Jersey Shore Magazine

J e r s e y s h o r e • S p r i n g 2 0 1 9 66 HOME PORT The Track by Frank Finale T he cinder track across the street from the El train in Brooklyn encircled a grass field and part of my life. I practiced after classes five days a week, four years in all, with the track team at New Utrecht, the same high school my father went to as a boy. When it rained or snowed, I worked out in the long hallways of the school doing wind sprints, which consisted of running down the hallway, jog- ging back to where we start- ed, and doing it again. One would think such repeti- tive strides would be boring. But it wasn't. Each one was different and had its own movements that I tried to perfect: speed, length of stride, pumping of arms, and high knees. Emptied of students, the hallways amplified the slaps and squeaks of our track shoes and the echoing shouts of "High knees! High knees!" The odors of sweat, wintergreen liniment oil, and last lunches hung in the halls. I was grateful, though, when warmer weather arrived. I could go outdoors and run the track again. The track became a relief from a full day of classes. Its surface had some give, unlike the hard hallways that caused shin- splints. Shedding my school clothes, I changed into run- ning shorts, a track shirt with a winged foot on front, and spiked running shoes. Already, I felt lighter. The track was another realm: the fresh air, the crunch of cinders, the spring in my stride, the lean into the turns, and the kick off the last turn, my lungs burning as I lunged towards the finish line. This had been my father's track. Different coaches; same track. I met my father's coach, Barney Hyman, once. He came back to visit and wanted to take a look at the track team. He was a school legend whose teams won numerous championships. The burnished trophies in the showcases that we passed on the way to classes each day testified to this. I spotted the coach walking near the finish line on the track. Swallowing my adolescent anxiety, I went up to him and asked if he remembered my father, Ralph Fennelli? "Hmm… Yes, I do. We called him 'Babe.' When he ran the 60-yard dash in the armory, his legs were pow- erful pistons. He'd shake the armory floor," he said. A faint smile broke out on his griz- zled face, "They dubbed him 'Babe' when he started for the 880-yard relay team that broke the record." "Babe Fennelli." I spotted it in the World Almanac under high school track records and asked my dad why he changed the name to "Finale." "People had trouble spelling that name." "Oh, I see." It was only much later, when I learned how reluctant employers had been to hire Italians and other immigrants, that I realized why he probably adopted a more familiar spelling. In spite of the medals I brought home, my father's enthusiasm was tepid at best. When I told him I was chosen captain of the track team, he responded with, "Nice, but what about your studies?" It wasn't until I left track, received a medallion for my high grades, and went to college that I discovered he was proud of me. I heard it from the people he worked with at the V. A. Hospital in Brooklyn. "Yeah," Pete, his best friend, told me, "he shows that damn medallion to everyone, even the doctors." Years after my father's death, I attended a fiftieth year high school track reunion. I was amazed to find out from my co-captain, Ron, that there was no more track team— and no more track. It's all a grassy field for football players now. The only place that cinder oval exists is in the minds of the former track members who once ran there. Oh, my father, I remember you best pounding the pave- ment to catch the last bus to the Staten Island Ferry before Author Frank Finale, age 17, and the New Utrecht High School track in Brooklyn, 1959. continued on page 65

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