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They
graduated from the city's now-defunct Vincentian Institute high school
-- its initials are enough to set off waves of nostalgia -- as Castro
rose to power in Cuba, the Cold War heated up and Sputnik ignited the
space race.
 Here
they were, almost a half-century later, a dozen 65-year-old men
clustered around the bar at Bentley's Tavern in Malta at noon on
Wednesday. The years melted away as easily as glasses of draft beer
were drained.
The
class president and star quarterback they called "Knuck" (as in
Knuckles), rose above the crowd and was clearly still their leader. He
was the only guy in a suit and one of the few not yet retired. The
Kerry for President button, a West Pointer's bearing and quiet
strength belonged to Albany County Executive Mike Breslin.
"We
had such a great class, and we have so many wonderful memories, we
decided we had to get together more often," Breslin said.
Several classmates went on to successful professional careers,
including Dr. William Conway, chief of medicine at St. Peter's
Hospital; Dr. Forrest Gabriels, an ophthalmologist with a private
practice in Albany; and attorney Gregory Rutnik. A number landed with
the state and stayed with it until retirement.
The
talk turned to Ed Plew, who had planned to attend before he hurt
himself in a fall on the ice. Local TV talent back on WRGB's "Teenage
Barn," Plew still acts in local plays and has a standing Saturday
night gig crooning standards at Mickey's Mouse Trap in Latham.
In
their abiding love for their school, these men are testaments to their
school motto: "You don't go through V.I. V.I. goes through you."
A
landmark on Madison Avenue at Ontario Street, V.I. opened in 1917 and
closed in 1977. The building is now used for a city community center
and apartments.
The
Class of '57 was revered by later classes for its athletic prowess,
academic achievement and all-around swagger. More than 90 percent of
the boys went on to college.
The
class had 106 boys and 121 girls. Boys entered the school from Ontario
Street, girls around the corner on Yates Street. Boys, taught by Holy
Cross brothers, attended classes on the first and second floors.
Girls, taught by Sisters of Mercy nuns, were on the third and fourth.
Lunch hours, assemblies and other group functions also were
segregated. The only high school class that was co-ed was journalism
-- for reasons nobody could fathom.
"I
jumped at the chance to take journalism," recalled Bob Leyden, a grin
creasing his snowy white beard.
Nicknamed "Foot" because he was kicker on the football team and drove
with a lead foot, Leyden, a lawyer, is retired from the agency that
was the forerunner to the Dormitory Authority.
Leyden and classmate Roland Mahony, a retired administrator with the
state Office of Mental Retardation and Developmental Disabilities, are
brothers-in-law. Other classmates married sisters of their buddies or
fellow V.I. students. Their main chance to mingle with the opposite
sex was at weekly Saturday night "canteens," dances closely chaperoned
by parents.
The
gender division continues. The men and women of the Class of '57 meet
separately, except for reunions, and the humor of the male gatherings
is the verbal equivalent of a noogie.
The
class clown is still the group's cut-up, Fred "Fritz" Peters. "I got
in more trouble than anyone else," said Peters, a retired Albany Fire
Department master mechanic. The red sweater he wore to lunch strained
to cover an ample midsection, its hue matching his humor.
An
extra hamburger arrived and all eyes turned to Fritz. "Why do you
always look at the fat guy and expect him to eat it?" he asked. The
others laughed until their bellies shook.
Instead of waiting every five years for a reunion, a group of
classmates has been gathering for lunch every six weeks or so to keep
the flame of friendship burning brightly.
The
organizer is Kevin Justice, retired after 34 years with the Albany
school district, including a decade as Hackett Middle School
principal.
The
accelerated schedule of gatherings came with the intimation of their
own mortality. The guy who was the Superman of their class, Bill
"Bull" Gary, suffered a stroke a few years back. Known as the toughest
guy in the city, he was a champion shotputter and a tackle on the
undefeated V.I. football team he co-captained with Breslin. Gary is a
retired State Police senior investigator.
"That got us thinking maybe we shouldn't wait so long in between our
gatherings," Justice said.
An
honorary member is Bill Devane, the actor, who occasionally drops by
during a visit from the West Coast. He attended V.I. but didn't
graduate with the class. "Bill attended every high school in the city"
is the standard line about Devane.
Not
every classmate brings a smile. They still run into Bobby, disheveled
and wandering Lark Street, suffering from mental illness. They prefer
to remember Bobby in happier days, full of promise, son of a
physician, a dapper dresser in a snap-brim fedora, brilliant and bound
for Marquette University. Classmates occasionally bring Bobby a
donation of clothing.
The
get-togethers are a time tunnel back to 1957, when a clam cocktail
"shooter" cost a dime at Mike's Log Cabin on Swan Street, and the
10-cent Hedrick's draft beers at Yezzi's across from the school were a
rite of passage. They'd meet girls Saturday afternoons for a malt at
Madison Sweet Shop, known as "the Greek's," before walking downtown to
catch a double-feature at The Strand.
"These guys remind me of the stories I forgot," said Charlie "Chaz"
Hawkins, a retired state Department of Civil Service computer
programmer.
They
remembered their high school days as a peaceful stretch wedged between
the Korean and Vietnam wars. Cars with acres of chrome and swooping
fins blared the new rock 'n' roll. And sex was rarely discussed
explicitly save for a standard warning to boys from the brothers to
"keep the hands above the sheets."
"It
was a wonderful time," recalled Bob "Sam" Simpson, CEO of Hyatt Ball
Co. in Fort Edward. "The brothers held us to the highest standards.
They convinced us that we were the best and the brightest and pushed
us to achieve."
If
they needed any reminder of their own mortality on this afternoon, it
could be found at the bar when Bob "Chauncey" Byer, who retired from
the state Department of Motor Vehicles, tried to sweet-talk a female
bartender.
"Oh,
1957?" she asked, after Byer explained the gathering. "That's the year
after I was born."
Ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom.
Fritz overheard this exchange and razzed Chauncey mercilessly.
For
a few hours, they were boys again and V.I. was the river that ran
through them.
Copyright, 2004, (c) Times Union. All Rights Reserved. |
