MANTLE, MARIS & MAYS — -MARAVICH, MOUNT & MURPHY — -MAG, MEDEIROS, MITCH & MUSE
Mmmm…mmmm.
Mickey Mantle for better or for worse was an American icon. Roger Maris was a most unlikely hero who shunned the spotlight but couldn’t escape it when he broke Babe Ruth’s single season HR Record. And Willie Mays was arguably the greatest all-around player ever and the favorite of legions.
Pete Maravich was college basketball’s most prolific scorer and a showman extraordinaire. Rick Mount was the poster boy for all things Indiana basketball and the pride of Purdue. And Calvin Murphy of Niagara went on to become both college and professional basketball’s biggest and best little man at barely 5'9" — a fellow who could jump over the moon, box a much larger man’s ears and twirl a very mean baton.
Mag is Mark, known to his hometown buddies as “Bert,” because he looks like a ‘Bert’ belying his most estimable athletic talents. Medeiros is Medeiros, the one-time hard-drinking textile industry veteranexpert and among the nicest, kindest people I have ever met. Mitch is ’Schley, a real firebrand, as hard as the outer shell of a candy and as soft as the chewy, malleable inside. And Muse was my best friend.
The first six I never knew but idolized. The last four I knew well. They were my contemporaries and close pals. And though certainly it is not in my nature to place on such a pedestal those with whom I grew up, I must admit that there were parts of each which I wanted to include in my own persona.
Idolatry? No. But unwavering and boundless respect? You bet.
Respect, to me is everything.
Mark whom I have known for 50 years is a most unique human being, sadly ill today. Mag looked like a bag of old shoes from the moment I laid eyes on him. It seemed as if he wasn’t overly concerned with his appearance and it showed. Little did I know at age 12 how wise beyond his years Mag was.
You see, Mag was smart, caring, attentive and actually a very good athlete. Looking good was simply not on his radar and he absorbed a healthy dose of good-natured ribbing on account of it. He smiled, laughed and kidded his way through it, seemingly impervious. And he earned plenty of respect simply by being himself.
The package was impressive and continues to be. Mag was an award-winning varsity soccer player and team captain at Providence College, playing every minute of every game for all four seasons, an unthinkable achievement.
He must tap that reservoir of toughness and stamina now, just as he did then. My feeling is that “back in the day” can be today depending on one’s mental stance. I will convince Mag of this.
Medeiros is a most unassuming chap who sometimes butchered the English language certainly without knowledge of it or aforethought. In “agreeance” rather than in “agreement” or “cogniz” for “cognizant,” that sort of thing. It was endearing actually, not horrifying. That was because it was innocuous and also it was widely understood that a wordsmith he was not.
His strength professionally was his broad base of textile expertise with particular respect to tailored clothing lining fabric, principally but not exclusively its conversion from greige (raw) to finished goods.
Nobody knew this stuff like Medeiros. He applied this knowledge and extended it to the proper selection and placement of a lining into the incorporation and construction of a finished garment.
And he was a peerless troubleshooter. Whenever there was a problem, he invariably got to the root of it and was able to offer a viable solution. (He became so adept at sniffing out whatever was contributing to or causing a problem that my brother playfully nicknamed him, “The Chief Inspector”). Manufacturers of Tailored Clothing and Outerwear across the country and even globally were suitably (no pun) impressed.
The man drank like mad after hours and predictably his elocution took a hit but he stopped on a dime — quit cold turkey — many years ago, perhaps at the time he was diagnosed with early-onset Parkinson’s syndrome/disease. His condition has slowly worsened over time and now, like Mag, Medeiros is sick. But his attitude has always been exemplary and God willing this will help make what lies ahead a bit easier to handle for him and for his family.
I love Medeiros.
Mitch is ’Schley, Aschgrove-By-A-Nose, Danny the Pig Boy, Mr. Much. I have known him for more than 50 years too and we have spent an extraordinary amount of time together. I may have referred to him as “Mitchell” or “Mitch” twice in that time. In 50+ years of unprecedented camaraderie and close association, i.e. of serious hangin’ time, twice.
He was and still is way more than “Mitch” to me. And “Mitch” just didn’t work. Not only that, the young fella came by his nicknames — generally bestowed upon him by me — honestly.
He unwittingly (or perhaps wittingly) provided great fodder, outstanding material by simply acting naturally. Because to those he didn’t know or for some reason didn’t respect, acting naturally for him meant being a raging, nasty, relentless and unforgiving asshole. Somehow this behavior became ingrained and then his hallmark, his signature.
He made it so that he was either loved or hated with no in-between. The ride was not always smooth. But I was with him the whole way. He was smart, tough and he was great company — nuthin’ he wouldn’t do — and he had an eye for the babes and they for him which was surprising to me…and then not.
Inevitably, and in this case tragically the common strand of illness runs through his story as well. Due to the perils inherent to a hedonistic lifestyle or simply to God finally throwing up His hands and sternly imposing His will, ’Schley suffered a massive stroke several years back and is confined to a wheelchair with virtually no feeling or movement on his dominant left side.
He does feel pain, both physical and mental, which is understandable but by the grace of God he has developed and maintained a most positive attitude. And miraculously — almost as if a switch had been flipped — the needle on his behavioral compass has moved 180 degrees. He has become a nice, sweet, kind and caring person and believe me, this is no act. It is legitimate and real.
Given my storied past with him, I would know. Yet further testimony to the utter complexity of that organ known as the brain.
I see ’Schley not often enough but we speak multiple times daily, chewing the fat, clinically dissecting the sports scene and exercising our respective senses of somewhat jaded humor. We make each other laugh as we have for the last 50+ years. And we close each conversation by telling the other how much he is loved.
True friendship is said to be everything and if this is so then I am the luckiest person on the planet. I have had and still have many, many really good friends by any measure.
Muse was my best friend. Regrettably, the past tense must be used here because he died not quite four years ago following a valiant struggle with glioblastoma, a rare and incurable brain cancer.
Muse came from a family of eleven children, 9 of whom became either doctors or lawyers. (The “black sheep” other two are a writer and a successful construction industry stalwart). His parents were both lawyers — his mother appointed a judge in her later professional years — and 2 of his lawyer siblings have also attained the lofty judgeship position.
The kid who was dubbed “Mr. Dirt” carved out a highly successful career as a criminal attorney and his intelligence, intuition and legal acumen aside — not to mention his sharp wit — his sterling reputation became his calling card. The same could be said of all the Muses and it indubitably came from their parents (and probably from their parents as well).
When I first met Muse at 13 years old I was about the size I am today — short — and he weighed about ninety pounds. As soon as our eyes met we nearly came to blows. Didn’t like each other’s faces, simple as that. From that moment a lifetime and brotherly relationship blossomed.
We lived two corners (streets) apart and quickly became thick as thieves. We played sports together, we learned how to drink and debauch together, we commiserated over our fairer-sex schoolmates with one another and we even studied together once in a while. But most of all, we had great mutual respect.
I became an add-on to the 11 Muse offspring with all of whom I got along famously and their parents were almost like my parents to me, albeit with a Catholic bent. It was quite instructive I might add. (Interestingly I learned that Judge Muse — Mrs. — and my mother had been classmates at The Girls Latin School together and actually knew each other).
Shortly after patriarch Bob Muse’s 90th. Birthday Party held at the family home where we so often found ourselves — and which we occasionally disordered when the cats were away — it was made known that my buddy had been diagnosed with brain cancer.
To the layman, this was the most shocking news, seemingly out of nowhere. After all, two weeks prior at the party he was himself, sipping a beer and enjoying the unique brand of inane and puerile humor flawlessly bandied about, reveling in the joy of his family and friends. Now this.
And over the next 2 1/2 years this got pretty grisly. My pal Muse fought like the dickens, trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy built around doctor’s appointments, treatments and an imploding head.
When he had the strength he went out, he visited, attended to by his dutiful wife and loving family, his physical appearance be damned. He never cared much about that kind of thing anyway. When his energy was low, people came to him.
Always people. Lots of people. His personality engendered this. There were nearly 2,000 people paying their respects at his wake. No surprise.
As a boy I loved Mantle, Maris and Mays. As an adolescent, I was enthralled with and mesmerized by Maravich, Mount and Murphy.
As a man I recognize my infinite good fortune in having Mag, Medeiros, Mitch and Muse in my life.
All my heroes in so many and different ways.
[Editor’s Note: This piece was written by Mr. Kaplan in April 2016.]
[Addendum: Mag died on 06/05/2016.]
