I have never set anyone's cleats on fire, put peanut butter or Ben
Gay in anyone's jock strap, or shaving cream inside anyone's cap.
Therefore, as a prankster I am not in the same league as someone like
Bert Blyleven. For the most part my shenanigans were more juvenile,
like short-sheeting a bed, hiding a text book or leaving a fake phone
message. However, in all humility I must further state that I was the
mastermind behind one of the best pranks ever executed in the fabled
history of Dillon Hall.
You might recall from my September 9, 2014 post (Kiwi Can Contests)
that during my junior year at ND, my roommate, Wayne Cuchna, and I
occupied one of seven "doubles" in an isolated wing on Dillon's first
floor. The band of fourteen guys living there was comprised mostly of
juniors and sophomores, with a sprinkling of freshmen, also known as
"freddies." I wouldn't go so far as to say the fourteen of us were like
brothers, but because of the proximity of our quarters, we ate many
meals together, often studied together, borrowed each other's records --
I am still waiting to get my Paul Revere & The Raiders album back
from my next door neighbor, Rich "Rinny" Reinthaler -- knew each other's
families and friends, engaged in dozens of bull sessions together, and
generally supported one another through the highs and lows of the long
and arduous school year. And of course, as you already know, there were
always the Kiwi Can Contests.
One of those
"freddies" was Ed Beck, who lived at the far "dead" end of our wing.
The other three or four freddies, including Ed's roomie, Bill "The Bird"
Powers, were low key, rather humble guys, who more or less recognized
the unwritten pecking order amongst the fourteen. No one actually
thought that the upperclassmen among us were any smarter or wiser than
the underclassmen, but still, there was some deference shown by the
younger guys to the oldsters. There were no big fish in our little
pond, but if, indeed, there had to be small fish, that role was
fulfilled by the frosh. There were certain things, particularly those
relating directly to Notre Dame the institution, for which the juniors
would have a better feel or a deeper understanding, if only for the fact
that they had more experience as a university student than did the
underclassmen.
Good ol' Ed did not see it that
way. Perhaps he couldn't help himself, being a native New Yorker and
all (tip o' the cap to Salinger for my usage of those last two words),
but any outsider with an overview of the entire scene would easily
observe that Ed was the proverbial know-it-all. His most distinguishing
characteristic was rubbing folks the wrong way. Regardless of the
topic, be it current events, football, girls, politics, professors,
music, what have you, Ed knew best and was not bashful about sharing the
wealth of his knowledge with the remaining underprivileged thirteen.
He gave me a pain where I sat down, and I was not alone with that
sentiment. Ridicule, confrontation and avoidance did not work; he'd dig
in even more. Avoidance, by the way, was hard to accomplish, given the
logistics of our wing. But what really gored our collective ox was
Ed's incessant referral to his acceptance into Notre Dame's Angers
Program for the following school year.
Angers
(pronounced "ahn-ZHAY") is a mid-sized city in western France and the
home of a handful of colleges and universities. During the years I
attended ND, the University of Notre Dame had a program affiliated with
Universite Catholique de I' Oust located in Angers. Participants in
that program were usually sophomores who desired to spend one or two
semesters across the pond. In those days, studying abroad was not
nearly as common as it has become during the last few decades. Almost
every one of my contemporaries dreamed throughout high school of some
day attending Notre Dame, so why would we want to leave? Even if we had
that inclination, most of our families could not afford to send us
overseas for even a semester, let alone a year. The thought of applying
for the Angers Program never crossed our minds.
Ed,
on the other hand, did not think along those lines; just the opposite.
From the moment (probably around February) that he was accepted into
the Angers Program, that is all he talked about or cared about. We
could be talking about dining hall food, Major League Baseball, South
Bend crime or an upcoming kegger, and without fail Ed would manage to
get Angers into the conversation. He had a knack for slanting the
discussion into a comparison between how much better off he would be in
France versus us slugs stuck in The Bend. At first it was funny, as Ed
was turning into a caricature of himself right before our eyes. But
after enduring his patronization for weeks on end, retaliation was in
order. Luckily, two separate ingredients fell perfectly into place,
enabling me to pull off my caper, which I prefer to refer to simply as
"The Letter."
The first ingredient was the
fragile social status and simmering mood of the US, and elsewhere, in
1968. That year has been called by many historians and political
scientists the most tumultuous year in US history. The Cold War was in
full swing, the civil rights movement was surging, Viet Nam War
protesters dialed up their demonstrations several notches, especially
following the Tet Offensive, and the US presidential election, including
the intra-party nomination campaigns, was no holds barred. The
Reverend Martin Luther King was assassinated in Memphis on April 4 of
that year, and race riots ensued. Democratic candidate Robert F.
Kennedy was assassinated in Los Angeles nine weeks later.
But
the US was not the only place of social unrest. In May, 1968, France
was the scene of violent protests and strikes carried on predominantly
by students and laborers. That country almost came to a standstill, as
students occupied campus buildings and workers shut down industry. The
police were outnumbered. Demonstrations turned into riots which got out
of hand. It would take several weeks, and an actual dissolution of the
French Parliament, before order was restored.
The
second ingredient, strange as it may seem, was what we found in the
practice space used by my band, Lemon Oil Mahogany. LOM had "inherited"
from my first band, the Dark Ages, a postage stamp size storage room
located at the bottom of an extremely narrow stairway near the front of
Dillon. Apparently the room had not been used, or even visited, in many
years. Dust, mold and cobwebs were everywhere. It could have
functioned as a chamber of horrors from a Stephen King novel. The guys
in the Dark Ages made a deal with our rector, Father James "Flash"
Flanigan, that in return for our cleaning the place up, he would let us
practice down there. Now, a year later, LOM was the beneficiary of that
arrangement.
Originally we just cleaned out
enough space to squeeze in our equipment and ourselves. Subsequently
one late spring day after practice we had a little more time, so we
started clearing shelf space. The books on those shelves were so old
that the bindings gave way when we opened them. But then, pay dirt!
Tucked away in a corner was a box of official Notre Dame stationery,
with letterhead designating "Administrative Offices" and a beautiful
etching of the Administration Building (aka the "Gold Dome Building")
above it. This was like finding gold. My scheme to prank Ed Beck was
hatched!
Father James Riehle (pronounced
"really") was the no-nonsense Dean Of Students in those days. The main
responsibilities of the person holding that position were to oversee the
conduct of the student body, and to enforce the multitude of rules and
regulations which ND men were expected to follow. If you're inclined to
think that the incumbent in that office would, necessarily, be tough as
nails, you would be correct. Father Riehle, although only in his
mid-forties, was one of those guys who appeared to be many years older
than his actual age. A cigar-chomping, gruff ex-hockey player, he was
surely cut out to be the Dean Of Students. No news from Father Riehle
was good news for all Domers under his figurative thumb. An aside: My
first sophomore year roommate, Mike "The Ripper" Rippey, was called on
the carpet by Father Riehle on many sad occasions before finally getting
the heave-ho after the first semester. The Ripper's downfall was
mostly alcohol related; he was a well-known fixture in after-hours South
Bend. Every time he got called in to the Dean's office he'd say to me,
"John, this time I'm Riehle in trouble!"
It took me a
few days to compose The Letter to Ed. I went through several drafts on
notebook paper before I was finally satisfied. Once I had crafted my
masterpiece, I borrowed The Bird's typewriter under the pretext of
having to submit a research paper, and hunted and pecked my way
through. Of course, I typed The Letter on my newly found Administrative
Offices stationery. It has been over forty-six years since I composed
The Letter, but to the best of my recollection, it read something like
this:
Dear Mr. Beck,
I
regret to inform you that, due to the civil unrest in France, including
Angers, the University of Notre Dame has decided to cancel the Angers
Program for the coming school year. Please know that this was a very
difficult decision to make, as the administration is well aware of the
eagerness with which many of our students, including yourself, looked
forward to the opportunity to study in Angers. We will revisit the
situation toward the end of the current calendar year, and if
circumstances merit doing so, we will consider reinstating the Angers
Program for the 1969-1970 school year.
The safety of our students is always our foremost responsibility. Thank you for your understanding.
Sincerely yours,
James L. Riehle, C.S.C.
Dean of Students
I
did my best forgery job of Father Riehle's signature, stuck the letter
in a regular ND envelope which was available in the bookstore, and
mailed it to Ed on a Thursday, using an intra-campus postal box. I knew
it would reach his Dillon mail slot the next day, Friday, the hardest
day of the work week to get ahold of anybody in the Ad Building.
The rest is history. Ed did, indeed, receive the letter on that Friday. I can still hear his wail, like something out of The Hound Of The Baskervilles.
His whole reason for being was gone. There was no one else nearby in
the dorm heading for Angers with whom he could commiserate, so he tried
to get ahold of Father Riehle by phone. I knew that would be next to
impossible, especially on a Friday afternoon. Ed was beside himself as
he ran over to the Ad Building, letter in hand. I did not see him for
several hours. My guess is that it took that long for many phone calls
to go back and forth to ascertain whether the Angers Program was in
jeopardy and if Father Riehle had actually sent that letter.
When
Ed finally entered the South Dining Hall, barely in time for the swill
they called "dinner," he was totally exhausted, yet evidently relieved
that he had merely been the victim of a hoax. We didn't hear
much from Ed about Angers for the rest of the school year. The Angers
Program was not cancelled, and as far as I know, Ed was there as planned
for the '68-'69 school year while I made the best of things on campus
my senior year. I have not seen nor heard from Ed since the spring of
'68.
Other than my roomie, whom I swore to
secrecy, I have never admitted my prank to anyone -- until now. As much
as I wanted to take credit for the caper, the price of being found out
was too much to risk. Of course, the guys in our wing figured the
culprit was one of our group, and their level of enjoyment was almost
equal to mine.
The Statute Of Limitations has long
since expired, and Father Riehle passed away in 2008. I think I am
safe. If you ever watch the movie Rudy, keep an eye out for the
man playing the role of the Notre Dame football team chaplain. That guy
is no Hollywood actor; it's Father Riehle who, in addition to his day
job as Dean Of Students, was the football team's chaplain in real life.
I wonder if he will read this post from that great cigar lounge in the
sky.
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