You Will Never Dance Alone
Book One of the Byrne Family Story
Ross Murphy
Published by Aberdeen Bay at Smashwords
Aberdeen
Bay
www.aberdeenbay.com
Copyright © Ross Murphy, 2010
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a database or retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher. For information on obtaining permission for use of material from this publication, please visit the publisher’s website at www.aberdeenbay.com.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a book of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, government agencies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
International Standard Book Number
ISBN-13: 978-1-60830-025-9
ISBN-10: 1-60830-025-0
Acknowledgement
I never read acknowledgements. Honestly, I could have cared less who the author wanted to thank and especially why they wanted to thank them. After receiving word my story was to be published; I think I may now understand many authors’ compulsion to thank some of the people in their lives.
Any man with the good fortune to write a novel at sixty-plus years of age and have his work considered for publication is a very lucky man. I especially thank Marjorie Schafer and Andy Zhang at Aberdeen Bay Publishing for allowing my idea to become a reality.
I met Ms. Carol Wyant via unusual circumstances and our meeting, I was soon to learn, became very fortuitous for me. Carol is a wonderful friend who has welcomed me into her home on several occasions and introduced me to her family and circle of acquaintances. After learning I was attempting to write a book, Carol began annoying me until I allowed her to read my manuscript. Surprisingly, I found she liked the story and she instituted a campaign of non-stop pestering until I agreed to allow her to submit the work to a few publishers. Thank you, Carol, for all of your efforts and for pestering me to distraction.
My best friend for the past thirty years is and has been Bob Hamlin. Bob and I have remained steadfast through divorces, marriages, the birth of children and some good and bad financial swings. Some things have always been constant in our friendship: we have always been available to and could depend on each other. Bob is a caring, loyal, generous man and I love him more than a brother. Thank you, Bob.
Unquestionably, the biggest joy in my life is my two daughters: Siobhan and Aishling. I cannot begin to express how much they have enhanced my life. They are lovely, independent young women who have taught me everything I know about love. I consider being their father an honor and a privilege. Thanks, girls: thanks for being such wonderful, little shits.
Finally, I wish to thank my sister, Ms. Martha Jean Allen. Jean has always been my rock. She took me under her wing, helped raise me and did her utmost, although many may conjecture she failed miserably, to smooth off my rough edges. Jean has always given, given and given some more. She has never asked for anything in return. Jean loves me just because she does. Jean, I hope life continues to bless you as you have always blessed me.
Ross Murphy
Kilcullen
County Kildare
Ireland
December, 2009
Forword
For those readers who enjoy nitpicking, feel free to chastise me at murphydancealone@aol.com. I will admit I took a few liberties from time to time especially with the weight classes in the Olympics and perhaps even a few historical facts. ‘You Will Never Dance Alone’ is a work of fiction although some of the anecdotes from Danny’s early days are eerily similar to some of the occurrences in the life of the author. All of the characters, however, are merely figments of my imagination. If you happen to meet someone you think you recognize while reading the story, the resemblance is entirely coincidental.
CHAPTER 1
Is mankind’s ability to reflect upon his or her life an endowment from a loving, benevolent creator or a curse cast upon us by a capricious, malicious sprite? I presume there is an element of truth in both suppositions or at least I submit such appears to be the case in my own experience. I have invested an inordinate number of hours, with no discernable results, re-hashing the past and wasting time on ‘what ifs’ and ‘could have beens’. I have also, on more than a rare occasion, spent some few minutes and at other times hours learning from my history and, by the application of my newly acquired judgment, improving not only my present but also the potential for the future. Whether our time spent on reflection is an investment or a waste, one incontestable fact remains: the past is over and we cannot do one goddamn thing about it. Accepting that sobering fact may pain us severely but, for sanity’s sake, accept it we must.
As I reach the stage of my life euphemistically and ridiculously known as my ‘golden years’, I often find myself ruminating on the fact I possess a more vivid memory of events which occurred in my earlier days rather than of late. I have read of scientists who hypothesize the theory chemical changes in the brain, brought about by the aging process, explain this phenomenon and recent memory loss is a precursor to senility. This is probably, in most cases, a fact. In my particular situation, I submit that almost everything occurring in my life most folks would deem to be worth remembering took place when I was considered to be a young man. I have wasted far too many years, in my more recent decades, holding on rather than reaching, under appreciating rather than thanking God for my blessings and waiting for death rather than embracing life. Believe me, there is nothing particularly memorable about such an outlook.
***
Like a triumphant gladiator in ancient Rome, I stood alone while surrounded by thousands. The crowd was ebullient and I was, for one brief moment, their hero. “Daahnie, Daahnie, Daahnie…” they chanted as the microphone slowly snaked down from the metal-beamed ceiling. The scene was, like so very few times in one’s life, moving in slower motion than reality and would be forever etched in my consciousness and could be drawn upon whenever needed. The ring announcer tapped on the mike several times before he finally acquired the huge throng’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, referee Lou Estrada stopped the contest at one minute, fifty-six seconds of the fourth round. The winner and new middleweight champion of the world, Danny Byrne….” The crowd erupted with another chorus of cheers and screams and loved me even more. I beamed a friendly, self-satisfied smile at them, waved to them and loved them right back.
“Goddamn, we did it,” I thought. Those words, ‘middleweight champion of the world’, sounded pretty familiar to me because I had dreamed about and rehearsed my reaction to hearing them for so long and so often. They were like a cloak tailored to fit particularly well around my shoulders. The heretofore insignificant Danny Byrne was standing in the middle of the ring in Madison Square Garden, walking in the footprints of some of the all time greatest pugilists, and wearing the same belt which had graced the trunk of ‘Sugar’ Ray Robinson. Officially, the referee called the contest a technical knockout because he immediately waved his hands over his head, stopped the contest and never bothered to count out my opponent. I had managed to catch the Champ with every bit of a solid left hook and he was home early for the Thanksgiving holidays.
Ten years, ten long, but upon further reflection not terribly long, years of sweating, hurting, planning, plotting and hoping had finally come to fruition. Illogically, my first thought was “well what now? What’s next?” Was the brief moment the culmination of my dream or merely the beginning of it? I felt like the proverbial dog chasing a car. What in the hell was I to do once I had caught it?
In truth, except for a few early ‘hiccups’, the fight was considerably easier than I had anticipated. The now and forever to be known as former champion was a good, potentially very good, boxer who had stayed around for a number of years going through the motions of being the champion. There was a dearth of talent, the sportswriters conjectured, in the middleweight ranks and there had been for several years. The former Champ was not a particularly popular figure with boxing fans and reinforced the fan’s perceptions with a series of lackluster performances. He did not appear to be especially motivated and worse, from the public’s perception, he did not seem to care. I got the impression he was sick and tired of all of the hassle and had been for a good while. He just wanted to collect his money and to score some women and some dope but not necessarily in that order.
Although John ‘Night Train’ Lane had, over the years, become a bit of a less than appealing bum to the public, he was still the middleweight champion of the world and I was literally crapping myself because of a serious case of jitters before the fight. I must have run to the toilet twenty times in the dressing room while trying to get prepared for the biggest night in my boxing life. “Goddamn it, Sollie, I can’t fight. I got the shits.” I screamed my frustration.
Sol had little time or sympathy for my nervousness or my complaints. “Dey’s plenny a fuckin’ toilet paper, kid. If dat don’t work and ya can’t stop, we’ll stuff some up yar ass. Ya want nerves; I got da nerves for both of us. Do ya job, goddamn it; I’ll do da worryin’.” Sol Rosenberg was my manager/trainer and my main man and guru when it came to boxing related matters. Sol was a short, scrawny little Jew who would not have weighed much more than one hundred pounds fully dressed. He never seemed to age in the fifteen plus years I knew him because, not surprisingly, he looked and acted to be on the sunny side of ninety when I met him. Sol had a splotchy pate and was bald in a pattern I had never seen before nor have I seen since. His teeth reminded me of an aged picket fence. Some pickets were missing, some pickets were weather stained and all of the pickets were in serious need of repair. His nose, red and vein-riddled because of the barrels of scotch ingested over the years, seemed to occupy a full one third of his face due to the number of times it had been broken and flattened during his tenure as a competitor in the boxing ring. Sol wore thick, round-framed glasses making him look like a slightly amazed owl. I always thought of Dopey, one of the seven dwarfs, when I looked at Sol. When Sol was happy, a particularly rare event, he smiled in a lopsided grimace appearing to be a reaction to an acute gas attack rather than a sign of pleasure or delight. Based on Sol’s physical appearance, no one should have been surprised he spent little time and less money on his wardrobe. Matching socks and coordinated apparel colors were a matter of chance rather than a concentrated effort. Sol was a contrary, belligerent, nasty, foul-mouthed, little bastard but I still respected his knowledge, and more importantly his ability to transmit the knowledge, in all boxing issues more than any man I have ever known.
During one of my first training sessions with Sol, I made the mistake of assuming he would act as most normal, adult persons and take some, feigned or genuine, interest in my personal life outside the ring. Those illusions were immediately and brutally quashed. While I was warming up, I had casually mentioned some incident occurring during my school day. Sol looked at me with his typical amazed expression and disgustedly said. “Look, kid. I aint’cha mama; I aint’cha daddy and I goddamn sure aint’cha fuckin’ fadder-confessor. I’m ya fuckin’ trainer. Trainers don’t counsel; dey fuckin’ train. I don’t give two shits if ya got zits. I don’t wanna hear ‘bout it if ya got growin’ up problems. I don’t care if ya got blue balls ‘cause some liddle chippie wouldn’t pull ya pud on Friday night. I only care about trainin’ ya. Wid de exception of ya holidays, I only got eight, count ‘em, eight hours a week ta make ya inta somthin’ approximatin’ a boxer. Wid yer permission, of course, let’s use dem hours ta make ya inta a boxer and not talk about’cha fuckin’ personal problems. Keep da grades up and keep ya ass outta trouble. Dat’s all I wanna know or care about.”
Thank God Almighty above Sol had no wife or children because I could only envisage the torment of any woman damned to the eternal suffering of being his partner or the neurotic, basket-case of a human wreck who would have been a product of his loins. Sol loved to whine and moan about the fact his whole life centered on training and managing boxers and he would look for sympathy for all of the sacrifices he had so willingly endured. Any chance for personal happiness he may once have enjoyed, he conjectured, was lost forever because he had always given so much of himself for his prospects.
I could never completely ascertain the how or the why but Sol and I must have been fated to work together. As strange as the fact often seemed to me, we fit perfectly. Sol was my cheerleader when I was discouraged and down on myself. He was my skeptic when I, on the rare occasion, succumbed to blind faith. He insured my safe landing back on planet earth if I became too optimistic and started to fly too high. He was always able to determine whether I needed a kick in the ass or a pat on the shoulder. Over time, we developed an ability to intuit each other’s thoughts and moods. I freely and fully admit to one truism: Sol was as responsible for our success as was I.
Sol had only one philosophy: hard work and effort made you a winner. If I worked harder than my opponent, then I would win. He hammered the thought into my head on a weekly, daily and sometimes, I thought, hourly basis. “Tired? Fuck tired; I wancha ta hurt, kid. Feel da pain. Feel dat lovely Lady Pain. She’s ya friend; she’s ya lover; she’s ya mistress; she’s ya wife. Embrace dat lovely Lady Pain. Hold her; kiss her; fondle her and make love ta her. Lady Pain’s what makes ya right. Lady Pain’s what makes ya da best. Treat her right, respect her, be faithful ta her and she’ll never letcha down. Love da work; love da hurt; love da pain. Dat’s da key, kid. Now git’cha ass over ta dat heavy bag and gimme a hunnert real good, solid jabs.” Sollie preached over and over.
“If we lose, Danny, so help me God, we’ll never blame lack of conditionin’. ‘Til da day ya hang ‘em up ya will always be fitter dan dat bum across from ya, always.” Sol kept his promise concerning conditioning because he insured I always worked harder on fitness than anyone in the boxing game. Most young boxers would get into shape while learning to box. I learned to box while getting in shape. A methodical, varied and, at the time, revolutionary training regimen became such an ingrained and important part of my life I could not and cannot still imagine my life without working out and training. When I began with Sollie, I hated training. I hated the sweat and the hurt and the pain. After a period of time, I merely tolerated training. After a longer period, I began to love training. Finally, and for the best part of my life, training became my narcotic of choice and I was addicted to training.
Through some act of providence, genetic miracle or freak of nature, I was blessed with the hand speed of a lightweight and the power of a heavyweight. My reflexes and reaction time, later confirmed by quantitative testing, were off of the charts. I was also bestowed with a body which could withstand a tremendous volume of work without rebelling by becoming sick or breaking down. Even with my advantages, I was never allowed to become too self-satisfied or complacent. Daniel Sean Byrne Sr., my father, my hero and my best friend, made sure of that. “Danny, ye was touched by God, Himself. Don’t take any credit, me boy; ye had nothin’ to do with it. Yer skill is a gift, son, but a gift that ain’t developed, ain’t nothin’. It’s worse than nothin’ ‘cause it’s a waste and a waste of God’s grace is a sin, a mortal sin. Ye gotta’ work hard so yer gift can grow and prosper.”
Sol Rosenberg reinforced those same sentiments, “listen ya little prick; dey is plenty of fuckin’ bums wit talent. Pay attention ta me, work hard and ya just might make a fuckin’ boxer.
I was the antithesis of the stereotype of a boxer. I was white, understood the importance of school and could speak with a modicum of intelligence and articulation i.e. I could string more than two words together without interjecting ‘you know’. I respected adults, authority and worshipped my father. Our neighborhood may have been considered blue-collar, suburban but it was by no stretch of the imagination a ghetto. I had no abusive relations and I never experimented with drugs. I stayed out of trouble, was not a gang member and had no history with the police. I did not box because I had no alternative and I didn’t consider boxing a way out of anything. My career was a result of a boyhood whim my father had the forbearance to tolerate and the foresight to encourage.
***
I was delivered into this world by a mid-wife in October, 1947. I was born at home. Home was a tiny cottage in a tiny village in a tiny country known as The Republic of Ireland. The village was named Brownstown and it bordered a former British military garrison called the Curragh Camp in County Kildare. The village was nothing special as it was merely a bedroom community for civilians who worked on the army post or others who were employed in the horse racing industry. I have no childhood memories of the home or community because my father moved us to America just before I was two years old.
I never knew my mother because she died from complications resulting from influenza only a few months after I was born. Dad often said he could not tolerate Ireland after my mother died. “I never could stand the feckin’ place after yer Ma passed, Danny. If I’dda stayed in the auld country I’d probbly be a feckin’ waster and ye’d probbly be a feckin’ waster too. Thank Almighty God and Holy Mary, I was able to get out of the feckin’ place. I’ve never regretted me decision to leave, never.” Dad did not even entertain the idea of relocating to an area like Boston or New York offering large Irish communities. He settled us in Alexandria, Virginia a city just across the Potomac River from Washington D.C. An Irish immigrant was as rare as an honest politician. A Catholic was only marginally more common. When I asked Dad why he chose Virginia, he offered. “Why not? They’s more feckin’ Paddys in Boston than they is in Ireland. I just had enough of the feckers. They was plenty of work here after the war. Work was more important than bein’ ‘round some auld one harpin’ on about the Emerald Isle. I get a pain in me tits listenin’ to ‘em waxin’ all nostalgic ‘bout all the contributions Ireland has made to world culture and all that shite. Some book wrote by some queer poet nobody ever reads except some other queer poet is no contribution, son. Ireland’s great gift to the world is its people and its whiskey, ‘uisce beathe’, the water of life and ye know I’m still debatin’ meself as to which is of more importance.” My father had a life-long love affair, at some times more intense than others, with one of Ireland’s great gifts to the world. Trust me, his love affair was not with the Irish people.
Subsequently, I grew up in Virginia and was taught to barely tolerate coloreds or nigras and to hate Yankees: the people from the north and the baseball team. I learned about ‘The War of Northern Aggression’ and stood when ‘Dixie’ was played. I said ‘y’all’ and like any proper Virginian, I only pronounced an ‘R’ when it came at the beginning of a word or syllable. I naturally incorporated many of Dad’s idioms into my speech but my accent was pure Virginia and it constantly grated on Sol’s nerves. “Why don’cha learn ta speak proper ya little prick. Ya sound like a inbred, hillbilly wit shit in yar mouth.” I learned fairly quickly keeping my feet grounded was a very simple task when in the company of Sol. I also wondered how anyone, with the grammar, diction and pronunciation Sol so often exhibited, could possibly cast aspersions on someone else’s verbal communication skills.
Dad would rarely speak about his life in Ireland and never about his family or his history. He was able, without really hurting my feelings, to ignore or deflect any questions I may ask. Naturally, as a result, I stopped asking. He would, however, speak about Ireland in the abstract and he would respond to questions about my mother. He could, especially after lubricating his tongue and vocal chords with Power’s Irish Whiskey, his tipple of choice, sometimes get downright effusive about either subject. “Ah, Danny, herself was a fine Christian woman but she didn’t jam it down yer throat. She was a bit lace-curtain but could sit around the fire with a Woodbine and a cuppa cha like an auld granny. She wasn’t a drinker but she loved a rare auld glass of Guinness. She was a wee slip of a lass but ye didn’t want to cross herself. She was pretty and sweet without bein’ vain or sugary. Ye got yer slimness and that Roman nose from herself, Danny. I never could figure what she saw in an auld oaf like me. She was the love of me life, son. I miss her every day, every single day.”
“Pop, how come we don’t have any pictures of my mother?” I asked one day after a long session spent daydreaming about her. Daniel would often sympathize with me if I expressed any sadness or regret over losing my mother. He may have sympathized but he made sure I understood that the absence of a parent was no excuse for poor or unsocial behavior. He explained the fact many people had lost both of their parents and still been worthwhile citizens and had done what was right in the eyes of society. Dad expected and demanded no less from me. Results and not excuses, he so often preached, were always the measuring stick ascertaining a person’s worth to his fellow man.
“Aye, ‘tis an unfortunate thing, Danny. The auld boat journey comin’ over was not a pleasant voyage. We suffered through a rake of storms and some of the holdin’ areas got pretty wet. A good many of our things were ruined. Every picture we had of home, includin’ those of yer Ma, was destroyed. I can only see herself in me mind. ‘Tis ashamed to admit, I am, but sometimes I forget what she looked like.” Dad answered me with a catch in his voice. My father was a hard man. He did not suffer fools lightly, tap his feet in any situation or take any crap from anyone. Incongruously, he was probably the most tenderhearted man whom I have ever known. He would get emotional over seemingly inconsequential things. He would sob during a poignant story on television or get misty eyed at a kind gesture whether directed toward him or someone else. He could kill animals for food without a moment’s hesitation but would provide money he could ill afford to settle a vet bill for a cat found injured along the roadside. I often wondered how he could be such a dichotomy. I stopped wondering as I grew and matured into a man who exhibited many of the exact same qualities.
Dad and I lived in a small, two-bedroom, two-story, duplex styled house built at the conclusion of World War II. The house shared a common or party wall with the house next door. I later learned the particular style house was referred to as a semi-detached in Ireland. (Why not call it semi-attached, I wondered?) Dad bought the house from an Army Major who had been temporarily assigned to the Pentagon at the cessation of hostilities in Europe. There were around three hundred homes in our subdivision and there were a number of similar styled houses and subdivisions around the Washington D. C. area. The houses were purposely built as quick fix homes for returning veterans and were plainly styled with absolutely no frills. The living area consisted of a living room, dining room and small kitchen. The upstairs had two bedrooms and a bath. There was very little cabinet, closet or storage space. We had a full, unfinished basement beneath grade. In the spring, summer and fall we enjoyed the large, roofed porch at the front door entry. There was a small yard to the front, rear and side of the house.
The house was furnished spartanly. Our furniture and most everything else we owned was plain and functional. We had no pictures on the walls, knick-knacks on the tables or religious icons anywhere. Everything we owned had a purpose and you had better only use the item for its designed function. “Don’t be sprawlin’ on the settee, son. If ye are knackered, go to bed.” Dad only had to say once. Our clothes reflected our house: plain and functional. School clothes were worn to school and older clothes were worn for play. Dad insisted, from as far back as I could remember, I respect and take care of everything that we owned. Our clothes may have been plain but they were always neat and clean. Our house and furniture were the same. No compulsive, fussy housewife ever had a cleaner house than we did. Upon reflection, I realized we were always in the process of painting, fixing or cleaning. I still cringe when I hear the term ‘spring cleaning’ because I seem to remember we were always spring-cleaning. Dad did not accumulate or hoard. Anything no longer having a function was disposed of. Any serviceable clothes I out grew were donated to charity. “I hate clutter, Danny. If ye don’t use it, get rid of it.” Dad explained his loathing of junk.
We both visited a barbershop every two weeks. Dad always kept his hair short in a brush cut. Mine was the same. After I got older and wanted a little longer hairstyle, Dad would only agree if “ye make sure yer auld hair is no stranger to a comb and brush; keep it neat or keep it short.” I was expected to keep my shoes brushed and polished. We owned an old, wringer washing machine which received a vigorous, regular workout. Clothes were agitated, washed and rinsed in the tub portion of the contraption and the excess water was squeezed out of the wash by a wringer consisting of two cylinders which looked like tightly aligned, rolling pins. I was always terrified and suffered from the occasional nightmare about getting my fingers caught in those wringers. I celebrated inwardly years later when Dad replaced the old wringer washer with a spin-dry machine. Our clothes drier consisted of three lines stretched between poles in the back yard and plenty of fresh air. Many were the times in the winter months when the washing would freeze on the line and my fingers would freeze taking in the laundry. Years later, when Dad finally bought a clothes’ dryer, my celebration was even more profound than for the new washer.
Dad would never leave the house without wearing a tie. He used to wear a tie to work and then change into his work clothes. He showered every night and expected me to bathe just as regularly. He would shave religiously every morning. I used to occasionally gripe about the fact none of the other kids had to bathe every night. Hell, in all probability, most of them would have been lucky to have seen a bath once a week. My complaining and reasoning carried no weight. “Most of me countrymen would not be too fond of the auld soap and water. Such words will never be spoken concernin’ me or me own. Have yer bath, son.” Once Dad had spoken, or pronounced as the case may be, he considered the subject closed and not worthy of further debate. Only one opinion mattered and it belonged to him. Dad could definitely be dogmatic but he was also, in his own way, reasonable. He always had time to listen to me and if he could not agree to my requests he would take the time to explain the reasons for his refusal.
My father was, by trade, a plumber and a steamfitter. Work was plentiful in the boom years after the war and Dad had no trouble finding work. He did, however, change jobs frequently because he mainly worked on new buildings and when one was completed, he simply went to another site. Just before I started school, he went to work for The Corps of Engineers at Ft. Belvoir, Virginia. He worked as a plumber and maintenance engineer. He was delighted with the new position although the pay was not as good as he had enjoyed from commercial work. “Aye, ‘tis a Godsend, ‘tis. No more strange hours, I’ll be home soon after ye come in from school. Me pay will be regular and I won’t be chasin’ after me money in some pub. I won’t be out in the cauld and the muck and I’ll have me a fine retirement. Thanks be to God, son.” He must have been thankful for and appreciated his job because he stayed at the same position for the rest of his working life.
Until I started school, we had a colored woman whom I called Nanny who minded me and did some light housework and the ironing. She would also, many evenings, start to prepare our dinner. Nanny lived in a housing project in Alexandria about two miles from where we lived. She walked to our house every morning and only caught an old AB&W bus in the evenings for her return journey. She could be fairly strict but was a pussycat in comparison to Dad. Whereas Dad was black or white in every instance, Nanny had several gray areas I could often exploit. Occasionally, she would stay on after I went to bed. I would sometimes notice her and Dad exchanging little looks and slight smiles back and forth. Upon reflection, after I got a little older, I finally figured Dad was probably dinging her on the odd occasion. I certainly didn’t blame him. He was not an old man and he needed a little comfort from time to time.
CHAPTER 2
Virginia and Maryland were separated by the Potomac River which, when I was a child, was seemingly a continental divide. There was no easy way to cross from one state to the other without driving across the 14th Street Bridge into the District and going all the way through the mazes of the streets of Washington D.C. One could travel a long distance to the Rt. 301 Bridge down south or the Cabin John Bridge up north. If one lived in either state one mainly stayed in their own state. People from northern states who migrated to the Washington area generally lived in Maryland. People from the south generally lived in Virginia. The Potomac was less than a mile wide close to where we lived but it may as well have been hundreds of miles because the two states were so different in terms of attitudes, politics and even accents. I overheard one of Dad’s pals comment once when he had some unsatisfactory dealings with a Marylander. “Those sons of bitches should have a goddamn passport before they’re allowed over here, Daniel.” I never remember travelling to Maryland until the Woodrow Wilson Bridge was built in the early sixties and even now I have continued to view Marylanders, as I did most northerners, with wariness and skepticism.
Once the veterans, for whom the houses like ours had been originally built, started selling the properties and moving on, our neighborhood evolved into a typical, lower, blue-collar, working class area. The racial makeup, like most suburbs in Northern Virginia, was 100% white. Not only was everyone white but they were, or at least they professed to be, southern, bible-thumping, God-fearing, tee-totaling, Protestants. Tolerance, be it racial, ethnic, or religious, would not emerge as a concern until years in the future. Although Dad and I were white, we were also Catholic. We were grudgingly accepted but still we were viewed as foreign papists: a little better than blacks but not completely trustworthy and certainly not the ideal next-door neighbor.
One time, in the years before I started school, a horrible rumor got started and quickly spread through every household. One of the neighbors, a man who lived a block down the hill, had sold his house to some Puerto Ricans. The panic and outcry was huge. “The seller should be hanged,” some offered. “The Puerto Ricans should be hanged,” others disagreed. “They don’t belong here; property prices will suffer; our children won’t be safe,” everyone agreed. When their worst nightmare became confirmed as the truth, the bigots mobilized. Petitions were drawn up and quickly circulated demanding the County Board of Supervisors intervene and stop the travesty. Dad bought into none of it and explained his position, and none too politely I might add, to one of the protesters after she had knocked at our door one night, petition in hand. “Ah, missus, yer husbands nothin’ but a feckin’ drunk and a lay about. None of ye work; ye just waste me taxes in welfare. How are any of ye better than a Puerto Rican? Be gone from me door and never bother me with such foolishness again.” After slamming the door in her face, Dad immediately explained his rudeness. “Danny, I wish they’d leave the poor feckers alone. Everybody’s got to live somewhere. Them Puerto Ricans have done nothin’ to me. If they ever hurt me or mine, I’d be the first to put a boot up their arses. Until then, I say leave ‘em be.” That evening Dad planted a seed of an idea in my consciousness concerning accepting those different from ourselves and, more importantly, defending the underdog. Over the years, Dad and many others would feed and water the seed until it grew into a pretty large, lush and often even a voracious plant. The neighbors remained disgusted but the Puerto Ricans subsequently moved in without incident and the din and cry rapidly subsided when the eldest son developed into an all-state halfback for Mt. Vernon High School.
The really hateful, violent, visceral prejudice usually came from the poor. The lower on the socio-economic scale, the more ardent became the racial, religious or ethnic hatred. The same degree of malice could also be directed toward the intelligent, the successful or the wealthy. The upper or even middle class rarely hated blacks. They could consider a black a friend but they did not want to socialize, except at their choosing, with or have a black live around them. They did not want to frequent the same restaurants as a black. They did not want their children to attend school with blacks and, horror of horrors; they did not want their daughters to have any contact with a black fellow. They viewed most blacks as one would view a mentally handicapped individual: slow, not particularly bright, not very trustworthy or able to take care of themselves but not a person worthy of hate. As I grew older, I wondered which form of institutional prejudice was the most denigrating and damaging.
Far too many of our neighbors fit a single pattern:
The men were abusive, domineering bullies to those they could easily cower but cowardly with those whom they could not. They had little self respect so they could respect little. They would get a little lax in their dedication to their jobs especially on a Monday when recuperating from a particularly stressful weekend. They frequented beer joints too often and spent money on drink they could not afford or did not need. They slapped their wives around for making them mad, badgering them, failing to meet their needs, or an inability to understand them. They professed love for their children but were unconcerned where their children went or with whom their children associated. They worried little about how well their children did in or even whether their children attended school. Raising children, like cooking, cleaning, shopping or housework was woman’s work. They were pissed off because they had so little and would strike out at anyone or anything because they could foresee no prospects for an improvement in their lot. They were, as Dad used to say, “scabs on the arse of society. The bollixes should have been drowned when they was pups or at least nutted to keep ‘em from breedin’.” Hank Williams, with his penchant for singing about lost or unfaithful love, honky-tonking and drinking to solve his problems, was the recording artist of choice, especially after he drank himself to death.
The women remained at home and watched the kids. They took no pride in their homes or their families. Most were pregnant before they got married soon after or during high school. They had their second child before they were old enough to vote. They craved romance but could only find it in TV shows or magazines because no man, except for a bum like their husband, would have anything to do with them. They figured life hated them; therefore, they hated life. They were washed up, puffed up, closet drunks before they were thirty.
How could the offspring of such people be anything except exactly like their parents? They had no respect for anyone or anything. They blamed their problems on someone else rather than accepting responsibility themselves. They did not think they could pull themselves up so they tried to push others down.
***
“Gimme yer lunch money ya little faggot.” A sixth grade boy screamed in my face as he pushed me to the ground and stood over me with an unspoken threat of more violence if I did not comply. Three older boys were waiting at a junction on my route to my first day at school. They were assaulting all of the smaller kids who passed by them. My accosters were, I would have estimated, at least two years older than the average sixth grade student and had been held back in school at least twice due to their inability to read, write or communicate in little more than a series of grunts. They would, in all probability, reach the age of sixteen and be legally able to quit attending classes long before they entered high school. They wore black slacks with the legs tailored to fit tightly around their legs. ‘Pegged’ we called the style. They sported white tee shirts with the obligatory package of Camel cigarettes rolled up in one sleeve. They all wore ‘bombers’: black shoes with ridiculously thick soles and heels to add height to the wearer. Their hairstyles, aided by a liberal dollop of Vaseline rather than hair-tonic, would have done justice to John Travolta’s character in ‘Grease’ and was referred to as a ‘duck tail’ or DA for ‘duck’s ass’. To have referred to them as Neanderthal would have been a discredit to all ancient humanoid subspecies. “I SAID GIMME YER LUNCH MONEY.” I didn’t know what to do so I hesitated for a moment and the ringleader slapped me in the face. Tears were streaming down my face as I grudgingly handed over my lunch money. I was fighting a losing battle to keep from crying more copiously, as much from temper as from the pain inflicted upon me. “Ah look at the little baby; he’s all sad. Boo hoo.” One of them mocked me.
I was never accused of being a brilliant child but I correctly figured the assaults and robberies would continue unless some action was taken. I thought about it most of the day and decided to speak to Dad when he arrived home from work. I explained what had happened on my way to school that morning and expected him to exhibit some of the righteous indignation I had so often seen when Dad saw other wrongs being committed. I was bitterly disappointed at his lack of sympathy. “Danny, I could get involved and I will if ye ask me to. But I want ye to consider somethin’, son. Ye have to go to school on yer own every day. I can’t be with ye and I figure the little bollixes will be worse actin’ to ye if I get in the middle. Try to handle it on yer own; figure out some way of embarrassin’ or hurtin’ one of them in front of his pals. If ye can do that then they will probably leave ye alone.” Dad attempted, and in my opinion failed, to explain his reasoning for not immediately coming to my rescue. I was chagrined and disappointed to discover Dad was not going to tear one of them a new asshole.
Every morning of the next two weeks was a repeat of my first day at school. I would get slapped around and relieved of my lunch money. I even started carrying a packed lunch thinking a lack of coins would make me less of a target. It didn’t work. If I had no money, they would rob my lunch bag after the obligatory slap in the face. I started taking desperate measures to avoid my tormentors. I would fake being sick thinking I could stay home and get some relief. I would intentionally be late leaving home in an attempt to avoid the certainty of the morning’s confrontation. I was seriously considering giving up my school career at the ripe old age of six when I got an inspiration. I figured a way to get the no-good bastards.
After school I found a Seven-Up bottle alongside the road. I carried it home and carefully washed any traces of dirt or muck from it and hid it for later use. After Dad went to bed, I retrieved the bottle, peed in it and placed it the refrigerator. The next morning I carried the ‘booby-trap’ to school with me and, as I passed the bullies, pretended to take a drink when I knew one of them was watching me. Sure enough he headed toward me like a duck chasing a June bug. “Gimme yer Seven-Up, ya little shit.” One of my tormentors demanded.
“No, no, not my soda,” I pretended to cry. The fool grabbed the bottle, smirked at me like a semi-retarded ape and turned it up and drank about half of the contents before the slow reacting gears in his feeble brain engaged and he became aware of his awful mistake. I immediately started laughing, pointing and taunting “Hey ya just drank my piss; ya faggot.”
His partners in crime went into hysterics and literally fell to the ground with laughter. “Hey piss-head, was that good?” screamed one. “Did ya like it? Want some more?” mocked the other as he grabbed his crotch. The truth be known, my assailant would have probably have killed me if he had not started puking and puking and puking.
I waited for a day or two before I told Dad what I had done. I was anxious that he might not approve of my method of retribution. Nonsense, I should have never have worried. His reaction was peals of laughter. “Good for ye, son.” He finally sputtered before he went into another hysterical laughing fit.
Dad was right; they pretty much left me alone after the pee in the bottle incident. Their assaults became very sporadic and lost most of their prior fervor. To insure my safety, I cached several large stones at strategic spots along my route to school. More important than hiding the stones, I had a determination to use them if necessary. The best result of the whole incident was that ‘pissed off’ took on a whole new meaning for one of them and for me.
“Pop, why do you reckon those lads picked on all of us kids who were smaller or weaker than they were?” I asked one day after the incident with the Seven-Up bottle. I used a number of terms when addressing my father. Dad, Pop, Da, Father or even Daniel were employed depending on my mood or more importantly his. He would rarely, if ever, redress me for my terminology concerning himself because he knew in whatever manner I addressed him it was with fondness and respect.
“I don’t know the answer to that, boyo. ‘Tis a common enough problem even amongst adults. I reckon some folks feel bigger if they make others feel smaller or some feel stronger if they make others feel weaker. Whatever’s the reason it aint right, son. It aint never been right and it won’t ever be right.” I was rather disappointed in Dad’s answer. Normally, with a philosophical question like the one I had posed, Dad was good for several minutes of explanation. It was also rare, at least in my company, for Dad to admit he did not have a ready answer to anything.
“I hated feeling that way, Dad. I will never allow anyone to treat me or anyone else like that again, never.” I vowed to my father and more importantly to myself.
“I hope ye don’t, Danny. The world would be a better place if bollixes weren’t allowed act that way.” He, significantly to me, approved and, more importantly, encouraged my oath.
I kept my word to my father and myself; I never backed down again. I always stood up for myself and anyone else whom I thought was being unfairly treated. We have all heard the platitudes concerning bullies being cowards at heart who would back down when challenged. I never understood where such a particular piece of wisdom originated. In my experience, more often than not, one had to put up after they had stood up. I did not always come out on top in all of my confrontations. I often got my butt handed back to myself. I empathized with one of my pals who, after someone threatened to kick his ass, laughed and said. “The next son of a bitch who kicks my ass won’t get a cherry. It’s been kicked before.”
***
I loved Christmas. I always have and I still do. I didn’t necessarily attribute my love to the religious significance of the day or the number of presents I received. I think my affection had to do with others and the way they acted over the holiday. People act differently at Christmas. They seem happier and more tolerant and forgiving. Someone who may not speak to you all year was always good for a ‘Merry Christmas’. Folks who you may not see from one year to the next would call around Christmas. Sure, I have read about how the holiday season can be the saddest, most depressing time of the year to some. I never experienced those feelings. Christmas was always, for me, a happy time I anticipated and enjoyed.
Dad and I would always have a tree, occasionally purchased from a lot but more frequently, along with some holly and a bit of mistletoe, annexed from the surrounding countryside. We decorated the tree a week before Christmas using an old string of lights which were taped, soldered and refused to work if one bulb was burned out. We had a glass ornament featuring a picture of Donald Duck which was used as a decoration on the tree the first Christmas after I was born. My mother had bought it for me and it was, amazingly, one of the few possessions and the only ornament able to survive the boat journey from Ireland. The Donald Duck ornament went on every tree before any other decoration. It still does. We would complete the tree with more glass ornaments, foil garland and some tinsel strips we called icicles. A ceramic angel, placed on top of the tree by the youngest person in the house, was always the culmination of our tree decorating.
We, of course, had no family. Since Dad changed job locations so often he never really developed a lot of close friends. The first few Christmases I remember were just Dad and I. We would attend the vigil mass on Christmas Eve. I would open my presents Christmas morning. I generally got one useful gift such as a coat or gloves or winter boots. I got one small toy or game. I received some sweets such as a box of candy canes or chocolate covered cherries. I would also receive two or three oranges. I cried the year when I became aware Dad did not have any presents under the tree. I was inconsolable and, from that year onward, he would always give me a dollar and take me to a shop to buy him some presents. I would get him a pack of smokes and maybe a handkerchief or a pair of socks. I tried to squeeze as many presents as I could out of that dollar. I always wrapped each gift in tissue paper I had hoarded during the year.
People used to visit each other on Christmas day back then. Usually a few neighbors or someone who Dad knew from church or work would drop by to wish us a happy day. Dad always had a generous supply of Powers to quench any visitor’s thirst. Catholics never had a hang up about imbibing with a wee drop. Although they may have called down the wrath of Almighty God on anyone who partook of Old John Barleycorn, most of the Baptists would also have a small snort of Powers, especially if they thought no one else was around to see them. We may have visited a few people Christmas evening but Dad always cooked our dinner in the morning and we ate around two in the afternoon. If we visited anyone, I was expected to only speak when spoken to, answer any question with Ma’am or Sir and refuse any offer of refreshment whether I wanted it or not.
Dad generally roasted a turkey or a goose, if he could locate one, for dinner accompanied by stuffing, brussel sprouts, carrots, mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce. We would have ice cream or sherbet for dessert. As I mentioned, I loved Christmas.
***
The federal government expanded tremendously during the war and subsequent years. People moved to the Washington area from all over the country to fill the newly created jobs. Many of those people remained. The growth of the government did not, as one would have assumed, slow after the end of the war. A monster had been created; a monster that continued to expand and, like ivy, covered, controlled and choked everything it touched. Washington experienced a growth cycle continuing unabated until this day. People needed places in which to live, stores in which to shop, restaurants in which to eat and new toys on which to spend their newly gained wealth.
The Washington area was like a giant wheel with the District as its hub. The decent roads were like spokes leading to the hub. There were numerous spokes but very few connecting roads between them. Travelling between the spokes was a chore. Dad often used to complain if he needed to tend to some business in the county seat in Fairfax, he needed to take leave from work and invest the entire day in the journeys to and from the courthouse. Expansion, either housing or commercial building, was limited to corridors along the spokes.
President Eisenhower and his plan for building the interstate highway system changed all of that reckoning. Part of his transportation plan called for building a limited access highway around Washington. The road would have a circumference of over sixty miles. The road was actually referred to as the circumferential before it was dubbed the beltway. As the highway was completed during the late fifties and early sixties, travel between the spokes became easier and more convenient and new areas were opened up for building and expansion. The growth spiral increased in its vigor and velocity. Many of the newer jobs were management positions with good pay and benefits.
By the time I graduated from high school, the Washington Metropolitan Area, in general and Fairfax County in particular, featured some of the most affluent areas in the country. Fairfax County alone had over twenty high schools within its borders. The populace demanded the best in amenities, parks and the educational system. The county, with its huge tax base, could afford to deliver.
Successful parents expect successful children and have little patience with failure. The pressure on children to excel in academics, sports and any other endeavor was intense. Every mother or father should take pride in their offspring but far too many parents sought to re-live their lives vicariously through their children. A father could forget his athletic ineptitude if his son started on the football team. A parent’s mediocre academic achievements were no longer a concern if their child was accepted to an Ivy League school.
Any impediment in a child’s path was attributed to someone or something else because the Lord knew the parent provided every ingredient for success. Parents would fight with each other, a referee or umpire or even a teacher if they perceived their child had received an unfair decision or grade. Kids learn well and grew up with a win at all costs attitude and honor was damned. The quest for an elusive, immeasurable success challenged, and finally delegated, a moral sense of right and wrong to a lower than deserved level on the pecking order of importance.
Couples cared more about what they had rather than who they were. Homes and cars had to be newer, bigger and better equipped. Every new gadget and appliance was a necessity. Materialism became the new religion and huge consumer debt was the communion of the liturgy. Both partners needed to work to service the debt. People were tired, irritable and had little time for their children. To assuage their guilt the parents sent their kids everywhere and bought them everything. Children, because they had everything, thought everything was their due. The baby boomers gave rise to generation ‘x’: the ‘what is new, I am bored, gimme, gimme, gimme’ generation.
The blue collar, beer drinking, wife beating, pissed off, I don’t care father of my youth became the white collar, cocaine sniffing, woman chasing, pissed off, I don’t care father of my adulthood. I am amazed any of the offspring of either generation grew into responsible adults. Surprisingly, many did.
CHAPTER 3
Growing up in a home with Daniel provided me with a lot of things I liked to do but school was not normally my favorite thing in the world. I didn’t really detest school and I wasn’t inept at my studies or anything. Actually, I did quite well in school, probably, like most kids, not as well as I could have, but quite well none the less. I had no emotional trauma which caused me to want to stay away for reasons of my mental health. I never felt like an outcast. I was never bullied anymore than anyone else. I was just bored with school most of the time. Especially if the weather were nice, I could always imagine a thousand ways to better occupy my time than sitting at a desk listening to a teacher, who was probably as bored as I, drone on about something about which I was not particularly interested. Occasionally I would experience a mental lapse or ‘brain fart’ and complain, in Dad’s presence, about having to go to school. I would immediately rue my error because I knew a lecture would be forthcoming.