Seton Hall University was completely covered in snow the first time that I visited its campus, in December 1957.
I’d narrowed my choice of colleges down to just a few. While schools like Syracuse, Temple, and Columbia University all had world-class journalism and broadcasting programs, there was no way my parents could afford to send me to those places. In addition, I would have had to live in dormitories if I went to another state. After six years of basically living away for most of the week, I wanted to stay home and to commute.
Hudson County may be tiny, but it has two excellent schools. Saint Peter’s College and Jersey City State College are both located right on the main boulevard that runs fifteen miles through my home county. They would have been easy for me to get to, but neither had a strong enough communications department at the time. This led me to select a school that was actually three bus rides away in South Orange, New Jersey.
Choosing Seton Hall turned out to be one of the best decisions I ever made.
Founded as a private school in 1856 by Archbishop James Bayley, Seton Hall was named for his aunt, Elizabeth Ann Seton, the first American-born saint. They had a well-respected school of divinity and theology. Seton Hall’s law school was also ranked just below Princeton’s as one of the best on the East Coast. What really attracted me, though, was their radio station.
WSOU is a twenty-four-hundred-watt campus studio at Seton Hall that began broadcasting in 1949. Originating in the small town of South Orange, the transmitter was powerful enough for its signal to be carried all over the New York/New Jersey area. We used to listen to WSOU at the institute. They played mostly music, with a few chat shows. Other than coverage of Seton Hall basketball games, however, there was a definite lack of sports talk. I sensed an opportunity.
When Mom found out that I wanted to apply to Seton Hall, she reserved a date for us to tour the campus together. Mid-December was the only time available. Unfortunately, there had been a major storm two days before. We had to step around and through gigantic mounds of snow. My mother did not want to cancel our appointment, so we made the long three-bus trek out to South Orange. Dad was working an extra shift and couldn’t come. I’d fill him in later.
We were met at the gates by Father Shea, the head of the admissions department. Because of the weather conditions, we pretty much had a private tour. It was a great tour, even better than the one we’d taken at Holy Family five years before. The thing that impressed me the most was how Father Shea took an interest in me but never once mentioned or reacted to my blindness. To him, I was just another prospective student whom he was hoping to recruit.
Before we left, I filled out the application for admission and paid the fee. I would later submit forms to Saint Peter’s and to another college, only because my parents urged me to have a “safety” school in case I didn’t make the cut at Seton Hall.
I wasn’t worried. My nightly prayers were to be a Seton Hall student and for God to allow me to use the gifts He gave me to develop my broadcasting talents on WSOU. If it was in His will, I knew that He would make it happen.
I even asked Saint Joseph, my patron, to intercede on my behalf.
By that time, my family had moved out of the Jersey City projects. My mother was tired of living in meager, hardscrabble conditions. The main reason we moved to Lafayette Gardens in the first place was that that particular public housing complex was close to PS 22. It was also not too far from Holy Family. Once I was done with those two schools, there was no need to live there anymore, so my parents began sacrificing, saving their money and working extra shifts.
They still couldn’t afford to buy a house. My mother began looking in local papers, like the Jersey Journal and Hudson Dispatch, for nice furnished apartments to rent. She finally found one, in Weehawken, which was about five miles or so from Jersey City.
The owners of this particular apartment weren’t asking for prospective tenants to come see the place in person. Instead, they requested a written essay to be sent, which would describe why yours would be the perfect family to live there. It had to be mailed to a PO box.
Write a persuasive letter to rent this apartment? My mother had already proven that she was the master at that particular skill. Once Mom put that essay in the mailbox, everyone else should have just thrown in the towel.
As expected, my mother’s note was the winning entry.
Our new landlords, the Hanks family, were terrific people. They were an older couple, named Frances and George, with two sons. We were welcomed warmly. The boys, Georgie and Buddy, were a few years younger than me but were both big baseball fans. The Hanks family became like close relatives to us. In fact, they introduced my sister Maureen to one of their cousins, Jimmy Hanks. A few years later, she married him.
We lived on the lower level of the house, with five spacious rooms, a big bathroom, and heat and hot water included. George and Frances were not typical landlords. On our first day, they told my mother and father to pick out any wallpaper, furniture, paint, or appliances that they wanted, which would be provided at no extra charge. George’s father, George Sr., lived across the street and was always at their house, helping with repairs and maintenance. George Sr. loved taking breaks on the porch to recount tales of his glory days riding alongside Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders during the Spanish-American War. The front porch was semicovered, perfect for conversations or for listening to a game on the radio. The Hanks family even put rocking chairs out there in the warm-weather months.
The house was located on Fiftieth Street in Weehawken, in St. Joseph’s parish, just off of Boulevard East. Weehawken is a Native American word meaning “city built on cliffs that look like big trees.” They weren’t kidding.
Just across the east side of the main boulevard from Fiftieth Street was a little park encompassed by a large iron fence. The fence was there to prevent anybody from getting too close to the edge of the Palisades cliffs, on which Weehawken stood. They were steep and massive. Venture past the barrier, and you’d find yourself dropping over the cliffs, 560 feet down to the Hudson River.
The bright side to having the Hudson River below was that the New York skyline was directly across. I didn’t get to enjoy the view, of course, but people came from all over to sit on the Hankses’ porch to take in the dazzling scene of the Empire State Building, Chrysler Building, George Washington Bridge, and other famous landmarks. This million-dollar sweeping vista made our area of Weehawken a very desirable place to live. Hollywood legend Fred Astaire, famed choreographer Jerome Robbins, and jazz great Thelonious Monk were a few of the luminaries who had lived just blocks away from us. I never got to meet them. The Weehawken resident I was most excited about living near was my best friend from PS 22, Gene Mehl.
Once I started boarding for the week at Holy Family and the New York Institute, the days of daily play with my childhood friends came to a halt. I especially missed Gene, who lived on Fifty-Fourth Street in Weehawken and would travel by school bus to PS 22 in Jersey City. Since I wasn’t enrolled there anymore, I didn’t get to hang out with him as much as I used to. Occasionally, my parents would bring me to see him, but those visits were few and far between. Now that we lived in Weehawken, I could spend time with my best friend whenever I wanted.
Gene wasn’t a big baseball fan, but he was an excellent musician. I was a Sinatra and big band enthusiast; “Young At Heart” was my favorite song at the time. Gene loved rock and roll. He would keep me up to date on all of the latest pop music stars and songs. He was also very active, full of energy. Gene made it his mission to get me out of the house as much as he could. We’d walk the streets of Weehawken as he described my new hometown.
I also kept pestering Gene to let me ride his bicycle. It had been years since I’d done that. My mother was, as always, overly cautious. She would not even hear my arguments about why I should have a bike. I had to find another solution.
After months of pressure from me to use his bicycle, Gene finally gave in. He agreed, with one condition. He wanted to ride with me. Gene would pedal the bike and I would steer, according to his directions. I happily agreed to this bit of teamwork.
It was a thrill for me to be in control of a bicycle again. The freedom was indescribable. Gene was enjoying it, too. He even suggested that we head east on Fiftieth Street, downhill, to pick up more speed. I loved the idea. I’d also completely forgotten that Fiftieth Street abruptly ended with the safety fence and the cliff.
As the bike made its way across the boulevard, rapidly approaching the precipice, Gene began to panic and shouted, “Turn! Turn! Turn!” Instead of complying, I shouted “Which way?” as the bike continued on a crash course toward the barrier. Luckily, Gene had enough sense to grab me by the collar and to pull me off the speeding bicycle just before it slammed into the iron bars, smashing it to bits. Gene and I rolled safely to the ground just inches from the fence, as I heard the seat of the bicycle fly over the gate and smack into the side of the rocky Palisades cliff over and over again, making its way fifty-six stories down to the river.
With my heart beating rapidly, body drenched in sweat, I thanked Gene for having the presence of mind to save us at the last minute.
I also had one request: “Let’s not tell my mom about this, okay?”
By this time, I was mostly using my cane to get around. The training they’d given me at the institute had made me more confident than ever. I enjoyed showing my parents and others how independent I’d become.
My mother wasn’t so sure.
One day, I decided to take a walk around Weehawken by myself. My ultimate destination was a candy store on the corner of Fiftieth and Park, not that far away. I said good-bye to Mom and Dad and headed off. The trip was uneventful. Once I got there, I enjoyed a chocolate malt as a small reward for my show of independence. The way back was mostly uphill. I was able to do it just as easily. As I got close to home, I noticed that the footsteps I’d heard a few times on my trip were still there in the background, as if someone was shadowing me. It took a moment for the identity of the mystery person to dawn on me. I spun around and called out, “Mom?”
My mother, who had been trailing me the entire time, confessed. I shouted at her, “Why would you do that?” With a trace of hurt and anger in my voice that was typical of a frustrated teen, I continued, “I can take care of myself now. I don’t need you to follow me!” With that, my mother began to cry, and said, through her tears, “I’m sorry, Eddie. I worry about you, and I just want to make sure that you are safe. I’m not trying to make you feel helpless. I’m your mother and I’m always going to worry.” I immediately felt foolish for snapping at her. I apologized, and my own tears began flowing.
Mom and I hugged and headed home. We’d both gotten our points across and felt much better.
A few weeks later, on Wednesday, March 19, 1958, the Feast of Saint Joseph, I was in my dorm at the institute when I received a very happy call from my mother. The letter that we’d both been waiting for had arrived at my home that morning. Seton Hall University approved my application! I’d be starting there in the fall. Once again, my mother and I were in tears, but this time they were joyous ones. I celebrated with my classmates after hanging up with Mom. We would have gone out to mark the occasion, but in a serendipitous twist, our area was covered in snow, just as it was on the day of my campus tour. The Saint Joseph’s Day 1958 blizzard was one of the worst ever, dropping almost two feet of snow. The party would have to wait.
I was excited to be attending Seton Hall. This time my father was the one who was worried. His concern was my commute. I’d be living at home and “day hopping” back and forth to campus. Dad wondered how I’d manage the trip all the way to South Orange, even if I was proficient with the cane. My mother, who’d witnessed how well I was getting around by myself, was firmly in my corner. This still didn’t sway Dad. To make his point, my father took me on the ride I’d have to make for the next four years. He didn’t use the car. My father wanted to simulate the bus trip to Seton Hall exactly the way that I’d have to make it.
ON THE DAY of our trial run, Dad and I got up at 4:30 a.m. We had breakfast, got dressed, and were out the door an hour later. Our first step was to take a bus from Weehawken through the Lincoln Tunnel into the Port Authority Bus Terminal on Forty-Second Street in Manhattan. As crazy as that sounds, we had to cross state lines in order to get a bus back to New Jersey and the general area of Seton Hall. There were no direct buses to South Orange originating in Hudson County. From New York, we boarded the number 118 to Newark. The trip, during morning rush, took almost an hour. Once in Newark, we got off at the corner of Raymond Boulevard, only to have to walk four long blocks to Broad and Market. It was there that we caught the 31 South Orange bus to the campus of Seton Hall, arriving just before 9:00 a.m.
Dad’s point was made. As stubbornly independent as I was, there was no way I’d be able to make the voyage to Seton Hall and back each day without a partner. I needed a teammate. The problem was finding one. I had many friends at the time, and I even knew a few people who were going to Seton Hall. None of them would be able to escort me on a three-bus trip each day. I was frustrated at being so close to my goal, but at an impasse. Then I remembered my teacher, Mr. Whitstock, and his amazing guide dog.
The thing that struck me the most about Mr. Whitstock’s dog, Kelly, was that she was all business. Unlike other canines, where petting was encouraged, this dog was always on duty as a guide and we had to treat her as such. While he was pleasant about it, we were told by Mr. Whitstock that as long as the harness was on his dog, we could not pet or play with Kelly. This wasn’t some arbitrary rule set by him. This was part of the extensive training given to dogs by the Seeing Eye.
A few years earlier, our English teacher, Mrs. Kearney, had given me a Braille book about the Seeing Eye written by Peter Putnam. I read it several times and took extensive notes. The Seeing Eye was based in New Jersey, so I was somewhat aware of it. Thanks to Mr. Putnam’s book, I learned even more about this innovative facility for training guide dogs, including the fascinating story of its cofounder, Morris Frank.
Mr. Frank was the very first person in the United States to have a guide dog. Blinded as a teenager due to an accident while he was boxing with a friend, he read about blind World War I veterans who were being paired with trained dogs in Europe. He wrote a letter to the founder of that school and was invited to join them. After returning to the United States with his new dog, Frank asked the founder of the European school to establish one in the States. She agreed. They christened it the Seeing Eye in 1929. A facility was opened in Whippany, New Jersey, two years later. Mr. Frank then began a successful crusade to change laws, allowing guide dogs to enter buildings and places that pets were normally not permitted. He was an inspiration to me.
After serious deliberation, I proposed my idea of getting a Seeing Eye dog to my father. He was surprisingly open to it. I submitted my application in the spring of 1958, in order to be part of the July class that year. It would take four weeks to go through the training at the Seeing Eye, living in their Whippany dorms to grow accustomed to my new dog. I’d already registered for pre-semester August classes at Seton Hall to ensure enough time to familiarize myself with the campus, so I needed my four-legged “eyes” by then.
The admission process for the Seeing Eye was no breeze. I was subjected to a series of physical and mental evaluations so that they could be sure that I was mature enough to be able to handle life with a dog as my guide.
My friends who were being drafted into the army at the time underwent easier exams than this.
Thanks to God’s grace, I passed. I’d soon be living life with a Seeing Eye dog at my side.
I was excited as I arrived in Whippany in July 1958 for my training. For the fourth time in less than six years, I’d be boarding someplace new with a roommate. This time it was Richard McStraw, a twenty-year-old chess master and massage therapist from Erie, Pennsylvania. He was getting his first dog, too. There were eight people in our class. They came from all over the world. The Seeing Eye paid for transportation to and from New Jersey, but applicants had to pay the $150 fee for the room, board, and dog themselves. They were pretty firm about that.
The Seeing Eye believed that if they or some service club like the Lions paid the fees for you to get your dog, the sense of partnership wouldn’t be as great. They wanted you to have a stake in the well-being of your new companion. If the fee came out of your own pocket, the chances were likely that you wouldn’t see it as charity, maintaining your dignity and valuing the experience even more. To this day, the Seeing Eye’s fee remains $150. If your dog passes away or is unable to guide anymore, then the fee drops to just $50 for any successive stays for training with a new dog. It’s a lifetime commitment on their part.
This was no vacation. We were worked hard for twenty-eight days straight. On our very first day, we were asked to go to the courtyard outside. Our trainers, Fred Kreitzer and Roger Taylor, divided us into two groups of four. They led us around by a special harness, patented by the Seeing Eye. The trainers, who had already spent weeks with our group of dogs, would use this time to assess our pace and level of fitness. They would then have the information needed to pair us up with just the right dog.
The next day, we were brought into the common room to meet the animals that would be part of our lives for years to come. Mr. Kreitzer, who was assigned to be my trainer, came into the room and said, in his thick German accent, “Mr. Lucas, I’d like to introduce you to your new partner. Her name is Kay.” He continued, describing her to me in great detail. “Kay is a twenty-two-month-old German shepherd. She is tan with black spots and is as gentle as they come.” I was eager to get to know Kay, so Mr. Kreitzer allowed me to go back to the room to bond with her for the rest of the day before the real training began the following morning.
There are guide dogs all over the world, but Seeing Eye dogs are a special breed. Their training and commands are unique to the New Jersey facility. They are born and raised to be guides. The dogs are taught from an early age to be aware of their surroundings, beyond the normal range of most canines. Kay had to be my eyes, so she needed to look to her sides, front, back, and even above while walking with me. If there was an awning or low-hanging branch, she had to see that and to steer me away from the danger.
I’m left-handed, but Seeing Eye dogs always walk to the left side of their partner, since this is basically a right-handed world and it’s easier to go through doorways and to navigate things like staircases with your right hand free. That took some getting used to.
Kay wore the special Seeing Eye harness, as well as a small leash and chain. The most important part of the training was actually for me, not for Kay. I had to learn to trust myself enough to direct her, not the other way around. She was watching out for me and keeping me safe as we walked, but ultimately I was the one who had to know where we were heading so that we would wind up in the correct place. I used commands like “left,” “right,” “forward,” “hop up,” and “phooey” for navigation and correction. They were simple, yet effective. I was also told to shower her with praise whenever she did the right thing, as positive reinforcement.
Rather than try to simulate real-life traffic conditions, the Seeing Eye brought us from Whippany to the nearby village of Morristown. While it wasn’t exactly Jersey City or New York, Morristown had a population of seventeen thousand and was busy enough to suit our purposes. The town had everything we needed, a main square with several big intersections, tree-lined streets with obstacles above and below, and a large department store with escalators, so we could train inside.
Mr. Kreitzer was a step behind me and Kay as we made our way toward Morristown’s South Street, which had lots of traffic. While stopped at the corner for the light, my trainer’s instructions to me were simple. “When I tap you on the shoulder,” Kreitzer said, “tell Kay to go forward.” A moment later, I heard the rumbling of a giant truck coming toward us. I felt a tap on my shoulder. Thinking that I was imagining it, that my trainer couldn’t possibly want me to step in front of an oncoming truck, I remained silent. As the large vehicle drew closer, I felt the tap again. This time, Kreitzer was yelling at me, “Mr. Lucas, why are you not giving your dog the command to cross?”
“Are you crazy?” I shouted back. “We’ll be squashed by that truck!” My trainer was insistent. He implored me to trust Kay and to let her decide whether it was safe to cross. I finally gave in. The moment the truck was just a few feet away from us, I gave Kay the order to go forward, ready to pull her back before she got us both killed.
Kay never moved.
What I’d just experienced was something called intelligent disobedience, which was something they stressed at the Seeing Eye. Dogs were trained early on to ignore the commands of their partners when following them meant putting us in danger.
By the time I left the Seeing Eye, Kay and I were an inseparable team. At times it felt like boot camp, but the four weeks of intense work paid off as my confidence level rose dramatically thanks to my new canine sidekick. I could go anywhere from now on, without relying on another person to accompany me. Kay filled that job nicely.
My mother and father adored Kay. I had to be careful that Mom didn’t indulge and overfeed her. She was a working dog, after all, not just a pet. Kay and I used the training we’d acquired on the streets of Morristown to help us get around Weehawken. Most shop owners were gracious to us. They never prohibited Kay from entering their stores, despite the fact that Seeing Eye dogs were still a rarity in the late 1950s.
Kay often brought out the strangest responses from passers-by.
Children were the most curious about my dog. She was quite friendly, and loved to be showered with affection, but when we were walking around, Kay had a job to do. Like Mr. Whitstock, I had to gently remind the children that they couldn’t pet her while she was in the harness because Kay needed to be free of distractions. They usually understood. Adults were the ones who seemed to be a little more confused.
As I walked along Park Avenue with Kay one day, a woman stopped me and said, “Excuse me, sir, is that dog real?”
I stifled my laughter as I responded, “No, ma’am. I just push a bunch of buttons on the harness and it makes the dog move.” A typical wiseguy Jersey response, yes, but I couldn’t help myself. Another time, as I made my way down Boulevard East, a cab driver rolled down his window and yelled out to me, “Hey, buddy, is that one of those sight-seeing dogs?”
I nodded, then silently chuckled as I pictured Kay with binoculars and a tourist map at the top of the Empire State Building, wearing a little Statue of Liberty crown.
The next test for Kay would be our bus rides to and from Seton Hall.
ONE OF THE most important parts of our daily training in Morristown was the visits we made to the local train and bus depot. Since these dogs were to be used primarily for blind people who needed the freedom and mobility to travel back and forth to work, they had to be comfortable using public transportation. We worked repeatedly on the proper way for our guide dogs to board and lie by our feet quietly, especially when the vehicle was crowded. Kay excelled at this.
Even if there was another animal in the area, our dogs had to be silent and not react. One of the ways the Seeing Eye accomplished this was to set up the dining hall so that the tables of six allowed our dogs to stay motionless underneath, facing each other while we ate. It was remarkable how much Kay acted like a human being while she was doing her job guiding me.
We arrived on campus with no problems and went to see Mr. Flood, one of Seton Hall’s course counselors. It was his suggestion that I take the late-summer classes to get my feet wet before the rush of students came back in September. As we sat planning my schedule for the fall, Mr. Flood had a slew of questions for me, most concerning Kay. He wondered how she would react to other students in the halls, whether she would bark during class, or even if she would try to grab everyone’s food or rummage through the garbage in the cafeteria. I assured Mr. Flood that none of these things would happen.
I was also introduced to Father James Kerry for the first time. He would be my professor for the religious education and Bible study courses on my schedule. This lively priest had an excellent sense of humor and was an avid baseball fan, so we bonded immediately. Every morning for the next four years, with just a few exceptions, Father Kerry would greet me and Kay upon our arrival. We’d then have a cup of coffee together before classes began.
In 1958, Seton Hall still had an all-male student body. Kay would be the first exception to that. We were required to wear jackets and ties to class. Kay was an exception to that rule, too. The administration and my classmates made every effort to help me fit in. I never felt like I was being treated as anything less than the typical student. I appreciated that.
There were, of course, some concessions made to help me adjust.
At the beginning of each semester, the counselors at Seton Hall would look at my schedule and determine which books I would need for those classes. They would then have those books pressed on special flexible disks. I was given a talking book machine to play back those disks. It made things much easier. When it was time for midterm and final exams, I was brought out into the hallway or into a private room, to take them orally. We never missed a beat.
I couldn’t take notes during class, even with Braille. Professors spoke too fast for me to be able to punch out what they were saying in time to keep up. The solution was for one of my fellow students to use carbon paper underneath his notebooks while he wrote. He would then provide me with a copy of the notes so that someone could help me to review them later.
Father Kerry had the great idea to put up a flyer outside the divinity school department asking for volunteers to help me with my studies. He was looking specifically for students who lived near Weehawken who could come by my house at night to read and review the carbon-copied notes with me. The response was overwhelming.
Rocky Provenzano, who later became a priest, was the first to respond. He was from Hudson County, so Rocky took it upon himself to broaden the search for readers beyond Seton Hall. He went to the local CYO asking for volunteers. Two of them, Marilyn Dundero and Claire Derasmo, became dear friends. Another was the home economics teacher from Weehawken High School, who stopped by once a week. Quite often, it was just a group of my classmates sitting around in my home discussing what we’d heard that day in class, while my mother spoiled us with food.
A guy who was in more than a few classes with me was George Franconero. George, who was studying to be a lawyer at Seton Hall, was the first-generation American son of an Italian candy store owner from Bloomfield. He introduced himself to me during the first week of school, and we hit it off.
A few years before, George’s family had moved from Bloomfield to Essex Fells, a wealthy suburb not too far from campus. He would occasionally drive me to his home for lunch. This was no ordinary house, it was a mansion. The Franconero kitchen alone was as large as my family’s apartment. It was also my first experience with an island in the middle of a kitchen. The backyard was massive, too. I’d been to other New Jersey houses with swimming pools, but none with a series of cabanas like the ones that dotted George’s poolside area.
The first time I visited his house, we walked through the many hedges and flowers that wrapped around the front as we made our way in. George brought over an older gentleman who was wearing gloves and pruning the roses. When he removed his glove to shake my hand, George introduced the man as “our little Italian gardener.” When they both started to laugh, I realized that it was actually George’s dad. He invited us inside. Mrs. Franconero was waiting there with plate after plate of fruit and homemade dishes. Even if I was completely full, there was no way George’s mother, Ida, would let me leave the house without eating something. George’s older sister, Concetta, was usually away from home, so I never got to meet her.
One day, George said to me, “Ed, I’m not going to be in school for the next week. Can you get the notes and assignments for me?” I replied, “Sure, George. Is everything okay?” He smiled as he said, “Oh, it’s nothing big, just that I have to go to California with my parents to be on Ralph Edwards’s TV show.”
He was referring to This Is Your Life, a wildly popular program on NBC on which Mr. Edwards would bring celebrities in on a ruse, surprising them with visits from friends and family in front of a live audience. George had me curious. I said, “Why do they want you on that show?” George nonchalantly answered, “Ralph Edwards is surprising my sister on the show, so they are flying us out.” I was confused. “Why,” I asked, “are they interested in Concetta?” George finally let me in on the secret he’d kept all along. “Her real name is Concetta Franconero,” he said with a laugh, “but most people know her better as Connie Francis.”
My best friend in college turned out to be the brother of one of the biggest pop music stars in the world. His sister’s records, like “Who’s Sorry Now?” “Where the Boys Are,” and “Stupid Cupid,” were all smash hits and he never mentioned it once. George wanted to be his own man.
Like Gene, George didn’t really follow baseball, he loved the movies. I did, however, meet two huge Giants fans at Seton Hall. They also happened to be brothers studying to be priests.
John and Drew Bauman were seminary students at Seton Hall’s divinity school. By that time, the Giants and Dodgers had moved out of New York City, so there were no National League teams around. On our days off, Drew, John, and I used to make the drive ninety miles south to Philadelphia to see our favorite squads play, talking baseball all the way.
Yankee Stadium was never too far. Thanks to Mr. Rizzuto and Jackie Farrell, I had an open invitation to the House That Ruth Built. Scooter kept up with me during my time at Seton Hall, praising me when I hit high marks with my grades and giving me a boost when I got a bit low. It was Phil who encouraged me to approach the head of programming at WSOU in my freshman year.
Al Close was the manager at the campus radio station in 1958. This was a part-time duty, which he balanced with his official job as a professor teaching classes in communications, public relations, voice, and diction. I met with Professor Close and pitched an idea for a weekly baseball show called Around the Bases.
Most of the students who had programs airing on WSOU lived on campus. If not, they stayed long into the evening to learn the technical ins and outs of running a sound board and equipment. That was a requirement that I could not fulfill because of my dependence on the bus schedule, so it was already a strike against me. Professor Close was skeptical about my hosting a program, and was about to deny my request when I made one last attempt to convince him. I mentioned my connection with Phil Rizzuto, the Yankees, and some of the other friends I had made in baseball. I promised to get at least one interview per show with a professional ballplayer.
That did the trick. Close agreed to give me a shot. Around the Bases with Ed Lucas would debut on WSOU in the spring of 1959.
OPENING DAY AT Yankee Stadium was, and still is, a big day. It’s especially exciting when the Yankees are returning as World Series champions, as they were in 1959. Jackie Farrell had arranged for media passes for me and John Bauman at the ’59 opener to interview players on the field and in the clubhouse. This would be my fourth straight opener. I was using a much smaller tape recorder by then. We took the afternoon off from school and headed over in John’s car to the Bronx. I also brought Kay, to get her used to walking around a ballpark.
The Yankees happened to be playing the Red Sox. My old hero from the Giants, Bobby Thomson, was in the waning days of his career and was at the Stadium that day. He greeted me with a hearty, “Hey, Eddie, how have you been?” We caught up for a bit, I introduced him to John and Kay, and then Thomson said casually, “Have you ever met Ted Williams?”
I was stunned. Ted Williams was like the John Wayne of baseball. He was a stoic, masculine, quiet man, and a true legend. I’d never met him, but I was eager to. Thomson walked me over to Williams’s locker. As we approached, Ted called out, “Hey there, fella, what’s your name?”
I cheerily replied, “I’m Ed Lucas, Mr. Williams, it’s an honor to meet you.”
He interrupted me with a curt, “Not you!”
I quickly realized that Williams, an avid bird hunter and noted curmudgeon, was addressing my dog, not me. I quietly corrected myself by whispering, “Kay, her name is Kay. She’s female.”
Williams spent the better part of the next ten minutes fawning all over Kay, grilling me about the relationship between Seeing Eye dogs and their masters. It was not exactly the conversation that I’d imagined with the man many still call the greatest hitter who ever lived.
When Ted was done talking, I began to walk away. He called after me, saying, “I see that you have a recorder there. I can’t do it today, but any time I’m in town and you want an interview, Eddie, let me know. Just make sure that you bring sweet little Kay with you!”
Ted Williams didn’t go on the record with me that day, but Joe DiMaggio’s younger brother Dom, who was a former All Star player with the Red Sox, just happened to be in the clubhouse. I interviewed him for thirty minutes about his career. That became the highlight of my first Around the Bases show. I’m pretty sure that Dom’s elder sibling had spoken to him about me, because the last thing Boston’s DiMaggio said as we concluded our chat was, “I hope you’re laying off that Chef Boyardee stuff, Eddie.”
THE NEXT MORNING, as usual, I had my coffee with Father Kerry. He asked me why I’d been absent the day before. I could have come up with some contrived excuse, but decided to be honest. I told him that John and I had played hooky to go to Opening Day. “Yes, Eddie, I know all about it,” he said. I was puzzled as I asked, “How in the world could you know that, Father?” He replied with a grin, “The whole world knew you were there, Eddie.”
I had no idea that while John and I were standing on the field, the Yankees’ TV announcer, Mel Allen, had the cameramen take shots of me and Kay. He then spoke on air for about five minutes about the historic moment of having a guide dog on the field at Yankee Stadium for the first time. Father Kerry, and many others at Seton Hall, just happened to be watching.
Between the on-air mentions during Yankee games and my Around the Bases spots, my profile was growing on campus. I’d gotten several great reviews for my work. My fellow students would give me compliments whenever they spotted me and Kay in the halls. One of the biggest tributes I got from the students at Seton Hall didn’t even involve baseball. It actually occurred at a basketball game.
In 1960, the Seton Hall Pirates men’s basketball team had a new coach, Richie Regan. He would go on to lead them to several winning seasons. In his first year, the team was invited to play in a tournament at New York City’s historic Madison Square Garden. The whole student body was excited. Plans were made for groups of us to travel over by subway to fill the stands and to root on our team. As a commuting student, this was an excellent opportunity for me to experience another part of campus life, the traditional cheering section at a big game.
When I arrived at the entrance gate, ticket in hand, I was held back by a security guard before I could go through the turnstile. “Is there a problem?” I asked. The reply was immediate. “Yeah, there’s a problem,” the guard rudely said, “you’re trying to bring a dog into my building.” I patiently explained to him that Kay was my guide dog and, as such, legally allowed to escort me anywhere. He was having none of it. “The only dogs allowed in Madison Square Garden,” he screamed at me, “are the ones from the Westminster Dog Show, and yours ain’t no top breed!”
My blood started boiling, but before I could even do anything, one of the other students in line—I still have no idea who it was—said, “Well, if Eddie’s dog isn’t allowed in, then nobody is going in!” He then organized a formal blockade, with hundreds of Seton Hall students lining up in solidarity, blocking every gate to prevent anybody from entering the arena. I was worried that a riot would start, but once the other ticketholders heard about how my guide dog was being barred, they joined in the protest.
None of this moved the obstinate security guard. He still wouldn’t let me pass.
Finally, after forty-five minutes and a little intervention from the NYPD, the top brass at the Garden allowed Kay in and I took my seat. A cheer went up from the crowd, which by then numbered in the thousands. Our miniprotest had been successful.
I never got an apology from Madison Square Garden, not even a dog biscuit for Kay. They did, however, change their policy on guide dogs shortly after that.
Kay and the WSOU baseball show were my two calling cards on campus. They both served as icebreakers to put people who were nervous about discussing my blindness at ease. Monsignor Walter Jarvais, the spiritual director of Seton Hall, was escorting the archbishop of Newark on a VIP tour one day when they ran into me. The monsignor introduced me to His Eminence and then quickly pointed at Kay, saying proudly, “And here is my best girl Kay, she’s the queen of our campus!”
Just a few months shy of graduation, in 1962, I was summoned to the office of Monsignor John McNulty, who’d served for over a decade as the president of Seton Hall. I’d never met him before. Most students weren’t called in to him directly, so I was quite interested in discovering what this mystery meeting was all about.
The first thing Monsignor McNulty said when I entered his office was, “I’d like to ask you a few questions about your dog, Mr. Lucas.” By now I was used to people inquiring about Kay and the Seeing Eye, but I never expected it from him. The monsignor continued, “We’re thinking of hiring our first blind teacher here at the Hall. Like you, he has a guide dog, and I want to be sure that they will be able to handle getting around.” I reassured him by sharing stories of how well Kay had behaved in my four years there. I told him that I thought it would be a fantastic idea to add this man to the faculty. As I stood up to leave, Monsignor McNulty came out from behind his desk, put his arm around my shoulder, and said, “I’m glad that we were able to get the Ed Lucas seal of approval for this. We’re proud of you, young man. You’ve been a real groundbreaker. God bless you in all that you do.”
I just wish that my mother and father could have been there to hear the monsignor’s kind words.
SETON HALL’S CAREER Day 1962 was going to be an exciting one for me. Most of the seniors had already sent in resumes and applications to the large corporations and firms that would be represented. This would be followed by personal interviews, which would, we hoped, lead to the promise of a job after graduation.
I was told by Mr. Close that several radio stations and newspapers would be in attendance for Career Day, so I sent them samples of my radio interviews and articles. My grades were very high, and my professors gave me glowing recommendations. I got calls from more than a few of them, saying they’d be excited to meet me when they came to campus.
As the appointed day arrived, I dressed in my finest suit and set off earlier than usual with Kay to be sure I’d get to South Orange long before my first meeting. There were knots in my stomach when my name was called to go in, but I was also full of confidence that I’d walk out with a new employer.
Those dreams were shattered as soon as they saw Kay.
One by one, I heard audible sighs of disappointment once I stepped into the rooms and the hiring managers and representatives realized that I was blind.
There was no reason for me to indicate that fact on my resume, or on the forms provided by them, so I didn’t. It wasn’t willful deception. I’d been treated as just another student for the last four years. Classmates and teachers alike saw through my blindness to the talents and abilities that I had to offer. They valued me as a person, plain and simple. I assumed that future employers would do the same.
I was sadly mistaken.
By the end of the day, I was frustrated and tired. Nobody was giving me a chance. I was knocked out of contention before I could even open my mouth. My very last meeting was with a local radio station. They dismissed me just as the others did, and I completely lost my cool. I raised my voice and read them the riot act for crossing me off their list just because I was blind. I think I even slammed the door behind me for maximum effect.
I was gathering my things and making my way to the bus stop at a brisk pace to work off my anger, when a stranger stopped me midstride. “Excuse me,” the man said, “is that a Seeing Eye dog?”
I was in no mood to get into yet another discussion about Kay, so I gave a quick “yes” and continued on my way.
The man blocked my path, saying, “I noticed that you were pretty upset coming out of there. Is everything okay?”
For some reason, the calm in this man’s voice compelled me to tell him my whole story, unloading the day’s frustrations. He listened patiently and then said, “I’m here as a recruiter for Career Day. You seem like the type of student I’d like to work for me.” Now he had my attention. I asked which radio station or newspaper he was with. He replied, “None of them. My name is Freddy Kiefner, I work for the Provident Mutual Insurance Company. I think you’d make an excellent salesman.” My brief bit of enthusiasm dropped away as I explained to him that I hadn’t the slightest bit of interest in selling insurance. This was as far removed from my dream of a career in baseball as you could possibly get.
I shook his hand, thanked him for his interest in me, and began to make my way to the bus stop. I’d only gotten a few feet when he called out, “Have you ever heard of Morris Frank?”
He had my attention once again.
“Of course I know Mr. Frank,” I said, stunned, “he founded the Seeing Eye. I wouldn’t have Kay if it weren’t for him. Why do you ask?” Mr. Kiefner came closer, handed me a business card, and said, “Morris works for us selling insurance. He makes millions. I’ve written his number down on my card. Call him, talk to him. If you like what you hear, give me a call and I’ll be happy to give you a job with Provident Mutual.” With that, Mr. Kiefner left.
As soon as I got home, I called Morris Frank. It was surreal, talking to the man whom I’d idolized from the book I’d read years before. He was genial, but to the point. He warned me that I might face discrimination and rejection because of my blindness, but it was my job to rise above that, whether it was while selling insurance or doing any other task. Frank assured me that with my family, my friends, other supporters, and, of course, Kay on my team, there was no way that I could fail if I kept on task.
As soon as I hung up with Morris Frank, I called Mr. Kiefner back and accepted the job.
The world was not ready for a blind broadcaster in 1962, so I followed the path that God placed in front of me. I would sell insurance for a living, until I could show enough people that I had what it took to cover the game I love, despite any limitations.
It seemed the one thing that I still couldn’t ensure was my future in baseball.