August 1956
The next day, the three of us met with Father Ryan, the principle of Marin Catholic High School. I didn’t like him, and the feeling was mutual.
At our last encounter, a few days before school let out, he pulled me into his office to chastise me for indecent behavior. The good father was so troubled by the dangers of co-educational recess, our only chance to socialize with the opposite sex, that he spent the time scrutinizing us through his window.
“Mike, I saw you touching a girl impurely. I will not tolerate this kind of behavior. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Father, I don’t know what you are talking about.” I had patted a freshman’s curvaceous bottom.
“This is going to stop,” he’d roared. “You spend too much time playing around with the girls. I will deal with you when school starts again.”
I could tell he hadn’t forgotten that meeting. He greeted us with an insincere smile.
“Mrs. Smith, what brings you and the boys to my office during summer vacation?” He looked at us accusingly. “Are they causing you problems?”
“No. Their father is dying. I have to pull them out of school to help me.”
He smiled like mom just handed him a bottle of Irish whiskey and then quickly shifted into a consoling posture.
“Oh, Mrs. Smith, I’m so sorry. I’ll pray for him. Bud is an outstanding member of our community.” Dad had been the county’s Catholic Youth Organization Director and the organizer of a highly successful countywide high school basketball tournament in Marin Catholic’s gym.
“Of course, we’ll let the boys go. This will make men of them. Our doors will always be open.”
What a laugh.
A year later, when Bud went to the coach and told him he wanted to go back to school and play football with his buddies, the coach gave him a funny look.
“You need to talk to Father Ryan.”
Bud freaked out.
Dad winced when he heard the news, but said, “Don’t worry, boys. It’s going to be okay. We’ll talk to Ryan tonight.
Father Dullea, a former Golden Glove boxer who had frequently threatened to kick my ass if he got the chance, met us at the door of the Priests’ House. He smirked.
“What do you want?”
“The boys are looking forward to playing football for Marin Catholic this fall,” my father replied graciously. “The coach said we should talk with father Ryan.”
Dullea stared at me menacingly and then replied, “The faculty already met and voted overwhelmingly to deny your boys re-admittance. Why should we let two of the worst troublemakers back in?” He slammed the door in our faces.
Dad wilted. His face paled. He seemed unsteady on his feet. His voice cracked as he said, “I’m sorry.”