Twenty years ago, on April 17, 1972, I ran my first Boston Marathon. It is all a blur now.• I do remember being impressed by the crowds, the number of contestants (about 2000), the people lining the route, and the hordes around the Pru Building. I never did get any Irish Stew. I also remember not being pleased with my time, but the crowds were to blame for that. I had never before had anyone cheer me on by name. The Boston newspapers the day of the run, or the day before, print the entire list of runners with their number. So what a shock to be running along somewhere outside of Hopkinton and hear “Come on McSorley.” It got to me so much that when I reached the halfway mark at Wellesley I realized that I was running a little too much ahead of schedule. The goal of three hours then looked easy, but I had over-estimated my ability and the next half took its toll. We came in at 3 hours and 21 minutes. The after-race festivities are also lost in the swirl of the occasion. I do remember Bill King was along and did very well. I also remember the hill at Natick called “‘Heartbreak Hill” about 22 miles into the race, not only because of the climb, but hearing the portable radios along the route reporting the winner coming to the finish line. I think it was Bill Rodgers, but I wouldn’t bet the house on it.
I only ran Boston one more time, 1973. I had managed to shred my achilles tendon some three weeks before, while running in the Ceasar Rodney Half of Marathon. But I ran anyway with novacaine in the tendon. I remember consulting with a sport doctor (we didn’t call them that then, just Doctors who ran). He advised I couldn’t do any more harm to the tendon so off I went. I finished in the 3:20 range so, in anger, I decided to run the Penn Relays First Marathon, on a Tuesday morning some 10 days later, along the East River Drive. There, I managed to win a Bronze medal for 18th place at 3:12. It is still on my desk encased in glass. To think that after all the years I had run in the Relays, in high school, in college, etc., I had to wait until I was 42 to be in the money.
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May ‘92 opened with the run down Broad Street. It is an “event,” “happening” or whatever have you! Nearly 5000 men, women and children travel by foot from Central High School on Broad Street near Olney, to the JFK/Roosevelt Park area. The spectacle is outstanding! As you approach the rise near Columbia Avenue (now called Cecil B. Moore Avenue) you can see a stream of heads down the right side of Broad Street covering every inch of the street between there and City Hall. A “snake of people” wriggling down and around City Hall.
1992’s run was held on a cool and cloudy day. Bill ran along with this old man. He came to celebrate Tom’s First Communion on Saturday and couldn’t think of a better thing to do on Sunday morning than to run 10 miles with his Dad! I was suffering from a sciata problem since the run in the Penn Relays. I had hoped that after 4 or 5 miles the pain would disappear. My hopes were never obtained. By the time I reached 4 miles it had increased to such a degree that I seriously considered stopping. I tried to convince Bill he should move on and not be held back by the now limping old man. He insisted he was just along for the “workout” (some workout, no!). We slowed considerably but by 6 miles I was convinced I could finish and did so only 5 minutes slower than 1991. It is doubtful that I would have finished at all if Bill had not been along or if I had had the $1.50 subway fare. You see, the car and our clothes were at JFK, you get a free ride on the Subway up to Olney and we are expected to run back. Bill compared the finish area with,
the Philadelphia Distance run’s and found it wanting . . . it was too large an area and totally disorganized. I hobbled around, got my T-shirt (why else run?), juice, etc. and we headed back to the car accompanied by Ben . . . whom I had called Peter Pan since he looked so young. He is a former ski coach at one of the colleges in New England and now a Physical Therapist. He gave me advice regarding my pain, which I had received before, i.e., I am not stretching enough before and after running . . . so we will start again.
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May 10, 1992
Writing a paragraph a day keeps the dust away. Somebody already said this I’m sure. Writing makes for analysis, precision and thought. The trouble is, like my father used to say “Thoughts of what, and really, who cares?” I don’t have an answer. I just like the idea of putting thoughts and feelings on paper. I like to have someone read them and agree . . . even disagree. It is not easily explained. I suppose a lifetime of dictating letters, responses to other letters, petitions, briefs, etc. just can’t be tossed aside … it’s an addiction, like running. You feel good doing it and yet never really have to know why. You did it to lose weight, then to compete and now to stay in shape. Writing becomes a necessity . . . first, to make a living and then it created a habit that’s hard to put quietly to rest. Early in the practice I even wrote a weekly column “The Foxchase Lawyer.” It was a rehash of legal ideals, ideas and problems. The deadlines did just that . . . kept you in line so you had to finish one and start the next.
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May, the month of mothers. Today is Mother’s Day. My memories of mine are dim. I keep remembering when I was a teen coming down the dark corridor from the third floor (at 4116 Baltimore Avenue) and as I walked along the second floor corridor someone leaped out of the dark and scared me! It was Mom! I often wonder why does that incident stick in my craw? Most of my years with Mom were as she was fastly aging … illnesses and headaches were her constant companions. I suppose I was suprised to know she was playful and a “kidder.” I also remember fondly, in 1949 after two years in the prep seminary taking a walk on the beach in Sea Isle with her, explaining why I didn’t want to return to the seminary, and to the priesthood. She agreed and I remember her saying something like “Well, if you don’t think you could be a good priest (translation: celibate) then don’t go on . . . .” How right she was. I would have been a poor priest if I had to practice celibacy.
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May 22, 1992
May is also Birthday month. Mine, Marge’s and our friend Bunny King. On my 63rd I spent the day in Avalon helping June and Mike Golden paint the walls of the condo. We finished two coats on the walls .. all the trim was done by June. I say “we” but June and Mike did most of the work. We celebrated the birthday and the painting with a dinner at the Whitebriar. It seemed appropriate, as an after thought, that I’d be painting on my birthday (the day I became me . . . some 63 years ago). I like to paint. There’s something creative about painting, the unclean becomes clean, the unpainted, painted. It was appropriate it seemed to be doing something on the day you celebrate life, renewal, change, to be making a visible change. It was an unusual way to celebrate, but a good way!
May 24, 1992
Received some greetings for the day . . . one from Win was very touching. She recalled our grandmother telling her when she arrived home, that 16th day of May, l929 . . . “You have a baby brother, Paul!’’ She just lost her Paul after fifty years of marriage. We last saw him the weekend at her granddaughter’s shower. He was slipping badly then. We learned for the first time the long ordeal that Win and her Winnie and Beth suffered in his final days (and nights). The sorrow was, and always is, mixed with some relief that at least the pain is over.
May 23, 1992
Four months ago today I “gave up” (not a good word for it) alcohol . . . in all forms. I’ve done this before and then returned, usually a bit worse than before. Something like the evil spirit that is removed and then returns to the house and is even worse. It seemed like a major decision. To help me live up to the commitment this time I made another decision with the aid of counseling, to join AA. The group is composed only of lawyers . . . all alcoholics and ex-addicts. I has been an enjoyable and encouraging experience. It is something I should have done long ago. lt is interesting that the only time I have the urge for a beer is in my dreams and then I struggle with myself because I know I shouldn’t be doing it. The ‘‘major” part of the decision seems a bit exaggerated, it certainly doesn’t feel like a major one. It is something I feel now that I should have and could have done without the pain being caused to make me see it. Even at 63 you live and learn (sometimes!).