The big kid from Nutley, New Jersey had already marked his territory. Placing the Vince Lombardi poster right next to the one of Farrah Fawcett looked compatible enough in the far right corner room. I haven’t met many guys whose surname ends in a vowel with a full head of pure blond hair. I realized right away, that although Steve DiGregorio wore his 240 pound frame topped with platinum blond hair with a quiet confidence, he was not the stereotypical college football player. The 18 year old freshman had already been at Muhlenberg for a little over a week, grinding at two-a-days for the Mules’ gridiron squad. I pushed open the metal door to suite 102 of Benfer dorm located on the Southwest tip of the college campus. Steve stood in the middle of the living room wearing grey athletic shorts, a grey tee shirt , and a bit of a smirk.
“Hey I’m Steve.” “Hey I’m Rich,’’ ended our snippety exchange.
That’s all I remember about our initial meeting. We were both unaware at the time that our random pairing would be the only constant in this five-man college suite over the next three years. The cast of characters would range from a misunderstood hoopster, to a future reverend, to the quarterback of the football team, and a motor head. A formula that added up to some humorous and memorable interchanges.
Every suite at Benfer was an eight person suite with the exception of the ours. The living quarters in 102 consisted of one bathroom, a living room, two double rooms, and a single. The spring after pledging the TKE fraternity, I was invited to live with two other frat brothers. Howie Bidwell and Tom Wagner were roomies, I had the single, and something fell through with the other two people who were supposed to live with us. I knew over the summer that come Fall, two strangers would be thrown into our mix and that tenuous proposition wasn’t sitting too well with me; so to discover Steve that first day certainly came as a welcome relief. Now there was just one more arrival we anxiously awaited. In walks Mark Pintavalle, a wiry, raw buckaroo-type out of West Chester, Pa.
Most of the students at Muhlenberg were not born with silver spoons in their mouths but Mark turned it up a notch when it came to being working class. He mostly adorned a white tee-shirt and dark blue jeans with a wide belt pulled in tight. At 5’8’’, 140 pounds, and displaying a black mustache that he was probably born with, Mark could have easily been mistaken for a custodian. He pulled into the Benfer dormitory parking lot in a 1969 white Ford that was as square as he was. It took about a week for his suite mates to learn everything they would ever know about Mark Pintavalle. His mom died when he was a boy, he was paying his own way through school, he planned on being a lawyer, he had no middle name, and every night before he went to sleep he drank two full glasses of Jim Beam scotch. Mark took his Jim Beam in the same fashion that he drank it- unaccompanied.
The early morning winds of March 1981 were blowing strongly as the 1968 Pontiac convertible made the turn off of Chew Street and down the hill to Benfer. It was just three months earlier while the four of us watched our ritual Monday Night Football when Howard Cosell announced John Lennon was shot. Tom Wagner, Rick Greenberg, Scott Waldman, and I were returning from one of our regular jaunts to Atlantic City. The city of sin was only an hour and a half jump from Allentown. Whenever we could scrape up some cash we would hit the road to gamble and give in to our degenerate sides. These trips had routine detours to the City of Brotherly Love, but Philly usually left us feeling no love, just broke and hungover. One night in particular, we had an aberration. All of us were returning home, in our glory, with numerous Ben Franklins that had replaced our fives and tens. With no regard for the fact that it was 4:30 am on Wednesday morning, we came storming through the door of Suite 102 making noise and taking names. One hundred dollar bills were flying around in the air as Mark and Steve emerged from their slumber. Steve had his usual Cheshire cat grin on, anticipating the fireworks that were about to go off. Greenie danced in front of Mark waving c notes in his face.
“How many pots do you have to scrub in the cafeteria to get one these Marcus?”
My suite mate stood silent, his eyes squinting with disdain at the band of idiots before him. After more taunting and tomfoolery, Mark Pintavalle had had enough. Mark seemed to always direct his verbal retaliation towards me no matter who the perpetrator. As Greenie boasted of using 100 dollar bills “to wipe his ass” Mark had the final word.
“Greenie and Richie Kid, there aren’t enough 100 bills in the world to fill your two assholes.”
The suites in Benfer alternated between male and female. There were three suites of boys and girls each on three separate floors. Like any college campus , the separate dorms had their own tawdry tales that were specific to a certain section of the university. Even though I was coming out of my freshman year shell, I was not ready to project myself as any sort of lady killer. As a matter of fact, for having one of the only single rooms on campus at the time, I was spending far too many nights alone. I remember Howie Bidwell addressing my underutilization of my private quarters with a threat.
“If I don’t start seeing some babes coming and going we are switching rooms.”
Arguably, I made up for a quiet sophomore year with a moderate degree of visitors my junior and senior years. Just from Benfer, there was the blonde from the field hockey team, the wannabe masseuse from the first floor, the smart, mature resident of Suite 103, and the occasional 3:00am door knocker who wanted to have a drink and “talk things over”. But it was the girls who lived upstairs that made the most noise in Suite 102. There was Melissa, who put her hooks in Steve. There was Judy and Wags rolling around somewhere in the suite working on their night moves. And there was always Vicki, our senior year suitemate and Ozzie Breiner’s high school sweetheart and future wife. For me there were two girls that lived right above us that all these years later still represent the dichotomy of all I want in a woman. Andrea, the fun loving, beautiful dancer and the daughter of a doctor, out of Ho-ho-kus, New Jersey. Then there was Laura, the bright, serious, and beautiful brunette from a decidedly blue- collar family that resided in central New Jersey. Two very different, yet amazing, girls who probably unbeknownst to them competed for my heart. From my days at Benfer and beyond, all women eventually would be measured in terms of how they stacked up against Andrea and Laura.
It was already 10:00 am and I could hear a light rain gently hitting the window pane outside my suite . It was early for a Saturday and the room looked typical of a prior night party. The carpeted floor was wet from a spilled ice bucket and the room smelled of Gin Orange Blossoms. Being a bartender in the summer gave me an opportunity to have a complete top-shelf bar stocked in my room. If you needed Tanqueray, Stoli, Bacardi, Jack, or Johnny -I had it. Earlier that morning I received an unexpected guest who had not traveled more than 20 yards to find me. The radio was still tuned to the soft rock station that we had found in the darkness. Between Ambrosia and Air Supply, I heard an ad for a free concert in Central Park-Simon and Garfunkel would be doing a reunion benefit concert at 7:00 pm that day, September 19, 1981.
“We’re going to New York,” I whispered to my companion. “Let’s go,” she replied without hesitation.
We arrived in the Big Apple around 4:00 pm just as the rain was subsiding. With the concert a good three hours away, we found a seat on a grassy knoll. Where we sat was so far from the stage that I couldn’t have distinguished if it was Abbott and Costello or Sonny and Cher at the microphones. Finally I could hear the voice of then mayor, Ed Koch loud and clear when he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, Simon and Garfunkel.” There were some guitar riffs and then lyrics, “We’d like to know a little about you for our files.” I will never be able to revel in that special time with my sole partner in crime that day. Corrine, the girl who didn’t hesitate in agreeing to our impromptu city concert in the park, never had the opportunity to be crazy after all these years. At only 34 years old, she succumbed to cancer. “Time it was, and what a time it was, it was. A time of innocence a time of confidences.” Rest in peace, Corrine.
I had not been back to Muhlenberg in 33 years. It was September again and I had in tow with me my 17 year old daughter checking out Dad’s alma mater to see if it could be a fit for her when she heads off to college. School was not in session due to the Jewish holidays, but we were there to see a girls’ field hockey game and check out the campus. My visual of Muhlenberg was that it was so different even though my heart was telling me it was the same. The college had grown so much and for me it was the first time I had seen the Athletic Center, which was constructed in the 80’s. It was my first view of the new library and the refurbished student union building. So much had changed and so much had disappeared. When the game was over and my daughter finished her recruitment chat with the coach, she was ready to leave but I wasn’t.
“ Before we leave I want to check something out.” The two of us walked across the deserted Campus. “Let’s go home, Dad,” said my impatient daughter.
“Hang on MK, I have to see if it’s still there and then we can go.”
As we crossed Chew Street and headed onto the southern side of campus, I could see the roof. Down the hill, and hidden from the more modern Muhlenberg, was Benfer dorm still standing proudly. We walked around to the back side which was the entrance way to Suite 102. The dorm was locked so I tried to look through the window. I squinted and peered hard, only to see emptiness. The whole place looked unkempt and abandoned.
“Let’s go—it’s looks like a ghost town, ” Mary Kate said to me before noticing my eyes welling. Her tone changed, “Dad, why are you crying?”
I didn’t need words to convey that my tears were for the memories, and the part of me that remained inside those walls.
Central Park Show with Simon and Garfunkel:
(If you watch close enough you may see me at 1:14:41)
Pledging a frat played against my notion that strong willed independent individuals and fraternal organizations are not a good fit. To this day I am a fierce libertarian, adamantly opposed to group mentality. In the long run, joining TKE helped a cynical, distraught loner take the first step in understanding that a crowd maybe unattractive, but it doesn’t mean that the individuals are. Thanks Jon, Rick, and my fellow TKE brothers.
“I’m Dave Ambrose,” I gave the appropriate salutation in return, but secretly whispered to myself, “Hi, I am nobody.”
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.
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.
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.
“Let’s stand here and collect a five dollar cover from all of these amateur college students on their way in” I said to Bruce with a smirk. Bruce Concors certainly didn’t need the money but was always ripe to step out on the edge. “O.K. I will I.D. them and you collect the money,” Bruce said with a straight face. After about a half hour, I had $340 dollars in my hand and Bruce had allowed at least ten underage co-eds into the joint. After using a portion of the money to purchase party favors we returned to our dates.
“Ladies I hope you’re ready for a long night. We are going to close this summer out with a bang!” I then told the barkeep to get us a round of Cuervo Gold. We raised our shot glasses, “Here’s to keeping the summer alive one more night!”
However, instead of feeling secure, my innards were that of a caged, baby lion yearning to run free. It had been a great three year run but it felt like the beginning of the end. That first day, one that should have been filled with thoughts of what was to come, was instead cluttered with a fogged hangover. All of my sensibilities were wrapped up in the party from the night before and the preceding years that had seemingly flown by. I had been abruptly awoken from a beautiful dream in which the friends and lovers had vanished. As I strode in the halls the “Big Three”, as I affectionately called them: Bouzakis, Bubolo, and Casella were nothing but a memory. The PBHS version of the Rat Pack- cool, well dressed, 18 year old lady killers had left an indelible mark on me. Standing in my classroom I searched the rows of my new classes and couldn’t find Michelle Gray, Carolyn Snyder, or Stacey Browne, girls I would never see again.
This is what it’s like for school teachers; students graduate and move on with their lives while their mentors remain stuck in time. My fourth season into a career, whose average tenure is 35 years, and I was already thinking about a way out. As the fall of 1985 progressed, I tried hard to embrace the new seniors and continued to enjoy healthy relationships with most of the faculty. However, the administrative side was steadily pushing me closer to the edge. Ward Tice was a pleasant man with a perfectly lovely family, but as a high school principal, he was in way over his head. Water seeks its’ level and as a biology teacher Mr. Tice was adept at staying afloat. Being in command of 1500 students in a highly charged, diverse, ever growing senior high school left him gasping for breath. Ward had hired me, helped facilitate my move up from the middle school, and was responsible for granting me tenure with flying colors. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long between being anointed as the new king and attempts to have me thrown to the gallows. The biggest telltale sign of Tice’s efforts to dismantle and knock me from grace was represented by the students in my classes. Not by accident for sure, scheduled for Mr. Cartisano’s American History classes (and not mine) were Stacey Tice, Sandi Tice, Pam Hazen and Jennifer Steiler. Notably the kids of teachers in the school and those of the principal.
every period to inspire me through the lecture. I convinced myself I couldn’t let down Kate Kelly or Billy Zwart or Michelle Ponsolle. It was a short term solution, but how long could I keep talking myself into bringing the kind of energy it took to be the dynamic teacher I felt it necessary to be?
“Mrs. MaCewan said you walked out the side door at about two and never returned.”
“Vito, I am not going to let you or Mrs. McCewan embarrass yourselves any further.
The top was all the way down as the little red MG sped through the winding roads of the Town of Crawford. One of the few FM stations that could get audible reception was playing Asia cranked all the way to the maximum volume, “One thing is sure…that time will tell.” At 7 am on this September morning there was the slightest aura of Autumn and school books. A kid who had possessed a disdain for being a student, and an overall cavalier attitude toward academia, was cruising along headed for his first day of being an educator. Like the dark roots that hid beneath his sun bleached hair, there was much more to this young man than met the eye.
or, the science teacher was having an affair with the English teacher, and the gym teacher was trying to score with everybody. As for me, I reserved my faculty flings for an older, recently divorced, sixth grade teacher. She was a rookie teach who taught health and coached the girls field hockey team.
