Here is how I got to Yale.
At the end of football season of my senior year in high school, my coach told me that he had been contacted by a Yale coach who asked if any of his players had the grades to get into Yale. Our team had won our league, and I was a co-captain. My coach suggested me, and insisted that I go with him to see a Yale recruiting film in downtown Los Angeles. We went and the film featured a bunch of men dressed in suits and ties in front of a blazing fireplace singing. I wasn’t impressed.
A Yale coach, Jerry Neri, came to my home to speak to me and my parents. He told them that 40% of New Haven were of Italian ancestry, and that I would be well received. As it turned out, Italian bus drivers and postmen recognized me as an Italian on the football team and treated me with warmth and kindness.
I obtained an application to Yale. It was on my desk after the deadline to apply, when Coach Neri called and asked if I had sent in my application. I said: “Sorry coach, I forgot.” The next day, the principal of my high school told me to complete the application and give it to him. Coach Neri called me and said Yale had accepted my late application. I later learned that my principal, a priest, had said that he had neglected to send in my application on time. I guess Yale believed a priest.
Finally, I got an acceptance letter, and a scholarship. I was miffed, because it wasn’t a full ride. I got financial aid of $1350, plus a work-study job of $400, but the total tuition and room and board was $1,850, which meant I had to pay $100. I told my dad that it was unacceptable; he, being wise, told me to take it, and he would cover the $100. So I accepted.
I got a request from Yale for a photo to be placed in a book of incoming freshman. So I had my mother take a photo of me in my football letterman sweater standing in our back year in front of a flowering bush. When I got the book, I saw that everyone else had a portrait photo dressed in a suit and tie. Oh, well.
The time came to go to Yale. My classmate, Bob Porfirio, and I flew to New York to spend the night before taking the train to Yale. The first person to speak to us in New York was a nattily dressed gentleman who asked us if we were looking for girls. I said: “no thank you, sir.” It came to me later that he was a pimp.
The next day, got to Yale. I was wearing white pegged pants (like I wore in high school), and a white dress shirt. I wore this for a while, which caused some of my preppy classmates (aptly, I must confess) to call me the Good Humor Man.
I have reached the word limit, so I will end here. See you at the reunion.