it was the mid-Sixties and the school no longer had a religious prerequisite for attendance, the tower was a call to excellence, regardless of one’s faith.
With wonderful grounds, good facilities, and a friendly yet sophisticated feel, the school had only one problem—an insecurity complex. For many years, educators had been waiting for it to become one of the top ten private schools in New England, highlighted by more than half the class getting early admission to Ivy League colleges, excellent sports teams, high SATs, a strong endowment and a faculty to be admired. But it lacked some ingredient that kept it in the 15-25 ranking, just below the Groton, St. Paul’s, Milton, etc. level of consistent excellence. Graduates included names like Astor, Biddle, Merck, Pell and Vanderbilt, but there was something intangible holding the school back.
Bob’s mom loved it as well, for all those and two other reasons. First, they had scholarship money available. It meant waiting on tables, but she knew that his personality and athletic prowess would obviate any near-term concerns.
Second, St. George’s was situated but a stone’s throw from one of the nation’s most powerful playgrounds for the rich, richer, and the idle rich, with a great history and powerful connections in New York, Washington, Palm Beach and points west: Newport, Rhode Island.
And there were rich playthings there as well. It wasn’t just tea at 4:00. Great boating, tennis, golf, and parties galore in the huge homes constructed in the Gilded Age before the First War and income taxes. That set Newport apart in many ways. You could smell the money and beautiful people at the town’s watering holes and private clubs. A wonderful world for a future in the investment business.
It was in this setting that he met Billy Andrews, who was, over time, to become his best friend. Another hockey player, Billy had grown up on the east side of Cleveland, Ohio, but spent much of his youth in Mt. Desert, Maine, where the water was cold, where pulling pots filled with pound and a half and two pound lobsters was a great summer job. Billy’s mom would drive him an hour each way to skate at 5:00 p.m. with the local high school team in Ellsworth. He’d eat in the car and still make the 7:30 show in Northeast Harbor at the Town Theater.
They became fast friends and roomed together for their junior and senior years. Now inseparable, they had both applied to Trinity College, and wanted to go as a threesome with a guy down the hall, a big defenseman from Arlington, Massachusetts named Jim Bellino. He was the nephew of a famous BC football player and had violence in his blood. Another scholarship student, he was courted by several colleges, but Trinity gave him virtually a free ride and the potential of great friends to continue setting him up for his viscious slap shot. An overly enthusiastic Catholic, he crossed himself every time he took a shower.
It had been a tough year for America. The death of Martin Luther King, black power at the Olympics and the Tet Offensive in Vietnam symbolized a tortured country and world. Culturally, In the Heat of the Night had been elected Best Picture by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.
It was early spring when Bob Lane double-timed across St. George’s quadrangle from his room in the senior dorm to the campus book store and post office. He had been told that today might be the day. A full 8.5” x 11” envelope was an acceptance to a college of your choice. The smaller letter format was not a good sign.
He’d applied to Harvard, a family tradition, Bowdoin, where the odds were not good, and Trinity. He was nervous about family pressure to accept a Harvard offer. Both his mom and grandfather had been enthusiastic about that eventuality, as his grandfather had been a captain of an undefeated Harvard hockey team during the early 1940s. He had loved his trip to Hartford, and knew both instinctively and through college counselling at St. George’s that he would be more successful at a smaller school. And what if none of the colleges wanted him in their future alumni list? He would cross that bridge if necessary.
Billy was already there and smiled broadly as Bob came around the corner. They’d promised each other they would open their boxes simultaneously, for better or for worse. Two large from Hartford. They opened and read the first line, then embraced.
“We are pleased …” their letters began.
“Four years locked and fuckin’ loaded,” Billy said.
“And a hockey team hot for both of us,” returned Bob.
It turned out to be a threesome, with Jim Bellino choosing his free ride. Harvard declined and Bowdoin put Bob on the waiting list. There was no decision to make. His grandfather mumbled something about “ungrateful bastards” and affirmative action, but generally took it better than Bob expected.
He told Gramps of his happiness at the way things turned out, that he was sorry about Cambridge and loved him very much. His grandparents reaffirmed their commitment to pay part of the freight. He called Bowdoin the next day, told them thanks but no thanks, and his education was locked in. What a feeling of relief! Now elation, and pride. Warm up the graduation outfit: school blazer, white pants and Bass Weejuns. They were going to listen to the traditional graduation bagpipes, hear from the lackluster Lieutenant Governor of Rhode Island, and focus on a great summer before August 23, freshman week in Hartford.
Smith, Barney had an office on Bellvue Avenue, the main drag for tourists who wanted to marvel at the huge homes built by industrialists and financiers at the turn of the twentieth century. Bob had been a regular visitor in the Newport office, watching “the tape” and taking in all the activity. The office manager was impressed and offered him an internship for his summer between school and college; no money, but an open door to get ahead of the crowd in the workings of the business. That was attractive to Bob. All he had to do was find a place to live, get transportation, and secure a second job to fund his summer and get a leg up on college expenses.
Bob’s history teacher was a Civil War freak and a developing alcoholic named John Chamberlain. He claimed to be a direct decendant of the hero of Little Round Top, Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, who, according to John, had saved America on July 2, 1863. Out of ammunition, he had his 20th Maine Volunteers fix bayonets and attacked down the drumlin to rout the Confederate soldiers and win the second day of the Battle of Gettysburg.
He went on to become Maine’s governor and head of Bowdoin College. John’s fascination had led to a desire for total immersion for he and his family. They went south every summer for the last four summers for Civil War study and research. This year was Vicksburg. Bob was given the delightful job of housesitting (with school oversight) for the Chamberlains, and had his ten-speed for transportation.
Billy Andrews had met a television producer during his junior summer in Maine, worked on his boat, and had signed on to be a PA (production assistant) on his televison show at Astoria Studios in Brooklyn, and at locations all over New York. With a guest room locked in at his uncle’s on 69th St, between Park and Lexington, he had known since January of his good fortune. A ticket to the starlets. He was psyched.
Bellino, true to form, was to work on a state road crew within thirty miles of his home. His family had a pizzeria but excellent political contacts, and further prying on that score was discouraged. As luck would have it, a summer school job came open for Bobby in the kitchen from four to seven on week nights, a perfect fit at a perfect pay scale.
Bob Lane found great energy in taking his bike on fifty-mile plus rides several times a week. Like many who run or bicycle, he craved that wonderful place that enthusiasts get to after the body is warmed up, with it a euphoria that is addictive and exciting.
Riding that summer, he approached a biker on the main route from Providence to Newport during the final leg of a sixty-mile effort. He instinctively knew it was a female by the movement of her ass in her body suit on the seat. Her riding style had the grace and motion reserved for the female body. Her helmet
