Kate the Great was getting married. When I first saw her she was behind the glass in the maternity ward in New York City. She wasn’t supposed to live.

The doctors had said to her father, “We think we can save your wife, but we’re not sure.” Those were heady days.

Now, 30 years later, Kate is walking down the aisle at the Dunes Beach Club in Narragansett, not far from where she was raised in Providence, Rhode Island.

Hers is an American dream—at least her family’s is.

Her dad, Johnny Boy, was born in Astoria, Queens—raised on the streets of New York.

Like many 19 year olds back then, Johnny enlisted in the Marines. There he met Dick. Dick was raised on the other side of the tracks. He was refined, well educated (University of Virginia) and his folks had more than one home.

Dick and Johnny were sent to boot camp in San Diego where they ran into Joey and Marty. Joey was Polish—a street kid from South Philly. Marty was Irish—from the same neighborhood. Three out of four of them had a lot in common. Mostly they loved baseball.

Joey’s dad had been a bookie. A Priest spotted Joey in high school, saw his grades (a secret he no doubt kept from his friends) and told him he had to go to this thing called “College.” Joey was sent kicking and screaming out of the neighborhood to Temple University. The saving grace was that he could play baseball. That’s where he met another homie, Marty.

They were on the Temple baseball team. As fate would have it, another Priest grabbed Joey and sent him out to something called Stanford Business School. Joey barely knew where California was.

Donning his favorite stove pipe hat, and sporting a Banlon shirt, Joey jumped in a ‘59 Ford Convertible and headed west.

Joey didn’t like Dick at first. Too Waspy. Much too preppy. But Johnny and Joey hooked up immediately, and Johnny liked Dick so…..

Dick taught Joey about napkins, silverware and a strange set of manners which were different from those Joey had seen in the bars in South Philly.

Johnny’s father had worked on the Docks (or was it the post office?). Johnny wanted to get a similar job. He’d graduated from Power Memorial, of Lou Alcindor fame.

Joey wouldn’t hear of “a good job.” “You’ve got to get an education.” He hammered on Johnny until he enrolled full time at St. Anselm’s.

Johnny got a degree and ended up working in with his friend Marty for Princess Hotels in New York City.

Joey went to work in Philly, became a patron of the arts, and his daughter danced professionally, for the Pittsburgh Ballet.

Dick was on Wall St. The Marine buddies saw each other often. Joey and Dick bought a boat together. Life was good.

Somehow I landed a gig in New York writing brochures for Princess Hotels. My job was to travel to the various Hotels—use the facilities--and then write brochures. Don’t ask why, but they paid me to do this.

That’s where I met John and Marty, then inevitably Joey and Dick. Baseball was the common denominator.

It was the Steinbrenner, Jackson, Martin days out in the Bronx zoo. Electricity was everywhere.

P. J. Clark’s and Jim McMullen’s were our haunts.

Having a casual acquaintance with a certain scene in the City meant that one came in contact with sports writers and bookies. They could always get tickets. Trouble was, though we were moving up, disposable cash was iffy.

Johnny came up with the solution. I’d have the Bookie get us four tickets, and we would trade him four nights in any Princess Hotel—gratis.

Soon Joey was coming up from Philly, regularly.

We were there when Nettles beat the Dodgers from 3rd with three unbelievable plays, and Reggie hit his three in one game as well. Those were the Halcyon Days.

(In fact, I had returned from Johnny’s Dad’s funeral, when McMullen called me and ordered me to “protect” his date, Paige from Reggie. Reggie had this thing that he had to scope on all Jimmy’s girls. Dutifully, I followed orders. Paige was with some chick who later became known as “The Goobs.”)

Marty and Luce got married in Acapulco, Goobs and I followed suit, and Joey married Linda in Philly. We were growing up.

We moved west, and Johnny became President of a company headquartered in Providence. Not bad for an Astoria kid.

Then the unthinkable happened. Dick was on vacation—flying to Lockerbie, Scotland. He was a passenger on Pan Am flight 103. Dick was Kate the Great’s God Father.

Just before she walked down the aisle, John and Jules gave Kate a necklace they’d made with Dick’s cuff links on a sliver chain. The cuff links had been returned in a bag. Bad move on the mascara front.

So last Saturday we were on the lawn over looking the Beach in Narragansett. Its heyday had been the gay 90’s when lawn tennis reigned supreme.

America’s heyday was unfolding before us. Families, who’d never known college, were now producing children who will never not go to college. The upwards economic spiral is irretrievably set in motion.

Kate was radiant. After her honeymoon, she’ll be paddling up the Amazon to check on some rain forests under the auspicious of the Gordon Moore Foundation, where she works. We were all beneficiaries of the American dream—and all grateful.

There wasn’t a dry eye to be seen.

Those doctors done good.

A smooth, white Sea Gull hung motionless against the wind above the outside alter. No doubt Dick was checking us out—approving.

Jeffrey Earl Warren
1414 Main St.
St. Helena, Ca.
94574
707-963-2748


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