To my readers: The question I always get about Bad News on the Doorstep is, "Hey, Joe, what made you write it?" Well, there are lots of reasons, one of which is the response I was blessed to receive from all over the Cornell Nation when A Symbol of Hope appeared in The Cornell Crescent, the Newsletter for The Cornell Football Association. I hope you enjoy it.
This story began in November of 1970. Today as you read it, it still unfolds. Its essence was a cherished and unspoken private family jewel until January 27, 1997.
On that day, thoughts and words concluded their trek to a wrinkled piece of yellow paper. Finally, a nostalgic memory, that refused to exist without teaching its lessons, was shared with others. We laughed and cried as its resurrection from the depths of our souls was made manifest in the form of a newsletter article at our beloved Cornell University.
A new generation heard an old story with a timeless message. This writer hopes that all who listen to the heart of these recollections will never forget that each of us can be a hero; that regardless of our perceived worth in life, each of us is capable of touching another human at a special time. It is at that time that we may give that life… needed hope. May your heart be warmed and changed as you read … "A Symbol of Hope."
This is a story about a moment in time. If the circumstances had never come together, many lives would not be what they are today. It is a Cornell story about a brokenhearted, chubby twelve-year old boy and a softhearted All-America football player. Indeed, many years later, there is a good report to deliver.
December 21, 1996 would become one of those days when my entire family and I would be changed forever. Busy with a multitude of traditional Christmas season chores, I squeezed in a short visit with my aging seventy three-year old father at his senior citizens complex apartment in East Orange, New Jersey. While greeted by his Marine Corps-firm handshake and his blaring television, extolling the virtues of a rejuvenated New York Giants football team, I could not help but to nostalgically inhale his environment.
Staring at me was an unfinished, leaning, three-foot Christmas tree of which only Snoopy would have been proud. As I ventured further into my dad’s time capsule that served as his cherished domain, he rambled on how, “Reeves has to go,” and how, “… those Giant kids are good kids.” His passion for “his” Giants so possessed him that Saturday afternoon that he failed to sense my gaze that by then had journeyed back in time. I could not help but become mesmerized as I continued to survey his cluttered, but honorable memorabilia of close to sixty years of family love, wartime memories, and a commitment to the great American game of football.
Dad never threw away a thing---that ancient leather game ball when he was crowned a high school football hero back on Thanksgiving Day in ’42; trophies won by his two sons; World War II Japanese ceremonial swords; his daughter’s Communion picture from 1957; ticket stubs from Cornell football games of the sixties and seventies; a snap shot of him and his wife Marietta on their honeymoon in ’46, celebrating at Jack Dempsey’s restaurant in New York City; and other pictures of everyone he knew and loved.
I forced myself out of the stupor that was pulling me back in time and accepted the challenge of completing his Christmas tree, a proud tribute to the wonderful Christmases of Dad’s past … a midget of a tree which only he and I would behold that year. As the Giants continued their early game domination of Bill Parcells’ Patriots, inevitably Dad steered the conversation to Cornell football … and “Eddie.” After all, it was the holiday, and Dad could always document when Ed Marinaro and I would get together with friends in New York City, or even visit at each other’s family home for this festive time of year.
Oh, sure, Dad, whose name was Rocco and called “Rocky” by all of his friends, had fought like a warrior hand-to-hand with the enemy in the South Pacific over fifty years ago. But his heart had been softened over that time by the unmerited favor of his Creator, and he was touched that the big Ivy Leaguer with all of his gridiron accomplishments would be so faithful a friend to his oldest child, yours truly. On the other hand, it was something else that stirred Dad’s heart when Number 44 would be mentioned … it was a Saturday in November of 1971 when Big Ed Marinaro, our Cornell friend, played his last game. But the story begins a year earlier.
All was going well in our family in the fall of 1970. I had just returned to New Jersey from Cornell, gotten married to Maria, my high school sweetheart, and was in the middle of my MBA work at NYU. Mom and Dad were looking forward to my career development and becoming grandparents. We were all following my sister Donna as captain of the Belleville High cheerleaders, and watching little Alan at twelve-years old, shedding his baby fat as he strived to emulate his big brother on the football field.
In addition, while my modest playing days at Cornell were now over, Rocky, Marietta, and the kids kept a close eye out for the exploits of Ed Marinaro … that same Eddie Mom had stuffed with her homemade eggplant parmagiana … before Big Ed had ever gained a single yard for the Cornell eleven. We were all so thrilled for the lean, statuesque kid from up the Garden State Parkway a bit in New Milford. He was one of us -- Jersey, Cornell, Psi Upsilon, Italian … but fast becoming a national celebrity.
On November 5th of that year storm clouds rolled in from a dark and ominous source, and all of our lives would be drastically altered. With only young Alan at home with Mom, the hot dogs for dinner boiling on the stove, and she getting ready for the “graveyard shift” at the local factory, the endless road of eternity rose up to this forty seven-year old devoted mother and wife, as she suddenly gasped for her breath, only to lose it and prematurely go home to her Creator. The twelve-year old quickly called our Uncle Aldo down the street. Then Dad was notified and Donna contacted. It was all too late. During those horrific moments, the little boy’s memories of his still innocent childhood would dash away, not to reappear until many years later. The last moments alone with her seemed eternal, and the events that evolved are still unspeakable to him today.
When I would finally arrive from night classes at 11:30 PM, 711 Belleville Avenue was packed with neighbors, family, and friends. The many who stopped by that night helped to divide our seemingly infinite grief. But, when I found the chubby running back up on his bed, the one we had shared for years, he could only ask his big brother, “Why did she have to go now?”
The year that followed was strange and lonely for young Alan. His seventeen-year old sister was now the lady of the house. Dad was still stunned. I buried myself in my studies, only to take breaks with calls home just to keep the little guy and our sister positive. On the other hand, we forced football to occupy our thoughts, and the continued heroics of Eddie into his senior year brought sunshine to our heavy and wounded hearts.
Dad perked up enough one day to suggest we catch Ed and his Cornell teammates in their 1971 finale with the Quakers of Pennsylvania University at fabled Franklin Field. We all concurred, as a couple carloads of us headed down the New Jersey Turnpike. Young Alan was still silent and moody from his mom’s passing one year earlier. We all continued to wonder what those moments could have been like for the twelve-year old, as his favorite coach, his mom, left this world. “He’s got to shake this. It’s been a year!” For this we all prayed.
It was a great day for the Big Red and Ed Marinaro as he darted, slashed, and dove for more yardage than I had ever gained in my whole career. The diversion was God-sent for all of us. The Marinaro entourage was in attendance, and Cornellians from throughout Philly, Jersey, and New York had flocked to witness their Heisman-hopeful for the last time. However, none in our group could detect a smile from little Alan. Oh, yes, he whispered a few cheers for Ed on that chilly late season day, but the burden of loss was still too much for him to bear.
With the game ending in a Cornell victory, Ed was mobbed by the press, pretty cheerleaders, proud alumni, fellow players, local kids, and other hero worshippers and autograph seekers. However, while he had broken dozens of tackles on that memorable Saturday, Eddie’s trot across the field to where we were standing was with more focus and determination than he had displayed during regulation time all day. He had not yet achieved his final goal at Franklin Field on that cloudy November afternoon---he had to see his friend’s little brother, … the one with the broken heart.
“Hey, Marinaro, how ‘bout your chin strap?” was a request made by many of the faceless masses as the consensus All-America tailback fought through the crowd. No response would come from Cornell’s greatest, … only a stare in our direction. He soon found us, and we all embraced. Then he began to reach for his chin strap. It was like slow motion to little Alan; … it could not be happening. But the soiled hands of the rugged running back popped the snap, his other forearm fending off spectators, … and then that strap made its way into the chunky little mitts of Alan. A stare from my brother and a faint response indicated a mild state of shock, perhaps even a feeling of being unworthy. Ed was rushed away to the stadium tunnel. Our family members all wiped away a few tears. The twelve-year old could not believe his good fortune. Indeed, he was thinking that just maybe, …just maybe, life would soon be getting better.
The days, weeks, and months that followed saw an extension of the unofficial football season in my dad’s household. The local boys would come by to stare and hope that they could play ball with Alan, who would, of course, buckle his plastic helmet with that chin strap from the All-American. It was his most prized possession, and while his memories of childhood were still lost in the dark chasm of that day of his mom’s passing, a new birth was taking placed, seeded by a tattered, rubber chin strap.
The most grateful to Ed for his gesture was Dad. He knew that he needed something to get his youngest going again, and Eddie came up with the perfect antidote. From that November in 1971, all the way to December 21, 1996, a grateful father would always be indebted to the Cornell legend. Dad never forgot that chin strap, … but he also never quite seemed to have the opportunity or the words to thank Ed personally.
Well, Ed Marinaro finally discovered how meaningful that chin strap was, and at last Dad’s message made it from his heart to Ed’s. You see, after I departed from Dad on that Christmas season visit, leaving him to his Giants, Snoopy tree, and enough relics of recollections to make the College Football Hall of Fame look empty, he quietly followed our mother home to the Lord. When I returned to his apartment late that night, the room was darkened, but all that had departed was his rugged 6’1” Marine Corps frame. The memories were as thick and vivid as ever, as if surrounding and embracing me in a merciful hug of consolation. His spirit was still so alive in my heart. Dad had made his peace with his Creator ten years earlier, so I knew he was now in a special place. However, he did leave us with some unfinished business, … that chin strap.
My sister, my wife, and our families were huddled waiting for me at Donna’s home. Alan was already getting ready to fly in from Orlando. Now no longer a chubby little football player, but rather a successful thirty eight-year old Marriott executive, his tear-filled eyes were viewing an epic of memories as he boarded that plane, … and how much that chin strap meant to him and our dad was Act I. That piece of white rubber represented more than protection for the chin of an aspiring young gridder. It meant love, worth, faith, goodness, friendship, excellence, and anticipation. It was ... "A Symbol of Hope."
We buried Dad on his favorite holiday, Christmas Eve. Ed called Christmas night. We reminisced and laughed, and I got choked up a few times. But Ed was Ed, … that same concerned big kid who just loved my mom for her eggplant, and for her love of him before he had ever picked up a single yard for the Big Red. Alan had already returned home to
The opportunity for the two to talk came a couple of weeks later. Ed was in and out of
Of course, there was not enough time on the phone to put it all into the proper perspective. Perhaps only Alan, his big brother, and their father could really enumerate all the priceless tangible and intangible benefits that were enjoyed over the years because of that chin strap. You see, an outstanding high school football career as a running back evolved for Alan, buoyed by memories of Number 44. A scholarship to perennial Division I-AA power Delaware put my brother on its National Championship Team in 1979. A successful, award-winning career in the vacation ownership business with Marriott, surrounded by (you guessed it!) … Cornellians, dominates most of Alan’s time today. And while hockey and lacrosse sticks are the preference of his two sons in Orlando, the boys, his wife and their daughter, … yes, and all of us still back here in Jersey, know the story of how important that chin strap was to the chunky twelve-year old and his dad.
Dad’s sudden passing on December 21, 1996 closed a chapter for all of us. So much is different now. His daily calls, complimenting us for all of our achievements; the stories from the streets of Newark, New Jersey to the sands of Iwo Jima; his daily deification of the great game of football; and that simple sincere question of his: “How’s Eddie makin’ out?”… never would all that ever grace our ears again.
Indeed, much has changed since Ed’s playing days, for him and for all of our families. Yet, that softhearted All-American from
I simply thank God every day for all the heroes I met at Cornell.
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