Central Catholic

The first item of business that my mom took care of when we arrived in Pittsburgh was to set up a meeting at Central Catholic High School.  I had not taken their entrance exam; therefore, I would need a special dispensation for admission. 

Central Catholic was an all-boys school off Fifth Avenue in a pleasant section of Oakland, not far from Pitt University and right next door to the PBS studio where they filmed Mr. Rogers.  This was a bad omen.  God bless Mr. Rogers and the decades of fine work he accomplished for children’s television, but I could not stand him as a kid.  When I was 3 or 4 years old, I loved Godzilla, monsters, wrestling, and The Three Stooges.  A low energy, middle aged man in a cardigan talking to puppets in his sedate home setting was not my cup of tea.  Okay, back to the meeting at Central Catholic.

My mother and I were granted an audience with Brother Dave Baginsky.   Lasallian Brothers ran the school back in 1989 and Brother Dave was the head of the school.  He was a tall, wiry, fit man in his early 40’s.  His hair was thin and greying and he wore a push-broom mustache.  He had a commanding, authoritative, yet friendly presence.   Brother Dave certainly made an impression.  You could immediately pick up on the sense that he was not someone to trifle with.  He spoke in a definitive, straightforward manner but softened with a touch of humor as well.  Aside from a comment about the lines shaved into the side of my head, the interview proceeded without incident and I was granted admission to Central Catholic.  

The school building was foreboding with its gothic architecture.  It was a school with a sterling reputation and was one of my mother’s primary reasons for moving to Pittsburgh.  This would be where I would grow and mature into a fine and capable young man.  That was my mother’s sincere hope.  Students were not mandated to wear uniforms, but there was an exact dress code.  Dress pants with a belt, a button-down collared shirt, dress shoes and a tie were mandatory.  I would not be sporting my Air Jordan’s or any of my treasured athletic gear.  I would now be wearing stodgy, bland dress clothes.

While we are on the topic of athletic gear and shoes, I was a sneakerhead before the term existed.  The gym shoes that you wore were a badge of identity.  My mom took me to an athletic apparel store to buy new gym shoes for the school year.  Basketball shoes were of utmost importance in my world.  I had worn a pair of the Air Jordan IV’s since March and they had easily been the best shoe I had ever worn.  They were perfect for the kind of game that I played.  The shoes were light weight for the time with the right amount of cushioning and traction.  My mom did not have much money, but she was always adamant about buying good footwear.  She was willing to pony up for the right pair of shoes.   It is shocking in retrospect that she shelled out $108.00 for the Air Jordan’s.

I loved the look of hi-tops. In the first half of 8^th grade, I had worn the Patrick Ewing Adidas Rivalry’s solely based on the look of the shoe.   For freshman year, I ended up going back to a pair of gigantic moon boots: the Nike Air Force STS.  They were a poor choice in retrospect.  This type of shoe was made for a power forward or a center.  I played on the wing and loved to drive to the basket and create.  Common sense would have dictated a smaller, more supple shoe.  But no, I was taken in by the aesthetics and chose to wear two cement blocks on my feet that looked cool.

The first day of school rolled around in late August and I was introduced to Central Catholic.  There were home rooms that we reported to each morning.  Our classes were located in various parts of the building. Typing class would be on the first floor, Algebra I would be on the 2^nd floor.  Gym class was in a separate building that required you to go outside and walk a good distance to the school gym.  After gym, you’d have to hustle over to English class that could be on the 3^rd floor. 

We were assigned lockers, and this presented my first real challenge.  This was all new to me.  I was hopeless in trying to figure out my combination lock and too embarrassed to communicate this to anybody.  I decided at that moment that I would simply carry around all my books in my bag to each class.  I lumbered around with my backpack filled with all my textbooks.  It must have weighed at least 20-25 pounds.  Up and down the stairs, back and forth from the gym to the school and then walking home.  I did this for the entire duration of my time at Central Catholic. 

I was discovering how Pittsburgh was very different to Chicago demographically.  Central Catholic was probably about 90% white and 10% African American.  There was virtually no Latino population.  We had two kids in our freshman class that had Hispanic last names.  This was so strange to me considering how prominent Latino culture was in Chicago.  To put it into perspective you Pittsburghers, imagine if there were no Italians in Pittsburgh. 

One of the Christian Brothers was going through role call for class and he came across a name that proved challenging for his Pittsburgh mouth to pronounce.

“Callan…..Gaarrr….Gaarrsshh…..Gaarsha?”.  He was trying to pronounce the name “Garcia”, one of the more common Hispanic names you come across.  I was astonished that he had difficulty with this rather simple last name.  Garcia is virtually the equivalent of the last name Smith in English.  It goes to show how many Latinos attended Central Catholic and highlighted the fact that there was no Latino community to speak of in Pittsburgh.  Chicago’s huge Latino population had a culture and vibe that added a tremendous energy and vibrancy to the city.  Pittsburgh did not have the same vibe.  Both Latino kids at Central appeared to come from upper middle-class backgrounds.

Shortly after freshman year began, my mother thankfully had the good sense to move us from Aunt Bridget’s in Oakland to the leafy, tranquil neighborhood of Shadyside.  We rented a second-floor apartment from an elderly lady named Mrs. Hansbury.  My mom had found a job as a housekeeper/nanny for the Lieberman family in Squirrel Hill.  We were well situated geographically.  I was about a mile from the school and my mom was within walking distance to the Lieberman’s. My mom did not have a driver’s license and we did not own a car.   To be within reasonable walking distance to school and work was very important.

Freshman orientation began with all of us gathering in the school auditorium for an introduction to Central Catholic type speech.  Afterwards, we were assigned our homerooms.  I was in homeroom 104 overseen by Brother Anselm.  Brother Anselm had to be around 70 or maybe even 75 at the time.  He was a small, energetic old man with white hair and glasses.  I do not recall what he taught and never had him as a teacher other than homeroom.  I have positive recollections of him.  He had a real enthusiasm for sport, particularly football.  

Intramural Sports

One of my first introductions to sports at Central was intramural football.  Each home room formed a team and every Saturday morning we competed against each other.  I loved it.  I had played football during recess at Gospel Outreach, but not in a league or anything of an organized nature.  During intramurals, I played defensive end and wide receiver/tight end.  After the intramural touch football games, some of us stayed at the field afterwards and played tackle.  There were some big hits with no pads.  It was a little crazy in retrospect, but we did not care. 

I remember vividly this big black kid, Cornell Jones, running up the middle of the field.  Cornell must have already weighed around 200lbs.  This white kid in a Bubby Brister jersey was waiting to tackle him.  Cornell absolutely steamrolled this guy and left him as roadkill.  A few minutes later, it was my turn.   Cornell takes a handoff and breaks into the open field.  He is charging directly at me and adrenaline is pumping through my body.  I was probably 180lbs (though quickly rising at this point. I had easily packed on 20-25lbs since arriving in Pittsburgh from laying around feeding my face.  Cornell locked eyes with me.  I braced myself as best I could.  The impact was massive but I bearhug tackled him and brought him to the ground:  Instant credibility.  I had survived and managed to take down a moose.

Cornell was actually a big sweetheart and a very nice guy.  He was almost always happy and enthusiastic.  I remember him telling me that he was cousins with James “Big Cat” Williams, who played with the Chicago Bears.  Like many of the black students at Central, he had a prominent flattop.  I should have asked him where he got his hair cut because for the entire time that I lived in Pittsburgh I could not find a barbershop that knew how to give a proper fade!  I probably just needed to find a barbershop in East Liberty. We got along well, and I am a little surprised that we did not become better friends.  But the black kids tended to hang out together and perhaps that played a role. 

In the last Intermural playoff game, we lost. I ran fly patterns over and over late in the game until my legs were giving out. I had a ton of fun playing intramural and tackle games on Saturdays.  Sports are such a key factor in acquiring respect or establishing credibility in social circles at a school.  While it was a much deeper pool of talent than Gospel Outreach, I did not feel out of place.  I played like a maniac and gave everything that I had.  I remember Mike Dayton telling me that I looked like the devil as I lined up at defensive end.  My giant unibrow definitely helped convey a menacing presence with malevolent intent.    

We sometimes played at the open, green spaces near Pitt University and everything off the school grounds was tackle football.  I remember carrying the ball straight towards Chris Connors.  Chris was bigger than me and took me down.  There was an audible reaction of surprise from teammates.  I was a little surprised myself!  But I did not worry about it and returned the favor when Chris had the ball.  Those were happy times, and I was establishing myself with my peers.  September of freshman year was by some margin the most fun that I had at Central.

Football tryouts had already occurred over the summer, so playing freshman football was not an option.  That was a shame in retrospect because I had the mentality and physicality for the sport. 

I mentioned how I had put on at least 25 pounds since arriving in Pittsburgh.  This happened over just three months, from August until October.  My physiology had significantly changed from the end of July compared to October.  While I would play sports all day each Saturday, I was not doing much during the week. I was eating a lot, especially in the evenings.  I did not pay any notice and this pattern continued for the fall. 

There were a few attempts to go out for a run after school.  I would run from my house up to the stoplight by Central Catholic.  I did not like running but I subconsciously knew that I needed to be in better shape.  I remember homeroom classmate Bruno Cutrulla telling me that he had seen me running.  The running quickly went by the wayside as the school year moved into late fall.

By the end of October or early November, intramural football concluded. We moved into basketball season.  I was pumped.  While intramural football was fun and exhilarating, basketball was the sport where I was truly invested.  During gym class the teacher had us running laps around the gym.  As we were running, I casually jumped up and grabbed the rim.  This was noticed and I could hear some of the guys’ reactions.  It felt good to elicit that kind of audible response.  We would play basketball in gym class and I established myself as a legit player.  As I recall, intramural basketball worked differently from how football functioned.  Captains for each team were designated and they would pick players based on ability.  That does not seem to make sense, but that is what I remember. 

I was one of the first players taken in our intramural “Draft”, which included all the freshman.  If memory serves me correct, I was drafted onto a team where Kevin Klingensmith was the captain.  Kevin looked the part of a good-natured rogue.  I was proud to be one of the first players taken.  This was a fair assessment of what I brought to the table.  I could score, rebound, and defend.  Just like football, we played on Saturday mornings.  The games were very competitive. I discovered that there were kids who jumped higher than me:  Brent Smith quickly come to mind.  There were kids, like Daniel Taylor, who were taller and there were kids who were stronger.  I did not consciously take in this information, but I was definitely making mental notes at some level.  However, once again I was more than holding my own on the court. I played reasonably well for the most part except for one game that stands out. Competitive people tend to remember their failures far more vividly than their successes.  I am no exception to that rule.  We were playing a team that was led by Frank Folino.  Frank was a big, solidly built Italian kid who played football and he was also a decent basketball player.  Frank had a very large head.  He did not have any single athletic quality that stood out or caught the eye, aside from that large melon.  However, I was already aware that he carried some kind of reputation as an overall athlete.  There seemed to be a general acknowledgment that he was somebody of note.  Looking back, Frank would have been perfectly cast as a Roman centurion if they had ever staged Julius Caesar at Central. 

For some odd reason after scoring a basket early in the game I became strangely passive.  I do not know if I was spooked or intimidated by playing someone who had definitely come through a proper basketball background, but I was practically invisible for the game.  I was not even matched up directly with Frank.  I scored 2 points.  That was it.  I was a ghost.  What’s frustrating is that it was not as if I took 20 shots and played poorly trying to impose myself.  That would have been far more acceptable in retrospect.  I allowed myself to drift out of the game and be a complete non-factor.    I recently heard Joe Schmidt, the former rugby coach for Ireland say that he wears his scars far more than his successes.  This rings true and that game still sticks in my craw.

I recovered to play relatively well in the remaining games.  However, when I was at my best, I carried myself with an absolute arrogance mixed with a competitive hostility.  That mentality was such an important part of my makeup as an athlete.  That ruthlessness had dissipated to some degree.  I had become softer physically and mentally since the move to Pittsburgh.  There were only flashes of the confidence that demanded that I not just play, but also dominate a game.  One moment where that trait briefly flickered was one of our last intramural games.  It was tight and our team was up by a couple of points.  I had scored and rebounded well in this game and in the latter stages I nailed a tough 17-foot jumper with a defender in my face to seal the win.  I made the motion of the letting off a six shooter and I was absolutely pumped.  It is one of the few moments where I felt happy and exuberant like I did in Chicago.  I hung around afterwards with Tom Adrian, a well-schooled guard and we grabbed a sandwich in the area after the game.  Overall, I averaged around 16 points and 10 or 12 rebounds a game during the intramural season.

Intramural basketball was a big deal and I remember Brother Dave before English updating the class on results and box scores.  “Room 104 defeated Room 412.  Cookie Monster (his nickname for me) had 16 points.”.  It may not sound like much, but I was happy to be recognized.

I loved playing defense just as much as scoring.  Another game that stays with me was one where I was matched up with Travis McDonaugh.  Travis was a rangy guard who clearly fancied himself and had a flashy game to match.  I could not wait to lock horns guarding him.  It was his cocksure demeanor that flipped my switch.  I distinctly remember locking him down and holding him scoreless.  I could see his frustration build as everything he attempted, I was able to nullify.  Travis was a funny kid who used to drive some of the teachers bonkers with his languid, relaxed, back talking manner.  He also played on the Freshman basketball team so while I may have shut him down, he was a player of some worth.

Basketball Tryouts

Sign-up for the Central Catholic basketball team tryouts were posted in late November or early December.  I was nervous.  Self-doubt had begun to creep in as I realized that I had never played any level of organized basketball.  I still had the blind confidence that I could compete with any of the players that would be considered to belong to the upper echelon.  However, the overall setting began to inhibit me. Coaches that I did not know were barking out instructions.  There were drills that I had never run before.   The lack of familiarity with the process led to an uncertainty.   My reaction was to simply try to fit in and not make any mistakes.

What I remember from that day of tryouts were the drills we ran and the mini scrimmages.  The scrimmage must have lasted less than five minutes, and I barely touched the ball.  I did not make any glaring mistakes, but I did not do anything exceptional either.  We finished the first day of tryouts with a long session of suicides.  For those who are unfamiliar, suicides are a basketball conditioning drill. You begin on the baseline of the court and then sprint back and forth.  Initially, you run to the free throw line, then to half court, then to the free throw line at the far end of the court and finally the length of the court.

However, because there were so many kids at tryouts, the coaches had us line up along the sideline. We ran the suicides across the court as opposed to up and down the full court.  This meant that the suicides would be shorter but had more stops and starts.  This type of drill tested conditioning and quickness.  We lined up, the whistle blew, and we all shot out and began racing back and forth.  I had never run this drill before and I quickly learned to hate it. 

This drill combined: quick stops and starts, running hard over short distances, directional changes and generating the power and speed to accelerate.  It quickly took a toll on me physically.  I started to struggle and gas out badly.  I was getting badly exposed.  My overall conditioning was terrible.  We probably ran the suicides for 5 minutes. It felt like a half an hour.   What I remember clearly was that by the end, I was one of the very last to finish.  My fat ass was so out of shape.  At this point, I was probably pushing 195-200 lbs.  I was physically shattered at the end and that was it.  Day one of basketball tryouts were finished.

We were informed by the coaches that a list of names would be posted the following afternoon on the first floor of the school near the main office for the players that had made the cut.  The next day I went to school nervous but optimistic.  Sure, I had faded badly in the suicides. Nonetheless, I was confident that once we began to scrimmage more frequently the coaches would see what I could do on the court. The rest would take care of itself.  I also tried to assure myself that I had built up some credit through intramural basketball.  If I had not done anything exceptional on the first day of tryouts, it was partly because there had been little opportunity to do so.  That is how I rationalized it in my head.

The list was posted on the wall opposite of the main office.   It contained the names in alphabetical order of the players who had made the cut.  I scanned the list with laser focus to find my name and end the frantic uncertainty.  I quickly located the C’s and went over the names.  Nothing.  I examined the list again up and down.  My vision almost blurry as I was scanning the list so quickly.   I slowed down and looked over the list a third time with a sinking realization.  I paused for a moment, swallowed hard, turned down the stairs towards the doors that led to the front exit of the school and walked away. 

As you may have already guessed, my name was not on the list.  I was crushed.  The sensation of realizing what happened was not the stereotypical knot in the stomach.  It was a feeling of getting spiritually eviscerated.  All the life in me drained away.  I felt myself go pale and I barely kept my composure as I left the school.  The profound level of shock and debilitating disappointment was something I had never come close to experiencing.    

I had been in love with basketball since the 6^th grade.  Much of my identity had been invested in being a basketball player and an athlete.  It had now been quickly determined that I was not good enough to play on the high school team.  It was demoralizing and soul destroying to be dismissed from consideration by the coaching staff.  I dropped into a pit of profound despair.  My reaction was not to rage and figure out why this had happened.  I just sank.  I began to retreat socially and give less of myself to everything in general.  There was no one to talk about what I had experienced.  My mother empathized and simply said that life is full of disappointments.  I was not going to get a pick me up speech from her.  It just was not in her nature.  In retrospect, it is easy to see why I was one of the first cuts at basketball tryouts.  I was overweight, out of shape, and I had not done anything notable on the day of tryouts aside from nearly finishing last in the suicide drill.  I fully deserved to get the axe.  My reaction to this situation chartered my course for the rest of my high school experience at Central.  This was a key moment where I let myself down badly.  I should have leaned on Danny Vecchio and sought his advice.  However, I was too embarrassed to talk about getting cut with anyone else.  There was no one around to pull me out of the malaise I was in.  Perhaps most importantly, there was no one to give me a kick up the backside. I needed someone to tell me that the only way forward was to work hard, get in shape, play in a winter league and improve.  In retrospect, that is what I should have done.  But instead, I mentally closed the door on Pittsburgh and Central Catholic.  By December, I was already longing to come back to Chicago. 

Reminders of Chicago

My sister Ann and her husband Greg came to visit in late fall of 1989.  I am fairly certain that this was before basketball tryouts.  They brought along my longtime grade school friend, Danny Nunez.  It was great to see Danny and I remember taking him to the playground by the local elementary school where I would shoot hoops.  We ended up playing these two black kids in a game of two on two.  We handled them easily enough and I pretty much scored at will.  But something that sticks in my memory was that the boys targeted Danny and talked serious trash to him.  I do not know what provoked that kind of reaction from them, but they were borderline hostile in their verbal taunts.  I was glad that we whipped their ass on the court, and I was not shy about letting them know about it.  I would see these punks again in the not-too-distant future.

Danny and I also went to a University of Pittsburgh vs Penn State football game.  Danny Nunez recently reminded me of this event as it had fallen away from my memory.  Danny Vecchio had somehow acquired a fake college ID for my friend to sit in the student section.  I looked up the date of the game and it was on November 26, 1989.  For whatever reason, I thought that it had been earlier in the fall.  It was good to see Danny’s familiar face.  This would be the only Thanksgiving that I spent in Pittsburgh.

Danny Nunez soon left, and fall moved into early winter.  I ran into those kids that we had played at the basketball court.  I was in a CVS where I had bought the latest issue of KO or World Boxing, one of the boxing magazine’s that I would get each month.  Well, these guys were there as well, and our eyes met.   They started tailing me as I left the store.  There was not any cordial greetings or recognition that we had played together.  They were not following me to make friends and compliment me on how I had schooled them on the court.  They began to heckle and verbally harass me as I walked home.  At first, I ignored them and just kept walking.  Then I turned onto the block towards my house.

They intensified their trash talking and it escalated into verbal threats.  I finally turned around and took three quick steps towards them as if I was going to rush them.  They were both physically smaller than me and when I moved menacingly toward them, they recoiled and backed up.  At that point, I thought that I was in the clear and resumed my walk home.  Nope.  One of them picked up a rock about the size of a fist and whipped it at me.  Thankfully, their aim at rock throwing was about as accurate as their jump shooting. It missed their intended target by some distance.  However, I knew that if that rock had hit me in the back of the head it could have done serious damage.  I stopped again and turned around.  They stopped as well. 

I resumed my walk home but kept a watchful eye on them.  They hurled another stone which I avoided and then they backed off, yelled some more verbal threats and left.  A couple of real punks.  I was not confrontational by nature and it would have taken them both physically attacking me to provoke a physical response.  Thankfully, it did not come to that.

Social life at Central Freshman Year

Early on in Freshman year, I met a kid by the name of Tim Ryder. We hit it off right away. He was energetic, enthusiastic and a sports fan.  He had spiky dark brown hair, freckles, and usually had a grin on his face with lively eyes that were ready for discovery.  He was also pure Pittsburgh. 

For those of you unfamiliar, Pittsburghers are a unique species.  They also have an accent to match.  It takes the remnants of an obnoxious East Coast accent and then mixes it into the hills of western Pennsylvania.  It is wholly unique.  There is nothing like it.  To my Midwestern ears, it sounded like nails on a chalkboard.

“Yinz wahnna go dahntahn?”  is the Pittsburgh version of saying, “You guys wanna go downtown?”  It would drive me crazy when I would hear the local sports anchor pronounce Mario Lemieux as “Meehrio”.  Nowhere on Planet Earth is the name Mario pronounced this way.  This is a name with Latin roots.  In every single country where Mario is commonly used as a first name, it is pronounced “Mah-rio”.  Spain, Italy, Mexico, and Argentina all pronounce the name correctly and in relatively the same way.  Except Pittsburgh.  This bastardized pronunciation was a crime to the human ear.  I would point this out to Tim and of course he would get on me about my accent.  The words he would always bring up were “Really’, and “Early”.  I pronounced those words as “Reeelly” and “Airly”.  Americans get up “Urly”.  I’ve always gotten up “Airly”.  The funny thing is those were the two words that I still pronounced with an Irish inflection.  It had nothing to do with a Chicago accent, but that is what Tim took it for. 

Tim and I were getting along great.  We went to a Pirates game with his parents, and I was on my way to making a genuine friend at Central.  Early in the school year while the weather was still pleasant, we went over to our sister school Oakland Catholic.  This was the all-girls sister school located less than a mile away.  I am not sure what took us there, but it was an official school activity.  Anyway, we arrived at the school and were warmly greeted.  Tim and I helped out with whatever task we had been sent to do. We were then informed that a school dance was being organized.  Afterwards, Tim was super excited about the dance.  This was a chance to meet girls!  I tried to share Tim’s enthusiasm, but inside I was petrified.

Why?  There were two primary reasons:  My unibrow, which was like a dark bird of prey perched over my eyes, and the fact that I had no clue how to dance.  It was as simple as that.  There was no way that I was going to the dance.  None.  Zero.  You could have offered me a bag of gold and I would not have gone.  I would not put myself in a position to be completely humiliated as the weirdo with the unibrow.  I already had imagined a scenario where I would be standing awkwardly against the wall watching events unfold until I eventually slunk away.  I never even thought about what would happen if I asked a girl to dance.  That would be too painful to contemplate.  I made up excuses as to why I could not go.  I do not remember them very well, but they were probably pretty lame.

Tim, after initially being disappointed, eventually became annoyed.  He smelled bullshit.  Every single time there was a social event with the opposite sex I was MIA.  Eventually, Tim and I drifted apart.  For Tim, I am sure it just seemed like I was weird, and it simply did not add up.  It really was because I would not socially engage due to paralyzing fear of humiliation.   I never did attend an organized dance between Central and Oakland Catholic.

Simple question:   Why on earth did I not take action on the unibrow?  Why did I not declare war and lay siege to the hairy monster that loomed above my eyes?  I was not the only kid at Central with a unibrow.  I distinctly remember that Bob Nieman had a unibrow.  Then one day he came to school……and it was gone!   Seems as if Bob took the decision to shave his unibrow right down the middle with his razor!  The space between his brows was exactly the length of a disposable razor head.  I remember seeing the results of his work with mixed feelings.  He had temporarily resolved his cosmetic quandary, but unibrows do not go down without a fight.  He was going to have to shave that thing every single day if he wanted it maintained.  Otherwise, it was going to grow back like a wild weed from the Gardens of Testosteronia!  Sometimes I would see the five o’ clock shadow between Neiman’s eyes when he had missed a day or two of shaving.

I just could not pull the trigger and follow Bob’s trailblazing example.  My unibrow was bushier and I was afraid that it would be so noticeable that I had done something.  Let’s be honest, it would have been obvious, like the parting of the Red Sea.  I would have been shredded by my classmates.  Like a terrible, oppressive dictator who kept his nation in bondage, the unibrow stayed in power.  The seeds of a follicle revolution were sown, but it would take three more years until outright war against unibrow tyranny would break out.  It is time for a unibrow poem.  Billy Shakespeare, eat your heart out:

The Unibrow Poem:

Sometime later during freshman year, Tim and I had a brief heated exchange during lunch.  I do not know what precipitated the incident, but Tim quickly became angry and shoved me in the chest.  I instinctively shoved him back and a few other students quickly intervened.  The situation calmed down.  I was not nearly as riled up as Tim and was more bewildered by his reaction than anything.  Maybe Tim was pissed that I had let the friendship fall away as I drifted off into passive anonymity. 

My personality was such that I got along well enough with most everyone passing through the halls and in the classroom.  My passion for sports ensured that lunch periods were spent discussing recent professional sporting results with classmates like Joe Gigliotti and Mark Rothbauer.  Joe, or “Gigs”, as we used to call him was this heavyset Italian kid with curly red hair and glasses.  He was loud, funny, and keenly tuned into sports and rap music.  Joe always had an opinion and was never shy about sharing it.  I can still remember Joe critiquing 2Live Crew and laughing so hard as he recited the filthy lyrics.

Mark Rothbauer was smaller, reed thin with braces but just as interested in sports.  Rothbauer was more even tempered and sedate in comparison with Joe.  The lunch tables were long and rectangular.  The lunchroom was located in the lower level of the school, the bowels of the building.  It was a large room, and we had a sizable freshman class.  Something that stood out to me was how segregated the student population was in the lunchroom.  All the black kids sat together at one or two tables.  There was some intermingling, but I definitely noticed the separation.

The lunch hour was a time for socializing.  There were guys who would seemingly buzz around from table to table.  Jonathon DeSalvo quickly comes to mind.  He was another Italian kid who was loud and had the outgoing personality to match.  Some of his signature lines were “Don’t!  Cry!” or “Don’t be salty!”.  Most of his sentences would have ended with an exclamation point.  He was a mover and shaker.  I am certain that he was somehow related to Dick Vitale.  He definitely borrowed some of Vitale’s schtick.  DeSalvo would have excelled as a wrestling announcer or a car salesman that you see on TV holding dollar bills bellowing about saving money on a new automobile. 

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From a scholastic point of view, I was an average student my freshman year.  Brother Dave was our English teacher, and I enjoyed his class.  Brother Dave would often begin class by reporting intramural sport results and commenting on the world we lived in.  He had an axe to grind with the band Guns & Roses and he renamed them Guns & Pansies.  To be fair, pansies and roses are both flowers.  I wonder if Axel and Slash would have had the same success as G&P…… 

The class readings that year was “Lord of The Flies”, “To Kill A Mockingbird”, as well as “Romeo & Juliet”.  We may have read some Edgar Allen Poe, but that could have occurred sophomore year with Brother John. Brother Dave ran his class like an autocrat.  To be fair, he would solicit student thoughts on the reading material, but he commanded respect.  He was 6’3 or 6’4 and had long arms that suggested a muscular density like a chimpanzee.  His physical presence and his strict countenance were balanced by a clear empathy.  Let’s be clear, he was not a warm and fuzzy character like our junior year Spanish teacher Brother Mike.  However, it was evident that he had a human side that was not as obvious with some of the other teachers.

There were of course teachers that did not command the same authority or had students that knew how to push their buttons.  Social Studies took place in the afternoon and was taught by Mrs. Dinello.  She was a sour mouthed, crabby old lady who had just about had her fill of teaching history to teenage boys.  Travis McDonaugh was an expert at winding her up.  There were several occasions where he would make comments or talk back in a way that would push her over the edge.  He was not confrontational or aggressive.  McDonaugh was relaxed and casual.  Travis would undermine her authority with his opinions that were always delivered with a half-smile.  He knew that he was being an ass and the class ate it up.   He sat back in his desk, almost always in a reclined position with his shirt untucked. I sat behind Travis and there was a day where he was in top form, driving Mrs. Dinello nuts.  The class was enjoying the McDonaugh show, and I was slumped back in my seat with a slight grin on my face as I took in the afternoon entertainment.  Dinello’s frustration was building.  She was fighting a losing battle to maintain control in the class.  She and Travis had a few more verbal exchanges.  She sensed that we were all quietly laughing at her.  Annoyed and at the end of her rope, Dinello scans the room and for some reason I catch her attention.  “What are you grinning at?  Look at you.  Slouched in your chair like a big Chooch.”.  The line was delivered almost like Don Rickles.  I was amused as I had never been called a “Chooch” before. 

I chuckled at the insult and instinctively sat up a little straighter.  She was not off the mark.  At this point in the year, I was lumbering around like a witless oaf.  So, what the hell is a Chooch?  It is a derivative of the Italian word “ciuccio”, which means dummy or idiot.  In the south of Italy, it means donkey or ass.  Like I said, she was not off the mark.

Algebra I was taught by Mrs. Bendis and she spoke very slowly.  Slow enough to make you think that she was teaching a special needs class.  Nothing was done quickly.  Her class was relatively unremarkable from my recollections aside from when Brad Martin would occasionally mime sexual acts when her back was turned. 

Spanish was taught by Senor Spechtold, and he was far more energetic and passionate about the subject he taught.  I do not recall any of the students miming sexual acts when his back was turned.  One of our assignments was to act out a scene in Spanish in front of the class.  I was paired with Joe Gigliotti and I had the bright idea of re-enacting in Spanish, “Homey Tha’ Clown”. This was the character that Damon Wayans made famous from the show “In Living Color”.  It would have been great if I could have kept a straight face! However, as soon as I said, “Homey no juega eso” and whacked Joe over the head with a loaded sock, I broke down laughing.  Once I started laughing, there was no recovery.  I could not say anything with a straight face.  Senor Spechtold was not exactly impressed.  I got a C in Spanish. 

Science was led by Mr Krotec, a wide-eyed instructor that also brought enthusiasm to the classroom.  He seemed to know Rusty Cowell at some level and always seemed to poke fun at Rusty for working out with 15-pound weights.

In class, I sat across from Kris Abt, who was sometimes assigned as my lab partner.  Kris was a big guy, at least 6’2 and he would not have missed meal-time very often.  He had very light blond hair that he wore a little bit too long as well as patchy facial hair.  Think of a doughier version of Marty Stouffer from “Wild America”, but with lighter hair and early teen facial hair.  Kris was a big goof who enjoyed clowning around.  He played football but did not come off like a douchebag jock.  Kris seemed pretty comfortable in his skin.  I still remember him acting as the 5^th member of Metallica jumping around and singing “Sandman”.  His belly jiggling around was a great added effect.  Kris would have made a great Viking.  He would have been perfect as a character from the old comic strip Hagar The Horrible.

We had a typing class.  Yeah, I realize how archaic that sounds.  It was the first class of the day my freshmen year.  Our teacher, Mr. Demilio was likely a pothead.  He was slightly built, with dark hair and a thin beard.  I cannot say that I was terribly stimulated in this class, certainly not as stimulated as Mr. Demillo.   Ultimately, I was fairly ordinary at typing.  I would not have made it as a secretary. 

Retreating Socially

After getting cut at basketball tryouts, I had started the process of withdrawing socially and not engaging at really any level at the school.  I made no effort.  I never went to a Central Catholic football or basketball game.  I never explored any of the clubs that I could have joined.  It was a monumental error on my behalf.  What is so revealing is how well I remember the first half of freshman year.  Before basketball tryouts, I was engaged at some level and I was forming friendships.

Tom Adrian was another example.  When I had grabbed a sandwich with him after intramural basketball, we bantered about who would win a game one on one. He came across as a decent kid and once again a connection that I should have maintained but did not.  Tom was the sort of smart, competitive, and focused kid who would have challenged me in a positive way.  It is no surprise that he ended up playing basketball for Central Catholic.

In my three years at Central Catholic, I stepped foot in one classmates’ home.  That would have been Tim’s house at the beginning part of freshman year.  During those three years, exactly one classmate came over the apartment that I lived in with my mom.  It was my sophomore year in late May when Brian Helsel came over to study for the brutal Algebra II final. 

There were several other kids that I got along well with but never worked to form a genuine friendship.  A crucial side-effect of not making the basketball team was that it crippled my confidence.  It gave root to the nagging doubt that I was in over my head in so many respects.  Without the identity of sports, I did not have much to fall back on.  I had other interests, but I had not cultivated them in any significant way.  Academically speaking, the classes where reading and writing were the emphasis I did well.  On the flip side, any class that was science or math I struggled.

I had little to no awareness that there were various clubs that one could join.  This would have undoubtedly helped me to integrate socially.  Then again, I am not sure that I would have had the motivation to join a club unless prompted by someone else.   I chose the path of least resistance.  Doing just enough to blend in, then go home and disappear.  Days began to blend together in an ordinary, mundane manner.  That is what hurts deeply looking back. There were no great adventures to recall.  There was none of the madcap, happy foolishness of 8^th grade. What would happen once school ended?   Well, I would walk along Fifth avenue toward Shadyside with my backpack full of books slung over my shoulder.  After approximately a mile I would find myself at 5532 Kentucky Ave. 

Home Life

I would walk up the stairs to the second floor, change out of my school clothes into sweats, grab a giant bowl of Raisin Bran and plop myself down in from of the couch to watch some astoundingly mediocre TV.  We did not have cable TV yet, so I was relegated to watching “Who’s the Boss?” starring Tony Danza.  To be fair, “Who’s the Boss” was not that bad.  It is what came afterwards that was probably the worst show I ever took the time to watch. “Charles In Charge” was a crime against television.  The show was a complete turkey.  From the opening theme song to the crap acting and dismally uninspired story lines.  However, I sat there and watched it, which made me even a bigger turkey!   Hours of my life that I will never get back.  Damn you Scott Baio!!

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Well, after watching an hour of TV, it was time for another monstrous bowl of Raisin Bran that I would eat in bed.  You read that correctly, I would go off to bed and tuck into my bowl of cereal while reading a boxing magazine.  After downing two giant bowls of cereal, Jimmy boy would get a bit drowsy so since I was in bed why not take a little nap?  Nap time would last normally from 4:30 to around 6:00 pm.  My 59-year-old mother would come home from work and cook dinner.  I would rouse myself from bed, eat dinner on the couch with Mom and watch more TV. 

I always enjoyed my mother’s company, and we shared a similar easy-going conversational manner.  We would talk about the shows we were watching, oftentimes have a laugh pointing out the absurd situations the characters would find themselves in.  Some of the shows we would take in together were “Quantum Leap”, “Midnight Caller”, and “LA Law” to name a few.  Mom always got a real kick out of Corbin Bernsen from “LA Law”.    I was a big lazy Momma’s boy.  Christ, it is embarrassing to look back and see what a good for nothing bum I was allowed to be.

Why did my mom have such low expectations for me?  I did not do squat around the house.  When I lived with Ann and Greg, I had chores that I had to regularly account for:  washing dishes, vacuuming, taking out the trash, walking the dog.  In Pittsburgh, I was allowed to be a complete stiff.  I think the best way I can explain my mom’s lack of expectation was that it related to not expecting much from life in general.  She had been through terribly abusive relationships with violent alcoholics over the course of 30 years and had barely escaped with her life.  As long I did not get into trouble and went to school my mom was content.  The bar was set pretty low.  Instead of hurdling over that bar, I walked up to it and awkwardly slid over the top.

Homework would often times be done while sitting in front of the TV.  Yeah, sound studying habits were not being developed to say the least.  Mom would then retire to bed around 10:00 pm.  However, since I had taken a 90-minute late afternoon nap, I was not ready for bed and would stay up until 11:30.  Most of the time I would watch “The Arsenio Hall” and then finally lumber off to bed.  Days and weeks and months would follow this depressing pattern.

So how fat did I get?  They talk about the freshmen 15 when a kid goes off to college.  I took that to the next level.  By the time June of 1990 rolled around I tipped the scales at 210lbs!  I had put on about 60 pounds in less than a year.  I had stretch marks on my sides, the inner side of both knees and the back of my calves.  Big, purple stretch marks that reflected a rapid weight gain over a relatively short amount of time.  Seriously, only pregnant women are supposed to get stretch marks, right?  Not a 15-year-old boy who had notions of once upon a time being an athlete.  The inside of my thighs began to rub together and chafe.  My mom bought Desitin for me to apply to the affected areas.  In retrospect, it is nuts to look back and realize how quickly I spiraled downwards physically.

The weight gain had so many negative effects on me physically and emotionally.  Of course, I lost much of my fitness and some of my athleticism as the year wore on.  One day in the late fall of ’89 after playing basketball for at least 3-4 hours at the Central Catholic gym, I went home and relaxed.  I had turned into an expert at relaxing.  The next morning, I woke up and could not get out of bed.  My back had seized up and any type of movement sent searing, painful sensations through my lower back.  I was so bewildered and confused as to why this was happening.  It took me the better part of an hour to drag myself out of bed.  I did not recall any moment in particular when I tweaked my back while playing the previous day.  However, I have no doubt that my back injury was related to the rapid weight gain.  My body was not meant to carry that type of extra poundage.  I would go on to have back issues throughout my teens even after I had gotten myself back into reasonable shape. 

While I knew that I was putting on weight, I hid it pretty well.  It is not as if I suddenly had a giant belly hanging over my belt.  My portliness was nicely distributed all over my frame.  I think the best way I can describe how the weight gain looked on me was that I had swelled up all over.  My face was puffier, my legs were stubbier looking with little definition.  I knew that I was heavy. The point was driven home when I came back to Chicago in the summer of 1990 and my best friend Ranjit saw me for the first time in 6 months.  The very first thing he said was, “Holy shit!  You’re fat!”  I could only sheepishly tell him to shut up.  But that is when it really hit home.  I was a 15-year-old fat ass.