One of my pleasures in Pittsburgh was to walk from my apartment to the magazine store in Oakland. It was a good hike. Leaving the apartment at 5532 Kentucky Ave, walking along Fifth avenue past Central Catholic, then turning left and walking past the University of Pittsburgh campus. I would then make a right turn on to Forbes Avenue and walk until I arrived at my destination. No, I didn’t head over to the Playboy and Hustler section! Instead, I would locate the boxing magazines and settle in.
I would stay at the store pouring over the contents of each magazine, buying as many as I could afford. Each magazine was typically $2.50. The level of writing was patchy. There were quality writers that did stand out, such as Steve Farhood. I would buy the magazines, walk back home and spend the next 2-3 hours devouring the contents of the magazines. At that point it was obvious that I should have started pursuing journalism.
The walk was probably a 4-mile round trip and I have fond memories of those strolls. I always enjoyed going for a walk in my own company. Since my mom had never learned to drive, we walked EVERYWHERE. This began when I was a child in Ireland. We are talking regular 5 or 6-mile hikes as a young boy. Even today people find it odd when I tell them I have walked somewhere that is more than a mile away. Many Americans just do not walk very much. You take in the surroundings and notice things very differently when you walk as opposed to driving or even riding a bike. I did not have a bike in Pittsburgh. I probably should have gotten one. It would have been a great way to explore the town and get out and about. That thought just occurred to me 30 years on! Sometimes things dawn on me a bit later than others.
There was a solitude that I learned to accept in Pittsburgh. Self-imposed to some degree but not completely intentional. Sports and music were still my passions, but I was watching sport far more than I was playing it. My intensity and passion were channeled into televised sports and hollering at the TV. I had retreated into a shell that significantly retarded my progress not only as an athlete, but more importantly as a young man.
I did not have the willingness or courage to try out again for basketball. By sophomore year I had disengaged to the extent that I did not even participate in intramural sports. The most enjoyable moments that I had at Central were directly related to freshman year intramurals! I cannot logically account for why I withdrew to such an extreme extent. However, fear often times trumps logic. The embarrassment of getting cut at basketball tryouts the year before had left mental wounds that were still raw. I could not bring myself to willingly go anywhere near the place where I had failed. Therefore, my only outlet for testing myself athletically against the other kids was gym class. I would go 100% in gym class. While playing touch football in the gym I dove across the gym floor to break up a pass going to Kevin Farrell. A few of the kids were amused by my physical investment. I can remember matching up against Kevin and wanting to make sure I had his measure. Honestly, I barely knew Kevin and he was an amiable sort. We both struggled in Chemistry class. Chemistry was taught by a portly Italian man with a dodgy, pencil thin mustache who had a terminal case of grumpiness.
I knew Kevin played on the football team so when we played touch football, I specifically sought him out to cover defensively. Our gym teacher was an old crotchety man, Mr. Scully. Stoutly built with gray, thinning hair, the glass always seemed half-empty in his world.
We were playing basketball in gym class my sophomore year. I was feeling good and playing well. I still remember the aqua blue top that I was playing in. The whistle blew to signal the end of class. As we were heading back to the lockers Mr. Scully asked me, “Are you on the team?” or maybe it was “Do you play any sports?” I was happy to be asked and with a sheepish grin I shook my head and replied that I did not. Mr. Scully didn’t bother to ask why. He simply turned his back and muttered, “What a waste”. That was it. The words dripped with disdain. There was no encouragement or guidance. Strangely, I did not take offense. I was beaming over the fact there was some acknowledgement that I had athletic ability. I was existing on crumbs of hope. I held onto that moment as a small victory that someone from the athletic department saw some potential in me. Yeah, pretty sad, but that is where I was at.
Home life with Mom
Living with my mom was relatively tranquil and without incident. In my freshman year, her ex-husband, Sylvester would occasionally come by for a cup of tea. Being Irish, we drink black tea with a splash of milk, it is hardwired into our culture. My mom drank at least 4-5 cups of tea a day. I recall on one occasion having coffee at a diner with them. Sylvester had converted to American habits and drank coffee as opposed to tea. He would pour an enormous amount of sugar into his coffee. He was a recovered alcoholic at this point in his life and my mom had seemed to reach some kind of entente cordiale with him. Theirs had been a tumultuous history and at age 15 I was only vaguely aware. I just knew that there had been alcohol and physical abuse. I also knew that it had been a long time in the past and “Sylv” had clearly calmed down.
They were both around 60 years of age and time had perhaps softened some of the wounds. I got on relatively well with “Sylv” as he was known. A squat powerfully built man who stood maybe 5’8” or 5’9”, his hair that had been black in his younger days was now white. As a frame of reference for the Central Catholic crew, he was built along the same lines as Mr. Wheeler. One of my vivid memories with “Sylv” was February of 1990 when I went over to his place to watch Mike Tyson beat up Buster Douglas on HBO. I had no expectations for this fight. We watched in stunned amazement as Douglas outboxed, outfought, and then knocked out the “Baddest Man on The Planet” in the 10th round. Tyson had his moment where he knocked Douglas down in the 8th round. But aside from that brief swing of momentum, Douglas handed out a beating. For a boxer who was regarded as an underachiever with little stomach for the fight game, Douglas put on one of the most complete performances ever displayed in a ring. It was astonishing to witness Tyson take such a thorough and utter ass whipping. Sadly, Sylvester would pass away from cancer in September 1990.
I have mentioned alcoholism and it was not just Sylvester and my father who battled the affliction. My mom also had her own issues with drink. I came home from school in the late winter/early spring of freshman year. I opened the door and saw my mom was lying face down, motionless on the kitchen floor. She looked dead. I instinctively put down my book bag and rushed to check on her. As soon as I knelt down to check her condition, she tried to mumble some words that came out as slurred jibberish. Eyes still closed, she kept trying without success to form a complete sentence. My initial feeling of panic quickly shifted to disgust. I immediately knew that she was stinking drunk. This was a real trigger for me as I had encountered similar scenarios when we lived together in Ireland in the early 1980’s. I picked her up, carried her to the front bedroom and put her to bed.
She woke up a few hours later and had somewhat recovered from her stupor. She would move slowly and go back to bed relatively early. The one other occasion that stays in the memory was a Saturday when my mom was brought home by a woman I’d never met. My mom was out on her feet drunk, like a boxer having been badly knocked out being helped back to his feet. I felt deep humiliation as I collected my mom and carried her upstairs and once again put her to bed. What is crazy is that apparently it only took a few drinks to put my mom in this kind of state. It is not as if she would be pounding a twelve pack of Iron City or downing a bottle of wine. A couple of drinks and she was GONE.
It was easy to tell when my mom had been drinking. She was NOT a functioning alcoholic. The wheels would completely come off. Her words would slur in a pronounced manner. I mean it was almost comical if you weren’t dealing with it firsthand. There was never any alcohol in the house. If I had ever spotted a bottle of wine or a can of beer in the house, I would have poured it out. Drinking alcohol myself never even came into the realm of possibility. My family history was dominated by the devastating effects that alcoholism could wreck. I was terrified that if I ever drank that I would become a violent psychopath. “The sins of the father are visited upon the son”. I was not interested in testing that theory. I would not taste a beer until I was 20 years old with my cousins in Dublin.
It is important to point out that these drinking incidents with my mom only happened a handful of times. This was not a regular occurrence. But when they did happen, they certainly stayed in the memory. As I stated earlier, my mom and I got on very well. We had the same kind of relaxed conversational manner and we loved to have a laugh. The kind of big, silly laughing fits where you can barely get a coherent word out. It’s a great feeling and it’s one of the traits I inherited from my mom that I treasure.
In retrospect, mom receives a pass for getting plastered a handful of times during our time in Pittsburgh. She had entered her 60’s having survived two marriages to violent alcoholics as well as losing her eldest son Dennis to a fire back in 1978. I can only imagine the heavy burdens she carried inside. However, mom is an eternal optimist but not in a delusional Pollyanna way. She is a realist and appreciates the simple pleasures of life. A hard working, punctual employee, she was always valued and well-liked by the people she worked for. She worked for the Lieberman family for over 15 years and helped raise their two children. They stay in contact to this day.
Mom went to church every Sunday and religion played a prominent role in her life. While we had very little money, I wanted for nothing. There was likely some element of guilt involved for seeing me only on the weekends throughout most of grade school. Ultimately, my mother is a very soft-hearted woman. She is a conundrum though. She is not the warm, touchy-feely type. I would never get a hug from her. She was not the sort to pump you up with encouragement.
Mom was always a soft touch with me, much to my detriment if we’re honest. Perhaps it was her own past of being physically abused, not only by her husbands but also as a child in the Irish scholastic system. As far as our relationship was concerned, there was no drama to speak of. No real conflict aside from when I would drag my heels about going to CCD class. I wish that I had more fully recognized and respected her work ethic. The fact of the matter is that she set an outstanding example of resilience and self-sufficiency that I would have done well to follow at the time.
Gospel Outreach School and High School Memories 1988-1992 