Being born in the Bronx the New York Yankees and Yankee Stadium was a birthright.
My first Yankee game was in 1958, the fateful year that I was abused by my priest.
My dad got some free mezzanine tickets from one of his drinking buddies. I was thrilled by that name… mezzanine. It was better than the bleachers. It sounded so special, so fancy, so elegant. Dad couldn’t make it, so I took my Italian friend from the second floor. His dad dropped us off at the stadium.
Yankees vs. Cleveland, day game, Whitey Ford was scheduled to pitch. Just like the rest of my year was going, the game was rained out. I felt like crying, but I had to act like a man, as my dad always said.
I ate my bologna and yellow American cheese on white Silvercup bread, my mom packed in a brown paper bag with a Yoo Hoo drink while we watched the grounds crew cover the infield. It was raining so hard that the water dripping from the upper deck reminded me of the movie Singing in the Rain with another great Irishman, Gene Kelly.
Lucky for me, it wasn’t the last time I went to Yankee Stadium. I went to many games at the House That Ruth Built. I made it my business to get to every Old Timers game to see the greats of a bygone era.
But it was the current-day Yankees I idolized. I can still remember the players. Yogi Berra, Hank Bauer, Mickey Mantle, Gil McDougald, Tony Kubek, Bill Skowron, Bobby Richardson, and of course, the great Irishman Whitey Ford. I told everyone the Deegan’s were related to Whitey. I heard my mom's brother say something about him being from Great Neck, Long Island, where we had other cousins, so it wasn’t a lie.
I would focus on every pitch Whitey threw to Yogi Berra, the squat Italian catcher who was one of the greatest players in Yankee history.
All the while, in all the games I saw, Father Edward O’Gorman was always there. He wasn’t ever actually at the game, but he was always on my mind.
Any time I was enjoying myself at the stadium, at the Bronx Zoo, on City Island watching the boats come in, or whatever was fun, what he did to me was always on my mind. I would put my head down and try to focus on the moment when those thoughts would interrupt my good times. It wasn’t easy. The priest was always with me.
What horrible scars I endured as a boy and as a teenager.
You can’t imagine the feeling of relief and joy I had when I plunged that sharpened crucifix into his wrinkled neck so many years later.
I still watch the Yankees from my home in Lugano, Switzerland, on cable television. I miss the team I grew up with, but if the priest flashes in my mind, I recall the shocked look on his face as blood gushed from his neck.
Vengeance is a dish eaten better cold.
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*This blog is fiction
