Sophomores

by Sean Desmond

  CATHOLIC SPORTS HIERACHY, ACCORDING TO PATRICK FRANCIS MALONE . . .

  Angels. Level One.

  You’re from the neighborhood.

  Specifically, the Bronx. Any athlete from the Bronx was as tough as they come. The perfect example of this was Dolph Schayes. When invoked, he was immediately ascribed with the modifier: who grew up on Jerome Avenue.

  Archangels. Level Two.

  You’re black but have an Irish-sounding name. This includes Jackie Robinson.

  Pat Malone was not ostensibly a racist man. He would have been the first to admit that black people were better athletes and was happy to leave it at that. In fact, Pat was an early adopter of expanding the definition of “black Irish.” So welcome aboard, Karl Malone, Desmond Howard, and Shaquille O’Neal. NB: This wasn’t about slave names—and if you brought that up, get ready for the litany on eight hundred years of Hibernian oppression. Rather, have you overcome a sufficient level of misery that an Irishman would be proud to endure?

  And so, QED, Jackie Robinson is an honorary black Irishman.

  Ophanim. Level Three.

  You are Italian and Pat Malone has to hand it to you.

  Growing up in the Irish parishes of the South Bronx, Italians were an acceptable ethnic other that Pat Malone appreciated for all sorts of contrarian and convoluted reasons. Pat hated the Yankees but always had honorifics for Yogi and the DiMaggio brothers. Did you see that chip by Mark Bavaro on Jim Jeffcoat? You have to hand it to him . . . Don Shula? Has that Italian kid Marino slinging it like Paul Hornung (see level six).

  Later in life, Pat professed more admiration for Latin baseball players as they replaced Italians in the big leagues. So everyone from Clemente to the Alou brothers retroactively became a credit to their people.

  Pat grabbed the arms of his chair to keep from tremoring. Dan noticed his father’s clamped-down posture—It’s the game, right? Not the MS?—and started rooting for an Irish comeback, if only to put his father in a more relaxed mood. Instead, A&M orchestrated a long, disheartening drive. Touchdown Aggies.

  “Just one series.” Dan shoved a couple of Fritos into his grilled cheese for crunch. If I ask about what’s really wrong, he’ll get mad.

  “We’re letting these rednecks dupe us . . .”

  “Sorry, Dad,” Dan offered calmly, noticing his father frowning the same way Lou Holtz was on the Irish sideline.

  Dominions. Level Four.

  You are Irish.

  Here the heredity laws were not very strict. Being Irish meant any part down to a dram. So Jack Dempsey, who was a quarter Irish, was the greatest Irish heavyweight, and by the Gaelic transitive property, the greatest heavyweight ever. The Mara family were the smartest owners in the NFL, followed by the Rooneys. Was Doug Flutie Irish? Didn’t matter. He threw the ball to Gerard Phelan, a good Irish kid out of Archbishop Carroll.

  The shamrock loophole: any part Irish also meant any team with one Irish player, allowing Pat to root for Protestant teams, or, in one extreme case, BYU, when Jim McMahon was their quarterback.

  Virtues. Level Five.

  You went to a Catholic school, preferably in the Big East.

  In the Pat Malone sports empyrean, here was the consummate collection of holy ballers (Providence, Seton Hall, St. John’s, Nova, Georgetown, BC), and the great Pat prophecy was someday Fordham would join them (a.k.a. the Second Ascension). And when Fordham was no great shakes in basketball (which was all of the time), St. John’s became the crosstown team Pat rooted for. Lou Carnesecca, well, you had to hand it to him, and the McGuire brothers too (Johnnies, Irish, and from the neighborhood trinity). Everything about Big East basketball was born of gritty Catholic determination. Case in point: John Thompson, who went to a different Archbishop Carroll and took Providence to an NIT title with Ray Flynn, the most certainly Irish mayor of Boston.

  Powers. Level Six.

  You went to Notre Dame.

  Despite all the fancy-pants golden boys at Hayes who went to South Bend—Regis Philbin, Pat’s brother-in-law Jack Hurley—Notre Dame was officially consecrated the national Catholic team. Plus, they were the Fighting Irish.

  Did you know that Art Donovan (from the neighborhood, Mount Saint Michael) went to Notre Dame for one semester before becoming a marine who fought at Iwo Jima? Fighting Irish.

  Angelo Bertelli, you had to hand it to him: found out he won the Heisman by telegram while at Parris Island. Fighting Irish.

  Paul Hornung: There was none greater. He could run like a deer/the wind/a world-class track star, had an arm like a howitzer/rifle/bazooka, and was a helluva kicker, literally to boot. He also served in the army. Because he was Fighting Irish.

  Outcast angel

  Goddamn Digger Phelps. As Satan was chief of the Powers in heaven, Goddamn Digger Phelps should have stayed at Fordham. If he hadn’t left for South Bend, Goddamn Digger Phelps would have taken the Rams into the Big East, fulfilling the prophecy of the Second Ascension.

  That afternoon in the Cotton Bowl the prayers of the Irish faithful went unanswered. The Notre Dame offense went doodlebug, curling into a ball and doing nothing. The A&M defense kept Tim Brown in check. He would not score the rest of the game. And before you knew it, the tally was 35 to 10 Aggies, and the Irish were dazed and downtrodden. Halfway through the fourth quarter, the Aggies lined up for the kickoff following their final touchdown. This was back in the days of Sherrill’s Twelfth Man, which meant the entire kickoff team was a bunch of walk-on kamikazes who flew around the field trying to concuss the receiving team. On this last kickoff of the day, two of these knuckleheads tackled Tim Brown and one grabbed his towel while the other held him down. This drove Brown and Pat Malone crazy.

  “Look at this, they’re mugging the poor kid. Bunch of goddamn yahoos.”

  Tim Brown got up from the pile and with a seven-yard head of steam speared the towel thief in the back. Of course the refs saw that and ejected the Heisman winner.

  “Such bullshit. They were scalping him! This was premeditated. What a disgrace.”

  “Calm down, Dad,” Dan pleaded.

  Pat realized he was sweating, shaking, and raving. He tried to push deeper into his chair, sitting on his fists, and smiled sheepishly at his son.

  “Sorry, Danny boy, but did you see that? They literally robbed the kid.”

  “I know, Dad. It’s not fair, but that’s football.”

  Thrones. Level Seven.

  You went to a Catholic prep school, preferably Jesuit.

  Long before recruiters were publishing their big boards in the Sporting News, Pat Malone was scouring the Catholic prep school system for the Next Great One. Extra points if you came through the Jebbies. There was some hindsight regret and obsession behind this—if Pat had gone to Fordham Prep like Vincent Scully the Blessed (levels one, four, and five), he would have been running American Airlines from a floor-through on Park Avenue—but it was mostly ingrained Irish reverence for Jesuit institutions.

  Did it matter that Fidel Castro went to a Jesuit high school? It did to Pat Malone. Did you know the Cuban Missile Crisis could have been prevented if the scouts had just brought Fidel up for a serious tryout? That’s why he was anti-American—because the Washington Senators passed on him.

  Classic example of the Next Great One: Chris Mullin, who came out of Power Memorial and Xaverian.

  Cherubim. Level Eight.

  You are not Catholic, but you are so good Pat Malone wishes you were.

  This is just a catch-all for outstanding, first-ballot Captain America types: Bill Bradley, Sandy Koufax, Joe Frazier, Secretariat, Y. A. Tittle.

  Seraphim. Level Nine.

  They slayed the dragon.

  Loyalty to one team per major sport is mainly an exercise in defeat. Even good teams, and Pat had his share—the Brooklyn Dodgers, th
e New York Football Giants—let you down 99 percent of the time. And so what you really root for, the second thing you check on the sports page in the morning, are the moments when your rival is vanquished from the field of play.

  There are pure and blessed examples of this: Jesse Owens and Joe Louis defeated Nazis. Gil Hodges and Bill Mazeroski triumphed over the Yankees. Good Catholic coaches such as John McKay could beat evil secular teams like Alabama. These immaculate moments sustained the hope that the great chain of being was in order.

  “Well there’s no chance now.”

  The Irish had to throw the long ball, and on third and forever this mediocre kid out of Michigan heaved it down the line—Where Tim Brown is supposed to be—and was picked off again.

  “Hail Mary same as a punt there,” Dan offered, trying to take any sting out of it.

  Pat felt light-headed, anemic, his throat scraped and raw. “Get me another cup of ice, kiddo.”

  “Sure, Dad. Want to watch the Fiesta Bowl?” Dan asked. The only consolation for bad football: more football.

  “Sure.” Pat realized his son was trying to soothe him. Do this for the right reasons, he reminded himself. “Did I ever tell you about the ’41 Cotton Bowl Fordham lost to A&M? I mean, this was just after Lombardi, but still a great team, and those goddamn Aggies are offsides on the extra point—”

  “And block it and Fordham loses thirteen–twelve.” Dan finished the gospel, chapter and verse.

  Pat smiled at his son. “Oh, so you were there?”

  The Godhead.

  And next to our Lord and Savior, at the hand of God, sitting on an austere cathedra of seven blocks of granite, was St. Vincent Thomas Lombardi.

  Mr. Everything Fordham, and Giants coach, and, the way Pat Malone described it, St. Mark’s in Sheepshead Bay was practically a parish in the Bronx. A former altar boy, just like Pat, Lombardi was a Knight of Columbus, and just like Pat, fourth degree. Lombardi was a winner because he was a good man, a good Catholic, and he possessed a type of integrity that Pat knew infallibly was something we were supposed to aspire to, protect, and pass on.

  The rest of the day kept presenting new evidence that the universe would not bend to the laws and hierarchies of Pat Malone. The defenders of the faith were in short supply as Florida football stormed the gates. After a doleful pork chop dinner, Pat hit the worst of his withdrawal as the Hurricanes bloodied the Sooners. He watched his son root for teams that were demon fast, obscenely celebrating every tackle and first down, and undeniably dominant.

  Pat felt like hell and hobbled to the bathroom. He was no longer banned from the master bedroom, but he would be up all night with the fidgets and the sweats and the nausea, and he needed more ice, maybe something sweet, but he had no appetite, and maybe he should just have one drink to take the edge off. One drink, like medicine, that’s all, what’s the harm in that? It was a new year, and if he could just keep it to one drink a night, then he wouldn’t have a problem and he wouldn’t be in misery, and everything would be fine. One stiff drink and that’s it.

  [ JANUARY 31 ]

  A cold and early Sunday, the eve of St. Bridget’s, and Anne Malone put on her fake lambskin gloves to go turn over the Zephyr. Bridget, a woman who prayed for her beauty to be taken away so no one would marry her . . . God Almighty . . . the Irish mother of the Church, ladies and gentlemen. Anne sighed, thinking of her own Irish mother and all her beyond-the-pale superstitions. Bridget’s feast sat uneasily on a cross quarter day. Midway from solstice to equinox, half in, half out. On a day like this, Anne remembered her mother saying, to look at the shades of winter, it felt like you had caught something looking away from you.

  The Zephyr stammered at ignition, the engine wheezing and retching before settling into something resembling internal combustion. Anne turned both defrosters on low—anything stronger would stall the car—and grabbed the scraper from the glove compartment. A cold snap had perfectly entombed the car’s windows in a quarter inch of ice.

  Anne’s resolution to go to early Mass every day in the New Year was still holding. St. Bridget, hear my prayer, and grant me the strength to break this goddamn ice off the windshield. The scraping was taking such effort that Anne was now sweating under her coat and church clothes. Finally the iceberg calved and slid onto the hood. Anne paused before attempting the back windshield. It was then that she spied the paper at the edge of the Peñas’ driveway. Still visiting family in Illinois, she thought, and in her helpful neighborly fashion, Anne reached down furtively to steal their paper and Sunday coupons and stash it inside the house when the headline caught her.

  RALEIGH AWAKE IN HOSPITAL POLICE, D.A. RELEASE SUICIDE NOTE

  Anne pulled a glove off with her teeth and unfurled the front page of the Dallas Morning News.

  Standing Raleigh had come out of his coma. He was confused but responsive. No word about when the trial would resume—Judge Samuels was unable to be reached for the story—but a quote from Henry Wade, the Dallas district attorney: “Reverend Raleigh must have his day in court and be held accountable. I will wait until kingdom come.”

  Anne followed the jump to the first page of Metro, and there was the note Raleigh had written before his suicide attempt:

  There is a demon inside my soul. My demon tries to lead me down paths I do not want to follow. My demon is working inside my soul again, filling me with despair and taking away my hope.

  All of my life people have seen me as strong. The truth is just the opposite. I am the weakest of the weak. People have seen me as good. The truth is just the opposite. I am the baddest of the bad. People have seen me as virtuous. The truth is just the opposite. I am the lowest of the low.

  Pray for Peggy, take care of my children, and forgive me the pain I inflict on so many. I have grown weak. God has remained strong. Therein lies your hope. I have none.

  Anne stood there in the plume of exhaust as it billowed across the lawn.

  The end of a new year. Same old shit.

  * * *

  That evening, Anne and Daniel Malone sheered along Northwest Highway, heading east into the dark streets of Lake Highlands. The rain was coming down in a thin sleet, and Anne was nervous that the roads were icing over. Her tension filled the cold air inside the car—the heat in the Zephyr was diverted entirely toward defrost. There was no room for chatting; Anne had to concentrate—on the lookout for patches of black ice and other unknown perils. That it was a gloomy winter evening in East Dallas, an unfamiliar part of town, added to her worry. Dan had the Mapsco on his lap and had already rerouted them once. Anne had been heading on Walnut Hill to Lake Highlands High School, but that wasn’t where the swim meet was—they had to find the White Rock Natatorium, and they were a little lost. Dan raised the map into the glare from the headlights of the cars behind them. If they had just taken the LBJ, like he suggested, it was easy. But highway driving in these conditions was inconceivable to his mother, who clutched the steering wheel awkwardly at nine and six o’clock, afraid to go hand over hand in the turnoff for Garland Road. The only problem was there was no turnoff for Garland Road. Then a sign. construction on garland road. alt route, jupiter road.

  “I don’t know where we are.”

  “It’s okay, this will loop back.”

  “So take it?”

  “Make a right.” Dan looked up from the Mapsco, scanning the darkness for a street sign or landmark. “This is better, actually.”

  Back to anguished silence. Luckily they did loop back to Garland Road and, after a couple more turns, were relieved to find the parking lot for the pool.

  “What time does this end?” Anne asked over the crunch of tires on gravel mixed with sleet.

  “Eight or nine, I guess.”

  “Are there bleachers inside?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Okay. I’ll come back.”

  Anne was cold, but two hours of ch
lorinated air and the deafening echoes of cheering inside an indoor pool would drive her batshit.

  “I’ll come back at eight thirty—”

  “Fine.” Dan slammed the car door shut, which Anne read as haste with the icy rain coming down but was really conflicted teenage moodiness—he wanted her there and he didn’t want her there, and he was annoyed at having both feelings.

  Anne burrowed into the cold of her car, the headlights of the Zephyr illuminating a turned-over goalpost on a wintered soccer field. She picked up the Mapsco and found herself. East Dallas, the undiscovered country. There was shopping on Skillman—Maybe a Tom Thumb to stroll the aisles and warm up in. And then she remembered: Lake Highlands. Their house is just off Audelia and Royal. She found Credo Drive in the street index.

  * * *

  Sleet stippled the hood of the Zephyr but did not stick to the road. Anne drove toward the Raleigh house expecting some part of her would win the argument for turning away. Judge Sam never said we couldn’t. Just a quick drive by. She knew the address from the trial, 9324 Credo Drive, and in minutes she was on their block, the look and layout of the houses here familiar from the nightly news. Credo Drive hooked and veered left, the roads in this part of town all curved like this, partly by design and partly inflected by the various creeks that fed White Rock Lake. Anne crawled along and then came to a stop two doors down. The house was a bleached oatmeal color, with a large sycamore swiping an umber roof. The windows were shaded, no light on the porch. The house was . . . inoffensive . . . and in the darkness could have been mistaken for a million other Dallas ranch houses. There were few cars on the block, and Anne was a little surprised not to find any police stationed there, but then again, it was too late, the house just a remnant. Creepy quiet though. She nudged the accelerator and drove around the bend until Credo Drive dead-ended into an unmarked road across from railroad tracks. She looked both ways through a sequence of sodium streetlights—no cars, no people, just more road. She felt a little nervous—If I get caught out here, would that be grounds for a mistrial? Standing Raleigh’s suicide attempt and the long delay, now going on two months, counting the holidays, had probably caused that already. But it was those same jitters that spurred her to make a hard right and turn up the alleyway behind Credo Drive.