Chasing Time’s protagonist, Tony Lucas, grew up in Brooklyn in the 1960s. Author Thomas Reilly shares stories of his Brooklyn days in a series of posts.
Especially today, in an era that will be chiefly remembered for the devastating impact of the COVID epidemic, a special date reminds me of the eager anticipation, boundless excitement, and humorous absurdity of an earlier era. As a student in St Anselm’s Elementary School many years ago, the first Wednesday of June was my favorite day of the school year. On that day, the band of altar boys and choir boys, who toiled during the year serving the needs of the parish church, were rewarded with an excused day from school to enjoy a day trip to Bear Mountain, a beautiful mountainous park nestled along the Hudson River, located approximately 45 miles north of New York City. It was my last altar boy trip to Bear Mountain, on that first Wednesday of June 1965, that turned out to be the most memorable, but not for the reasons I would have expected.
Excitement permeated the air as a large group of approximately 80 boys rendezvoused in the church parking lot shortly before 8:00 a.m. Chiding the passing parade of unfortunate students on their march to another tedious school day, we exalted in our freedom from the confines of the classroom. The collected group enthusiasm reached a fever pitch as we watched three streamlined motor buses pull into spaces across the street. Our chariots to freedom and adventure had arrived! Forming a snaking line to board, we eighth graders reveled in our seniority that privileged us to ride the first bus, reserved for altar boys only. Junior servers had to share their ride with some choir boys forming a hybrid population in the third bus.
Now came the best part! Standing in front of the bus door, dressed in unfamiliar civilian garb and waving wads of dollar bills in his hand like some kind of modern-day Robin Hood, Father Bogel, the director of the altar boys, greeted each of us with a gift of two, crisp dollar bills. Wow—two dollars in cold cash to spend as we wanted at Bear Mountain! In those days, where spare pennies and nickels found in pockets were considered mini-fortunes, two dollars seemed like an unimaginable godsend. I had never forgotten my first altar boy outing three years earlier when, upon arriving at Bear Mountain, my opening stop was the general store where I proceeded to spend the entire sum on my favorite candy, Clark bars. As I subsequently found out, it’s hard to eat twenty Clark bars in one setting!
A few hours later, following a boisterous ride characterized mostly by snide put-downs of the arch-enemy choir boys following us in the second bus, we arrived at our destination. Our first task was to prepare for the annual altar boy-choir boy softball game, whose outcome would determine bragging rights for the entire year. This game was especially critical, for as eighth graders we needed a win to avoid a losing record of only one win versus three losses before the end of our four-year era. As the senior altar boys, my twin brother Ned and I, with assistance from our best friend Frankie, managed the line-up and substitutions for the seven-inning game. What satisfaction we felt watching our team roll to a sweet victory, evening our record at two and two. The remaining hours at the state park that day were a blur to me as I exalted in our victory. Little was I to know that the excitement of the game was only a prelude to the day’s events.
The trip home was particularly loud and chaotic, as would be expected from a horde of young boys fueled by intake of uninhibited quantities of sugary treats and drinks all day long. To this day I still wonder how Father Bogel, sitting in the front of the bus, managed to maintain both his sanity and his detachment in the face of that raucous storm. After a thorough review of the earlier game’s strategies with my seatmate, Kevin O’Hare, one of the stars in our victory, I eventually surrendered to weariness and dozed off.
Suddenly, a shouting match between Kevin and another boy named Matthew, who was standing in the aisle next to my seat, shook me out of my trance. I can’t even remember what the argument was about, but I was no fan of Matthew. With an angular nose and sporting a perpetual frown that projected little warmth or kindness, he had developed a reputation as a mean-spirited boy whose attitude perfectly mirrored his appearance. As the argument developed into a heated affair with the two combatants hurling a stream of personal insults at each other, it attracted the attention of most of the riders. After one particular barb from Matthew, something to the effect that Kevin was a born loser, I jumped to my ally’s defense by yelling out those stirring words, “You too.” After a few more exchanges with Kevin, Matthew ended the verbal argument but raised the stakes immensely by throwing down the ultimate gauntlet. Looking in our direction, he stated in a loud voice, “I call you out.”
Back then, calling one out was the equivalent of being challenged to a duel in the 18th century. To preserve honor, one had to meet his challenger in hand-to-hand combat, usually in front of an enthusiastic throng, or face the humiliation associated with a public refusal. Nothing stirred the passion of 11- to 13-year-old boys like an old-fashioned fight. As expected, the bus was abuzz about the impending bout. I shared in the excitement and turned to Kevin with encouraging phrases such as, ”you can take him,” and “he’s no big deal.” As he turned toward me, I can still remember the puzzled stare on his face.
Eagerly anticipating this epic match as the feather on the cap of a great day, I was approached by John, another one of my altar boy colleagues. Kneeling down in the aisle next to my seat, he turned to me and said, “He’s supposed to be a good boxer.”
“That’s okay,” I replied in a nonchalant tone.
“But what are you going to do?”
“What do you mean?” I replied feeling a sudden nervousness growing inside of me.
“He called you out.”
In a panicked state, my first thoughts were, how could he call me out? All I did was say two words—you too. I responded, “Me—calling me out. I thought he called out Kevin. I didn’t do anything.”
”No,” John replied. “He wants to fight you.”
John’s revelation totally shattered my sense of contentment on what had been, at least up until that moment, a great day. Shockingly, I was presented with a no-win situation—either face the humiliation of backing down from a public challenge or meet this hostile individual in hand-to-hand combat in front of a group of my peers. I suppose the crafty Matthew viewed me as an easier target than the stocky Kevin O’Hare. However, this was not how I expected or wanted my day to end! Resolutely, or perhaps out of a sense of desperation, I made the only decision that was feasible. I would fight!
As the bus neared our final destination, a group of mediators met with me to establish ground rules. Although the very act of calling one out seemed a bit barbaric to me, there was a strict code of rules that had to be followed. First, I had to agree to the site. I assented to the proposed location, in front of the Bohacks supermarket right up the block from my house. If only the site’s proximity to the home could offer me a real home-field advantage?
Second, as the challenger, I had the right to choose the mode of combat. In this case, there were only two options—wrestling or boxing. For some strange reasons that today I still cannot explain, I chose boxing. Actually, I was a fairly good wrestler having honed my skills with years of almost daily matches with my brother. In particular, I had a very effective headlock move. In contrast, my boxing skills were lousy. Whenever I sparred with my brother, he would pound me to the ground. And I had already been warned about Matthew’s boxing proficiency. Nevertheless, boxing it would be!
Back at the St. Anselm’s parking lot, a large throng of boys exited the bus and made their way the three blocks to Bohacks in two separate groups—the first cluster surrounding me while offering words of encouragement and warning, and a second group performing a similar service for my opponent. Reaching the site, the two groups formed one large circle with the two antagonists facing each other at opposite ends. So this is really going to happen, I remember thinking to myself as I heard a loud voice saying “go.” As I moved to the center of the circle to meet my foe, I noticed him taking a very professional-looking boxing stance. Oh boy, what have I gotten myself into? My fears were confirmed as he proceeded to launch a few sharp jabs that stung my face. Suddenly and impulsively, I went berserk. In a brawling style, more akin to a crazed slugger than an artful boxer, I started swinging my arms wildly at my opponent, pummeling him with a series of undisciplined but hard punches. Backing him up to one corner of the circle with my thrusts, I watched in grateful astonishment as he turned away and sprinted at a full gallop down the street. It was over in barely more than a minute. My boxing form may not have passed muster, but who cared? I had won!
Even today, many years later, every first Wednesday in June draws my thoughts back to that paradoxical day. I suppose my lasting memories reflect both the depth and the scope of emotions I experienced during those hours—mounting excitement at traveling to Bear Mountain, total surprise at realizing that I was the one “called out”, abject fear at the prospect of fighting, and perhaps most of all, ecstatic relief that I had survived the encounter.
Chasing Time, a suspenseful and heartwarming book filled with unexpected plot twists, is available on Amazon.