We had one guy, an Italian immigrant named Luigi Crispino. Now, he was a soccer player, coming from a country where the sport may have had more adherents sometimes than sex. He was good. Once he took command of the ball, no one could stop him. He could maneuver that orb up and down the field as if he were the only one playing and from a point of pure skill. He was the only one out there. He loved that game.

We played rugby, American rugby and regular American football and he excelled at each but on the soccer field he was an Italian version of Pele from Brazil; who you might remember came along many years later and, prior to his retirement, was considered the world’s greatest soccer player.

There was one especially competitive game where the best players from all the kids got on the field. To watch people play who love a game and play just for the rush is an awe-inspiring sight. Somebody, I forgot who, threw a low body block at Luigi and he went down and didn’t move for a moment.

The prefects started to run out on the field and all of a sudden, there was a bellow as from a tortured bull and Luigi tried to stand up and he fell right down. They brought him to Nyack hospital for x-rays and found that his ankle was busted. They gave him painkillers, set the busted ankle and put it in a heavy plaster cast and sent him back to the house with orders to rest.

By the time he arrived back, it was after dinner and a bunch of guys were starting to put together a team to start another soccer match. As soon as Luigi got out of the car, he started to run across the field to join in, cast and all. The prefects were able to restrain him and persuade him to get some rest.

But, the very next day, when the teams started up after school emptied out, Luigi was out there running like a wounded antelope up and down that field and woe betide anyone who came within reach of his kicking foot, solidly encased in plaster of Paris, for the remainder of the soccer season.

By Joseph R. Stanaitis

She had us singing a round such as "row, row, row your boat." And she heard this voice coming from the back of the room, and the voice was me. She told me to stay in class after the rest of the guys left.

The room was empty except for Sister Collette and me. "You do know Master Robert that each year we try to find an exceptional voice among the boys to sing a few solos at the Easter mass. I think that with the proper training and practice, it could be you this year. I have to know right away since we will have only three months to get you ready. What do you say?"

I was totally surprised by her request. Three months practice meant three months without having to play team games, no chores after school, heck, sometimes even no chores after breakfast and before school.

"Gee, Sister, do ya really think I could do it, I mean really sing all by myself."

"Of course, Master Robert. If you really want to, you can do any thing you set your mind to. So, what’s it going to be, yes or no?"

"Yes, Sister, let’s do it. What do I have to do and when do I start?"

There were some unique traditions to be followed each spring. One was policing the play fields. Since our main disciplinarian was a USMC lieutenant colonel (ret), what we did as a group was decided by him.

So for this spring, I missed having to pick up anything in the field that didn’t grow. I missed digging up the silt in the stream. I missed, for this year anyway, being part of the team that empties the coal trains into the coalhouse, which was also the area where the older boys were allowed to smoke.

Every day, like clockwork, I turned up in Sr. Collettes classroom after breakfast and after school, where several others and I would practice our scales and learn to sing in Latin. Each session usually ended with snacks, something like kool aid, sugar corn pops and maybe stale cookies. It was a nice time.

It was about two weeks before the Easter mass and we were practicing one of the Easter hymns with its tonal ups and downs which had been easy for me up to then. As I reached for one of the high notes, I made a sound like a frog. The music stopped. Sr looked at me and asked if I were okay. I replied in the affirmative. We started again, from the top and I got past my previous vocal faux pas.

Sister looked at me and smiled and then I did it again. This time I let out a sound similar to a cat being kicked. Sister looked at me and I looked back, puberty had reared its ugly head and I was out of the music business.

By Joseph R. Stanaitis