I arrived alone to navigate my first day as a college freshman at Muhlenberg in Allentown, Pennsylvania, in 1978. For the Sunday before classes were to commence, I was struck by the strangely hushed and peaceful air that surrounded me. I was assigned to start my new life in the Martin Luther dormitory that sits on the northeast corner of campus. I found my way to the dorm, but could not find one soul to help me locate room 50. After some random wandering I stumbled upon my room on the second floor, all the way at the west wing of the hall. The dorm traditionally housed incoming freshman boys, and I realized the close proximity of Memorial Hall Gymnasium. There was only a stairwell, exterior wall, and ten feet of pavement that separated my small room and the basketball arena. At 6pm on this late August night it had the feel of an old fort that had been abandoned temporarily. One could sense the cyclical commotion that had calmed in May only to resume with full force in September. I was alone as I pushed open the door to my new room. An unfamiliar set of eyes from a poster stared right at me when I looked up to survey my new dwelling. The guy in the poster was dressed in a white tee shirt, blue jeans, and work boots, he had a guitar draped around his neck and looked like a typical “greaser” , back in the day. Diverting from the poster’s gaze I looked around the drab cell-like quarters and the scattering of somebody else’s paraphernalia. I felt overwhelmingly disconnected and forgotten. I dropped my big suit case to the middle of the floor and fell onto my unfamiliar bed and wept.
Dave Ambrose hailed from what was then, the typical central New Jersey Italian family. Saturdays were spent watching Notre Dame on the gridiron, and following church, Sunday afternoons were dedicated to eating pasta and meatballs. His family spent two weeks each summer at the Jersey shore. At a college rife with aspiring MD’s , Dave’s choice of majoring in Art History was surely atypical. His rather stoic and solemn nature was not the norm for an 18 year old freshman either. Some of his personality, I am sure , was borne out of losing his father early . That fact, along with loving athletics, but not being much of an athlete, might explain why he seemed to retreat within . Unfortunately for Dave he would being sharing tight living quarters with me who was completely lost. I was not prepared for any sort of bonding, and even less in sharing anything personal about myself. Besides having lost my way, I was not the kind of roomie anyone would be excited about—an angry young man hanging on to a self-absorbed, over inflated perception of who I was and my place in the world. I was fast realizing in this whirlwind of change , that I had been a big fish in a very small pond.
As my new living companion stuck out his hand to introduce himself,
“I’m Dave Ambrose,” I gave the appropriate salutation in return, but secretly whispered to myself, “Hi, I am nobody.”
From my perspective growing up in New Paltz did separate me from the other 18 year olds who arrived on the Muhlenberg campus in the fall of 1978. My home town was an insulated college hamlet surrounded with all the entrapments of the 60’s. To many of my friends and associates it was a time warp. Whether for better or worse I was comfortable in a world filled with partying. Drugs and alcohol had become common place in my life. My senior year in high school embodied the idea of “small town golden boy.” I resisted the step of leaving my comfort zone and heading off to college. Outwardly I was arrogant, distant, and angry. Inside I knew I was just one of the crowd but refused to accept this fact as I searched for ways to be different from my peers. It’s a surprise to me that even to this day I remember so many of my freshmen dorm mates. I have not seen one of them since graduation, but their faces remain clear in my head. John Trump and Rich Kronewitter were the TKE brothers who lived across the hall. John Kreger, a straight laced guy, who was sure to turn out to be a company man handled the resident advisor duties. He helped arrange switches in troubling rooming assignments. I lived with Parsippany preppie John Spagnola for the second semester. 
Steve Loh walked around like he was running for Mayor. For a tall geeky lad he was popular enough, and appeared to always get what he wanted. Scott Shikora and Bruce White were roomies from Long Island who went home every week-end. At a time when Phil Esposito was still playing they were fanatical Ranger hockey fans. And finally, Bill Scully , who although never threw one pitch for the Muhlenberg Mules, guaranteed we would all see him playing in the majors.
That first semester of my freshman year I focused on my school work more than at any other point in my life. Mon, Wed, Friday, intermediate French at 8 am, Intro. To Communications at 10am, and Freshman English at 2pm. Tuesday and Thursday it was Philosophy at 8am and American History at 11am. Every morning I made it to my 8am classes. This was quite an accomplishment for an 18 year old who the previous summer never arrived home before the street lights went down. I was proud of the 2.6 cumulative I pulled off that semester and more importantly I had demonstrated to myself I could set and reach goals. For the first time in I my life I was learning in the classroom and actually began to understand myself. 
I discovered in Ed Baldridge’s class that I loved History. I read “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” for Dick Thornburg’s literature class and realized that I longed to be something more than a dim jock. That fall it was clear that nothing was going to be easy for me– that nothing was going to be handed to me. I was going to have earn back the notion of who I thought I once was. At Muhlenberg I was aware not a single person could have cared one iota about the life and times of Rich Siegel.
Jay Mottola, who is now the President of the New York Metropolitan Golf Association had much to with my decision to attend Muhlenberg. Coach Mottola was originally from Tuxedo New York and I got to know him as a boy on the links. He had been the assistant basketball coach at Muhlenberg and was one of only two coaches who recruited me to play basketball at a Division III college. The other was Ron DeArgenio, was an assistant head coach at Moravian. He recruited me on the advice of his college roommate at East Strasburg State, Kemble Matter who just happened to be my high school gym teacher. On my second day in Allentown I walked eagerly into the athletic offices looking for Jay Mottola .
“Hi I am Rich Siegel ,” I said to the receptionist. “Is Coach Mottola in?”
“No I am sorry, he took a job coaching at American University last week, he was replaced by Ron DeArgenio.”
The rug had been yanked out from under me and I felt abandoned. When informal fall practice began I counted approximately ten guards who believed they were ahead of me on the varsity basketball team depth chart. It started with senior captains Greg Campisi and Jimmy Johnson. It continued with a pair of sophomores who had seen considerable playing time as freshmen. Dave Saylor was the Allen High home town hero , who looked like and acted like he should be playing in the over 30 league. The other sophomore stalwart was the smooth and efficient Scott Becker. Behind them were Mike Clinton, Bobby Klutz, Jon Lucas, and Rick Greenberg. I didn’t know it the but the battles I had against my own teammates for playing time helped start me on a lifetime of self- discovery. I found a person inside me that I had never known. A competitive fighter with a never quit, take no prisoners , never give up attitude.
It was December 22, 1978 and Martin Luther Hall with the exception of my solitary figure in room 50 was completely still. Earlier in the morning I had taken my intermediate French final . Basketball practice was finished at 5:30 and on this night and for the first time since August I would be driving home to New Paltz. I had been the last of the class of 1982 to arrive at Muhlenberg, so it seemed fitting that I would be the last to leave after the completion of the first semester. Upon my arrival at Muhlenberg my classmates were all present but I felt totally alone. Now, I was by myself sitting on my dorm bed contemplating the last four months. It had been the most dramatic, the most frightening and the most enlightening time period of my life. I had learned I was nobody special and that wasn’t such a bad thing. I discovered I had lived so far being a person that was mostly a figment of my imagination. I knew that night that I had taken the first tiny step on the long journey of self- exploration. I had learned the hard way that I was entitled to nothing. I discovered the reward came from what was earned, what was battled for, and that pain always had to go hand-in-hand with the gain. Before beginning my ride back to New Paltz I looked across the room to the poster draped on the other wall that met me as a freshman and stared at me the four months since.. By this time I was familiar with this relatively new rock star. I thought about his passion, his indelible commitment to his work which resonated in his lyrics . “Spend your life waiting for a moment that just don’t come.
Well, don’t waste your time waiting.” Before I arrived at Muhlenberg “The Boss” had already started taking what he wanted. I shut the dorm door behind me and walked into the cold Allentown night knowing in that instant– I was both going and leaving home.
