and threw what I thought was a perfect low pitch. But Lukachek hit a great "nine iron shot" right over the left center field fence. My first pitch in my high school career! Legend has it that the ball broke the windshield of Bill Cochrane's car, which was parked on Montgomery Street.

No one remembers that I retired the next three batters in order.

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Frank J. McMahon, '50

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just went to the Petrean for the year the Class of '52 were freshmen. There he was, just as I remembered him: stern, steel-jawed, flinty-eyed. When I was a freshman, there was no more . forbidding figure in my universe than William J. Farricker, S.J. The stories about him were a part of his legend, and they helped maintain the aura of mystery which was part of the reputation that made him just what anyone with an iota of imagination would think of when the words "Prefect of Discipline" were uttered. "Prefect" was a word unknown to me at age 13, and it had a hint of a threat' about it, especially when linked to that other word, discipline. Anyway, there was the one about how he rode a motorcycle around the five-block limit, inside of which smoking was not permitted. His eyesight was that of the eagle as he stood up there on the stoop above the yard where we lined up on regular occasions. "That boy in 3E, the one chewing spearmint, go to my office," he was alleged to have said once.

I don't remember ever seeing him smile, but Donnie Ahern once told a story about his brother Leo, or Jack Hyatt, or some other football player, painting an X across the good father's keester at some camp, or something, and living to tell the story. I never bought that one.

But what I remember so clearly from my first few days at Prep was that I was sure this tall, ruggedlooking, hard-voiced man was omnipresent. You see, we had to go from the yard, where we all lined up

10 by class, to the church, clear over on the other end of the block. When 1E began the slow walk into that sort of funnel between the church and the old grammar school (where the cafeteria was), there he was on the stoop, behind the microphone, directing each class in turn. To my youthful and-naive O~ amazement, he materialized at the front door o.f the L-.- church as we walked up the steps. It was years before I figured out how he did that.

He was a presence, as they say nowadays. He must have been for me to remember him so vividly almost 50 years later.

Frank Erath, '52

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of my favorite stories from the "old day!';" was

LJ when the class rankings were published in senior year. The young man who was ranked last went to Mr. Joseph MacKay, who was ranked first, and gave him a Biblical quote (which proved he had learned something, even though he was ranked last). "Just remember, Joe," he said, "the good Lord said, 'He who is first will be last and he who is last will be first.'"

Jack Corcoran, '53

FATHER RABBIT

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hen I arrived at Prep in September 1949, the most visible Jesuit presence outside my everyday classroom was Father Leohard V. Abbott, the guidance counselor to the freshman class. His office was located in'the old Freshman Building, an edifice whose days, we had no doubt, dated back to the early Dutch settlers of Pavonia.

One stairwell in this building was off limits to students and was guarded by a permanently locked gate at the basement level. Rumor had it that the building was so decrepit, this particular stairwell might collapse beneath the weight of even a handful of students-much less a man the size of assistant football coach and physical training teacher, Joe Zucconi.

Father Abbott could often be seen standing outside the door to his office, keeping an eye out for any unruly behavior on our part. Although not large of girth, Father's rosy red cheeks and jovial demeanor had the effect of making him appear somewhat rely-poly. (Well, to this pipsqueak freshman, anyway.)

Improper behavior addressed by Father usually resulted in a mild form of extortion. Students who smoked were instructed to turn over one or two cigarettes. We never asked what form of punishment refusing to do so might bring about. Father supported his habit' this way, but was occasionally known to dispense some smokes to those he deemed worthy of a reward.

Many of us, being typical wise guys, considered it clever to address Father Abbott with a single-word appellation such as, "Hiya, Fatherrabbit!" I suppose we thought that this sophisticated form of humor would be beyond its intended victim. I don't think he ever acknowledged that he was on to us. One day, however, I went too far in my-attempt to be funny with the good Father. As I passed him at his customary station outside his office door, I asked: "Hey, Fatherrabbit, is it true that they call you 'Crisco' because you're fat in the can?"

His response was a good-natured shot to my head and the reply, "It's better than being fat in the

11

head, ya fresh kid, ya!" It was just one of many lessons I learned from the Jesuits. And, fortunately, "Fatherrabbitt" didn't hold a grudge. Three years later, he signed my senior yearbook.

Jim Marren, '53

MAN BITES DOG ne of the most trite stories in journalism is the old chestnut about the young reporter who, with great anticipation, turns in a story with the heading of "Dog Bites Man!" "Where's the news in that?" his grizzled old editor challenges. "Come back when you have a story about 'Man Bites Dog!' Now that's news!"

Such an event actually happened-kind of-to me during my last year at the Prep, in '53. I commuted via the Montgomery & West Side bus each day, and the bus stop for my homeward ride was on a corner of Warren Street, about two blocks up from Grand. As a regular after-school jobholder-I worked in a Jewish deli on Bergen Avenue six days a week to earn spending money-I had to depart the Prep promptly each day.

One fine day, as I walked to the bus stop, I came upon a hot dog street vendor. The aroma of the franks steaming in their own watery juices...a slight hunger pang ...and the fact that I always had my own spending money caused me to buy "one to go, with mustard." Happily eating my mid-day snack as I continued on to my bus stop, I encountered a Jesuit casually strolling along.

"Afternoon, Father," I said.

"Good afternoon," he replied. "How's it taste?"

"Great!" I responded with genuine enthusiasm.

"They always dO...on Fridays," he countered.

"Friday? Yes, today is Friday. Can't-eat-meat Friday," I realized. Suddenly, I was no longer on Warren Street but standing on Community Chest holding a card that read, "Do not pass Go. Go directly to Hell!" I looked desperately around, searching for a homeless person or stray dog walking nearby. Failing that, a trash can-or even a hole into which I might crawl. No such luck!

Embarr,assed, I sheepishly made a move to discard the offending sin-source into the gutter.

"Well, finish it," said the priest calmly. "You didn't do it on purpose, and it would be more of a sin to waste food. The Lord will understand." I never found out that priest's name. But I always appreciated the fact that Jesuit logic had, as it would many times in the future, saved me from at least some Purgatory time.

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Jim Marren, '53

12

CLAUDIE-BABE doubt if any friend I made at the Prep had a more permanent effect on me than Claude Harz.

We met as 2H classmates in 1950 and, as we became close, Claude began addressing me as "Jimmy-Babe." So, naturally, I called him "Claudie-Babe." .

We shared a mutual interest by going to movies together. I fell in love with Audrey Hepburn when we saw "Roman Holiday," and Claude's heart belonged to singer-actress Doris Day. (He even made me sit through two consecutive showings of "Calamity Jane" one day.)

From the¡ Journal Square's Stanley, State and Loew's we graduated to the Paramount in New York.

We'd enjoyed live performances by top stars such as Johnnie Ray, together with big bands such as Billy May's Orchestra, plus a first-run movie. Frequently, we'd go every three weeks, when the shows changed. Then came a proposal that changed my life to this day. Claude suggested we go to a Broadway play. "It's something we should do" to expand our cultural scope, he explained. He convinced me by choosing a play starring Audrey Hepburn. For me, the evening was magical. I loved Audrey more than ever. But mainly, the idea of the actors having to get everything right the first time appealed to me as nothing I'd ever seen. I was hooked!

Claude wrote in my senior yearbook, "Good luck to one of the best guys I ever met. Hope our friendship continues." But at St. Peter's College, our relationship wasn't the same. He joined the dramatic society to pursue his interest in theater. After graduation, Claude left New Jersey, severing all ties with Prep and the college, and ignoring efforts to contact him. He wound up working for actor Roddy McDowell (of "Planet of the Apes" fame) and married actress Tuesday Weld. They had a daughter and later divorced. I assume he met Doris Day out there.

Occasionally, I'd read in the gossip column something like "Claude Harz, the writer..." But I never knew what he wrote. He remains an enigma to his former friends, and obviously prefers to.

To this day, the Broadway theater remains my favorite form of entertainment, thanks to Claude.

Sometimes I fantasize about running into him at a theater some night. In the fantasy, I rush over, embrace him warmly and ShOllt, "Claudie-Babe!

Thanks for the memories, Babe.

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Jim Marren, '53

HITTER

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didn't really get to know Hitter until 1952, our senior year. We were classmates in 4B, and a nir.Ar, more sincere. guy you couldn't meet. He called me "Maz"-although I can't recall whether it was his idea or Mike Ball's. When discussing his role on the Prep baseball team, he liked to say, "I'm a hitter!" So, I called him "Hitter." But he was much more than that.

Dave Markey came out of West New York, skilled in baseball and basketball, and a huge reputation . to live up to. His brother Earle had been a legendary basketball star four years earlier. In fact, Rev. Earle Markey, S.J., was officially designated a "legend" at the inaugural "Legends of Prep" dinner in 1993.

Dave starred at second base in the spring, and at guard in fall and winter. He was such a good leader that coach Roy Leenig appointed him one of the Prep tri-captains, along with the team's biggest scorers, George Waddleton and Hank Morano. From 1950-53, the basketball record was 68 wins against only six losses, with 13 titles. From the end of junior year through the beginning of senior, Prep won 28 straight.

The '52-'53 season began with 15 wins. Dickinson, a team beaten 60-45 in their building during the streak, was next. Confidence was so high that a loss was almost unthinkable. But I sensed that over-confidence might be a bigger obstacle than the Rams, and I told Dave so. He assured me that Dickinson had no chance. "Watch out," I said. "With an attitude like that, you guys could lose."

Dickinson won, 71-69. Both backcourt starters fouled out, Dave with seven minutes left to play, and Jim Deveney with a little over two minutes to go. The streak was history. Afterward, I stood at my bus stop on Warren Street. Dave came along, gym bag in hand, looking as if he couldn't wait to get out of

13 town. There aren't too many times, at age seventeen, that the maturity to bite one's tongue comes to the forefront. Seeing how down Dave was-for once in my life-I kept my mouth shut.

"Go ahead," were his first words. "Rub it in. You were right." God, how I wished I had been wrong!

My friend's anguish was so obvious that I could only mumble something like, "No, I wouldn't do that to you." I just couldn't bring myself to hit the Hitter.

Jim Marren, '53

~

uring the latter half of my freshman year, I had decided to go to confession one day after lunch, as I had missed the usual confession period during the week. I was told that Fr. Shalloe was always accommodating in his guidance office. You just had to ring the bell on the door outside his office, and he would come to the "DARKENED SCREEN" and hear your confession.

I was carrying the heavy burden of sin: I was chewing gum in class, and I had left my locker opentherefore, I was the "occasion of sin" for my fellow classmates as they may be tempted to steal my locker contents, which consisted of an old jock strap, bad smelling sneakers, and a pair of month-old sweat socks. You had to carry everything else in your book bag. At least this was what Fr. Tom Murray convinced me of after giving me Saturday Jug. (You did not disagree with Fr. Murray.)

So, I decided to unload my sinful soul, along with a few miscellaneous thoughts. Upon ringing the bell, Fr. Shalloe appeared upon the "DARKENED SCREEN" and said, "HELLO, BOB." What? Hello, Bob?! What happened to the sanctity and secrecy of confession? This was too early for "face-to-face" confessions! This was only the '50s ... He knew meL .. He recognized meL .. He might even see me again in the hallsL .. He might slip and say something to Mom at the Mothers' Club meetingL .. lt might get printed in the Petroc... NO WAY, JOSE... / have to get out of here NOW!!!

I start faking a cough ... now I'm really into iLl hope Father is buying this. I'm starting to feel faintL ..The blood is rushing from my head, and now my legs are numb from kneeling and coughing so much ... 1can't get up!

Finally, with all the energy I can muster, I bolt from the confessional and run down the hall to the boy's room and cough up my lunch. For the next six months I avoid Fr. Shalloe, his office and anybody that could be connected with him.

Now, at my age, sometimes I wish I had something to confess.

Robert Esti, '55

14 ne of the cleverest retorts that I had ever heard was delivered by a most humorous teacher during a sunny day in 1953. My classmate Frank Connolly was gazing lazily out the window of our 2F class in Hogan Hall while Mr. Bob Howard, our teacher, was explaining in full detail a difficult theorem in Geometry. Mr. Howard sternly asked Frank if he was writing the full explanation of the theorem down in his notebook, as he had carefully demonstrated on the blackboard. Frank, being the quick wit he fashioned himself to be (as we all did), responded that ~e "was writing it all in his head" and quite bravely pointed to his temple with his finger. Mr. Howard responded, "Well, don't use scrap paper." I fell out of my chair in laughter, as did most of the class. 'I have since stolen that line many times in business during sales meetings when my sales people fail to write down my pearls of wisdom, and also with my children. (Truthfully, I have had better success with my sales people.)

O

Robert Esti, '55

A

s a nine year old in mid-November of 1948, I had witnessed quite a few St. Peter's Prep football games. At that juncture in the season, Prep sported a 6-1 record going into the much awaited showdown with Memorial High School of West New York. Needless to say, I was

psyched.

Despite the status of Prep as a respected football team which was brilliantly coached by Bill Cochrane, Memorial was viewed as from another planet. In their sleek black uniforms, they were the Darth Vader of high school football long before the name connoted the mythical, menacing force that scared many of our kids growing up in the 1970s.

The Mems, too, were tutored by an equally talented coach, Columbia-trained Joe Coviello. Their style on offense was deception and blazing speed, augmented by precision blocking. On defense, it was attack and punish. Their linemen looked like 25-year-old dock workers on a post-grad visa. Magnifying Memorial's aura of invincibility were the daily jottings in the sports pages of the Mem clarion, the Hudson Dispatch. To the followers of New Jersey football, Memorial was simply recognized as unbeatable.

At least 25,000 football fanatics attended the game on that memorable Sunday at Jersey City's Roosevelt Stadium. Tension at kickoff was incredible.. Memorial gained territorial advantage in the first quarter but could never deliver the "TD punch" to establish its famed superiority. By early second quarter, however, the "bend but not break" defense of Prep finally ,yielded a TD as a typical Memorial . scatback named Habeeb dodged his way into the end zone. We all thought that the worst had started. And were we ever wrong.

Thesubsequent kickoff was fielded by a blond-haired kid with prototype All-American looks by the name of Johnny Hyatt. Hyatt possessed the elusiveness equal to Habeeb but had much more power and running savvy. Johnny broke through the normally disciplined Memorial kickoff squad and, aided by devastating blocking, ran 92 yards to "pay dirt." The roar of the crowd was deafening. David not only had dared to defy Goliath, but also had gained his respect. Yes, Memorial would score two more times,

15 but Hyatt would also score twice himself. And, an 86-yard TD run by Clem Rieger would simply prove too much for the lads from West New York. Final score: Prep 26, Memorial 19.

There were many heroes that day; Campisi on the line, Tambouri at quarterback, Rieger as mentioned. " But no one could ever match the heroics of Johnny Hyatt. Forget his offensive exploits.

Who do you think went one-on-one in the secondary against that Habeeb fellow? Time and time again it was Johnny, as he solo tackled the diminutive Mem after Habeeb had juked his way through the Prep defense to the precipice of another touchdown. No way would Johnny's stats, though quite compelling, really relate the whole story. One simply had to be there, to witness the ebb and flow of the game in order to, understand how one kid's will to fight back (to counterpunch, as it were) showed his teammates that a win against this "unbeatable foe" was definitely Prep's, if they continued to "hang tough."

Many years later, Johnny's premature death (emanating from the polio contracted as a sophomore at Fordham) brought me back in time to that day at Roosevelt Stadium where I added a new name to the list of boyhood heroes like Joe DiMaggio, Johnny Lujack and Joe Louis. The name was Johnny Hyatt, a Prep Football Legend.

Gene Boyle, '56

is name was Jim Johnson from the Class of 1956. With sadness we have to emphasize the verb "was" becaus,e Jimmy passed away last year.

JilT) was a classmate and an unforgettable character. He was irascible yet loving, tough but compassionate, Hollywood yet New York kind of person. He was a great sports enthusiast who, while living in the L.A. area, aggravated the local partisans with his exuberance for his Yankees, Giants and Knicks. While he was very successful professionally in the entertainment business, he nevertheless disliked the "plastic" atmosphere that often prevailed in that industry. You always knew where he stood on any issue, and he didn't care whether you agreed with him or not (a real Hudson County kind of guy).

Jimmy was our friend, and despite the 3000-mile separation, we always kept in touch with each other.

He loved the Prep and SPC enormously, admired the Jesuits and respected one man among them more than all others-namely, Francis J. Shalloe, S.J. For those of you who attended the "Legends" Dinner in November 1995, you might remember Jim's testimonial tribute to the late Fr. Shalloe by recalling his freshman year at Prep. In a very humble way, he described his rebellious life and how Fr. SwiCk (principal at the time) finally lost patience with Jim's "Fonz"-likemanner and his delinquent behavior on the streets of his native Hoboken by expelling him from school.

Jim recounted how his exasperated mother, widowed since the Second World War, visited Fr. Shalloe to request that Fr. Swick give her son one more chance. Shalloe made his pitch and won. Jimmy understood what his newfound mentor had done, and the rest is history: First Honors at Prep, annual Dean's List at SPC, a successful executive career at Columbia Pictures all followed, all because Shalloe cared and believed in one of the guys.

Jim Johnson was one of many Prepsters who was touched by the humble, peaceful man we all knew in the forties through the sixties. The good Father was someone to talk to when things looked a little bleak, as they sometimes did for some kid unlucky enough to be 15 years old with two F's on a report card.

It was a great (and somewhat ironic) tribute that Jim made in Fr. Shalloe's memory some months ago.

Now, as we continue to celebrate Prep's 125th anniversary, it's great to honor Fr. Shalloe once again and, also, one of his many friends. '

cfe

Gene Boyle & Jim Hackett Class of '56

16

C.

pring Baseball, 1956-01d High School Field: Legendary Coach Bill Cochrane and his assistant Bill Gargiulo are sitting together on the bencharms folded, watching the action. Jim Hannon was pitching for the Prep (Jim went on to an excellent major league career).

Coach Cochrane was the master of the understatement. Jim threw his first pitch of the game and it sailed clear over the catcher, clear over the umpire and all the way into the stands. Coach Cochrane leans over to Coach Gargiulo: "Jim's a little wild tOday." Next pitch, the batter parks it out into Montgomery Street. Coach Cochrane, in that deep voice: "They're not making balls the way they used to!"

o

George Blaney, Class of '57

t began on a warm September morning. You were among some three hundred 13 year olds, standing as silent as trees in the courtyard, waiting to hear your name called out. Your eyes were fixed on the man reading off the class assignments, the toughest-looking religious you had ever seen (with the possible exception of Sister Rose, your third-grade teacher). Fr. John Murray, S.J., with his cassock sash hanging at gunfighter length, broke his methodical reading of names only to pull a few of your cohorts out for a private conference on sartorial requirements.

"We don't wear pegged pants at the Prep, Sonny."

You quickly learned that the Prep was different. Expectations were high.

Many of you had been the stars at your grammar schools, but at the Prep the competition was ratcheted up a number of notches. Your Latin teacher said that, when he prepared a test, he'd have a few girls from St. Dom's take it. If they passed, he'd tear up that test and make a tougher one for his boys. Another teacher "motivated" you with chants like: "You'll gElt by in Snyder High" and "Do your best at Demarest." Others just worked tirelessly ("Let's start again with the original equation") until they saw the light of recognition in your eyes. Some stretched your mind by exposing you to ideas beyond the scope of the textbook, through outside readings such as the provocative "The Left Hand of God" and the compelling "Profiles in Courage."

Exams in January and June meant long nights and queasy stomachs.

They also brought mixed feelings-sadness when a friend didn't make the cut, relief that you did. There was also the sense of accomplishment, the realization that you were extended beyond levels you thought you could go, . that you were able to give more than you thought you had.

"We take boys and make them men."

Sports were a big part of the Prep experience. If you didn't play, you cheered on those who did. Football on Sunday afternoon was as much a ritual as going to Mass on Sunday morning and cranking out the'weekly English composition on Sunday night. The victories far outnumbered the losses, but perhaps the most memorable moment came with the clock winding down in a game against the perennial powerhouse, Memorial.

Roosevelt Stadium rocked with the conflicting exhortations of some 20,000 fans. The Prep held a slim lead when Memorial's Mike Mollo, apparently stopped at the line of scrimmage, broke free and romped toward the goal line, with a band of Marauders in hopeless pursuit. You stood frozen in shock as the game and an unbeaten season slipped away.

"Keep your eye on the Prep, let's go!"

In the annual retreat, you put aside the rigors of the classroom and the playing fields to reflect on a higher goal. At the closed retreat in senior year, even the most reticent of you were more quiet than you had ever been. Meals, which at the Prep were often raucous affairs, were taken in silence, broken only by Dr. Tom Dooley's inspiring account of his missionary work. One of your group reached the breaking point on the second night, went out into the hall, and screamed: "Somebody say something!" Jesuits skilled at reaching the depths of young men, and getting them to dig even deeper, left you to meditate in the dimly lighted chapel on who you were ' and who you wanted to be.

"To each is given a bag of tools, A soul to save and a set of rules."

Dances in the gym were as much a part of the Prep experience as the intramural battles waged there at lunchtime throughout the winter. At the

?

17 risk of softening his "Law and Order" image, Fr. Murray provided the recorded music for your dancing pleasure. With the colored disks floating across the walls, you stuttered and stammered and finally asked a girl to dance. As strains of "Melody of Love" filled the air, you held the young lady spellbound with your scintillating conversation: "So, what school do you go to?" On some nights you'd find yourself dancing with the same partner over and over, and you'd think, "This is it."

"Sorry, I have to go home with my girlfriends."

Throughout it all, you were buoyed by a sense of camaraderie. Sharing a unique culture, you and your classmates supported one another, with a well-timed barb (to keep your hat size in check), with a laugh (to get you out of the doldrums), with a helping hand (last night's chemistry homework, perhaps).

While individual friendships formed and dissolved over the course of four years, the bond you had with the group grew more solid. Maybe it was the commonality of your backgrounds, the trials you all endured, the thrills you enjoyed together, the goals and dreams you shared. Likely, it was a combination of all of those things. But out of it came a feeling of belonging, of oneness that, if you had it once in your lifetime, you consider yourself blessed.

Cosmo F Ferrara, '58

kaleidoscope of vivid memories fills my mind when I think of the Prep. Like a carouse.I with its assortment of features, scenes unfold, rich vignettes, parts of a puzzle, and when assembled reveal a total picture of which I have gratefully been a part. My graduation did not separate me, for the Prep was as much an affair of the heart as it was the mind. Over the years it has become like a state of being, a timeless portal reaching back to those who preceded me at Grand & Warren, and then extending indefinitely into the future, encompassing those brothers yet to come, indeed, not even born. Diploma or not, none are excluded.

It began on a warm September morn in 1954, the Prep school yard, then bounded by a black wrought iron fence on the east off Warren Street before the added wing of later years. Colgate factory soot filled the downtown Jersey City air, and bathed the new freshman class in a sort of Baptism, welcoming us into the fire-breathing tribe of Jesuits, the sons of St. Ignatius Loyola. They assembled us into columns, and moved us forward to classrooms, but not without the stern perusal of Father John Murray, Prefect of Discipline. Hair too long, pants pegged, Nat King Cole shirt collars, garish jackets, and square-tip shoes were all sufficient to be gleaned from line and sent home by "Tex," as he was later to be known for wearing his tunic cincture low on the hip like a gunslinger.

Such Jesuit hospitalities over the four years endeared me to their certain charm, and I learned that oatmeal might not be as tasty as bacon and eggs, but certainly was a lot healthier. Through their trials and tribulations, they created a mechanism for male bonding. My identity merged with a thought, an ideal, and I counted among my friends those who shared a similar fate. Almost forty years later, a Class of '58 gathering has the same unpredictable spark which ignited a wild donut toss in the senior room.

White projectiles flooded the sky, and sent combatants scurrying to the nearest exit. So much for John

A

18 Belushi's famous cinematic food fight a decade or so later.

And fights there were. Memorable encounters where Prep sometimes won, and sometimes lost. For was it not the Prep tradition to turn on the steam when pinned to the wall? Moments of glory respected: John Crotty's buzzer corner shot which captured the Hudson County basketball crown, quarterback Bob Filoramo's first touchdown in four years, Richie Gronda, Phil Martorelli, Wayne Zdanowicz and the others in '58 who gave Prep a championship, an undefeated football team and the late, great Lou Rettino. How about Ed Szeigis, Bill Kretzer and Don Melega giving the Marauders a baseball championship and another undefeated experience?

Who does not recall the breathless romp of Mike Mollo of Memorial, snatching victory out of certain defeat with a spectacular 95-yard run down the sideline with only 95 seconds left in the game? Prep's only loss that year, before 6,000 people at least, the precursor of the '58 magic. Mollo was a cheetah without spots, uncatchable as a Jim Hannon fastball, and his steps as heavy as big Ed Farrell, who we lost in Vietnam. For Mollo, an angel whispered in the passing wind; for us, it was groan in a Roman galley. Age Remo, ala Father Purcell. .

We lost like we did the year before to one of America's finest football coaches, Joe Coviello. But we, too, had a great and silent mentor in Bill Cochrane. I don't know if he ever smiled, and I don't know if that was necessary, but I do know that he and Tom Landry had about the same emotional pitch.

Cochrane, of course, didn't need emotion. Assistant Joe Zucconi had enough for everyone. It took me 25 years to learn he could say something more than: "Go to Jug." He spoke at his testimonial a few years back. "I don't know what it is," he said from the podium, "but it seems people start to love you the older you get." Maybe, we were like Cochrane's smile, elusive, maybe we weren't sure if Coach Zucconi wanted us to like him. Coaches are seldom easily approached ...and seldom forgotten.

Time clears the smoke in many things. For certain, the Petroc office needed clearing. The quarters served as the central rendezvous for Smokers Addicted. There was enough smoke in that room to have elected the next mayor of Jersey City. We did that, by the way: Dr. Tom Jordan, and later his honor, the self-styled "Mouth That Roared," Tommie Smith. Henry Guyer earned the big chair in Closter Township in Bergen County. Recently, Bill Macchi made a valiant run for Hudson County Executive, and "Caz" Rakowski turned in some interesting sports stories for the Jersey Journal before doing public relations for Hudson County. Smith and Rakowski left with considerable fanfare. Joe Cassidy is now Hudson County's Sheriff.

One thing about that community smoke, however: you didn't need a cigarette, but it was nice to have one anyway. On that, our numbers were divided into the Haves and the Have-Nots, giving the condition a historical perspective out of appreciation for Mr. Hollender.

Father Abbott and Father Redman, of course, were famous for their cigarettes, but nothing could match the aroma, the telltale clue of an approaching predator, than the scent of Tex's big league cigars.

Darth Vader's brother, he was, warning freshmen that the one person they didn't want to meet o.t the Prep was Father John Murray. How Tom Murray (no relation) could be civil, but not in the estimation of Dominick Santos, who was Father Tom's favorite target for an eraser or window pole. Santos opted out of Prep, and is today a prosperous lawyer. Impossible. He left.

Aside from the quip and the lip, the maiden launch of this auspicious publication would be inappropriately derelict if it failed to mention Edward "Willie" Wilczynzski and my Best Man Ed Burke. It is of this that the Prep is made, the adhesives that have held us and other classes together over the decades. It is John Savage (and the other fund raisers).

The adhesives, the eternal thread which spans the years, reminds me of a 70-plus elderly gentleman who stopped me at Monmouth Park Race Track one Saturday afternoon. "Thirty-eight," he said with a smile. Quizzically, I looked at him. "Your shirt, you're wearing a Prep shirt." And so I was. "Fifty-eight," I said, and waved goodbye.

See you at the Finish Line.

NOTE: Perennial Jugster and now barrister John Conroy printed Rerum Nova rum so many times he received three write-in votes for Pope from the College of Cardinals.

John Connors, '58

19

MY FIRST ZERO

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eaving eight years of parochial school, where the atmosphere was free and easy, and entering the hallowed halls of St. Peter's Prep was shock enough. But, being sent home for tight-fitting pegged pants and a rather stylish "D.A." haircut was a bit severe. And, then, having to wear jackets and ties on a daily basis definitely took some getting used to. Anyway, I survived.

I survived the surround sound of what I initially concluded was overbearing Jesuits trying to cleanse my moral fiber. I was wrong. I survived the bombastic eloquence of Vince Kennedy's tirades on English composition r::;;;;;;;;;;~;=::::=-­ rules. I now consider myself a liberal grammarian.

I survived the graveHnfected vocal chords of John Duffy as he concentrated on the principles of math while throwing erasers from behind his back at talkative students. We never did find out which eye had that peripheral c:t'lpt'lhility. i SIJrvivAd the fear generated by Prefect John "Tex" Murray as he patrolled the halls of Mulry looking for candidates to print his favorite papal encyclical, inhale his offensive cigar smoke and listen to his ear-deafening rock 'n roll music-that would inevitably force you to pay less attention to dotting all your i's and crossing all your t's -leading to you-know-what. And, I survived the Texas drawl of Fr. Maurice Miller who, on the first day of class, could not pronounce my long Polish name, focusing rather on its first three letters and thereby creating my nickname, Willy, which, of course, is still in active use after some 44 years.

What I did not survive was my first zero. Yes, you assumed correctly. I obtained this somewhat spherical digit from what some purist teachers refer to as cheating. But, cheating has such a derogatory slant that I prefer to use the term "misinterpretation." And, whom can I credit the issuance of this frighteningly fathomless favor, none other than our dearly beloved history teacher--William McGinn.

He was quite young in 1954, and I do not know whether Prep was his first teaching assignment. He had a number of distinguishing characteristics: from the flowing black cassock that he wore presumably to appear more scholarly to the flamboyant bow tie that would cry out for individuality. He spoke with a twangy crispness that had a piercing decibel quality and kept you at attention as he ambled through the corridors of western civilization. His old-fashioned wave dominated his hair style and totally complemented what we students considered his outdated bow tie selections. His smile had an insincere sarcasm attached to it so that you never knew whether he was friend or foe-usually the latter.

So, this was the image-the man and the baggage he carried. As I recall, he was a good teacher.

He demanded your attention, made you aware of the impact of history and made you want to care--as much as a starting-out high school freshman could while trying to learn the laborious language of Latin and the altering aspects of algebra.

Billy McGinn was good. He always made it interesting. He even handed out fair tests. They were not

20 difficult, rather just challenging. There were three types: multiple choice, matching columns, or fill-in the blanks. I don't recall any essays-maybe he felt freshmen hadn't yet mastered Vince Kennedy's English.

Our classroom (I was in 1A) was usually arranged in straight rows from front to back so that Rev. Bill could walk up and down those rows while focusing on an historical incident that did not require his use of chalk.

As I recall, the first test of our intelligence, or our ability to memorize, came about during the third week of class. We were assigned three text chapters to know "inside and out" and were told that the test would probably be multiple choice. One never knew for certain.

Now, from time immemorial, one of the underground rules ofthe testing game has been that cheating is OK, if you can get away with it. (I, of course, never practiced that philosophy.) From miniature crib sheets to writing on the inside of your hand to the ever-expanding roving eye, cheating has been one of the most popular of pastimes.

In this first assault on my memory banks, I studied arduously. I really wanted to get a good grade .and, by the way, I was not one of those cheater types. I was, however, uptight about certain teachers, and Billy McGinn was one of them. I avoided class participation, if possible, and did that by sitting in the rear of the classroom. Life seemed easier back there. You could doodle, quietly chatter with your neighbor, even pass notes about what girl from St. Dom's Academy you had a crush on that week.

Well, test day came and I was sitting in one of the two rows that perpendicularly intersected with the teacher's desk. I sat on the left side. On my right sat fellow classmate, Ralph Perullo. Ralphie never made it past sophomore year, but he'll be imprinted on my memory forever. During periods of stress, Ralph exhibited a nervous twitch sometimes and his head always seemed to be in some kind of constant motion. As I sat down at my desk on that fateful morning, the Rev. Billy was passing out the test sheets from front to rear-row by row. We were given the remainder of the class period to complete the test. As I began, I looked up to see the eyes of Billy McGinn focusing right down the center of the aisle, a rather wide aisle separating Ra!phie and me. The Rev. Bill seemed to be waiting to penalize any of us for any rules infractions. We were the players who knew the rules-we just couldn't break them. I knew that perfectly well.

Halfway through the test, I noticed Ralphie getting very nervous. His twitching was getting more pronounced. I looked up from time to time and continued to see the almost holographic eyes of Mr. McGinn reaching out beyond his horn-rimmed Ben Franklin glasses and peering down on me personally.

I tried to concentrate and just kept answering those test questions. All of a sudden, I hear Ralphie whispering ..."Willy, Willy-what's the answer to question nine?" Ralph had a way of covering his mouth with his hand and making a question sound like a cough. After three unsuccessful tries, I got tired of listening to Ralphie's pleas. I just said: "I don't know-don't bother me."

That's all I said-those six little words. That's all I said and that's all I needed to say. The McGinn Vision and Hearing Systems were working quite superbly. All of a sudden I heard our leader evoke very loudly, "Mr. Wilczynski, it has come to my attention that you want to do well on this test, that you really, really want to get a good grade. Well, guess what, Mr. Wilczynski? You don't have to worry about it any more. You are going to get the highest grade possible. Now, why don't you bring your test paper up to me right now?"

I shook and I shivered. My face felt as if it were ten different colors, all red, and my legs were so rubbery that I was only able to shuffle slowly up to that demon desk. Placing my test paper on the desk, Billy McGinn said, "Here you go, Mr. Wilczynski. I'm giving you a 100 [as he wrote it right across the top page]. You must be very proud of that. Now I want you to go back to your seat and wait for the others to finish." The walk back was the worst walk in my life. I was totally deflated, sick, frightened and, of course, ready to kill Ralphie.

To this day, I can still see that 100 splashed across the front page of my first history test.

WHAT A GREAT MEMORY! Ed "Willy" Wilczynski, '58

21

~

have always dreaded September, the coming of winter, and the unknown fifth season beyond.

I had been a fortunate young man. The acclaim bestowed upon me as a Prep basketball player forty or so years ago was a generous gift, denied to many more talented than I, including my own brother. But while I has blessed with an accurate jump shot, I was bedeviled by a chemical imbalance inclining me toward depression.

The demon of depression first took the form of an eerie shadow lurking in the corner of a cold New England gymnasium. As a mediocre college athlete, I experienced the frightening realization that if I could fail at basketball, at what I did best, I might never be good enough at anything. The demon's visage drew closer when I became a teacher racked by doubts I could provide my students what they richly deserved. And then, the demon arrived with full fury. Its image hideous, never to be forgotten.

The college at which I was teaching was forced to close and I confronted prolonged unemployment. My confidence was gone. Life had no purpose. While never attempting suicide, thoughts of that selfish escape consumed me. The chilling winter beyond September had come sooner than I had expected.

But while I had underestimated the power Qf the demon, I had also underestimated the strength of love. Romantic love was mine from a moment in September 1964, when a woman-child entered the drab, sterile grayness of a government cafeteria-and my life, brightening both with a radiance stolen from the Illinois sun that had recently nurtured her. I remain as infatuated with her as was the sophomore of my memory.

More than romantic love, however, saved me from withdrawing into a world bordered by the four walls of an upstairs' closet. There were therapy and medication, support from friends, understanding by my¡ children, gentleness and strength from a brother, sister, and sister-in-law, the prayers of a mother, the rekindling of faith. And, most importantly, there was mature love as two scared children grew stronger and grew together as man and woman, friend and friend.

The demon, perhaps, will be back. There are no permanent sanctuaries in this life.. Still, in discovering devotedness beyond starry-eyed romance, I am confident I have found the love to lead me through September and the cold of winter.

John Massaro, '59

CLASSIC COCHRANE

t""'Y

had struck out three times the previous .; game without ever swinging the bat. I sensed Coach Bill Cochrane's frustration with me, but he said nothing. The next game, leading off, I hit the first pitch from a St. Michael's (Jersey City) hurler more solidly than I had ever done before, or since, and the ball cleared the fence at the old Annex. Returning to the bench after touching them all and being greeted by the team, I was elated. I soon glimpsed Coach Cochrane coming my way, anticipating he would also congratulate me. "At last," I thought, "some deeply sought praise from the silent one." Ever so gently reminding me of the previous game, and considerately making an important coaching point when my confidence was up rather than down, Cochrane simply said, "You do a lot better with the bat off of your shoulder."

John Massaro, '59

y first memory of Prep (and one of the most vivid) is of the day I took "the entrance exam. There must " have been 5,000 (or so it seems from the vantage point of 41 years) 13-year-old boys milling around the old Prep schoolyard.

Someone came out onto a little balcony on the back of Hogan (or was it Mulry?)

Hall and

'/7/\

asked~almost

silently-for silence. There was, predictably, no discernible change in the

22 behavior of the eager, nervous teenagers.

Then, Fr. Jack Murray-sash casually wrapped around his hips, left hand intimidatingly tucked in the sash, biretta insouciantly perched on the back of his head-appeared on the balcony. He let out a bellow I remember as a chilling, five-syllable variant of the word "quiet." Everyone froze. We didn't know that he was the Prefect of Discipline or even what a Prefect of Discipline was, but we did know that we weren't in grammar school anymore.

Latin class. Freshman year (1956-57). Pile drivers pound rhythmically-Ba-BOOM, Ba-BOOM, BaBOOM-throughout the year outside the freshman building. Father Tom Murray uses the repetitive noise-Ba-BOOM, Ba-BOOM, Ba-BOOM-as an auditory aide to instruct us in the proper cadence for the recitation of Latin declensions and conjugations. In addition, he mimics the larger sound outside by pounding random shoulders with a textbook to the same beat as the pile driver's-each external , Ba-BOOM matched by a more immediate and more localized Ba-BOOM. I remain convinced to this day that he was consciously inculcating in us an ability to withstand pressure: If, after all, you can endure a deafening tattoo accompanied by a matching pelting and still shout, "Amo, amas, amat; amamus, amatis, amant" or "Terra, terrae, terrae, terram, terra" with perfect pronunciation at the top of your lungs (a volume insisted upon to drown out the pile driver), nothing you will ever experience for the rest of your life can possibly unnerve you.

This is less a memory than a challenge. I maintain that I am the only student in the history of Prep to be sentenced to indefinite Summer Jug! The actthat produced this sentence is irrelevant, or at least I don't really remember which of the many transgressions that landed me in Jug it was. It may have been the time I got caught with a book in chapel. (And, I swear, the book belonged to someone else who asked me to hold it while he went to confession.) Or the time Fr. Carr happened by as I was throwing a mock punch ata friend with whom I was recreating some Friday night fight or other-and who went unpunished after doing a perfect imitation of a victim. (I've always remembered it as a replay of the first Ingemar Johansson-Floyd Paterson fight, but I just looked up the date of that bout and school was probably out before June 26, 1959. Maybe we were showing each other what the fight would be like.)

Actually, I got caught both times: One brought me three weeks of copying Rerum No va rum, every other line upside down, ,or some such psychological torture, after school every day for three weeks; the other resulted in indefinite Summer Jug. While everyone else was playing stick ball, I continued to ride two buses to school well into July to wash blackboards, clap erasers, ,and sweep floors. I told my parents that I had been selected for a summer enrichment program. I think they believed me. In any event, the challenge stands: Can anyone match indefinite Summer Jug? One of the great pleasures of my senior year was witnessing Phil Gianfredi's antics, especially those perpetrated for the benefit of Fr. Joe Browne. Phil's crowning antic was a coughing fit from the first row, where he sat, for the purposes of careful scrutiny, out of alphabetical order. (Incidentally, I was 23 years old before I realized that people were allowed to sit in any order other than alphabetical.) The coughing fit produced a gop of vomit on the floor directly at Fr. Browne's feet. The poor man fell for the gag like a brick dropped from the top of the Medical Center. He was all sympathy and solicitousness toward the bane of his existence for two years. It took about 20 minutes for him to realize that the vomit was plastic and the illness feigned.

We were sophomores and full of ourselves. And there was this inexplicable rule, one of many the Jesuits dreamed up just to oppress us and to challenge' our ingenuity in breaking them, that no food was permitted outside the schoolyard. This item in the criminal code hardly affected us lordly upperclassmen, because we had little reason to leave the yard. Freshmen were a different matter.

They had, to exit the grounds and cross the street to get back to class. One warm September day, a bunch of first-year students asked me and my friends if the outsidecthe-gate ban on eating applied to ice cream. Naturally, we told them it didn't. Cut to the next scene: Jack Murray asking each kid in a line of terrified 13-year-olds, ice cream dripping allover their hands, "WHAT'S YOUR NAME, MISTUH?" (Jack Murray's voice was inimitable and indescribable. Print can capture neither the penetrating volume nor the ferocious tenor of the sounds his larynx could produce.) He gets to one' poor trembling lad and roars his questions, and, to universal laughter, the kid faints dead away.

Nicholas Acocella, '60

23 wasn't going to attend Prep, but one day when I came home for lunch from Sacred Heart Grammar School on a beautiful spring day in May 1956, I decided to give Mr. Orthen, who was in charge of admissions at Prep, one last call. ' Since I had received a letter from him a few months earlier informing me that I was on the "waiting list," I had called Mr. Orthen at least once a week to see if I had "made it.:' He was always gracious as he informed me, "No, not yet, but don't give up hope-you never know." School would be finished soon, and my hopes of attending the school that would "guarantee me a ticket to college," according to my good mother who prayed daily that I would be accepted to Prep, were rapidly fading away.

As I dialed the number, I could imagine Mr. Orthen's kind voice breaking the bad news to me yet one more time. '¡'No, not yet-keep the faith." But, this phone call proved to be different. Either I wore Mr. Orthen down with my persistence (a personality trait that later served me well during a rather successful sales career), or my mother's prayers were answered, or I actually made it to the top of "The List," or all of the above; but Mr. Orthen actually said something different to me on this call.

He told me to get my mother and come down to the Prep to be registered. I was stunned. I asked Mr. Orthen to double check that he had the correct Kelly, lest there was a mistake (I later learned never to do this again. When accomplishing yourgcial, stop selling, take the order, smile and say thank you, and say goodbye). In any case, he confirmed that I was the correct Kelly.

I told him that we would be there as soon as I located my mother, who had apparently gone up to Jackson Avenue to get some things for lunch. I then quietly hung up the phone and then proceeded to set what would have been three or four standing high jump records in a row-if ever there was such an event-as I leaped for joy.

But wait; I had to find Mom, and time was "flying by." If I didn't get there soon, they may change their minds!!! , I threw open the front door and skipped three steps at a time down the staircase to the first floor, barged through the vestibule and out onto Bergen Ave. I dodged through the traffic and up Bidwell Ave. toward Jackson with the hope of finding Mom to tell her the good news.

Luck was with me. Mom was only a few steps up Bidwell heading my way. I yelled at the top of my lungs to my mother that "I was accepted." No need to say where-we both knew. We both embraced and danced round and round in circles as the newly purchased groceries rolled allover the sidewalk in all directions.

This moment was probably the ,most intensely happy ,time that my mother and I had ever spent together. Without a formal agreement between us or the aid of long parental discussions on the merits of the Prep versus other schools, we both knew from our early days in the "projects" (Lafayette Gardens) that we wanted this for me! We both knew that this was the opportunity that I/we needed to move up and that my/our determination, combined with hard work, would do the rest-we were correct.

I thank Goq for giving me such a wonderful mother and a wonderful plooe like Prep.

?

Jim Kelly, '60

~

asn't it just yesterday that Fr. Purcell mandated "age Remo"? Thirty-seven years later, so many of us are, and the day before yesterday I shared with my Lafayette buddies . that I had the priest from "On the Waterfront" as a teacher. . " Of course, they thought this was another Prep story of connection to greatness like that undefeated football team of the year before. I'd like to think that my lullabies of "Pride and Glory'" and "It's a Peter's Team" impacted on my son Michael, who made the wise choice to become Is there a Prep man (Class of '94). Or maybe it was my lifelong friendship with '62 classmates anybody out "uncle" Tony Mendolia, Jack Kelly, John "Mouse" Crowe and Joe Parkes who were there there still for all the life markers.' The wives, when we gather, are amazed that we still tell the serving same stories over and over and still guffaw, and we come together today, like yesterday, double to celebrate our victories, share our grief, and count ourselves fortunate to be among indefinite the 125 years of Prep's glorious history. I trust we'll do the same tomorrow.

Jug? -B.2.

Bob Zakhar, '62 (father of Michael, '94)

24

, ~

NICKNAMES Spud, Moon, The Prince, That French Kid, The Cat, The Koz, the Milne, Clem, Zippy, Mr. Z, The Duke, Tif, Tano, Stubby K, Mister Stwaud, Roy, Sut, The Boomer, Ned, Neenid, Donny Do, Chip, Mrs. Guzzy, Warzo.

STORIES * Mr. McCaffrey in the a.m. on the loudspeaker: "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh ...." Off. * Fr. Snyder at the base of Freshman Building stairs yelling to a freshman, "Where are you going,

to a fire?" Reply: "What are you, a fireman?"

* Fr. Snyder to AlB: "When you grow your hair that long you look like a girl."

Reply by AlB: "That's odd coming from a man in a dress." * Mr. Bob Howard to AIR: "No date for the dance yet?"

AIR: "Why, are you asking?" *

Walter Jaronski got an average of 99.1 for one marking period, so that any subject that he got a 99 in actually brought his average down.

* Why when it rains do suds come out of the downspouts? * Mr. McGuinnis: "Now take out your mathematical notebooks." * In freshman year, Frank

T. is fluent in Spanish, Italian and English-and fails Latin.

* Cheers: 1) "Ahhhhhhhh ... Duke." 2) "Got my vote."

* Freshman Retreat: French kissing is a mortal sin. * Trying to dance at a St. AI's dance and a nun comes over and puts her hand in between you

and your partner, saying, "Make room for the Holy Ghost." * Coach Halligan telling a ref: "We'd have a great team if we could suit up some of those

cockroaches in the locker rooms." * 1967-St. Peter's Avis year: Second in football, basketball, baseball and even bowling. * At a play, the question "Who should die?" The audience response: "Give us Barabas."

Indefinite Jug. Clifford Jacobson, '67

25 think of phrases which still ring in my mind from my years at Grand & Warren (1966-70):

* Jack Casey, English teacher: "1 take notes???" * Gene Sanzo, freshman Latin teacher: "Too much stadium and not enough studium!" * "Latin Lou" Parisi: "Iacite pilae, boys" (accompanied, of course, by the usual running and throwing motions in the front of the room). * Bob Howard, algebra teacher, and probably the phrase that I still use more than any other: "I wouldn't bet my lunch money on that answer, Sonny." * And the one that everyone from the sophomore religion block period in 1967 is bound to remember, from Fr. Stroud: "Ifyou boys aren't quiet, I'm not going to show you my pictures from the Holy Land!"...at which point everyone in the cafeteria cheered.

Having been from the netherlands of Passaic County, getting to downtown Jersey City was an obstacle which was solved by getting a much desired seat on the Mulvihill bus. Mr. Mulvihill lived in Wayne and took 10 kids from that town and Clifton on his drive into the Prep each day in his Volkswagen bus.

The route consisted at various times and seasons of Route 3, Tonnelle Avenue or the Belleville Pike. Most interesting of the example our driver set for his charges was his ingenuity for saving time getting into Jersey City. These little "short cuts" were termed the "Indian Trails." These included, but were not limited to, the daily illegal left turn onto the Passaic River Bridge in Belleville where we all had to keep our young eyes peeled for the constable, as well as the infrequent but always jolly ride along the sidewalk to get around a stalled car or a too-slow garbage truck.

The problem with the Mulvihill bus was, because of traffic jams or snow in Wayne, sometimes we were late for the bell. This would necessitate a trip to see Joe McCaffrey, the assistant prefect of discipline. Joe, who always seemed to be about 125 years old, would sometimes cut us a break if the story was good enough, but not always. Other times we would get Jug tor being late. One time we got off because we had a flat tire on the way in. Volkswagen buses with 11 peqple in them tend to eat up tires. Within a few months we were again stuck in traffic and got in about 20 minutes late. So the 10 of us filed over to McCaffrey's office to bargain for our afternoons. Before I went, I rubbed my hands all over one of the tires and got them really grimy. When Joe asked what happened, I offered my hands and mentioned something about "time for 'The M' to get some new tires." We got a white slip to get into class and no Jug. Unfortunately, that trick couldn't always work.

Thanks for letting me reminisce.

Get Flimlin, 70 hile there are any number of personal stories I have concerning the Prep, I think the following one exemplifies the Prep as a special place in our hearts.

In the fall of 1967, we welcomed Father Jim Fischer, S.J., as the new rector of St. Peter's Prep, replacing Father Emmet Norton. Father Fischer was an outgoing and gregarious individual; in fact, it was rumored that he was going to coach the tennis team, a rumor based on the fact that he showed up at the Lincoln Park tennis courts to play one day, and began hitting with some of the lads from the team, Jeff Zak and Fred Stevens, and hitting well with them! What a surprise!

tÂŤJ

26 Unfortunately, his tenure as rector only lasted several months-not even through the first semesteras he was called to another assignment and was replaced by Fr. John Scully. When Fr. Fischer broke the news to us at the Christmas assembly, I was devastated because I really liked him and looked forward to playing tennis for him. It was then that I gained the perspective of the reality of life, because oftentimes things don't work out as we plan them, but if we put our trust in God, He always takes care of us.

Father Fischer, of course, in his own fashion, also left us with a lasting impression, because he concluded his remarks with this statement: "Though I leave the hallowed halls of St. Peter's, the Prep will always be close to my heart." Whereupon one of the members of the band, seated on the stage, made the comment: "Yeah, sure." At that, Fr. Fischer pulled apart his cassock to reveal a Prep T-shirt and said: "Father Smith gave me three dozen of these to wear-one for every day of the month-plus extras. Believe me-Prep will always be close to my heart!" At that he received a standing ovation and made a cherished and lasting memory for me.

Fr. John Fencik, '70

..ÂŁ..1 ugene Sanzo was the scourge of those freshmen Latin students who came to class ~ unprepared for his rapid-fire questioning on nouns, ablatives, datives, etc. At the same time, he had the slyest wit when an offender showed no hope of responding correctly. I can remember one guy, a track star, falling short, and Sanzo admonished him: "Mr. X, too much traxium and not enough studium."

Maybe you had to be there, but 30 years later, it still cracks me up.

Paul Colford, '71

ne muggy September afternoon in 1970 was Class IE'S first and, ultimately, most memorable encounter with our religion instructor, Fr. Richard Timone, S.J. When he strode into the classroom that day, it was obvious that this was not a man to be taken lightly. Father Timone had a bear-like physique capped with a buzz cut. He also possessed a booming bass voice twinned with a raspy growl. When he spoke, his audience felt an unforgettable shift in the earth beneath their feet.

Also present that day was a student I'll call "Jan." Jan was a recent immigrant from Eastern Europethe Cold War Iron Curtain version. He probably had to dodge AK-47 fire in the course of his escape.

Jan was also the nicest guy you could hope to meet. His only shortcoming was that his grasp of the English language was limited. This would soon .cost him dearly.

Father Timone began taking the measure of his students by randomly calling on us to answer Baltimore Catechism questions. I had no sooner finessed my way through the Corporal Acts of Mercy when Father Timone called on Jan to demonstrate his knowledge of Catholic doctrine. Jan sat there in blissful silence. Father Timone repeated the question-at about 200 decibels. Jan said nothing.. Father Timone was not so reticent. "Well, son, I think you need a jolt!" boomed the good father as he motored down the aisle toward Jan. In a millisecond he was upon him. "Why don't you answer?" demanded Father as he pummeled Jan about the ears. "Are you sorry? Say 'Yes, Father.'"

Poor Jan managed to whimper a "Yes, Father" which put an end to the rain of blows. He was then dispatched to the exterior darkness of the hallway.

"What's the matter with him? Why didn't he answer me?" Some brave soul raised his hand and told Father that Jan didn't understand English particularly well and likely didn't realize that he was required to answer. "Oh, I suppose that could be the reason" was the sotto voce reply. Jan was sent for and class continued. Rumor had it that he applied to the Soviet consulate for repatriation to a Siberian labor camp . shortly thereafter.

O

Brian O'Shea, '74

27

~

hen I entered Saint Peter's Prep on a partial scholarship in 1970, I expected to do well.

I had sailed through grammar school and, despite some warnings about the Jesuits, I . didn't think Prep would be any different. .

I immediately joined every club I could, ran for student council, went to football games. I kept up with my homework, learned the ins and outs of commuting, and got good grades. But all that changed during my second semester.

The outside world was suddenly full of distractions. My focus drifted from school to new adventures.

I started a rock band. Met new people. And when my father decided to run for public office, I threw myself into .the campaign. As a consequence, my grades plummeted. I nearly failed several courses.

As.1 ended my freshman year, for the first time in my life I was doing poorly at school.

During the summer of '71 some of my West New York friends cajoled me to transfer to Memorial High School. It wasn't as much work, they said. It sounded cool.

In September, I decided to enroll at Memorial. But there was a hitch: I needed my parents' signatures to transfer. And they wouldn't sign.

I refused to go back to Prep. Hell no, I won't go. Remember, I was a stubborn, Vietnam-era, longhaired (for Prep) 15 year old. I sat in my room, resolved to wait it out.

After a few days, my father-a labor negotiator by trade-called me from work. He said that the principal, Fr. Markey, and my guidance counselor, Fr. Browning, wanted to meet with me. My dad said if I still wanted to go to Memorial after this meeting, I could.

Clearly, victory would soon be mine. I went to the meeting.

Father Markey, the new principal, treated me gently. He spoke of my "potential"~a word, by now, that I had grown to hate. He wanted to know what I didn't like about St. Peter's Prep. I mumbled something about the dress code and the hair code.

Markey was trying. I was surly. My mind was made up. I just wanted the meeting to end.

Markey offered me a few more days to think about it.

Then, in the lobby of Mulry Hall, Fr. Browning said he wanted to talk to me. I remember these words verbatim. "It may be good-bye," he said, leading me past the darkened classrooms of Mulry Hall, "but you're going to hear it."

Father Browning had befriended me as a freshman.

When I joined too many clubs, he helped me decide which ones to keep and which ones to drop. He had Charlie Brown cartoons allover his office. Browning was always friendly. Cheerful. Safe.

But not that night.

Browning was angry. At my attitude. At my father's attitude. At the ridiculous notion that I should transfer somewhere else. This was not to be a conversation.

He screamed at me. He cursed. He was in my face.

He threw things across the room. He told me about his childhood. He cried.

He cared.

When he finished, I was shaken. He smiled as he led me back downstairs to my father. All the way home on the 31 Grove, then the 21 West New York, I just sat and stared out the window. . That night, Father John Browning changed my life. ~

Bart Erbach, '74

28

~

uring my sophomore year, I was blessed to have the brilliant Mr. J?-\ ne day, I was being my general wiseguy Jack Casey as my homeroom ~ self with Senor Leonard Fordellone in teacher, teaching American literature. It was Spanish class, when he decided he had the only way I knew how to start every day, enough of me. with the energetic Casey prancing around "That's it, Senor Hague, I'm going to call the room, sneaking up on other students with your father," he said. an endless array of "Boo" to scare them into With that, my classmate and friend Billy waking up, or "Come back" when they Raleigh, knowing full well that my father had' wandered off into a catatonic state. long since passed away, jumped up. "Oh, I looked forward to Casey's class every Senor, you better make that call long morning, because he encouraged us to read distance," Raleigh said. everything from "Billy Budd" to "A Catcher in Jim Hague, 79 the Rye," even if he did make us read the dreadful "Moby Dick" during our Florida vacation with Mr. Mulvihill. I still can't forgive him for that one. But any time I see the movie "To Kill A Mockingbird," I think of Mr. Casey's little steps creeping up behind someone and saying, "Ah, Boo Radley."

One day stands out as a solid memory. Mister Casey set up some deal that we were able to purchase The New York Times daily at a discount. So, every day in homeroom, he would pass out the Times for each of us to read. Of course, the first thing I did was head to Dave Anderson's and Red Smith's columns in the sports section. Some things had to take precedence even back then.

However, one day, our classmate, Charlie O'Reilly-who, ironically, also currently writes sports for a few local weekly newspapers in the Bergen County area-approached Casey.

"Mr. Casey, I have to talk to you now," a panic-stricken O'Reilly said.

"Not now, Charlie," Casey said. "After class."

With that, O'Reilly snapped: "No, Mr. Casey, I have to talk to you now... Right now... Right now."

With that, O'Reilly took the Times sitting on Casey's podium and began to smack the teacher with the paper repeatedly, about 15 times, screaming "Right now," with every blow. After the last strike, O'Reilly tossed the crumpled and disheveled newspaper at Casey and stormed out the door.

Stunned, the entire class-silenced by O'Reilly's outburst, especially at someone whom we all loved like Casey-turned to Casey. to see his reaction.

"Oh, look at my Times," said Casey, as he held the tattered newspaper in disbelief. And then, he went right on teaching, like it never happened. We were all flabbergasted, then hysterical over O'Reilly's attack, giggling to ourselves quietly. Casey just went about his business.

The funny thing about the whole scenario is: To this day, no one knows why O'Reilly snapped that way. I've asked Casey several times over the years and he never knew. I know one thing is for sure: Jack Casey didn't get a chance to read the Times that day.

Jim Hague, 79

r

ather Dave Stump was the wrestling team's moderator and also was in charge of Prep's television station and equipment. A perfect match. Father Stump would come to our matches and videotape them, so we could see what we were doing right and wrong. In my case, it was always what I was doing wrong.

Anyway, Fr. Stump would also do a little announcing before each match, doing his best Jim Nantz impersonation; then he would put the microphone down next to him and cheer for the wrestlers while videotapi ng.

Here was Fr. Stump's expert analysis and subsequent words of encouragement before one of my illustrious grappling encounters: "This is Jimmy Hague, the team's heavyweight. He's trying hard and has good size and he's going to be a good wrestler before he's through."

Then, the match would begin. And it didn't take long.

"C'mon, Jimmy..,c'mon, Jimmy...c'mon, Jimmy..,Get off your back, Jimmy...get off your back,

29 Jimmy...get off your back, Jimmy. Oh, Jimmy."

Less than a minute later, the match was over. I got pinned once again and Fr. Stump picked up the microphone to offer his final words.

"At least he tried," the compassionate priest said softly.

Jim Hague, '79 or some reason, during our senior year, every time I entered the cafeteria, a somewhat derogatory chant would emanate from the masses. I never knew how it started and I still don't know why. It got so bad that on the day we took the SATs at Prep, girls from St. Dominic and the Academy of St. Aloysius were also chanting it.

One day, I walked into the caf and the chant began. It grew louder and louder-so much so that the freshmen were chanting along. I walked up alongside one of the little frosh who was chanting. He was having a grand old time.

I looked at him dead in the eyes. He kept chanting. "Isn't this great?" he said. And he continued chanting-until I gave him the bad news that I was, indeed, the "Hague" referred to in the chant. Doing my senior duty, and the duty to my father's name, I picked him up and put him in the garbage can. I don't know if he chanted it ever again-but I'm sure that he knew who I was from that point on.

~

Jim Hague, '79

~

guess the first memory I have of my days at St. Peter's Prep involves the first time I got to meet Brother Joseph Wuss, the late assistant prefect of discipline.

I came to the Prep in September of 1975 from St. Paul's (Greenville) in Jersey City, hardly knowing anyone. Only three of my grammar school classmates came with me to the Prep and they weren't among my closest friends. Essentially, my days at Grand & Warren started out as a loner.

During myfirst day of assigned classes-and in the middle of the first class, no !ess-I received a white slip which said that I had to see Brother Wuss at recess.

"Great," I figured. "I'm here less than one day and I'm already in trouble."

Immediately, all the horrific thoughts and conceptions I heard about Jug danced through my head. I figured I was headed to Jug for life, although I still had no idea what in the world I could have done to receive such a fate. I sheepishly poked my head into Brother Wuss's office and introduced myself: "Excuse me, Brother, but I'm James Hague, a freshman. You asked to see me at recess?"

With that, the Good Brother's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Ah, Hague, yes," he said with a smile, looking down at a set of index cards he had on his desk. His next words then startled me a little.

"Shep-yer~ska," Brother Wuss barked at me. At first, I thought he sneezed.

"I'm sorry, Brother, but what did you say?"

"Shep-yef-ska," he muttered once again, still not registering any light above my head. I had no idea what he was talkinq about. "Your mother...Shep-yef-ska?" .

I guess he was referring to my mother's maiden name, which is spelled Rzepiejewski. Hey, a name with all those letters and vowels would have to jump off the card, especially to a man extremely proud of his Polish descent.

"You mean, Zippi-ef-ski? Is that what you're talking about, Brother?"

"No, Shep-yef-ska," Brother Wuss corrected me. "Your mother is Polish, no?"

"Yes, Brother, she is," I replied.

"That makes you half Polish, Mr. Hague, doesn't it?"

"Yes, Brother, I am," I now happily retorted. The Good Brother then stood up, extended his hand and asked me if I wanted to join Prep's Slavic Club, like I had a choice at that point. I knew one thing was for certain. As long as I remained proud of being Polish, I had a friend for life.

And in Brother Wuss, I did. He would be the one in his familiar spot, sitting in his special corner on the second floor of the gym at every single wrestling match I was in, cheering his heart out for me, although it was usually a lost cause. He would be the one to read my report card before I did, to scold me if the grades even slipped a little.

30 And he would make sure I stayed along the straight and narrow for as long as possible. You know, I never even visited the Jug Room until I was a wise-assed senior, after starting a pre-arranged fight with Greg Herenda in the Brother's office, just to see how he would react. We never thought he would give us Jug. I guess we pushed his button just one too many times.

My relationship with Brother Wuss remained strong until his passing 10 years ago. Unfortunately, I was in Chicago when he died and missed his services. It's one of the biggest regrets in my life. But I will always think back to that very first day of classes and my meeting with the Good Brother. And with that, the good feelings I had about St. Peter's Prep began.

Jim Hague, 79

Prep coach and person I will always remember is Joel Kelly, '71. Mr. Kelly was assistant coach of the freshman football team. In 1976 I joined the team, having never played organized football, but I was quite enthusiastic about the sport. My talent was very raw at best.

Coach Kelly worked with me to improve my game both offensively as a receiver and defensively as a cornerback. He encouraged me daily and challenged me to work hard during every practice. He assessed my performance.

In addition to coaching football, Mr. Kelly was also a history teacher at Prep. His teaching position at Prep allowed him to stay abreast of the academic performance of his players, and when necessary, he counseled the players who were not doing well in school.

Coach Kelly left Prep my sophomore year, but I greatly benefitted from his coaching and encouragement during my freshman year. I used many of the techniques that he taught during the following three years playing varsity football. I finished my football career at Prep with all-county honors and the opportunity to play football at a number of colleges. I give a lot of credit to Coach Kelly for taking the time to work with me and teach me the game.

Sadly, Joel Kelly passed away about five years ago, at the very young age of 39. I have many fond memories of him and will always remember the lessons he taught me both on and off the field. I remain grateful to Mr. Kelly for providing the foundation on which I built my playing career.

However, the most significant lesson I learned from Coach Kelly was that one's own race should never be a factor in how we interact with each other. It's the individual and the contribution he can make to the group which matters most.

Thanks to Joel Kelly, I learned this lesson well and have tried to teach it to others along the way.

A

John Feeney, '80

~

he scene: the Prep Phonathon about three years ago: A classmate calls another from the Prep and gets the classmate's mother on the phone. He goes through the routine, ensuring the mother that even though her son is lost at sea, we'll find him. Anyway, the mother gets around to asking the phonathon caller about one of the Jesuits, a close family friend. For whatever reason, this guy (let's just call him Murph) tells the Prep mom that the priest is dead! .

The mother almost collapses, crying, "Oh, my God, I just spoke to him a few weeks ago!" She hangs up the phone in complete hysterics.

Now, Murph has to run a little spin control because the mother is beside herself. So he asks me, "When did Father _ _ die?" After spitting out my taco salad, I tell this genius that not only is he not dead, he was here at the phonathon earlier that same night!

Anyhow, the "Murph" story ended very calmly.

We laughed hysterically about it for about 20 minutes, and even called people back to tell the story that night. "Murph" called the classmate's mother back and told her the real story. It was really funny watching him do this, squirming all the way.

Anyway, what Prep storybook would be complete without some phonathon humor?

31

fter spending freshman year at another high school, I decided to transfer to Prep. Given my original accep~ance to Prep the 'pr~vious ~ear, my fairly ~igh grades and ~ven the enthusias~ic recommendation of the other principal, I figured transferring would bea simple matter. And It was-vntil my personal interview with the principal, Fr. John Browning.

For weeks leading up to the fateful day, I practiced my answers to the inevitable questions of why I wanted to leave my current school, what was attracting me toPrep now, and so on. Since it was midJune and the school year had already finished, Fr. Browning was dressed in casual clothes and did not, in the opinion of this public-school graduate, look like a priest. In his office, after a few perfunctory remarks, our conversation took a bizarre turn. How,Fr. Browning wanted to know, could he be sure of my true intentions? Was I going to come to Prep and start dealing drugs here, ruining the reputation of .the students and the school? I tried to convince him that I lJIiasn't a drug dealer and would do my best to preserve Prep's good reputation. A fe'vv days later, I received the acceptance letter in the mail.

In 1989 when I returned to Prep as a member of the faculty, John Browning often jokingly reminded me that I had him to thank for the job. Indeed, he turned out to be one of the most supportive colleagues I encountered, especially in those early days. Years later, I went to visit John at the Jesuit retirement complex on the campus of Fordham University. At first I was a bit worried that he would not remember who I was. Within a couple of minutes, however, we were laughing ;md joking about Prep-'and how if it weren't for him, J would have never come to St. Peter's. '

A .

¡ 8

Jim DeAngelo, '85

enior year. Most of the members of the "Campion Cult" were finishing their sixth semester studying English literature under the esteemed Mr. Jack Campion. "Sir," as he was known to' his faithful disciples, was the most well-read, demanding, humorous and eccentric instructor many of us had ever had in class. His astute intellect, biting wit and demonstrative behavior in the classroom earned him both the respect and love of his students. His vocabulary tests were daunting, .his "Hamlet" and "Paradise Lost" papers legendary, and his plass discussions humorous and stimulating. He was our friend, as well as our teacher, someone with whom you could share a good laugh both in. and out of the classroom. And so, although he was (or maybe because he was) demanding and tough, many of us who took his class as freshmen (and, incidentally, that was the only year he ever taught first~ . year English) chose to take his class again as juniors and seniors. He became our favorite teacher, and we his favorite class.

But now it was secondsemester senior year. Final exams were approaching and "senioritis" had set in. The vocabulary quizzes were no longer amusing, the papers no longer interesting, and the exam was the last thing about which any of us wanted to think. Our days at Grand & Warren were

32 coming to a close and we wanted to savor every last moment together. We wanted to revel and remember, dream and plan. We didn't want to study for one last round of exams.

So, it's the night before our English exam, and seven or eight of us are studying at Frank Betkowski's house. The first hour or so went well; then our minds started to wander. Thoughts of beach houses and summer drives with our girlfriends began dancing in our heads.

"I really don't want to take this exam tomorrow," someone said. "Me neither," another replied. "Let's just call him and say, 'Sir, you know we know this stuff. Let us skip the exam tomorrow. It will save you all that grading.'" Then, out of nowhere, a stroke of genius: "Let's kidnap Joan! We'll drive over to his house, throw her in the car and hold her for ransom!" So, that's just what we did. We "kidnapped" his 16-year old daughter, and it was easier than we thought because Joan (whom we all knew and loved, and whom we would nEwer actually kidnap or harm) was outside talking to a friend when we drove up to the house. She jumped in the car, more than willing to play along with the prank.

When we got back to Frank's house, we called Mr. Campion and informed him that we had his daughter, and that if he didn't cancel or give us the exam he would never see Joan again.

His response: "Keep her, we've got another one that looks just like her." Click.

Well, that didn't work. We drove Joan home, returned to our studies and passed with flying colors in the morning.

"Touche, Sir! Touche!"

Frank Briamonte, '86 "Hey, you're the hockey player, right?"

"Yep. That's me."

"Yeah! Right! How you doin', man?"

"Good, Brother, and you?"

"Good," he says giggling, "really good."

~

his actually was my second encounter with Bro. Thomas Garvey, S.J. I had been introduced to him some time earlier, but unfortunately can't remember that first meeting. .

It was December of my freshman year at the Prep, and I was waiting for a ride home when he walked into the room. He was wearing that goofy-looking knit hat of his and an old navy blue windbreaker, preparing for his daily walk through downtown Jersey City. I giggled to myself at the sight of his "pom-pommed" head as he greeted Ethel, the switchboard operator, and "Mr. Scirghi," her pet parakeet. Little did I know that in time this jolly, middle-aged Jesuit brother would become one of my best friends over the next three years.

"Bro. G." was a simple man: a gentle, friendly, ever-patient individual who was never without a smile on his face. A smile so genuine and childlike it could be the product of nothing less than perfect love and faith. I can honestly say that I never saw him become angry with anyone. In fact, I think it may have been physically impossible for him to experience such an emotion. "Anger," "regret" and "selfishness" were not even in his vocabulary.

Although Bro. Garvey was never assigned to be my advisor, he was the one I always went to for advice and support. His calm demeanor instantly made me feel at ease, and he always looked at the bright side of things.

The first major crisis Bro. Garvey helped me through occurred during my sophomore year. A friend of mine had obtained a copy of the biology test we were scheduled to take later in the day. Being an insecure teenager who was frantic about my grades, I made an error in judgment and jumped at the opportunity to look at the test at lunchtime. Needless to say, we got caught. .

"It's over! I'm finished! Mom and dad are going to kill me!" was all I could think. I had been an honor student my entire life, and because of this, I was going to fail biology for the term. I was crushed. "My chances of getting into a good college are shot! And forget about a scholarship!"

Well, mom and dad were not as angry as I thought they would be, and when they saw how devastated I was, they called Bro. Garvey and asked him to speak with me. The next day he invited me into his office, and within forty-five minutes, he gave a suicidal teenager a sense of self-esteem and a

33 renewed outlook on life and himself. He explained that if people didn't make mistakes they wouldn't be human, and that it is learning from those mistakes that makes us stronger and helps us become better Christians.

Brother Garvey's office was always open-to anyone: senior or freshman, jock or computer geek, brain or burnout. His room was a welcome retreat from the highly competitive and often chaotic world a high school student tends to create for himself: a place to relax, do homework or simply listen to some rock n' roll. By the end of sophomore year, I was spending every lunch period in his third-floor office.

During my final two years at Grand & Warren, I became very c1o~e with Tom, mostly through my involvement with Prep's Emmaus Retreat program. In three magical days at the retreat house in Sea Bright, I came to see our Lord working through my family, friends and classmates, and learned to love and accept myself. Having enjoyed my first retreat so much, I applied to be a team leader as a senior and was accepted. Going into that second weekend I was extremely nervous about being one of the leaders of the weekend until Tom gave me a New Testament in which he had inscribed, "Relax... Don't try too hard ... Let it flow, man!" I did, and the weekend was wonderful.

The fall and winter of my senior year brought the entire Prep community many reasons to celebrate.

The football team won the county championship, the swim team won the states and the hockey team won its conference. Tom seemed to be everywhere, cheering us on and offering guidance and support.

That is, until December 28th, when he passed away.

That night, I had a hockey game. We were getting dressed for the game when Coach Meehan walked into the locker room. "I don't know if any of you knew Brother Garvey..." he began. ("Knew!?" I thought.) "... but I was just told that the good brother passed away today, so let's remember him in our pre-game prayer tonight."

Complete and total loss.

I looked over at my buddy, Sam, and his face was blank. Everyone became deadly silent. "How the hell am I supposed to go out and play now?" I finished getting dressed, and as I emerged from the locker room, my best friend, Mike, who was even closer with Tom than I was, ran to me with tears in his eyes. That's when it finally hit me. I broke down sobbing. I didn't want to go play the game; I wanted to crawl up into a little ball and die. But Mike helped me pull it together and I stepped onto the ice. I can't recall one thing about that game, except tllat when it was over, Sam skated over to me and gave me the puck. "Do something special with this," he said, and he gave me a hug.

The next few months weren't easy. Out of habit I often would walk up toward his office during lunch, only to find it empty and locked. But somehow all the members of the Prep family banded together and helped one another get through the pain. .

I still miss Tom, and as I sit at my keyboard eleven years later typing this story, tears fill my eyes. The puck hangs in the Alumni Office at Prep on a plaque which reads:

In memory of Bro. Tom Garvey, S.J. For the support he gave us For being a friend as well as a teacher.

We love you.

The 1985-86 Hockey Team.

Tom helped me become the man I am today: confident, loving and strong in my faith. I thank the Lord almost every day for bringing him into my life, and I have spent the past eleven years trying to be a "Brother Garvey" for my two younger brothers and my kid sister. I'm doing my best, Tom. You taught me well. God bless.

I am me, and I am okay!

All will be well, and all will be well.

Frank Briamonte, '86

34 true "legend," Mr. Mike Gray, taught United States history to juniors and seniors during my tenure at the Prep. Complete with jet black hair and a tall frame, Gray was an imposing¡¡ individual who bore a striking resemblance to the actor Jack Nicholson. Gray's lectures were customarily obscure and incomprehensible, but his class provided many memorable moments, and I have selected my favorite for this journal: At the halfway point of the marking period, Gray would call each student to the podium and "confidentially" reveal an advisory grade. This was always a source of discontent, since Gray did not conventionally draft or grade exams. Multiple choice questions frequently called for more than one answer (or no answer at all), and essays concerned topics unrelated to class materials. Returned exams were devoid of any markings except for a circled grade on the front page. Suffice to say, sometimes a score of eleven (11) was good and sometimes it was bad.

On one "advisory" afternoon, Gray was in a foul mood. I think that he had spilled a fresh cup of George's coffee on the exams and had to regrade them. Nevertheless, it was my turn to visit the dreaded podium and learn my fate. I had received a 22 on the exam and thought that I was in fairly good shape. I confidently strolled to the front of the classroom and Gray, peering down at me through half-rimmed glasses, whispered, "Guarino, I can spell your grade in three letters... B-A-D." The classroom erupted and I asked Gray if I could meet with him after school to discuss my situation in a more confidential setting. He agreed.

I returned to Gray's classroom at 2: 15 p.m. that day. It was nearing the end of spring and the temperature outside was beginning to rise. In fact, Mr. Dandorph, the prefect of discipline, had ordered dress-down for the remainder of the school year. Gray, however, was immune from the heat. He continued to wear form-fitting turtleneck sweaters and matching sport coats. He also refused to turn on the air-conditioning in his classroom, opting instead to board the windows and lower the lights.

According to Gray, warmth was a state of mind that was overcome by darkness and tranquility.

Sweating profusely, unable to see my hand in front of my face, and suffocating from the toxic fumes generated by Gray's penchant for oranges, coffee, and Luden's Menthol Cough Drops, I patiently waited for a critique of my exam performance. Out of the darkness, a voice, whom I assumed was Gray's, offered some insight as to what I needed to do to improve my grades. I thanked the voice for his time and mustered the courage to inquire as to his peculiar climate preferences. The response was prophetic. .

Gray sat back in his chair, popped a few cough drops and professed, "Guarino, you are in training. In life, you will find yourself in many uncomfortable situations. It will be hot, dark, and odious. It is part of my job to prepare you for those occasions. Someday you will thank me."

Some 13 years later, I now realize what keen insight Mr. Gray possessed. Mr. Gray, wherever you are, thank you for your words of wisdom; it has been an asset time and time again."

A

Joseph Guarino, '86

r

ebruary 5, 1987, will long be remembered as the day that the editorial staff of The Petrean perpetrated one of the greatest pranks in Prep history against their friendly rivals, the staff of my beloved newspaper, The Petroc, for which I served as editor. For it was on this cold and blustery winter's day that the brain trust of The Petrean-namely, editors Kevin Granelli, '87 and Tom Finn, '87-hatched a brilliantly contrived scheme that left us looking like a bunch of "Ioserjerks."

On this day, The Petrean asked us to pose for a group Petroc staff shot. Although we had already been photographed for the yearbook on an earlier date, our "pals" at The Petrean thought it would be a great idea if we did something for our group shot. Despite the fact that it was freezing cold, we happily (and in retrospect, gullibly) agreed to pose in front of the English Building dressed in our summer beachwear. .

While we at The Petroc were more than happy to "yuk it up" for the camera, we did not realize we were about to be severely victimized by our yearbook counterparts. Once classes ended for the day, we all changed into our tanktops, T-shirts, Jams and sunglasses and assembled on Grand Street.

35 There we were: myself and fellow seniors Bill Deakyne, Jim Toy, Billy Price, Don Schroeder, Paul Lagermasini, John Coogan and underclassman Don Rogers. Rogers had forgotten his summer clothes so he posed in his regular school outfit. Getting into the ", spirit of things, Toy even took his shirt off while Coogan stripped down to his gym shorts and covered his midsection with a copy . of The Petroe to give the appearance that he was wearing nothing but the last issue!

Little did we know as Petrean photographer Wally Macawili, '87 lined us up for the' photo, his comrades Granelli, Finn and . Kevin "Boog" Raslowsky, '87 led a covert team of .yearbook staffers up to our own newspaper offioe on the second floor of the venerable English l3uilding.

Then, suddenly, before we even knew what hac,i hit us, it was over. After Macawili had moved, suspiciously, across Grand Street to snap the picture, gallons of frigid cold water rained down from above, soaking the entire Petroe staff.

Fighting off the chills, we looked above us to see our pals from The Petrean laughing. at us and cheering in delight. They had made total fools of their rivals and even captured it on film. Or did they?

In reality, "Boog" had missed his cue and let ,the water go too quickly. Macawili had been unable to photograph the greatest ambush since the Saint Valentine's Day Massacre.

Being such great sports (and idiots), we allowed ourselves to be talked into letting The Petrean staff reenact the prank so that this time they could take the pictures. Talk about' a double dose of humiliation.

So, on the second try, they got it right and once again we at the newspaper got doused.

To add insult to injury, a two-page spread was devoted to this practical joke in the 1987. Petrean. The lead caption read, "Petrean - 1, Petroc - 0." And while the Petroe staff swore vengeance, it is safe to say that we were never able to top the prank that they had suckered us into.

Maybe that prank didn't seem that funny to us as we stood wet and freezing ,out on Grand Street that February day, but looking back, I have to give credit where credit is due. It really was pretty funny.

\l

I

I

I

Dave Bryngil, '87

36

y any standard, John Duffy was unique. He was an excellent Latin and math teacher who insisted on absolute-repeat, "absolute"-attention during his presentations.

He was an imposing figure made more so by the presence of one glass eye. Memory suggests that he was about 6'1" and very stockily built. To the young freshmen and sophomores in his class, the appearance was easily 9' tall!

When minor lapses of student attention caused Mr. Duffy to interrupt his train of thought, the ensuing stare from the one good eye, and the total silence, gave all present the feeling that doom was at hand!

Very simply, he did not tolerate a breach of his brand of classroom etiquette, and more than one student suffered physical harm as the result.

In senior year, the class trip was a boat excursion to Bear Mountain Park. This was publicized with a large poster, picturing bears, placed outside the cafeteria. One creative soul spiced up the poster with a message which read: "Extra added attraction-John Duffy will wrestle the bears." A student felt a postscript was in order, and a day later this message appeared: "My money is on Duffy."

Of course, the match never came off, but Duffy's students attributed the sudden decline in bear population at the park to rumors of the impending fray!

rj,

Author Unknown

I'?'-\ n a beautiful Sunday afternoon in June of 1987, parents, relatives and \.,.../ friends of the soon-to-be graduates of the Prep gathered in the cafeteria for refreshments after attending an inspiring Baccalaureate Mass at St. Peter's Church. During this celebration of the Eucharist, a tall man stood stoically in the back of the church, smiling as he looked at the class he had known throughout the four years they were students at the Prep. They had entered¡as naive boys and were now leaving as educated, mature young men. One of the major influences on their lives was the relationship each had with this gray-haired, bespectacled individual who watched over them, disciplined them when needed and always guided them in the right direction.

The anticipation of a week filled with graduation goodbyes and celebrations was evident with the chatter and laughter that filled the room and the whizzing sound of cameras recording the milestone in the lives of the sons and grandsons of those present. Everyone wanted a picture taken with this man of the cloth and their sons. I was no exception.

As I approached him to capture him on film, he paused and said he would be right back. A minute later a thud resounded throughout the room and people rushed to the side of this stricken man. An ambulance was summoned to no avail. God had called Brother Wuss, S.J., home.

How fitting it was that he joined his maker on Pentecost Sunday, his favorite holy day.

Even though I did not have the opportunity to take his picture, he will never be forgotten by my family and all those who knew him. He has a place in our hearts, and we will always be grateful for all he did for us. Requiescat in pacem and pray for us as we pray for you, our dear friend, Brother Wuss.

Frances Bryngil (Prep Mom, '87)

PREP STORIES PART 2?

Did we miss any of your favorite Prep memories or reflections? If so, make your submission(s)

by May 1, 1999, to: ~...

Alumni Office St. Peter's Prep 144 Grand Street Jersey City, NJ 07302 ATTN: "Prep Stories"

If we receive enough of these submissions, we will publish a sequel in Fall '99. Many thanks!