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The body of the novel is true, but to protect the guilty, I have changed our names. Most fiction has elements of truth. Most of the events and characters in this story are true. It would be best to leave the past and sleeping ghost alone. I function as a conduit in the story introducing the characters, the events, and giving insight with humor. It spans from April 1960 to June of 1964, when I graduated from Sacred Heart High School in San Francisco. Each of us pays a price for experience and knowledge. Some pay more than others. Their experiences and insights are different, rather than typical. I believe that I had a unique experience in high school. I had faith and determination to endure. Each day was a challenge surviving the grind of school, the dehumanization by the Brothers, Lay Teachers, and the local gangs that feasted on the candy ass Catholic mama's boys. The physical and mental adjustments I made, the speed bumps and the glitches I experienced, helped me to navigate through life.

The essence of the story is never accepting life as told to us by the nuns. For eight years the nuns manipulated us by fear and insecurity. They filled our heads with negative thoughts. Most of us were neurotic by the eighth grade. When we began high school the brothers continued the barrage of religious guilt, and pushed us to manhood. The title "St. Nick's Outlaws" means that we were less than, or not as good as the other two Catholic high schools. Eighty percent of Sacred Heart was minority students. Most of us were not ready for the demands of high school or social behavior. Each of us tried to find our way in life. Each of us had dreams and hopes. A few of us survived, but most fell by the wayside. I never accepting what the nuns or brothers thought of me. I had an inner voice that always told me to follow a separate path. I believed that I was different.

There were three Catholic high schools for boys. Two were prestigious. St. Nick's was the other Catholic High School, and the only thing saving us from going to a public school and damnation. There were sixteen girl's high schools. The girls did not experience the competition that we did. They merely applied and most were accepted. Imagine the competition to getting accepted to any Catholic boy's High School. I place 93 out of 600 that applied at Sacred Heart. Only 240 of the 600 were accepted and only 160 of the 240 graduated. The brothers specialized in suffering and attrition. They enjoyed watching the weak wilt on the vine. Each neighborhood had a gang, and occasionally there were gang wars. Three friends died, because they were standing on the wrong corner of fate. The War in Vietnam, The Haight-Ashbury experiment, and the drug culture, were also part of the fabric that became the tapestry my life.

The story is in four parts: the Freshman, Sophomore, Junior, and Senior years. The freshmen year was a year of innocence, trying to make the football and baseball teams, and surviving the first cut of forty students. During the freshman year I paid a high price of attrition because of grueling exams, punishment in jug, and the social pressures of high school. This feeling of anxiety grew inside of me, and became a rage that exploded when I played sports. There were questions I asked about life, and I wanted answered. Some were answered, but then there were new questions presented, new experiences, and responsibilities that made me attain a higher level of maturity.

The sophomore year was a year of change, death, and a lost love. There are three tragedies; Two gang members tempt fate while playing Russian Roulette, Three of Saint Ignatius best rob a man for $3.20 and are conflicted of manslaughter, and the courtship of Mickey and Minnie Mouse: Bob and Joan's joy and tragedy. I improve in school and sports, but loss my best friend and first love. I spend the summer working in Yosemite with Bob and then he drowns.

The junior year is a departure from the friends I have playing sports, the guys who I hang out with at school, and the 23rd Street Gang. I become a loner who does not belong to a group or gang. I visit the guys in the Alley and occasionally and go to Mission Dolores dances. I meet a special lady at a Mission Dolores dance, I become a better athlete, and a better student. Now I have a lady that believed in me and makes me a better person. There is intrigue with the Christian Brother Regents. I introduce two cops on the take with Foxie and C.J. They discover the secret life of Brother Justin alias "Rusty." I spend the summer in Alaska with a friend fishing for salmon.

The senior year is when it all comes together. The Outlaws come together again. We were close friends the first two years of school, but then we went our separate ways in he junior year. The senior year we reunite I am the starting fullback on our championship football team. Our varsity baseball team wins the city championship. I get a scholarship to a Jesuit University, and my special lady and I get engaged. The shy kid that began the journey is now a man. The kid that lived in a blue-collar world is about to enter the gray suit world. I was as good as any guy from Saint Ignatius. I proved that Sister Mary Rose was wrong. She told me that the best that I could hope for was being a ditch digger, like my grandfather.

In the final chapter I look back at the journey, recalling all that was learned and lost. I explain what happened to all of the characters that passed through my life. Finally, I give focus to the events, and what was leaned. The adventure is not the ultimate destination, but the journey and experiences along the way.

ONE

The westward side of San Francisco facing the Pacific Ocean was once a vast beach of sand. The sand was removed and Golden Gate Park was built with gardens, a zoo, and a lake for Sunday afternoon sailing. The end of the park was called the "Pan Handle," because it narrowed into the Russian Hill and the Haight-Ashbury Neighborhoods. In the middle of the Panhandle was Kezar Stadium, home of the San Francisco Forty-Niners football team. It was built in the thirties during the Depression and was bowl shaped.. On Friday afternoons St. Ignatius and St. Nicholas Catholic High Schools played football there. A week had passed since President Kennedy's tragic death.

It was overcast and windy. The damp fog tumbled in and hung over the stadium. All of us had never gone this far. We hoped to be here some day and now we were. Some of us wondered if we were ready for the challenge. Most of us were eager to find out. A chill ran through me as we walked down to our locker room under Kezar Stadium. The Forty Niners would play the New York Giants the following Sunday. It was Thanksgiving Day 1963 and the high school city championship game would start at noon. We were playing St. Ignatius Jesuit High School, and had lost to them the last three years. We were St. Nick's Christian Brothers High School. This was our last chance to redeem three years of defeat. It was the last game that most of would play for Colombo-2 St Nick's. For most of us it was the only chance to become a winner and carry that honor throughout our lives.

I dressed for battle in blue and white with ten pounds of assorted pads and a helmet. The anxiety of waiting for the game to begin, getting that first hit, engaging the enemy for the next three hours, and concentrating on the game was more than most of us could tolerate. Then the ritual would begin. The ground began to shake and the level of noise intensified. My heart was about to explode. I could not breathe or swallow. My hands were wet, but my mouth was dry. The yelling became louder and we began hitting ourselves. We no longer had blood in our veins, only adrenaline. The chanting became rhythmic and the locker room began to compress. We huddled around coach Kepen.

He removed his baseball Cap and rubbed his blond crew-cut hair and said, "Listen up. Gather’round. It has taken us four years to get here. This is the biggest day in your lives. Few have the chance to be champions. This is about character, winners, being the best. For most of you it will be the last game you will play for St. Nick's. This is what we have played for and sacrificed for. You will carry this day with you for the rest of your lives. It is there, out on the field. GO OUT THERE and dedicate yourselves to being the best. GO OUT THERE and come back champions. GO OUT THERE and BEAT S.I.! BEAT S.I.! BEAT S.I. BEAT S.I.!!"

We ran out of the locker room and hit a wall of noise from the screaming fans and school bands. There was a sea of red and white on one side and blue and white on the other side of the stadium. This was the championship football game between St. Nicholas Christian Brother’s High School and our arch rival, the Wildcats of Jesuit St. Colombo-3Ignatius High School. We left everything we had on the football field that day. I lost two teeth and broke the index finger of my right hand. It was the best game I played that year. It was the last game I would play in a uniform. Number twenty-two, first string fullback for St. Nick's and All City, was just a ghost now on the fifty-yard line at Kezar Stadium. We came back as champions. The previous year we had lost to St. Ignatius in the championship game. This was vengeance for all the losses of years past. It was the first time we had beaten the rich kid "Wildcats" of Jesuit S.I. We were the blue collar kids from Christian Brothers St. Nick's "Fighting Irish." We were Black, Mexican, Polish and Italian. But for four years of our young lives, we were IRISH. We were "The Fighting Irish."

It all began the first Saturday of April in 1960. That day six hundred of us took a placement test to qualify for acceptance to Saint Nicholas Catholic High School. Two hundred and forty were accepted, but only one hundred and sixty would graduate.

Brother David introduced himself and took the roll. As each of us was called, we approached the desk that Brother David sat at. We said our name, gave him a check for ten dollars from our parents, and he gave us the test booklet. The cost of the placement exam was a donation to the Christian Brothers Education Fund. The test was five hours long, and consisting of Math, English, History, Reading Comprehension and Religion. It began at eight in the morning and ended at one thirty in the afternoon. There were two fifteen minute breaks. At 1:00pm we finished the last part of the test Booklet. Then Brother David spoke.

"I will now pass out paper to all of you. You will have twenty minutes to write Colombo-4 an essay telling us why we should consider you for a seat in September's Freshmen Class of 1960. Good Luck, Gentlemen."

For those of us who had not succumbed to a day without lunch and had survived the five hour minefield, Brother David gave us one last morsel to ponder.

"Take a good look around the classroom, Gentlemen. Only a third of you will be here in September. And of that one-third, only two-thirds will graduate. Only nine of fortyfive in this room will know the experience we call "St. Nick's."

I guess there are guardian angels. Something must have touched me, because in a stroke of brilliance I composed an essay that must have brought tears to Mother Teresa. When I was accepted, I was told that my essay was one of the top ten. I placed ninety third out of six hundred. That was good enough to be enrolled in College Preparatory. Those who placed between one and one hundred and twenty were College Prep and those one hundred and twenty one through two hundred and forty were delegated to the College of Commerce. They were good enough for St. Nick's, but not good enough for college. Every six weeks for two years we would be ranked from one through two hundred and forty, knowing that come the end of the Sophomore year, only one hundred and sixty would move on to upper division and get school jackets and rings.

September of 1960 would come and I would start on a four-year voyage into manhood. I would discover much about myself and would pay a price for this knowledge. I would experience joy and sorrow, success and failure, love and heartbreak. It was four years given to St. Nick's that gave a blue collar kid the ride of his life in a gray suit world.

TWO

Tucked in a pocket of San Francisco between The Tenderloin and Hayes Valley districts was an island called Cathedral Hill. The Tenderloin district was the part of the city where you could get anything at anytime of the day. The Vice Squad called it "The Tenderloin" because it was the juicy part of town where a smart cop could make more money in a week with bribes and discretion than an honest cop could in a month. The black pimps and hookers lived and worked in the Hayes Valley. In the middle of Sodom and Gomorrah was Cathedral Hill, seat of the Catholic Archdiocese of San Francisco. St. Mary's Cathedral sat atop the hill as a fortress against sin. Two blocks north of St. Mary's was St. Vincent's Catholic High School for Girls. Two blocks south of St. Mary's was St. Nicholas High School for Boys. And two blocks east of St. Mary's on Van Ness Avenue was Tommy's Joint. TJ's was a bar that served buffalo stew, turkey chili, and had the best selection of imported beers known to minors. It was a meeting place for warm blooded males and curious females, and only two blocks away from school, where smoking was permitted.

Brother Malkey, or "Moonface," was our homeroom brother. He was about as wide as he was tall, with a marshmallow face and arms that barely reached his waist. We would make bets each day to see if Moonface would come to class without food stains on his white starched bib collar, that all Christian Brothers wore. It seemed that Brother Malkey had a weakness for chocolate. Later, that information would become invaluable when a certain athlete needed extra credit to raise a C+ to a B-.Colombo-6

The Freshman Class of 1960 totaled two hundred forty and was divided into six groups of forty each. The first three groups of forty, 9A, 9B and 9C, were college preparatory. The other group of one hundred and twenty was taught business. I was in 9C. My ranking was ninety-three. We were given a list of books to buy, a schedule of classes with the time they began, and told what where in the basement the bookstore was located. Blue and white book covers were given to us to protect the books, but the book covers were like bull's eyes on our backs for every public school kid who hated the candy-ass private school kids. It was the first day of duck season every day. Poor black kids would look for wimpy white mama's boys and take their school jackets or rings.

They would become trophies for one and shame for another. The book covers were also barriers to the cute white girls who lived in the Avenues, Richmond or Parkside districts and went to St. Rose, Presentation or Mercy High Schools. The cute white girls associated with the cute white boys (TCWB) who went to St. Ignatius or Riordan Catholic High School. They were from white-collar families that could afford to pay twice the price for tuition. the TCWB's were smarter than us, and maintained a higher grade average.

St. Nick's was the other Catholic High School. If you could not get accepted here, you went to public school. That was an embarrassment that the nuns pounded into us every chance they could. It was like dying and going to hell. Banishment would be better.Going to school each day was an adventure. There was safety in numbers, so three of us met four others, and the caravan began. The number 24 Divisadero took us from Noe Valley to Haight Ashbury, where we took the 35 to Eddy and Gough Streets. The 35 went Colombo-7through the Fillmore and Hayes Valley. These were depressed areas, where poor blacks lived in apartments called "Projects." The housing had been built thirty years ago with government funds as "projects for the poor." There was garbage everywhere, broken windows, junk cars that had not run in years, and people standing on the corners watching the world pass by. And there we were slacks, sport shirts, wing tip shoes and those book covers. It was feeding time at the zoo and we were fresh meat. Most of the time it was a hustle or a shakedown. A hustler would ask for money. A shakedown would take your lunch or you would get pushed around. I did not take a lunch to school and I was big for my age. Most of these guys were a couple of years older than us and had dropped out of school. We were entertainment for most of them, but there were a few that truly hated us.

But there was salvation, the girls from St. Rose. They were on the bus before us and wore brown plaid skirts, white blouses and brown sweaters. There was one rose that was more beautiful than the others. Her name was Mimi. My day began when I saw her and ended when she got off the bus. I would not see her on the way home, so I would close my eyes and see her again. One morning there was a vacant seat by her. The thought of being so close to her and speaking to her was more that I could bear. I stood about five feet behind her, so that I could stare at her without her knowing. Finally the bus arrived at Eddy and Gough. The best and worst part of the day was over as we got off the bus.

Occasionally, "wino's" sitting in a doorway would beg for dimes or nickels to buy cheap wine. These were forgotten men, who once had families, jobs and dignity. Now they roamed the streets at night, sleeping during the day. At night you could freeze to Colombo-8 death or get jumped by younger wino's. The days were more civil and the liquor stores were open. Now a typical school day would begin with brother Malkey, "Good morning, Gentlemen. Tomorrow will be the first Friday of the month. Mass will be at 7:30am at St. Mary's. We will meet here at seven, take roll and proceed to church. Those who are late will get a day in jug. Those who arrive late at church get two days in jug. The kind ladies of St. Vincent's have invited us to a get acquainted dance on the 28th. All of you will go. All of you will dance with the young ladies and be charming. Brother Philip and I will chaperon, along with Reverend Mother, and I will take note of those not dancing and having a good time. This is high school, Gentlemen.

WE do everything together, one hundred percent."

"You have a question, Barbato?"

"Yes, Brother. I don't know how to dance. I've never talked to a girl before. The Nuns would not allow it."

"Well, Barbato, you have a unique opportunity to distinguish yourself. By the looks on your pimpled faces, either all of you just took a dump in your pants or you poor devils don't know how to dance. Interesting. Very Interesting."

Home room began at eight a.m. and lasted ten minutes. Moonface would take roll, inform us of upcoming events, and take care of other matters, such as who was on the list. The list was anyone who violated school policy, or broke the rules as known only by the Brothers, or if they perceived that we intended to do something wrong. Jug was penance for those who had committed sins of omission. It was from 3:30 to 5:00pm and Brother Benet' (pronounced Ba-nay) was the moderator. He stood like a mountain with his arms Colombo-9 outstretched. The young lamb knelt in front of Brother "Bad Ass" as he decided if he should slap is prey with his right or left hand, or maybe both. Then a bolt of lighting would come out of the sky and the sacrificial lamb would be laying flat on the floor. An indelible imprint of his four fingers and palm would remain on the victims face for three days. The remaining time was spent licking envelopes and folding newsletters for the alumni. First period was Algebra, followed by Religion, History, Literature and Speech, Lunch, Latin and English. We had ten minutes between classes and forty-five minutes for lunch. Brother Philip taught Algebra, had body odor and bad breath. Concentra- ting on Math was a chore, hence, Brother "B.O." Brother Malkey or Moonface taught Religion. Mr. Kepen, one of the layman faculty, taught Ancient History. He was also a reserve in the Marine Corp. His specialty was tank warfare. Brother Zachary was a former Golden Gloves Boxer and taught English Literature and Speech. Sometimes if you did not do your homework, he would lose his temper and get flashbacks thinking that he was in the ring with one of us. Once we had to carry Schuller to the nurse. We explained that he had fallen down the stairs. She was very naive. Brother Michael taught Latin and ran the bookstore. He was younger than most of the brothers and was decent. Then there was English with Mr. Christman. He had just graduated from St. Mary's College, a Christian Brothers College and had married the daughter of the Chief of Police in Belmont. The first day of class we made bets to see if he had a beard. Bush had determined that they were blackheads. The second day we all sat in class wearing our jackets inside out. That was the first time an entire class was sent to jug. Brother Malkey was in disbelief. It was the beginning of four years of higher education for us and the Colombo-10 teachers.

Most of us did not know how to dance, or speak to a girl. They did not speak the same language as us. And worst yet, we would have to dress and act like gentlemen. For some of us, hygiene and fashion were mysteries yet to be discovered. We used handfuls of "greasy kid's stuff" every day, and on Saturday night we would take our weekly shower. Between the grease and the crud, we must have lost ten to fifteen pounds that night. I am surprised the plumbing in San Francisco did not get clogged up every Saturday night. My older cousin, Cheryl, taught me how to dance and act with a young lady. I removed all of the weeds in her backyard as payment in full. Knowledge is power, but knowing how to dance was beyond cool. A group of us took the bus to St. Vincent's. We were cool studs. We could not put on enough grease or Dad's after shave to satisfy our new manhood. Some of us bought new black shoes for the dance, with two inch heels, pointed toes and hooks on the side for lacing. Most of us did not have sport coats, so we borrowed a coat from an older brother. I had my Easter suit from last year.

It was tight, so I said a special prayer to the Virgin Mary asking that my suit not rip and that I not step on a girl's foot that night. The name of the dance was "Blue Moon." It was a popular song on the Top Forty at the time and it was easy to dance to: one step to the right, one step to the left, one step back and one step forward. It was called the box. The auditorium had a jukebox in the corner. Exactly at eight o'clock Reverend Mother stepped to the center of the floor, clapped her hands once and declared, "The dance has begun!" The jukebox began to play and panic set in. The nuns carried nine inch rulers. If a couple was dancing too Colombo-11close and a nun could not place the ruler between them they would ask you to "Space."

If they were reminded a second time to separate and not dance so closely, the nun would write the boy's names in her little black book. By nine o'clock Romero had his name in every nuns book, and Brother Malkey's book. Reverend Mother personally escorted Romero off the floor and out of the auditorium. He set a record that night for corrupting the most women in one hour. We were impressed with his sophisticated ways with women. Man, if I had his style.

My baptism of fire was near. It was a lady's choice. A chubby girl with long stringy hair approached me. She was like a torpedo heading for my starboard side. I heard an alarm go off in my head. "General Quarters. Battle Stations." Before I could put on a life preserver, she had grabbed my hand and we were walking to the center of the dance floor. I had been hit amidship and I was sinking fast. She spun me around and began to lead. I followed. She was a good dancer. She was holding me closer. Her hair brushed against my face. I felt so cheap. Nervously, I had been chewing gum all night. She lunged and her hair fell on my face. Before I could gather myself, her hair was in my mouth. I was chewing gum along with her hair. In shock, my head snapped back and revealed that the gum I was once chewing, was now stuck in her hair. What do I do? Do I say nothing? Do I say, "Pardon me, it appears that somehow your hair got on my gum."

Beads of sweat ran down my forehead. She thought I was aroused. I was frightened to death. The dance ended. Before she could get her love hooks out, I ran to the men's room and stayed there the rest of the night. Eleven o'clock could not come fast enough. I sneaked out the back door and hoped I would never see her again.

THREE

Soph/frosh football season began the first week of September. We had played four games, beating Balboa but losing to Lincoln, Lowell and Washington. In two weeks we would be playing S.I. We stunk. Mr. Kepen had been very patient, but we were getting worse.

"It seems that some of you have your own interpretation of what I like to call weakside and strongside."

There are six men on the line of scrimmage, three to one side of the center and two on the other side. The tight end can be on either side. The side that he lines up on is the strong side with three linemen. If you add motion, the tight end takes one step back and the flanker moves up one step. The tight end now trots parallel to the line of scrimmage. This would put our strength against their weakness. On the chalkboard it looked good, but it takes perfect timing to work well. We looked like ballerinas on a slippery floor.

Baffi was our tight end. On offense, the tight end is called the trigger. On defense, the tight end is called a key (the one that unlocks the direction of the play). A tight end has to be a good actor to deceive the defense.

"You guys are getting worse instead of better. By now you should know the difference between left and right. You aint taking the time to learn your assignments in the playbook. O.K. I'll make it easy for you outcasts. We will have three running plays and one passing play. If you can master that, then I will add a couple of more plays."

He was right. We did not take football or high school very seriously. For eight years we had been told what to do or were led by the hand by the nuns. We were cool! We hung out at the pool hall on Valencia and Seventeenth Street, could smoke and spit like older guys, and we wore red socks. (Guys looking for chicks wore red socks).That meant that we had four plays to know for Saturday's game against Mission High School. What we did not know was that Mr. Kepen would yell the plays from the sidelines. The first series of downs he yelled "One," and we ran right, then "Two," and we ran left, then "Three," and we ran up the middle. We did not make a first down, so we punted.

The next time we had the ball on offense, he yelled "One ". The defensive team from Mission knew that we were going to run right and stopped us cold

.Then Mr. Kepen yelled "Two"; run left.

We ran left and were stopped again. Then Mr. Kepen yelled, "Three."

Our quarterback, Augie Proya, had figured out that this was not a game of football, but punishment for not studying the playbook.

"We can beat these guys. We can show Mr. Kepen that we can play football. We can show him that we are not outcasts. Let's line up like a run, but I'll throw the ball to who ever is open down the middle. Whata ya say?"

We broke the huddle and ran up to the line of scrimmage. The defense thought we would run up the middle. Augie faked the run and threw the ball to Teague, who had run to the outside, then back inside, and was wide open. He ran to the endzone for a touchdown. The defenders from Mission were stunned. Mr. Kepen was stunned. Augie Colombo-13 ran off the field and shook Mr.Kepen’s hand.

"Great call, Coach," Augie said it loud enough for the other team and coach to hear.Mr. Kepen smiled and told Augie it was our game to win. The next time we had the ball, Augie called the plays. Mr. Kepen stood and watched as we beat Mission High thirty five to seven. We came together as a team and had a leader. At the end of the game, Mr. Kepen congratulated us. He made Augie team captain on offense and Jensen team captain on defense. Typically, this was done before the first game of the season. We had not shown him much in character or leadership until that day.

"Each week I will add plays to the book. Each week I am going to raise the level of the game You guys are going to show me that you're not outcasts. I believe you guys are damn good. With my help and your dedication to the game and the team, we can be champions one day."

Goosebumps ran up and down our spines. We yelled and jumped for joy. We were on cloud nine.

"Remember this feeling, men. Carry it with you every time you suit up."

He had called us MEN. We never thought of ourselves as men before. We never thought of ourselves collectively as a team, but as individuals playing a game of football, showing off our athletic skills to one another for mutual respect. The following Monday was football practice. Augie showed for practice up with the word OUTLAWS written on the back of his St. Nick's sweatshirt. The next day we all had the word OUTLAWS on the back of our sweatshirts. We were outlaws, not outcasts.

As a team we had come together, we had a leader, and now we had an identity. We were committed to being the best we could be. We knew that we had embarked on a journey, but no one knew where we were going or how many of us would get there. We were St. Nick's Outlaws.

FOUR

Every six weeks we had exams. Grades would be posted on the bulletin board at the entrance to the cafeteria. We were ranked by grade average from one to two hundred forty. At the end of the first year, forty would be cut. They would receive a letter from Brother James the Principal, informing them that they were no longer enrolled at St. Nick's, because of their deficient grade average. There was a sign in the administration office that we would see each day;"Time is passing. Are you?"

Home room began promptly at eight with Brother Malkey. "Good morning, Gentlemen. As you have seen, the grades have been posted. Some of you are on the edge of a cliff. If you thought you could get by on charm and beauty alone, I am sorry to inform you that it is not so. Those of you on the soph/frosh football team with a grade point average less than 2.0 are disqualified for six weeks until grades are posted again. All of you that have a grade point average less than 2.0 will have deficiency notices sent to your parents."

Some of us thought high school would be parties, chicks, adventure and a little indiscretion now and then, at least for the first two years. We had been in cages for eight years with the nuns at St. Philip's Grammar School. High school was a jailbreak. The nuns in grammar school were from Belgium. They were nuns from the order of the Blessed Virgin Mary, B.V.M., Big Vicious Monsters. Their heads were shaved and the habits they wore were very uncomfortable. On warm days the habits would slide back and forth from the sweet. They wore heavy black gowns from their shoulders to the floor, covering their black stockings and shoes. Each nun accepted a life of hardship and loneliness, and must have doubted her faith often. These were cruel and bitter women that tried to make us good Catholics. Instead they fostered rebellion, hatred and insecurity. We referred to St. Philip's as "State Penitentiary." High school meant that we did not have to go to nine o'clock mass every Sunday morning, wear a tie to school and serve six o'clock mass during cold winter mornings.

This was high school. We were young bucks testing our prowess. Our minds and our bodies were maturing. Suddenly, when I would see a girl, I had a feeling that I had not experienced be fore. Could this be the devil at work? Was it the devil that now filled my mind with girls, instead of sports? Why was I getting those dreams at night of naked girls without faces?

One night I had one of those dreams and experienced an emotion that was similar to the time I had touched the electric socket. It tingled down there. Then there was a rush and I was wet. I thought I was bleeding. God is punishing me and I am bleeding to death. My mind began to recall all of the things I would miss because I had sinned. I would not see another World Series. I would never drive a car. I would never know the scent of a fair maiden when deflowered. I was too scared to look down there. I just laid there and hoped that I would not die. After awhile, it seemed that the bleeding had stopped. I would have to wash the sheets when my folks were not home. Soon morning came.

I had been spared and was alive in home room with "Moonface." Today in speech class I would have to give a speech about my summer vacation. Bush sat in the front of the third row, right in the middle, and he had the biggest teeth I had ever seen. He would flex his nostrils so they could expand and retract. Bush had many talents. He could touch the tip of his nose with his tongue. Bush would do anything to make you laugh or forget your speech. Once he taped a picture of a naked lady from a Playboy magazine to his shirt. When Landes was about to begin his speech, Bush opened his jacket and revealed an image that terrified Landes, who was seriously planning to transfer to Mount La Salle to become a Christian Brother. Landes became so scared that he began saying the Act of Contrition in Latin. For two months Bush reigned holy terror, until it was his turn.

Bush came to class and Mazuko was sitting in his seat. Mazuko was a little weird. He looked constipated and never looked at you, but through you. It was payback time for Bush and Mazuko was as crazy as a shithouse mouse. Bush began his speech and became distracted by Mazuko putting his handkerchief on the desk. Slowly Mazuko unfolded the handkerchief. Bush's voice cracked. Mazuko held a live snail with two fingers and raised it over his mouth. Bush stopped his speech and stared in disbelief.

Mazuko carefully squeezed the snail, so that the slimy green guts could dangle before they dropped on his tongue. Bush ran for the door and the men's room. He did not make it. Just as he closed the door, we heard the splat of his vomit as it spilled all over the floor, the walls, his shoes and his pants. Bush was sent to the nurse. She gave him a tranquilizer so that he could relax. The nurse asked the janitor wash his clothes. Brother Zackary thought that Bush had stage fright. He told him that he could finish his speech after school, when it would be just the two of them.

Class continued with Augie and Bautista giving their speeches with one eye on Mazuko, and the other on Brother Zackary. The bell rang and it was lunchtime. Finally class was over. Bush was sent home when his clothes were dry. He never bothered any of us again during speech class. None of us asked Mazuko if he really swallowed the snail. Mazuko had certified himself as a citizen from the other side of beyond.

English was the last class of the day. We were restless and most of the time we did not have our homework completed. It was forty of us against Larry Christman. Mr. Christman was about five foot six, weighted about 150, wore glasses and had a babyface. Twice Brother James stopped Mr. Christman, thinking he was a freshman smoking on the school premises. He had tiny penetrating eyes and looked like a bookworm. It was difficult trying to respect a teacher who looked younger than most of us. Scully had started calling him by his name spelled backwards; Yrral Namtsirhc. There was a television show called Mr. Peepers starring Wally Cox Mr.Christman was Wally's twin brother. Mr. Christman thought he could get some respect from the other lay teachers by having one of us clean the faculty coffee pot each day. It was at the discretion of Mr. Christman whom he would deem worthy of such an honor.

"SCULLY!!"

"Yes, Mr. Christman.

"What is a subordinate conjunction?"

"Is that when two words are put together, so they sound like one?"

"Scully, you are truly amazing. Just when I think I have determined at what level of ignorance you reside, you prove me wrong. You have created a level below bottom."

"Why thank you, Mr. Christman."

"Scully. You have won the prize."

"Do I get to go to Disneyland?"

"No Scully. You have been chosen to be the first, and I am sure that you will not be the last, to stay after school and clean the faculty coffee pot."

From that day on, one of us would win the prize each day. Some of us were more lucky than others and some of us would distinguish ourselves as purveyors of Epicurean talents. While some of us served a mysterious brew that could be used to patch roofs. At first it seemed like a good idea. The teachers would have a clean coffeepot and a decent brew of coffee. Mr. Christman received some respect from his fellow teachers and Steinway got even with Mr. McTee. Steinway was a handsome Mexican stud with a great smile and an even better move on the girls. Mr. McTee was an upper class American Literature teacher in his mid twenties. He wore thick black framed glasses and had acne scars all over his face and neck. Mr. McTee had a beard that tried to cover most of the damage, but his pained expression told of a youth who had suffered the cruelty that only teenagers could inflict. He was the junior varsity football head coach. Mr. McTee hated slick guys like Steinway.

The brothers and the lay teachers had the authority to challenge anyone who they perceived as violating school policy. If there was a suspicion that you were exchanging homework or notes, that was a violation of school policy. Steinway had better things to do with his time than homework. There were all those girls waiting to experience "The Makeout Prince." If he could only put what it was that he had that was so irresistible in a bottle, he would have quickly become one of the youngest teenagers to become a millionaire.

Jeans was a dork. He was short, puny, and had big ears like Alfred E. Newman who was on the cover of Mad Magazine. He was smart. Learning came easy, but for him, girls were on a distant planet. Steinway needed Jeans for homework and notes. Jeans needed Steinway for knowledge and inspiration. Mr. McTee had suspected Steinway, because he would tell all to anyone who would give him an audience. Mr. McTee had overheard Steinway's exploits and discoveries. It seemed that Steinway was on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. And why would a stud give a dork the time of day? One day Mr. McTee caught Jeans giving Steinway homework. Each student was responsible for his assignments and Steinway was cheating the system. They were put on the list for a week in jug. The homework was for Mr. Christman's English class, so he signed up Steinway for a week cleaning the faculty coffeepot. Steinway waited for the right time.

It was Tuesday after class and Mr. McTee was telling Mr. Meyer, a History teacher, that Friday night he was going to score "big time" with this dumb redhead with big tits. He was bragging that he had been making this babe so hot and bothered that she would beg for his "salty dog."

"Tonight the ground will shake and big red will feel so good that she going to hurt all over," he told Mr. Meyer.

Steinway's older brother was in the Navy and told him that when they were at sea for long periods of time, the Navy would put saltpeter in their food to prevent erections. Steinway was able to gets some saltpeter from Jeans. Mr. McTee had his own thermos for coffee that he filled from the faculty coffeepot. Wednesday and Thursday after class, Steinway had been putting saltpeter in Mr. McTee's thermos while he was cleaning the faculty coffeepot. Friday night came and it seemed that the old "salty dog" could neither perform nor enter the love palace. Mr. Mc Tee had spent more time than before getting big red in the mood for love. She was about to explode and he could not pull the trigger.

Monday Steinway looked for Mr. McTee. Mac was not at school, but was home re- cuperating from a head injury. Apparently big red thought that "Big Mac" either was gay or did not find her stimulating. Sexually, she was on fire. In a rage of humiliation, she hit him with the bedroom lamp, giving him a concussion and ten stitches on his forehead.

It was months before all of the pieces of the story came together. That night there was a complaint by a neighbor of big red to the Police Department. She was yelling every obscenity she knew at Mr. McTee and he was yelling in pain. When the ambulance arrived, the Police were gathering the facts and trying to stop the bleeding from Mr. McTee. The next day the story was told to some of the Policemen at the Ingleside Police station by the Officers answering the call. In time the story spread to the Parkside station, where Foxy Gannon told his son, Ted Gannon, who was in 9C with Steinway, who told Steinway about Big Mac's big fizzle. After Mr. McTee had resigned one year latter, Steinway told some of us what he had done.

FIVE

It was Thanksgiving morning, 1960 and I was relaxing in the living room with my father watching the Chicago Bears play the Detroit Lions. We were sitting in a big soft couch, comfortable, and my dad was wearing his Saturday slacks. He had three variations of slacks, dress slacks, work slacks, and when they were to old to wear for work, they became Saturday slacks to mow lawns or sit and watch football on television.

He always wore white shirts for dress and work, but on the weekends he wore shirts with strange designs. I always thought that my mother got these shirts free at Winestein's Bargain Basement, because they were so gaudy. I would fight with my mother when she wanted to buy brown or green shirts with flying horses.

I was thankful that hell week was over. Each year consisted of two 18 week semesters, fall and spring, with exams every six weeks. Hell week was the sixth week when all hell broke lose. All assignments that had to be resubmitted because they were incomplete and all chapters that a teacher did not cover because of poor class pace where due Monday and Tuesday of hell week. These two days were like digging fox holes, sharpening bayonets, and cleaning your rifle, while listening to an advancing enemy. The exams were three hours long, eight to eleven and noon to three, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Each teacher took pride in creating exams that could not be complete in three hours. Brother Benet' would give three or four math questions that would take more than three hours to finish. He would enjoy the frenzy some of us would go through the last ten minutes of the exam. He would count off the last ten minutes every ten second, nine minutes fifty seconds, nine minutes forty seconds, an so on. Imagine you are blindfolded, your back is against a brick wall, in front of a firing squad and Brother Benet' is counting off the last ten minutes of your life in ten second increments. That was hell week. Our second exams were finished and I was maintaining a 2.8 grade point average.

Soph/frosh football season was over and I was grateful that I did not have a serious injury. I played offensive and defensive lineman, (the pit) on the line of scrimmage. Each play was a collision of bodies that would finish in a twisted pile. It was almost halftime and Chicago was leading when suddenly the phone rang. My father and I looked at each other hoping the other one would answer the phone. It rang a second time and my mother yelled, "Is any one going to answer the phone?"

I answered the phone and it was Aunt Betty. She was crying. "Hello, Aunt Betty. What? What was that? I am sorry I don't understand."

Her words and her sentences were fragmented from crying and gasping for a breath every now and then. I could not understand what she was saying, so I gave the phone to my dad. He sat up and looked shock. He hung up the phone and sat in silence.

"Who was it," my mother asked?

My father stood and held my mother and told her that Uncle Don had passed on. He was 42 years old. She began to whimper, and then crying. Her brother had died three weeks earlier and she detested going to funerals. Two deaths in three weeks was more than she could bare. Death was a fragile reminder of how mortal we are. Someone once said that if you want to make God laugh, just tell him that you have made plans.

Each night that my father was a soldier in world war two, my mother went to bed afraid that she would never see my him again. The Depression and World War Two left wounds that never healed. Her worst nightmare was going to my father's funeral. Death reminded her of the anxiety that she suffered for three years while my father was in recognizance behind enemy lines. My father was the only man who had graced my mother's life.

We left for Aunt Betty's house before the twenty-minute halftime break had ended. My mother was crying and my father was trying to comfort her while driving our 1956 gray and white Pontiac Chieften. It seemed that we stopped at every light on Alemany street in San Francisco. We drove up to the corner house and there was no parking close by. I could recognize all of the relative’s cars. We were the last to be notified and the last to arrive. This bothered my mother a lot. When we reached the top of the stairs, the door opened prior to ringing the doorbell. My Uncle Richie stood by the door and gestured to come in. He was the second son of four sons. Uncle Don was the third. Uncle Richie was bald and had a thin mustache. He tried to smile, but it dissolved into a blank stare.

He was the back slapper, the loud one that would say the wrong thing at the wrong time. We entered, and everyone was already there. The living room had white carpet and blue sofas against three walls. They had a color television, their second. Most of us still had black and white televisions. Aunt Betty had a little French poodle that smelled everyone, then sneezed and look at you with disapproval. In the dinning room there was a large table with more food than could be consumed by all in three days. Aunt Betty always wasted a lot of food to show off that having their own grocery store meant they were better than the rest of us. Gallons of milk, jars of mayonnaise, and leftover food left open to rot filled two refrigerators. The cousins were in the bedrooms playing. I sat with my parents. My mother felt that children should not play at a time of death. Aunt Betty sat on one of the blue couches starring into space, looking for answers that could not be found. Her hair was not combed and her blouse was spotted with food stains. She was always so meticulous about the way see looked. My mother and father where good Catholics. Her sisters and brothers were not. By their standards, we were dull. They spent money on fun. My parents saved their money and invested in savings bonds. They lived for today. My mother referred to it as, "eating chicken one day and feathers the next." The tension was like sitting a pressure cooker. Then a bombshell, uncle Don had canceled his life insurance policy a month before he died. He had gambling debts that had to be paid and he thought he could beat the odds.

Uncle Don was a gambler. He was fortunate to stay state side during World War Two at Camp Roberts, near Monterey, California. During the week he would lend money to any G.I. at twice the price, five for ten. He was a good poker, dice and blackjack player. When he came home from the Army he bought my Aunt a diamond ring. They bought a new house, and they opened a grocery store in the Mission district, near Sears. They were living life in the fast lane.

During the war my father lost his left leg two days before his 24^th birthday. A year passed before he could come home to my mother. His leg was operated three times to correct the size of the stump. All amputated limbs (stumps) were "standard fit" so that the military hospitals could issue standard length prosthesis. My Dad needed time to rehabilitate so he could learn to walk again. He came home thin and pale. My father was was glad to be alive. He was looking forward to getting his back job with the Department the Navy and going to night school on the G.I Bill.

My uncle Don lived for Friday and Saturday nights. Those were poker nights or better yet, overnight trips to Reno, Nevada. They would drive 240 miles from eight at night Friday to one in the morning Saturday and gamble until the money was gone or until Sunday noon. Then drive back after being up for two days with little sleep and start a new week. Uncle Don lost more money in a year, than my father earned in a year. He was spending money faster than it could be made. Uncle Don canceled the insurance policy on the store. Then he canceled his life insurance policy, because of gambling debts. All of Uncle Don's friends were gambling buddies. But there is no friendship when money is owed and you are a loser. Finally a bad heart, poor diet, cigarettes and alcohol caught up with him and cashed him in.

The day of the funeral, my Aunt found out that not only did he have gambling debts, but a son with another lady. A lady with a little boy that looked just like Uncle Don came to the funeral. The boy was about three years old. He was shy and looked confused. She was a plain looking lady, slender, about forty with thick glasses. She and the little boy approached Aunt Betty.

"I know who you are by the resemblance of your son. I had suspected something, but refused to believe it," said Aunt Betty

"I am so sorry and sad to meet you this way," the lady said.

"So am I," said my Aunt. "What is your son's name?"

"Donny. He can't talk. He was born that way. I hope you don't mind, but this is the only opportunity that he will have to see his dad. I thought that Donny should know what happened to the man who gave him life. This will be the last time that you will see us. I am so sorry."

My Aunt stared at the little boy as they left. She was watching a part of her life vanish, as the little boy disappeared into the crowd by the door of the church.

Uncle Don's father, Reasti, had a friend, Fredo who bought half of the grocery store business from my Aunt. Fredo was Godson to Resiti and could not say no. Resiti made the offer very generous. Fredo was a butcher for his other son Richie. Resiti trusted Fredo more than his own sons. Fredo became a partner in the store. He and his wife became my Aunts' best friends. Later he would teach my cousin David how to be a butcher and help my cousin Dennis go to college. Fredo was the glue that held my Aunt and the store together. Resiti had made his money during Prohibition and helped finance all four sons with their own grocery stores. Now in the latter part of his life, he wanted to make sure that Uncle Don's family would be taken care of. He also wanted to repay Fredo for his loyalty during the bootleg days of Prohibition.

A month later the other lady wrote a letter to my Aunt. She explained that she had lived a block from the grocery store and Uncle Don had delivered groceries to her mother's apartment every week. She was a single lady taking care of her sick mother. When her mother passed away she felt empty and betrayed by God. She had prayed so hard that God would cure her mother and that she would find a man to love her. In a moment of weakness, she gave herself to Uncle Don. That was the only encounter they had. She moved to another apartment in the Geneva district of the city. There she met a man who loved and took care of her. He married her before she gave birth and was a good husband and father. Now her son knew who his father was and who had given him life.

In a time of tragedy when two women found the deeps of sorrow, somehow divine providence had taken care of them. My Uncle Don, by his selfish life and untimely death, had become a catalyst that changed the lives of two women significantly. The other lady had found love and happiness. My Aunt Betty had a good friend and partner with Fredo. Two years later she married Ed, the produce truck driver. He had admired her for years, while delivering fruit and vegetables to the store. He worshiped her and gave her much love and happiness, until he died of lung cancer ten years later.

Christmas and New Years Eve passed quietly. We were still in shock over Uncle Don's death and the difficult circumstance he left my Aunt. My mother and father were still hurt by the way they had been treated at the funeral. My Uncle Don's brother, Nick, had too much to drink and criticized my parent's conservative life style. They never liked the idea that my father worked for the Department of the Navy. Things were said and apologies were made, but the damage was done. My parents spent much time together, leaving me to myself. I always felt that we were different, as if we or maybe it was me that did not belong. It was like we were a pair of brown shoes and white socks and they were a black tuxedo with a top hat.

As a young boy, I could recall the uncomfortable feeling and hollow hugs from my Aunts. There was jealousy, because I was an only child. My Aunts each had three children and my cousins thought I was a spoiled child. They thought that I got anything I wanted. I did not have the responsibility of a younger brother or sister nor did I have to wear clothes that no longer fit an older brother. Once we went to Lake Beryessa in Northern California for a Fourth of July picnic. All of my cousins went swimming and I could not. I was told that if I were to drown, they would lose their only son. I watched from the shore and felt inferior. I never forgot that day. Somehow I was on an island by myself. I did not choose to be there, but there I was.

There was a rage growing inside me. It seemed that the only time I was able to release this rage was when I played sports. I would explode with energy, my face would get red and I would yell to release the rage. Baseball was a confrontation between the pitcher and me. That was a mild rage that I could control. But football was different. There was a struggle between me and the offensive lineman or the defensive players. I played both offense, as a guard, and defense as a tackle. It was a pit where scratching, grabbing, biting, kicking and yelling was the environment. It was a street fight with rules and at the end of the game I felt reborn. I never thought of myself as a warrior, but as a survivor. Some games were more physical than others. Some games were more satisfying than others. But there never was a feeling of fulfillment. There was an appetite that I never seemed to satisfy. I did not know what I was craving, but I knew that something else was needed.

SIX

It was a week before Valentine's Day and the freshman ladies of St. Vincent's High School had invited the freshman class of St. Nick's to a dance. Most of us still did not know how to dance. The Friday before the dance, we would take a bus to Berkeley for the Basketball Tournament of Champions. Prior to the trip, we had a pep rally with Ace O'Connor at the school gymnasium. The pep rallies were special. Anything within reason was tolerated as long as no one was killed or maimed. The first one was the best, because I did not know how much fun and spirit it would generate. Pep rallies were held the last period on Fridays for special events: the first football, baseball or basketball games of the season, all of the games against S.I., and championship games. St. Nick’s was four stories tall, and the gym faced the east side of Van Ness. It had hardwood floors and two portable basketball baskets with backboards. The gym was used sparingly and was in excellent condition. The seniors entered from the fourth floor and the juniors from the third floor. Then the sophomores entered from the first floor. As each group entered, they would be chanting, "St. Nick's Fighting Irish, St. Nick's Fighting Irish." The gym would fill with emotion. As each class entered the noise level doubled and redoubled.

The freshman class followed the sophomore class. When we entered we were in awe. We had to remove our shoes, so that we did not scratch the floor while sitting. For most of us, it was the first time we had experienced so much noise, energy and emotion. Then Ace O'Connor entered the gym and the noise level doubled and the floor rumbled.

Imagine being in a room with a jet plane, New Years Eve and an earthquake. It was the best experience I had in my young life. Ace was a senior who led the school in cheers. The brothers and the lay teachers understood they would be teased in good fun. Some had thin skin.

"For you girls in the corner (the freshmen) I'm Ace O'Connor. Do you girls knowhow to yell?" he asked.

"yes."

"That was pathetic, girls. When you show the rest of us that you are men, then we will treat you like men. Now one more time, girls."

"YES."

"A little better, girls. But we don't just answer yes, we answer HELL YES. Now, do you girls know how to yell?"

"HHHEEELLLLL YYYEEESSS."

"All right now. Who Are WE?"

"THE FIGHTING IRISH. WE ARE IRISH! I - R- I- S- H !"

Ace would get every one in a frenzy and then he would start the cheers. They were slightly irreverent pokes at the faculty.

"One for butterballs."

"Yeah!"

"One for Brother Malkey."

"Yeah!"

"One for jar heads."

"Yeah!"

"And one for Mr. Myers."

"Yeah!"

"One for freshmen caught smoking."

"Yeah!"

"And one for Mr. Christman."

"YY EE AA HH !!."

"One for you."

"Yeah!"

"And one for me."

"Yeah!"

"Another one for me, Yeah!"

Then Ace would lead us in the whisper yell. We would spell IRISH in a whisper, then say it in a normal tone, and then we would stand and yell as loud as we could IRISH. It was an emotion that most of us had not experienced or would forget. It bonded 760 of us together in spirit.

It was time to board the buses for Berkeley for the Basketball Tournament ofChampions. The games were played at Harmon gym on the campus of University of California. Most of us had never gone to CAL before or attended a championship game. These were exciting times and we were only freshmen. Imagine what it would be like asupper classmen. We played Richmond High School for the championship. Most of their studentbody was black. Most of us were minorities or white. They were a public school and we were a private Catholic school. Their best player was the tallest man on the court and our best player was the shortest. Richmond High had played St. Elizabeth's last year and lost.

The game began with excitement, but soon we saw that they were a far better team. I sat next to Gilmore, a chubby kid and one of the few blacks at St. Nick's. Mercifully, the game ended. St. Nick's lost by 23 points. As we were leaving the stadium, some blacks from Richmond High School confronted Gilmore and called him a "White Niger."

There was pushing and cursing. I pushed two guys away from Gilmore and before we knew what hit us, five other black guys jumped in and we were getting our asses kicked. It was over quickly. Brother Patrick ran over and started pulling guys off us. I had fallen on top of Gilmore and got the brunt of the fight, but he had twisted his left knee. He had a torn cartilage and had surgery to repair his knee. Walt would miss the rest of the semester recuperating from the injury.

I visited him in the hospital a couple of times. We discussed how the fight had changed many things. He could not play football again. Walt was the center and I was the left guard. On defense he was the weak side linebacker and I was the right defensive tackle. Often I would cut down the offensive linemen, and Gilmore would make the tackle. I was the "Piano Man" and Gilmore was the "Janitor." I would read the keys ( the player that indicated the direction of the play) and I whipped out the blocking, while Gilmore would clean up what was left and get credit for the tackle.

Walt had prepared himself for white racists, but nothing had prepared him for blacks calling him a "White Niger." He said he felt like he did not belong and no longer felt comfortable with most blacks or whites. Walt felt comfortable on the football field because he was a player, not a person, and now that was gone. I told him how at times I felt that I was on an island and that when I was alone or playing sports I felt in control. We sat for a while and did not say a word. We seemed to understand that we had something in common and just enjoyed each other's company. For some of us, growing up was painful. We no longer fit in these bodies. Our minds and our emotions were changing. For others it was an easy transition into manhood, dating and having control of one's life. And for some of us it was a daily struggle, an internal battle that we fought each day.

The knee surgery did not heal correctly and Gilmore had a limp. That summer his father was hit by a drunk driver one foggy morning on the Embarcadero. He was thrown into the bay at Pier 46 and died. His mother could not afford to send Walt to St. Nick's the following September. He dropped out of St. Nick's and I never saw him again.

SEVEN

It was spring time, baseball season, and the down side of the freshman year. I was starting to feel comfortable about school and sports. We had tryouts and I was the starting right fielder. There was less action in right field than there was in left or center fields. I enjoyed batting. When it was our ups, I sat back and watch the game or would swing away. There was something magnificent about the challenge between a hitter and a pitcher. The sensation of glory when I got a hit, and the total frustration when I committed an out. I was told once that part of me would die each time I struck out, but with each hit there was new life. Long live the batter. Some of us from soph/frosh football made the team. It was old times again. There were those purist who saved themselves for baseball. Basketball took more co-ordination and speed, baseball was a walk in the park with two lunches. But football was a baptism of manhood. Safe in right field was my way of saying that I was enjoying the ride. Football was a war and lessons learned for survival in the streets.

The best part about baseball was missing seventh period class on Fridays. We needed to leave early to travel to the different schools in the city to play the games. Seventh period was English with Mr. Christman. It took a month for him to figure out that half the class was not on the team. There were guys leaving early for their own "baseball games." Romero and Steinway fooled Mr. Christman the longest, but eventually he caught on and they became candidates for the faculty coffee pot cleaning detail.

Someone once said that you put your best players up the middle and in left field and your donkeys on the corners and right field. There were three "beefy" guys on the team. Jansen was on first, Zuppo was on third, and I was in right field. The gazelles were up the middle and in left field. The beef had played football in the fall. The gazelles were well rested. The gazelles got on base and the beef would bring them home. Mr. Meyer was the baseball coach and sensed division on the team. We had played four games and beaten weaker teams. When the games were finished, the beef would be left alone during showers and dressing. We felt like unwanted guests. Zuppo lived in North Beach, the Italian neighborhood of San Francisco, and his parents were from Naples. His father worked for Gallo Salami as a butcher. Zuppo was unpredictable, friendly one day and crude the next day. His nickname was the Bomber and he had the innate skill to retain digestive gases and at will dispense them with deadly accuracy.

Jansen lived in the Sunset district. He had an older brother who was retarded. His parents were very protective. Life was like being in a bird in a cage, but sports were his freedom from the cage.

I was the guy in right field with the piano on his back. I would hit doubles and get thrown out at first. Speed was a state of mind that eluded me. We were showering, and the Gazzel’s had left quickly for fear that we might speak to them. It upset Zuppo.

"Hey, I don't think we gotta kiss ass to dese guys," said Zuppo.

"I don't feel too romantic either Zup," said Jansen.

"Zup, how the hell did you pass the English proficiency test talking like dat?" I asked.

"Well, I'll tell ya Jim, dere's times when I 'm downright intelligent. But I don't wanta show off too much, 'cause it would ruin my image. I can talk normal, but the Bari twins think I'm in the Mafia. They dig dose kinda of guys. Man, I would like to have a Love Sandwich with them."

"A Love Sandwich filled with baloney. "Lucky for us that you are so damn humble Zup," I said.

"Kiss my big Italian sausage," said Zuppo.

"Hey Zup, If its so big, why do need to tie a string around it, so you can find it?" I said.

"Go to hell. That aint no string. It's a rope so when I walk the dog I got control of the beast." said Zuppo.

One of the joys of higher education was learning new ways to insult our close friends. We referred to it as "Cutting or Capping" one's ancestors or intelligence. The tighter the friendship the more "raunchy" the cut. There were levels of profanity, depending on the situation or person, that one would use. It was an art form that we practiced often to hone our skills.

We played sports for fun and the respect we received from our fellow players. The gazelles took the game more seriously than us. They had hopes of getting a scholarship for college. We did not think about college. We thought about cars and sex.

The mind has a way of focusing on what it is deprived of most. They say that prisoners of war think a lot about food. We were prisoners of lust. Every lady had something special to bring to the table and we were eager to sample each entree. Zuppo said that if we played hard and smart, it did not matter what the gazelles thought. We started wearing our football sweatshirts for practice, the ones that said St. Nick’s Outlaws. Some of the gazelles thought that we had spent time in "Log Cabin," a prison in the Sierra Madre for juvenile offenders. Our next game was against Balboa.

They had a good team, and we would find out how good or bad we were. It was Friday and we were warming up for the game. We felt loose and confident.

Batting practice was the best. Taking laps was the worst. After doing some stretching and throwing, we were ready. The gazelles had to meditate and focus on the intricacies of the game. We pondered the joy of having a double chili cheese hotdog with a side of onion rings and a chocolate shake. When you took a bit out of one end, the grease, the chili and melted cheese would fall out from the other end and land in the wrapper.

There was an art to licking a Doggie Diner double chili cheese hotdog wrapper. Mr. Meyer coached at third base. Today the indicator was skin. Each play had a sign: steal was cap and bunt was belt buckle. When Mr. Meyer would flash signs, the next sign after he touched skin was the play or what we called hot .

We began with a walk, two singles and then Jansen hit a triple clearing the bases. Balboa came up in the bottom of the inning and collected seven hits for five runs. This would be one of those games where the team that made the last hit would win. The ebb of the game changed to defense and the next four innings were hitless. We were able to squeeze out runs in the top of the sixth and seventh innings. We were tied at five. The eighth inning went by quietly, leaving the ninth for a hero and a goat to step forward.

Some guys live for the chance to be the hero. I was concerned about being the goat. We scored one run in the ninth and would have to hold on for the victory. Their lead off batter walked and stole second. The next batter grounded out to third. We were concentrating on the runner not stealing third and walked the next batter. First and second, one out, and the guy on first starts to run for second with his teammate on second watching in disbelief. Mackel, the catcher, throws the ball to second. The runner on second runs to third and is safe. The runner at second is safe, because Falcone dropped the ball while making the tag. All runners safe, one out, and their best hitter comes to bat. He swings at the first pitch and hits a frozen rope to Zuppo, who is standing on third base. Zup caught the ball for the second out. When the ball was hit, the runner on third ran for home. He now had to slide back to third base. Zuppo's attempt to tag out the runner failed. That should have been the third out and a victory. Darren was the pitcher and was upset. Mr. Meyer called time.

"Forget it, Darren, and concentrate on the last out. Zuppo feels bad enough. Don'tmake things worse."

Mr. Meyer walked over to Zuppo and said, "Let's get the last out and take a win."

Zuppo grabbed some dirt and rubbed his sweaty palms. The runner on third was dancing back and forth to distract the pitcher. Zuppo was pacing back and forth to cover the base. Jansen on first was edging towards the hole between first and second. Mackel was trying to make Darren concentrate on the location of the next pitch. It was supposed to be a curve ball, low and outside. Darren served up a flat curve down the middle.

Mackel's mouth was wide open in shock. The batter has a split second to decide if the ball is in his hitting zone. This one had "Hit Me" written all over it. He swung. The bat cracked upon impact and the ball slowly rolled to third base. The runner on third base ran home. Zuppo ran to get the ball. Jansen ran back to first base. The catcher ran to cover first base. The pitcher ran home to cover the catcher's vacant spot. Zuppo picked up the ball bare handed and threw to first, his only play. He threw on the run, bent over.

The ball began to drift away from Jansen. He stretched his legs and lunged for the ball. The umpire watched the base and waited to hear the pop from the ball as it hit Jansen's glove or see the runner's foot touch first base before the pop of the glove. The glove popped just before the runner touched first base. "OUT!" said the umpire. Zuppo lost his balance after he threw the ball and rolled on the ground. Jansen pulled the hamstring muscle of his left leg trying to stretch as far as he could. Zuppo jammed his right shoulder. Darren was so consumed with victory he did not notice Jansen and Zuppo on the ground in pain. Mackel ran to Jansen and tried to help. I ran in from right field. Both of us helped Jensen walk off the field. Darren felt bad. He said he was sorry.

"Its my first victory of the season guys," said Darren.

"Its our fifth as a team, Duke (Darren)." Jansen said

"Next time you pitch give us a break and try to strike out some guys," said Zuppo.

"OK, Zuppo," said Darren

The gazelles and the beef showered and dressed together from that time on.

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