June 7, 1983
George’s schedule was so tight that I had to rush him straight to the airport to make the five o’clock back to Washington. He sat mutely as I zoomed down Storrow Drive. He had clearly been shell-shocked by that guy’s explosion.
I tried to buck him up by telling him how brilliant his whole lecture was. That didn’t seem to comfort him.
I had driven so fast that we arrived a little early, so we had a few moments to chat in the American Airlines VIP lounge. George ordered a double scotch for each of us. When he saw that I didn’t touch my drink, he appropriated it as well. He was incredibly depressed.
In a curious way, I felt slightly responsible. Because I had lured him up to the reunion with the promise of adulation. And here he was going away with the dispiriting impression that “the people at Harvard still hate me.” I tried to reassure him that the opposite was true. His classmates all looked up to him. I, for one, particularly admired him.
That made him laugh bitterly and reply that lots of people admired him, but nobody really liked him. Again, I can remember his exact words: “I have a talent for success maybe, but not for friendship.”
I suggested that perhaps he was still feeling bruised from the divorce. He disagreed. And, after ordering yet another scotch, he told me that he felt his marriage had failed for the same reasons he couldn’t make friends at college. He was too selfish.
At that point he looked at his watch, stood up—without apparent difficulty—and we walked together toward his flight. We stood at the gate for a few seconds before he started back to where he helped rule the world. He then said something that will haunt me for the rest of my life: “Andrew, when you write about me in that diary of yours—never say that I’m a lucky man.”
It is a tradition of Harvard reunions that the outstanding musician of The Class is invited to conduct at least a portion of a Boston Pops’ concert. In 1964, for example, Leonard Bernstein ’39 conducted an evening of his own music. In 1983, the same honor was accorded to Daniel Rossi ’58.
The huge organ pipes above the stage of Symphony Hall were festively decked with pink and silver pennants, the massive auditorium packed exclusively with members of The Class.
As he stood in the wings, elegant in tails and perfectly coiffed (even wearing a bit of stage makeup, lest he be thought anything but a perpetual Wunderkind), Danny was suddenly struck by a strange realization.
This was the most important audience he would ever face in his entire life.
All he could remember in this brief flickering of eternity was that during his Harvard years—despite his musical successes—he had been all but disregarded. He had not been athletic. He had not been gregarious. He had not even, at first, been a success with the opposite sex. He had been a wonk.
And after a quarter of a century he still resented the ruthless massacre of his piano.
Now the wheel had come full circle. All those who had persecuted, derided, and ignored him were out there waiting.
He walked on stage.
There was a hush as he mounted the podium, bowed slowly, then turned and raised his baton.
First he led a suite from his Savanarola ballet. Admittedly, this was a bit esoteric for some. But it was Danny Rossi’s music and they still respected it.
Then he got to what they were waiting for: a medley from Manhattan Odyssey. And every time he modulated to a different tune they clapped and sang along.
The biggest ovation was, of course, for “The Stars Are Not Enough”—if not quite a legitimate offspring of The Class, at least an adopted child.
When it was over, he turned and faced them. They were on their feet now, all of them. Cheering and applauding.
Then the first shout came.
“Play the piano, Danny!”
It soon became a tidal wave of chanting, “Play! Play!”
At first he tried to brush it off nonchalantly with a wave of his right hand. But they wouldn’t stop.
The one thing they admired most in him was no longer his to give.
And suddenly he sensed he could not hold back the tears. So he quickly whirled to the musicians and signaled them to begin the concluding medley of Harvard football songs.
With Crimson in triumph flashing
Mid the strains of victory …
Danny had covered his retreat by invoking something they worshipped more than him—Harvard.