Ten years ago I started my blog. Below you can read my first post. I hope you will enjoy reading it again or for the first time.
I don’t remember whose idea it was originally, but it quickly galvanized into a joint project. Frank Ruggio and I would travel to New York City for a weekend to remember for the rest of our lives.
I met Frank in the seventh grade in the Fall of 1957. My family moved from the eastside of Oswego, New York to its westside shortly before Thanksgiving the previous year. From before I was born, we had rented one-half of a two-family house at the corner of East Third and Oneida Street. It was a great location, across the street from a large park, where my brothers and I would often go to play. However, my mother longed to have a dream house of her own and eventually, my father arranged to give it to her. Unfortunately, it was on the opposite side of town and would require my transferring to Kingsford Park School.
When the second half of the school year began in January, I had to make the big switch. My mother notified the proper authorities at the school so I was expected on day one. She drove me to school and told me I had to go to an office just to the right after entering the building. I wanted her to walk me in, but in her wisdom, she knew it was the right thing for me to go by myself. It was one of the scariest moments of my young life.
I was assigned to one of the two sections of the sixth grade. I was escorted to the classroom and, once inside, the teacher assigned me to a an empty desk almost in the middle of the room. I could feel all eyes were on me, but I looked straight ahead at the teacher. She started asking the class some questions and I felt confident enough to raise my hand offering correct answers. My acumen won me over to a number of males in the class and was quickly accepted as a new friend.
Since sixth grade was considered “Grade School,” my fellow students and I basically stayed together in our classroom for the rest of the academic year, the end of June. In September, after Labor Day, we advanced to seventh grade, which was considered “Junior High School.” There, we would have a home room, where we started each day, then pass individually from classroom to classroom, studying various subjects with different teachers. I remember my homeroom teacher, Mr. Thomas Genovese, who was also the shop teacher.
It was there one of my friends introduced me to Frank, a friend from his neighborhood, who had been in the other section of the sixth grade. We hit it off immediately. We became best friends from that point until I went away to college six years later.
Why did we become best friends? Well, he was quiet, but spoke up when he needed to. Interestingly, in class he stuttered, but not with his peers. Like myself, he was not judgmental, and we accepted each other as we were. In our high school yearbook, he wrote I was the most stubborn person he knew. But, he put up with me. We had many things in common, especially an interest in sports. He was more athletic than I was. But, we both were enamored of spectator sports, especially the number one sport of that era, baseball. He was a big fan of the New York Yankees and Mickey Mantle. My team was the New York/San Francisco Giants and Willie Mays. In October 1962, we were on opposite sides in the World Series. That didn’t interfere with our friendship.
I think we started hatching plans for our trip at the beginning of the school year, in September 1962. We came up with the idea of attending as many sporting events as possible over a weekend at the lowest cost possible. First, living in Oswego, a small town of about 20,000 inhabitants, the only live sporting events available were high school sports. The biggest was the cross-town basketball rivalry between our Oswego High School Buccaneers and the Oswego Catholic High School Crusaders. Thirty miles away was Syracuse which offered the NBA’s Nationals (Nats), Syracuse University football, and the minor league Chiefs baseball team. If we were courageous, New York City was 300 miles away which offered the most options of any place we could imagine.
In the 1960s, live major league sports were on television very little compared to today. There was one baseball game on Saturday afternoon in the Spring and Summer. Saturdays in the Fall included one college football game. Sundays, we could watch the New York Giants football game. In the winter, there was an NBA game on Sundays. College basketball and pro hockey were not available on television. On the other hand, boxing on TV was big.
There were more sports alternatives available on the radio. I remember listening to Yankee and Met baseball games, Nats basketball games, and Syracuse U. football games on the radio.
All of this whetted our appetites for attending live sporting events. We needed time to plan our trip and that moved us up to the end of the year, past baseball season, but at a time when basketball, football, and hockey were all ongoing. Our first problem was to find out what games were available. Today a quick trip to the Internet will give you all the information you want. In 1962, we had to send letters to the various teams to inquire about there respective schedules. Eventually, we found a particular Saturday night, December 8, when the Nats were hosting the Boston Celtics, Sunday afternoon, December 9, when the New York Football Giants would entertain the Cleveland Browns, and that same Sunday night, the New York Rangers would skate against the Boston Bruins.
We needed money to buy tickets. Ticket prices, even calculating for inflation, were not nearly as expensive as they are today. But we were two poor high school students. Frank was from a middle-class family with five children. If he wanted money for such a fantasy, he would have to get a job or find ways to earn money. He did. My family was better off, but I too had to earn the money, which was easier for me. My father gave me a job at the dairy where he was the General Manager. It sold a few products such as milk and ice at the dairy’s office on Sunday mornings when many of the grocery stores in town were closed. I was the lone salesman there from nine to one every Sunday and it was never very busy. My father was very generous with my hourly wage. As soon as we had enough money, we mailed away (with money orders) for our tickets.
We next needed to arrange for our transportation. Frank’s father wanted to come to the basketball game, so he would drive us to the Onondaga County War Memorial in Syracuse, home of the Nats. After the game Frank and I were on our own. It would end at about 10 PM and the Greyhound Bus to New York City would leave at 2:30 AM. It would arrive early Sunday morning, in plenty of time to get to the old Yankee Stadium for the 1 PM kickoff. After that, we could take a subway to the former Madison Square Garden at Eighth Avenue and 50th Street for the hockey game. Next, there would be another overnight Greyhound Bus back to Syracuse that would arrive early Monday morning. In 1962, there was a Oswego-Syracuse Bus Company that offered bus service between the two cities. That is how we would arrive back in our home town, too late however to be on time for school on Monday, December 10.
We needed a minimal amount of money for food and souvenirs, but none for lodging. We were going to sleep Saturday and Sunday nights on a Greyhound bus.
At the time of the trip, I was 17 years and four months old. I was about 8 months removed from going off to college. The previous Summer, I spent two weeks on my own at Clarkson University in Potsdam, New York, taking part in a science and engineering program. The other students and I lived in dorms and were basically on our own. My age and this particular experience I think convinced my parents that I was trustworthy enough to go on this trip to New York. And also that I was not going alone. However, there were no cell phones in 1962 so that we could keep in touch.
Along with a couple of friends, Frank, his father, and I left Oswego in the Ruggio family car at about 7 PM on the night of Saturday, December 8, 1962. I was very excited. We arrived at the Nats home court in plenty of time and found our seats high up above the court. When I was younger, my father had season tickets and several of us in the family would regularly go to Nats games, sitting very near the court. However, tonight we were sitting where the cheapest tickets bought you.
Up until that point in my life, I had always been a Nats fan. Unfortunately, their record of success was considerably less than that of the visiting Boston Celtics, who had won four consecutive NBA championships. Therefore, on the spur of the moment, I decided, face to face with greatness, to root for the Celtics, in front of a huge crowd of Syracuse fans, including the friends I was with. Instead of being a silent rooter, I became outspoken, making a fool of myself whenever Boston scored. That triggered a reaction from a young hometown supporter, of about my age, sitting in front of me who started hitting me with his rolled up program whenever Syracuse scored. I normally was not a belligerent person, but I didn’t know what to do. None from my party came to my rescue, to ask this young man to cut it out. It was as if they were all too into the game to take notice of my plight, or as if I had asked for such punishment. He kept it up until the final horn sounded, when the score stood at Nats 102, Celtics 97. What was I thinking?
It was ironic that, more or less one year later, I saw the same two teams play again, but under different circumstances. I was in Philadelphia as a college freshman. The Nats had moved there too to become the Philadelphia 76ers. I didn’t make the same mistake twice, rooting the hometown Nats/76ers to victory over the hated visitors from Boston. I have only rooted for the Boston Celtics once in my life. Never more!
Back to my story! The game ended at about 10 PM and Frank’s father and our other friends departed for Oswego. Frank and I had about 4 and a half hours to kill before our bus left for New York City. Frank and I had never talked about what we would do with this time.
Frank immediately mentioned that he would go to a porno movie theater a few blocks from the War Memorial and from the Greyhound Bus Station. Coming from a very puritanical upbringing, I was shocked by what Frank said. I couldn’t believe he wanted to do this or even that he knew about such a place. I did not try to talk him out of it, nor did I agree to join him. We went our separate ways, agreeing to meet at the Bus Station at 2:00 AM.
Instead, I walked to the nearby Hotel Syracuse where the Celtics would spend the night. As their next game was not until Tuesday in New York against the Knicks, the Celtics would not leave Syracuse until Sunday morning. Therefore, I could hang out in the hotel lobby collecting autographs. I remember Red Auerbach, Bob Cousy, and Tommy Heinsohn. Then I spotted rookie sensation, John “Hondo” Havlicek. Apparently he was hungry and he headed for the coffee shop on the street level of the hotel. I was very familiar with the hotel as my family would use its lobby and restaurants whenever we visited Syracuse. I followed him into the coffee shop where he sat down at the counter. I nonchalantly sat nearby. He ordered a sandwich; I ordered coffee. After a minute, I asked him if he was indeed John Havlicek, even though I had no doubt he was. Without smiling, he admitted his identity and gave me his autograph. We resumed eating and drinking.
As time got closer to midnight, the lobby started emptying and I decided to walk to the Bus Station and kill time there before Frank’s arrival at 2 AM. I had bought a program at the basketball game and read and re-read it several times over the next couple of hours. I also studied the clock a lot. Finally, 2 AM arrived, but not Frank. 2:05 and no Frank! I started to get worried. 2:10 and still no Frank! I left the Bus Station and walked the completely empty streets a few blocks away to the porno movie theater, arriving at 2:15. I stood across the street from the entrance. I couldn’t even bring myself to stand directly in front of it. The marquee lights were still on signaling that customers were still welcome to enter.
I was in a state of panic. What had happened to Frank? I assumed he was still inside the theater. But why hadn’t he left to keep our appointment at the Bus Station? What ever was going on inside couldn’t be more important than what we had been planning for months. We each had our own tickets for the bus rides and the Sunday games. If we didn’t get to the Bus Station in 15 minutes, our bus would leave without us. The next bus was at 7 AM and we would miss the afternoon football game. What to do? Should I return to the Bus Station and get on the bus, hoping that Frank would soon join me? And if he didn’t, should I go without him? Should I wait there on the street for Frank to finally come to his senses, but which would probably mean both of us would miss the 2:30 bus and the Giants-Browns fooball game. I was a big Giants fan and it would be my first time at one of their games. It never dawned on me that I should enter the theater and look for him. The movie theater in Oswego was very large and it would have been very time-consuming to find anyone there. Should I enter the theater and call out his name? What to do? It was a cold December night in Syracuse, but I was sweating.
Finally, at 2:25 AM, I saw a lone figure run out of the theater and continue running down the street to my right, in the direction of the Bus Station. I ran too and we joined up when he crossed over to my side of the street. It was Frank and his watch had stopped. Miraculously, he realized this virtually at the last possible moment before all would be lost. We continued running to the Bus Station arriving with a couple of minutes to go. As the driver still had a few things to do before departure, we realized the bus was not going to leave exactly at 2:30. Frank said he was hungry and wanted to go to the coffee shop inside the Bus Station to get a hamburger. I insisted that Frank not leave me again as I waited by the bus. He didn’t argue. Unbelievably, we were both on the bus as it headed for New York City.
On the ride south, neither of us discussed our respective experiences over the last four hours. It was the middle of the night and we were tired. We fell asleep and stayed that way until our arrival in New York. The Port Authority Bus Terminal at 42nd Street and Eighth Avenue was pretty sleazy back in 1962. We had to use the men’s room to get cleaned up as best we could. The room could have used some cleaning up as well.
We had donuts and coffee for breakfast as we were on a budget. Frank said he wanted to go to a mass at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue and 50th Street. We had plenty of time before we had to leave for Yankee Stadium. However, again I did not want to go somewhere with Frank. And again, it had to do with my upbringing. Frank was a very religious Catholic, so going to a mass at the famous Cathedral would be special. My parents had taught me that, as a Jew, this was a place to fear, to fear that my Jewish identity would be stolen from me. I could not even enter the building. I could not even go with Frank and wait for him outside. We agreed he would meet me at 11:00 AM back at the corner of 42nd Street and Eighth Avenue.
At about 10:30, I decided to go outside the warm Port Authority building and wait for Frank on the cold street. After a few minutes, a young man approached me and started a conversation. Raised to be polite, I thought it only natural that I reciprocate. However, after a few minutes, he invited me to have a cup of coffee with him. A bell went off in my head and I politely refused, saying that I had somewhere to go. It was awkward because I was standing where Frank and I had agreed to meet at the top of the hour. I quickly circled the block, hoping that the young man would be gone when I returned. I started wishing that I had gone with Frank in the first place. When I got back, he was gone. Unlike in Syracuse, Frank returned on time and we headed to Yankee Stadium.
This time we had great seats, for a baseball game. They were on the field level, behind the first base dugout. Unfortunately, we were at a football game. At the beginning, it was great as we could clearly see the numbers on the backs of the player’s jerseys as they were introduced and ran out on the field. As the game began, however, it became difficult to see how far downfield the ball advanced after each play. Besides my Giants, I was looking forward to seeing in person one of the greatest football players ever, Jim Brown of the Cleveland Browns. Good for my Giants, Brown didn’t have a great game. He dropped a sure touchdown pass and New York won, 17-13.
After the game, we went back downtown for the final event, the hockey game, a sport neither Frank nor I knew much about. But, it was a sport. My only recollection of the game was the fat Ranger goalie, Gump Worsley, who wore a brushcut, but no mask. This time Boston won, 4-2.
Now we were back at the Bus Station waiting for our uneventful return trip home. Our adventure had been everything we had hoped for. We had attended three major professional sporting events in two cities within about 24 hours. How could we ever top that? My Oswego High School friends noted me for my “weekends in New York City” in our Class of 1963 Yearbook.
Almost exactly a year later, I went on a similar trip, this time by myself. On Saturday, December 7, 1963, I attended the Army-Navy football game in Philadelphia in the afternoon (Navy won 21-15) and then took a Greyhound bus to Atlantic City, New Jersey, to attend the Middleweight Championship boxing match between Dick Tiger and Joey Giardello (the winner by decision) that night. I’ve never done anything like that since.
Unfortunately, I lost track of Frank when I went away to college in August of 1963. I entered a new world and met new friends. I thought I didn’t need my old friends any more. How stupid! You never have enough friends.
Early in 1988, I was contacted by an old high school classmate about a twenty-fifth Class of 1963 reunion that August in Oswego. By then I had been living in New York City, of all places, for the previous twenty years. I had been back in Oswego only once since my parents left in 1971 and I hadn’t spoken to Frank in more than twenty years.
However, the reunion sparked a new interest in my old life in Oswego. I started thinking about Frank and about our weekend in New York that December of 1962. I excitedly looked forward to seeing him again and talking especially about that night when I was standing waiting for him outside the porno movie theater. I knew that I should have gone with Frank that night (my watch didn’t stop) and with him the next day to Saint Patricks Cathedral. It was something that only he and I had experienced and I wanted to share it again through our collective memory.
I went to the Friday night reunion which was held at a restaurant in Oswego. I arrived right on time, which is not customary. A few of my classmates were setting things up for the party. Some I recognized and some I did not. I finally found one whom I remembered and I asked about Frank Ruggio. It felt like she punched me in the stomach when she told me he had died of lung cancer six months before.
I’m sorry that Frank died much too soon, leaving a daughter and a granddaughter. I’m sorry he wasn’t there that night in August of 1988. I’m sorry I lost our friendship which had been so important to me. I’m sure that without Frank, I wouldn’t have made that trip to New York City in December of 1962 that I will remember for the rest of my life. I’m sure Frank remembered it for the remainder of his.
