To Andy, with love …

Coach and Athletic Director, Jan, 2004 by Herman L. Masin

The tragedy of the year in Staten Island, NY, had to be the runaway ferry that slammed into a dock at full speed, killing ten passengers and seriously wounding five others.

The skewered ship, looking like a beached whale, appeared in all of the papers. The N.Y. Times reported that the "Andrew J. Barberi" had been the last of a fleet of seven ferries named after famous people. Barberi had been a high school coach.

What it didn't say was what high school? What had he coached? What was he "famous" for? Nobody did any homework on the "famous name."

And so they missed the boat ... sorry, ferry. We could have told them that any time you have a guy who is built like a ferry, looks like a ferry, and is warm and lovable as a ferry, he is no "Andrew J. Barberi."

He is an Andy. Nobody's in Andy's entire lifetime as the most liked human being on Staten Island had ever called him Andrew.

He had been a squat, homely guy, tough as nails, born to play football and coach it at Curtis High School. He had been a great player, great enough to make the first All-American H.S. football team ever chosen (by Liberty Magazine) in 1931. Andy then went on to major in physical education and play guard at NYU.

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]

His two most momentous achievements were playing 55 minutes of a game with a broken arm, and leading NYU to an incredible 7-6 upset of Fordham in 1936, outplaying their three famous Blocks of Granite (Vince Lombardi, Alex Wojciechowicz, and Ed Franco).

After graduating from NYU, Andy returned to Staten Island to coach football and eventually become head coach at Curtis. It turned out to be a lifetime love affair among Andy, the players, and the community.

But he was no Mr. Chips. He never grew white whiskers or cried. He could be tough and unforgiving and monumentally salty. For anyone else, it might have become a problem. With Andy it came with the franchise.

So did we as a classmate. He kept in touch with us all his life. He'd talk lovingly and humorously about his players, how his buddy at New Dorp H.S., Sal Somma, was stealing all the good young Italian players on Staten Island, and how surprised he was that a "lousy writer" like us could become the editor of Scholastic Coach.

The "lousy writer" enjoyed every letter and phone call and the stories he read about Andy. The only thing he could never forgive Andy for was ... dying.

He and his publisher drove out to Andy's church the morning of the funeral. From near and from far, they had come--the old friends, classmates, teammates, everyone who had ever played for him, and the entire Staten Island recreation department, with whom Andy had a special rapport.

Even the young priest who conducted the service had played for Andy and you could sense it in his magnificent eulogy: "Andy had a salty tongue that could make you wince. I'd mention it to him once in a while, but I knew I'd never win. I'm also sure that the Lord understood and forgave him because He knew that Andy had always carried Him around in his heart."

And when the coffin was carried from the church to the cortege outside, all the recreation workers were there waiting in two long lines on either side of the broad avenue--all standing straight and still with their caps clasped tightly over their hearts.

It was awesome--like Andy.