In February of 1965, my father and I went to the Bronx.
Given the time of year and later custom, I suspect the
sibling-free excursion was a birthday treat.
We probably stopped for a hot dog in that pre-fast food world, but I
couldn’t say for sure. Nor can I recall a single thing we talked about on our
drive. But I certainly remember what we
did that day; my father took his six-year-old son to his first basketball game.
We went to see the Manhattan Jaspers play at Fordham
University. The oldtimers referred to
the rivalry as “The Battle of the Bronx”. The gym was a smoky bandbox; both
sides packed with Irish and Italian New Yorkers who went home to the same
neighborhoods when the game ended.
The intraboro matchup warranted a couple of lines in Sports
Illustrated’s weekly college basketball wrapup though it was hardly a big game
outside of New York. An on-campus
college game in a small gym was a far cry from the Madison Square Garden
experience; even in 1965 with the old Garden in its waning days.
In the few weeks before and after that day, the evening news
was filled with truly important events. LBJ
was inaugurated for his only full term. The
marches from Selma to Montgomery ignited the civil rights movement. Winston
Churchill’s death signified the end of an era and the first U.S. combat troops
in Vietnam marked the beginning of another.
I still have black and white recollections of each of those stories
on the news, but none nearly as sharp as that full color Bronx afternoon.
It was also a unique time in the evolution of the “city
game”. Most of the local colleges – once
dominant on the national basketball landscape – had a period of de-emphasis
following the gambling scandals of the 1950s.
In 1965, however, both Manhattan and Fordham fielded highly competitive
teams. Within days of this game, they
would each be selected to play in the NIT.
The Rams would lose their postseason opener, but the Jaspers would beat
Texas Western – a team that would travel Glory Road to a historic NCAA title
just 12 months later.
I knew nothing of the teams or players that day. They were just a bunch of ruddy-faced guys in
tight satin shorts. But I did notice
that, 14 years after completing an education that included a BA from Manhattan
and a JD from Fordham, my father seemed right at home in that crowd.
And a lot of people seemed happy to see him.
Many years later, when I took my own preschool daughter to
the circus for the first time, she stepped in to Madison Square Garden having
no idea what she was about to see. She instantly
soaked in the bright lights, heard the music, smelled the cotton candy, and
sensed what lay ahead. She looked up at
me seconds after entering and said, “Ooooh!
I like this place.”
I knew exactly how she felt.
Whatever that old Rose Hill gym lacked in aesthetics, I
immediately knew that “I liked this place”.
For one thing, Fordham’s mascot was a ram. Not a kid in a ram suit like they have today;
a four-legged beast in all his feisty, noisy and malodorous glory.
If that weren’t enough to win over a six-year-old, I was completely
fascinated by the mood inside the building.
The fans were boisterous and they straddled the edge of anger and
euphoria with each change of possession.
I’d never seen this before, but I definitely wanted to be part of it and
I dove in headfirst.
I seemed to pass muster with the Manhattan alumni in our
section. Along with in-game tutorials, I
was treated to stories told by and to my father about days gone by. One particularly memorable tale involved the
postwar evening he led a posse of Manhattan students on a mission to kidnap the
ram. The adventure wended across both
campuses via the Bronx IRT before culminating in the animal’s safe return after
it had been dyed kelly green. Another
storyteller recalled a lost and liquored busload of students arriving late to a
game at Villanova just in time to spur the team to a big second-half comeback. Others told of a stolen beer keg rolled
through the snow following a game at Dartmouth and a party that culminated on
top of a New Hampshire hotel marquee.
Who knew how much of it was true? Who knew if any of it was true? Who cared?
The student sections
were at least as entertaining to a curious boy. The drinking age was still 18 and the young
men embraced their privilege with fervor.
My father referred to them as “the rabble” and their inebriated
enthusiasm resulted in several stoppages in play as spectators-turned-combatants
spilled on to the court. Their cheers and chants were a bit risqué for my
G-rated ears with one centering on the ram’s unusual choice of cuisine. It occurs
to me now that Rudy Giuliani was a Manhattan senior that year and Donald Trump an
underclassman at Fordham. I can’t say if
either were in attendance, but, if they were, it was not likely their finest moment.
A little research also reveals the unique makeup of that
year’s Manhattan team. In a time before
specialization, 3 of the 5 starters went on to be drafted by both the NBA and
MLB. Larry Lembo was the 28th
player selected in the NBA draft and a late round MLB pick before becoming a
top NCAA referee; George Bruns abandoned the diamond after a single season of
“A” ball for a brief stint with the Nets; and Bob Chlupsa – a 6’8” San Diego
Rockets draft pick – would eventually settle in to the St. Louis Cardinals
bullpen.
Our team lost as Fordham held on for a 67-65 win, but it
hardly mattered. I was hooked by the
game, the action, the stories and the unique energy of a sporting arena. I was hooked by this thing I shared with my
father.
Within a year, I’d accompany him to my first baseball game –
the Mets and Milwaukee Braves at Shea – and my first football game – the Giants
and Eagles at Franklin Field. Those days
were thrilling; but not as much as that first time in the Bronx. Among the hundreds and hundreds of games I
attended with and without my dad, I don’t think I missed a single “Battle of
the Bronx” over the next several decades.
In 2002, the rivalry played out in the early part of the
schedule reserved for non-conference games.
That December, I was back in the barely updated Rose Hill Gym to see a
30-point Manhattan victory. My father
did not come with me.
By February, the season was winding down and he lay in my
sister’s home having been released from the V.A. Hospital to die among his
family. For Manhattan fans, it was a very good year;
21 wins against 6 losses. My father was too ill to attend any games, but he kept
tabs via a transistor radio better suited to 1965 than 2003. A TV was wheeled
in to his improvised bedroom to watch a few late season games the best he could.
He lived long enough to see his team clinch a regular season
conference championship, but he did not survive in to the postseason.
A week after his funeral, I returned to work by attending an
industry conference in Chicago. While
there, I went to a local Dave & Buster’s to watch a narrow Manhattan escape
in the semifinals of the conference tournament.
The next night I turned down multiple dinner invitations and begged off
the normal Chicago diversions. I paced
nervously, alone in my room, and watched my late father’s team cruise to an
easy conference championship and an NCAA tournament bid.
I had not cried upon learning of his terminal diagnosis or
when hearing he had died. His wake and
funeral also passed without me shedding a tear.
But, when a marvelous Manhattan player named Luis Flores threw the
basketball into the Sovereign Arena rafters as the horn sounded, I cried like a
baby. I sat alone in a hotel room and
cried for a long time. I called my
mother, but was barely able to speak and had to hang up.
A week later, my sister and I took several of our offspring
to Boston for the NCAA tournament. We watched
Manhattan go down valiantly to a Carmelo Anthony-led Syracuse team; the
eventual national champion. In a twist
of fate, the other game on the card that day featured Oklahoma State; a college
my dad had attended while stationed in Stillwater during the war.
It was a nice pilgrimage.
Not without emotional moments, but nothing like the Chicago hotel room.
I owe my father a debt of gratitude for introducing me to the
edge of anger and euphoria. For coaching
me in baseball and basketball. For the
stories he shared when a little boy visited a man’s world.
I still attend the Battle of the Bronx more often than
not. I always think to call him
afterward until reality catches me. Since
his ashes were scattered across the campus of his alma mater, every other
season I can stroll outside the gym and talk to him following the game.
I owe him thanks for too many games, too many teams, too
many sports, and too many arenas to remember.
On this Father’s Day, however, I want to thank my father for a day in
February of 1965 when he took me to the Bronx.
That was one hell of an afternoon.
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