Hennessy’s Tale
The concept that
history doesn’t repeat, but often rhymes has always rung true to me. Looking
back through my half century, I’m struck by recurring themes from youth to
(choose your own euphemism) seniority (certainly not maturity). I’ll cite a few
below.
Considering the
sweep of time, I can’t be the only one in our famed class of ‘60 who recalls a
comment often attributed to Mickey Mantle, “If I’d known I’d live this long, I’d have taken better care of
myself.”
Despite that,
I’m grateful for having lived a full, varied, and interesting life on both
coasts and overseas, for having a loving and adventurous family, good health,
friends of many stripes, and for the beginnings of that in East Williston and
at Wheatley.
Early Eye-Openers
My earliest memories
involve having my eyes opened wide when I arrived on Northside’s 7th grade scene and found some different types of classmates from those in
previous schools (Garden City and Forest Hills). I was most intrigued by a new
(to me) breed of tough guys ( aka “hoods” ) who wore skin-tight
Levis and sported much more advanced vices than any I’d seen.
I was particularly
intrigued by Denny Hunt and Johnny Votano and my
reaction, as a wiseguy newcomer, was to risk life and
limb by tweaking them, sometimes with song lyrics I composed. They responded
with more good humor than I deserved, but it was the beginning of a path I
followed throughout life-- challenging those more powerful than myself.
Moving to Willets Rd.
in 8th grade revealed a whole new and exotic world with Roslyn
Heights classmates who were another breed of cat, seemingly more sophisticated
than Northsiders. It was a heady atmosphere,
coinciding with emerging puberty, and I was definitely caught in the dance,
flaunting authority by racking up a record number of “U’s”, (unsatisfactory conduct ratings.)
It was probably the
origin of the quote under my name in Wheatley’s 1960 Aurora yearbook, “To his
teachers, he is a strife; to his classmates, the spice of life.”
Man-Child in the New School
Such conduct didn’t
escape notice. A math teacher
named John Devlin, who took a special interest in me since my family now lived
in his in-laws’ East Williston home , stopped me in the hallway on one of the
first days of 9th grade in the new WHS and asked loudly, “Well,
young man, are you ready for the
big leagues?”
The question was overheard by several classmates who took
great glee in repeating it to me often throughout all my remaining high school
years.
Whether I was
ready or not, Wheatley was an exciting place, made more so by the awesome class
of ’58, trained in Mineola High’s boot camp of hard knocks, star athletes in
several sports, images worthy of
Brando (Steve Perlin), James Dean (Eddie Kritzler), John Wayne (Mike Stapleton), or Audie Murphy (Doug Kull). Not to mention, DeNiro (J. Votano) and Pacino (Matt Sanzone) in the class of ’59.
And that was just the
guys. The girls in the class (some I recall are Barbara Becker, Judy Berman, Bonnie Blackburn, etc) were knock-outs--smart, talented and sure of themselves.
What a standard our
predecessors set! (undefeated football team in
Wheatley’s first year, outstanding basketball squad led by Larry Nagler and Al Deutscher that came
close to knocking off powerful Hempstead High in the Nassau Country playoffs --
a virtual David succeeding against many goliaths)
They were such iconic
characters that a million stories surrounded them. I recall watching wide-eyed
in the locker room as Stapleton and Perlin traded
punches to each other’s chests that would have croaked an
average oxen.
As a soph, I remember the joyous bus ride home after a win over
Seaford sealed the undefeated football season when the wild and crazy among
them proclaimed all manner of celebrative debauchery, and straight-arrow Doug
Kull--rugged fullback and Student Council president who later became a Jesuit
priest in the rural Philippines after graduating from Holy Cross--said
innocently and happily that he was going to buy himself a case of Pepsi! The
rowdies laughed, but they respected Doug too much on and off the field to mock
his purity.
I could go on
with those tales of our elders, whose later lives were also stuff of legends (e.g.,
5’9” Nagler won the NCAA tennis singles championship
and played basketball at UCLA, daredevil Perlin became a Marine pilot who died in a training flight crash, Kritzler lived the reggae life in Jamaica and wrote a book about Jewish pirates, etc.) Those of us fortunate to read the amazingly candid, funny
and informative blogs created by the class of ‘58 were once again blessed by
their talents.
But there was more than enough
fascination for me in our own class, certainly one of the most spirited ever
and fun-loving ever. Bob Holley,
an architect of the ’58 blog and football manager, analyzed our contribution to
the undefeated team by noting--of 30 players-- nine were seniors, four juniors,
and 17 sophomores. “No wonder I had so many sophomore friends!” he wrote on his
class blog, “They were pretty darn ubiquitous and indispensable.”
Mentors/Influences
For myself, many of
my fondest high school memories relate to being on the football and wrestling
teams. Injured freshman year, I played on the tennis team rather than football
and--at 135 pounds soaking wet-- could probably have contributed more with a
racket than shoulder pads. (I later coached tennis and now play it actively in
Boston.)
My reasons for being on the football
team the next three years were mainly the camaraderie and closeness among
players and very special coaches, especially head coach Jack Davis. We all knew “the Cat,” was a unique
individual who had an unusually strong influence on his players and students.
To this day, many who
played for him can quote life lessons taped to the windows of his office.
(“It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the
dog,” was my personal fav.)
We met up with him again
at Wheatley’s 50th reunion in 2006, handsome, dapper and full of
life as ever at nearly 80, looking more than a decade younger. I didn’t know
until I read his obit when he died in 2008 that Smiling Jack had six children,
four of whom followed in his footsteps to become teachers. He coached and
taught at Wheatley for 30 years, and was proud to be inducted into the school’s
Athletic Hall of Fame.
What I remember about
him was a spooky ability to read minds and see into souls. An example that
still lingers was his question to me at the Wheatley 50th. “Are you
still running?” he asked.
I’d never been a
serious runner and, thinking he might have mixed me up with someone else from
the many students he’d known, quipped ,“Yeah, from the
law.”
Later, it occurred
that he might have been asking about “running” in a different sense (possibly
in circles?) and I regretfully realized he deserved a better answer than my wisecrack.
Another memorable
football coach was former marine Bill Lawson, about whom I wrote what became a
notorious essay for Miss Bodnar’s English class
titled “Tales of the black-hearted line coach.” It reported how a mythical , but
not dissimilar, gridiron mentor allegedly spread glass on the field to toughen
up his players. (an inside joke among the “Chinese
bandits,” as the JV players were known.)
Unfortunately for me,
word of the essay, which I read aloud in class, leaked to Coach Lawson, who
shouted to me at every practice from then on, “Hennessy, get over here and pick
up this glass!” Another example of
tweaking the powerful I probably should have skipped.
It wasn’t only tweaking
that made me a challenge. Sometimes I resisted changing entrenched habits, even
in areas where I had some aptitude and could have improved. An example was my
unique wrestling style -- tenaciously latching onto an opponent with what Coach
Bill Stevenson dubbed “the strongest thumbs on Long Island” until my hands--or
some part of my victim’s anatomy-- turned white. (The label has followed me
ever since as my wife and kids still request L.I.’s strongest thumbs to open
stubborn cans and jars.)
Although I figured
ways to win more often than not, my stubbornness probably drove Coach Stevenson
crazy; but he was a patient guy who seemed to find humor in the situation. Meeting
him at the 50th celebration, also looking strong and youthful for
his years, he shook hands with me and, with a quick laugh, shifted immediately
to thumb-wrestling, as though no time had passed
between us.
And finally, on the
subject of mentors and influences, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention my
favorite history teacher, the red-headed Bostonian, Fred Mullen. His wry humor
and understanding of students made him extremely popular among the guys and, I
learned later, a heart-throb to the girls.
He was an
unforgettable teacher, but his interest in students was most remarkable. On his
own, he took the time to probe my college choices, suggesting I’d thrive in a spirited place,
and making a recommendation to Rutgers, where I enrolled, that was probably
instrumental in my acceptance.
I say that with some
certainty because an admissions dean I met soon after arriving on campus said
he remembered me as “a wrestler from a private school on Long Island”
recommended by his friend Fred Mullen. (I didn’t contradict him about The
Wheatley School, but found --despite underwhelming high school scholarship--I was
as well prepared for college as most of the preppies I met there.)
Sadly, Mr.
Mullen, who was always so full of life, died of cancer at a young age, but he
still personifies to me the kind of smart, cool, caring high school teacher I
feel very fortunate to have known.
In general, Wheatley’s students were
blessed to have uncommonly dedicated teachers, coaches, and administrators who
valued us, supported our efforts, were proud of our accomplishments, and
empathetic for our struggles.
I think some visionary
planning created the unusual mix of towns that made up The Wheatley School. It
wasn’t racially diverse, but there was a very interesting demographic, ethnic,
religious, and socio-economic stew that seemed to encourage creativity,
achievement, and, as I recall, few dull moments.
Friends/Co-Conspirators
The dominant sense
from my high school years was what fun I had with close friends, male and
female. That many of those friendships have continued all these years is proof
of the pudding.
This blog focuses on our class, but the friendships
certainly included older and younger groups with whom we played sports, hung
out and, of course, drank copious quantities of discount Old Milwaukee brew. The
names Chuck Shaffer, Walter Brunner, Tom Kull and “Bulldog” Drummond spring to
mind (the last two sadly passed away far before their time.)
A few vivid
recollections in this already embarrassingly lengthy tome:
The Northside Vs. Willets Road football game in 8th grade-- Symbolic of the merger of two competitive schools, Northside won the day’s bragging rights, but our opponents
became our friends and teammates for the next four years.
The Spartan Club--In Paul Keister’s marvelous red barn, our young tribe hatched ideas for all manner of fun events
and schemes. The most ill-conceived -- “borrowing” Wheatley hall passes to
decorate club walls along with a school fire extinguisher--was a caper quickly
exposed, resulting in the first and only command appearance of all our parents
with the principal, Norman Boyan. Embarrassing, to
say the least, for would-be Spartans!
Student Politics -- My attraction to working on political
campaigns (e.g. Robert Kennedy for President in 1968) began at Wheatley in
student council races. It was a kick to work with a team of enthusiastic
supporters--including natural-born impresario “Baby Huey” Walt Brunner-- to
support deserving candidates like John Moncure for
Student Council President.
Friendship--I’ll always recall Wheatley as a highly
charged atmosphere where we laughed a lot, probably had too much fun, made close
friends, and had many opportunities to pursue romantic interests. It wasn’t all
sweetness and light as there were rival factions, often intense competition,
lots of “ranking out,” and some clashing values with “city kids,” from Brooklyn,
in particular. But I remember that all factions often gathered in the basement
of my house at 11 Post Avenue, playing testosterone-fueled ping-pong on a table
that acquired battle-scar memorials to the duels.
Relationships--On the co-ed front, my odd-couple affair
with L. M., cheerleader captain and avowed
socialist, was another widening of my horizons. Coming from a family that could
be labeled “Kennedy Democrats,” I was considerably more conservative than
anyone in her family and had many spirited conversations
with L. M. and her delightfully opinionated parents. One of my defenses was
persistent ribbing that she tolerated surprisingly well, even chuckling when I
called her “Captain Hook” and being enough of a sport to sign my yearbook with the nickname. I don’t think we could have predicted
our connection would endure for 50 years, as we remain friends who can still
agree to disagree with the same intensity and affection we always had.
I could go on as I
find when I delve into my recollections of this period, I suffer from
information overload--too many memories, not enough time or space to record
them--so I’ll flash ahead to my life post-1960.
The Rest of the Story
As I noted about
history rhyming in the intro, I’ll cite the following parallels between past
and present:
Hometown--I now live six miles from Boston (my
dad’s hometown) in Newton Centre,
Massachusetts, a town I often think of as a New England version of a combined East Williston/Roslyn
Heights/Mineola, with many transplanted New Yorkers and even some of the same street names as in our
old neighborhood. A major difference is the size of the high school my kids
attended with 600 students in a class. They roll their eyes when I argue that
smaller schools allow more opportunities to get involved, but I strongly
believe it’s true based on our Wheatley experience.
Family--I prolonged bachelor life until age 42 when I married a
woman named Patricia Casey who I met when we both worked at Boston College, her
alma mater. She’s from Garden City, L.I., the oldest daughter of a large
Irish-Catholic family (8 kids), originally from Brooklyn where my mother was
born. We’ve been married 25 years and have two red-headed kids--Daughter
Kathleen, 23, a Fordham grad now working at Boston University and taking
graduate courses in Public Health and Tom, 21, a junior at the University of
Arizona. Pat is an educational
consultant who travels widely, working with colleges and schools. She’s 11 years my junior, a smart,
independent woman who somehow manages to factor my wandering ways into her
well-organized life. Her large, rowdy family and four brothers--one who owns a
pub on Long Island -- provide me with ample opportunities for as much banter,
trash talk or competition as I need.
Career-- Perhaps not surprising from the length of this novella,
my career was in journalism, writing, editing and communications management.
After two years as an army officer in Germany (where I served with fellow
Wheatley and Rutgers grad Phil Gaynor), I returned to New York to help manage
RFK’s presidential “youth campaign.” When his assassination ended the campaign,
I got an MA in communications at the University of Pennsylvania and took a job as
military affairs reporter for a daily newspaper in the nuclear Navy town of
Bremerton, WA, near Seattle. It was at the height of the Vietnam war and my reporting
on dissent, as well as continually touted “progress,” occasionally rattled the brass
(but privately pleased me, more than it did my editors.)
I left the paper to
free-lance at the Munich Olympics, arriving the day the Israeli athletes were
captured by terrorists. Several months after the ensuing tragedy, I went to
Israel and worked on a kibbutz, leaving just before the October war. Recounting
this odyssey, I start to feel a bit like Forest Gump.
I applied my
experience to working as an editor/writer and communications director at
colleges on both coasts (Hofstra, Colgate, Boston
College, Santa Clara University) and nine years at Dana-Farber Cancer institute
in Boston.
It was a career I
greatly enjoyed both because it was, like all reporting, a “license to be nosy”
and involved working with small teams of talented, motivated communicators. The
stories were of critical interest to faculty, administrators and scientists,
many of whom had major egos (e.g., Harvard Med School docs, Jesuit college
presidents, and professors from anthropology to zoology.)
In times of crisis or
controversy, the challenge intensified to tell the best, most accurate story,
sometimes after convincing reluctant officials that candor was the only way to
weather the storm. One example of this was a BC basketball point-shaving
scandal that went national when an informant named Henry Hill, on whose story
the book and movie “Wiseguy” was based, traded testimony for immunity in a
major heist at JFK airport.
It made for my exciting
first year as BC’s communications director. I left there five years later on a
wave of positive athletic news with quarterback Doug Flutie’s “Hail Mary”
heroics that won him the Heisman Trophy as the nation’s best football player.
What Now?
I
cut the full-time working cord two years ago, leaving the supervision of a 15-person publications staff to travel to Vietnam and Thailand. Having covered the war from a
distance, I was curious to see what had become of Vietnam and its people.
Traveling with
several vets who’d served there during the war made the experience even more
interesting since they were seeing peace and growing prosperity in places they
recalled as war zones.
The trip covered the length
of the country from Hanoi to the Mekong Delta and involved exploring the Cu Chi
tunnels beneath the former Saigon. The resilience, toughness, work ethic, and
welcoming attitude of the Vietnamese was impressive to everyone in our group..
The trip reinforced
my feeling that the war was a tragic mistake in both human suffering and
foreign policy and--since our national leadership hasn’t learned critical
lessons -- we’re currently fighting similarly unwinnable wars in the Middle
East.
One of my staff
members wrote a haiku poem when I left Dana-Farber that sums up my current
perspective. It read:
Adventurer’s
heart
Curiosity within
Feet move to explore
I’ve become
intrigued by the notion of living overseas at least part-time and have been
exploring those options through an organization known as International Living
and Investing. My travels in the past two years, aside from Vietnam, have
included Hong Kong, Singapore, Thailand and several countries in Latin
America-- Argentina, Uruguay, Ecuador, Panama and Belize--Italy and France.
In February, my wife
and I will take our longest jaunt to Australia and New Zealand. And in April,
we’ll go to Ireland to visit our son who’s studying in Dublin for four months.
The lad is following in his dad’s footsteps (though hopefully not visiting as
many pubs) as I have dual U.S-Irish citizenship.
I got it based on my
grandparents’ birthplace and homeland before they migrated to Boston in the late
1800s. I remind my son they came largely because my grandfather was an
insurgent opposing brutal British rule in Southern Ireland. He left two steps
ahead of the “Black & Tans,” ex-convicts imposing crown martial law, who
confiscated his family farm.
Given the Hennessy
name, which many think is French due to the cognac, I also remind my son that
his great grandfather’s flight echoed that of James Hennessy’s 200 years earlier to fight in the
ex-pat Irish “Wild Geese” battalion with the French against the English.
(Happily for him, James ended up marrying into the Martell family, living in
the Cognac region of France, and founding his own branch of the cognac crop.)
I’m not really trying to
raise a young rebel, but won’t be unhappy if he follows this rhyme of family
history and dares challenge the powers that be every so often. “Comfort the
afflicted, afflict the comfortable,” is a journalistic motto my daughter
certainly followed,writing for a college alternative newspaper, so I know
there’s some of my DNA in those acorns.
Despite that, and to
show I’ve shed parochial attitudes from the old school daze when we used to
debate the relative strength of the Israeli and Irish armies, I hereby declare
that point conceded.
Having worked in
Israel, clearing boulders from farmland beside kibbutzniks who also happened to be paratroopers and jet pilots in their spare time, I
gained great respect for the character of Israeli warriors.
So, Steve Buchalter, Paul Mann, Al Jerome, and whoever else I was
foolish enough to engage on the subject, you and the Israelis win that round.
The real question is
how many of our old friends and classmates will make it to the 50th celebration May 14 to 16 and what will be our next subjects? I’m sure we’ll
find new and more stimulating topics than healthcare legislation.
I look forward to
seeing as many of you as possible. Meanwhile, Cheers & L’Chayim to all.
Paul
Hennessy
Newton Centre, MA
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