Pat Croce:His early days were as wild as he is…
Pat Croce:His early days were as wild as he is energetic now
By Pat Croce |
PUBLISHED: April 22, 2001 at 10:59 a.m. | UPDATED: August 19, 2021 at 4:53 a.m.
His answer is too important to waste time writing down. Instead, he breaks the silence of the classroom by shouting: "There's three girls to every guy! We'll play on the freshman football team! And you get to live away from home!" In all honesty, he could have stopped after the first reason. I was convinced. Bator always has had a knack for knowing exactly which buttons to push.
The next day we were on our way to West Chester. It was spring; the bees were buzzing and so was the testosterone. I was revved in anticipation. This was going to be my first visit to an out-of-town college campus, and it was shaping up as a grand adventure. Then again, every trip when Bator drove was an adventure.
The registration papers in the glove compartment identified the thing we were in as, indeed, a moving vehicle. And technically, it did move, though it felt like it had an incurable case of the hiccups. It was a Ford station wagon, built like a tank and just about as responsive as one. Ah, but it was transportation. And when you're a teenager, wheels represent freedom, and nothing else matters quite so much, not even the color — in our case a bilious seaweed mottled with polka-dot rust spots. The tires were rumored to be whitewalls though there was no white visible anywhere. Then again, there was no tread visible, either. And only one headlight worked, so at night we looked and sounded like a bedraggled Cyclops.
What really gave this vehicle its personality, however, were the floorboards. They didn't exist in the back. So at a stop you could rest your feet on the pavement, and then when Bator would — you'll pardon the expression — accelerate, you could run in place like Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble. To Bator, though, the clincher was how much time you could save because you never had to make that annoying stop to take a leak. We irrigated as we went.
Bator's Flintstonemobile had replaced a Rambler that looked like the first contestant eliminated in a demolition derby. The Rambler had started out white, and then Bator decided to paint it black. This was his own persona; homage to the Rolling Stones and their hit song, "Midnight Rambler." Remember, when you're a teenager, that kind of allegiance and loyalty seem important. Bator painted that car with unbridled gusto. He painted everything — door handles, bumpers, and even parts of the windows. The end product was the color of midnight in a graveyard. But it moved.
Right after he finished his paint job, Bator drove to the high school to show it off. The corner hangout was crowded with teenagers. You know how teenagers feel more comfortable in groups; there's nothing more important than that sense of belonging. We called this "Hangin' at the High," where the main order of business was to generate laughter.
And the laughs were big that day when Bator pulled up and, with his customary disregard for conventional parking techniques, banged the bumper of Jakester's blue Chevy. (Jakester was the nickname of another friend.) Bator was notorious for "nudging" while parking, and he was so adept at mugging that you were never certain whether the nudge was intentional or the brakes really had failed. We all figured he had gotten his driver's license on the bumper car ride on the Wildwood Boardwalk at the Jersey shore. Whenever you were sitting in a car and found yourself suddenly being propelled forward against your will, you knew when you turned around you'd see Bator ..Saying, "Ooops!"
It became his signature line. To this day, if I look up and find Bator in my rear-view mirror, I instinctively flinch.
The minor dent that Bator had put in Jakester's car was no more meaningful than one more pimple when you're 14. But of course at that age you take everything as a challenge. So Jakester needed to retaliate. He jumped in his Chevy, backed up a couple of car lengths, shot forward, and jolted Bator's Rambler with enough force to put it over the curb and into a telephone pole. Jakester leaned out the window and, with just the right Cheshire grin, perfectly mimicked Bator: "Ooops!"
Everyone whooped, and immediately began instigating. It's what guys at that age do best. Egg 'em on! Anything to get the juices stirred. All it took was two minutes of everyone challenging everyone else's developing manhood, and we had a motorized joust going. A bunch of guys piled into Jakester's Chevy, and others got into Bator's Rambler, where I had the shotgun seat. The two cars faced each other, a block apart, like a couple of bull moose ready to duel over a female. They gunned their engines. About this time, it dawned on us that this was not going to be another casual game of "Ooops." It also dawned on me that where I was sitting is known in the insurance trade as the "death seat," so I dove into the back. Fortunately, there were enough bodies back there to cushion my fall.
The cars started toward each other. It was a classic game of "chicken." Not especially smart. And definitely incredibly dangerous. But by now everyone had an adrenalin buzz and no one wanted to be the first to wimp out, especially not Bator or Jakester. The cars growled toward each other, picking up speed, and neither driver showed any signs of flinching. We braced ourselves against the back of the front seat, and screamed!
Just as they were about to collide, Bator dodged in, served in, swerved out, and clipped the left rear bumper of Jakester's Chevy. It spun 90 degrees, screeched, and skidded to a stop at the corner. Bator stuck a fist of triumph out the window and tried to get Jakester in his cross hairs for another go. Meanwhile the rest of us had a sudden attack of sanity. The back doors of both cars flew open and we bailed out so frantically that it looked like a mass parachute jump. Such outbreaks of common sense were rare, but they were what kept us all alive.
But Bator and Jakester weren't done. Neither one wanted to be the one who quit. If you quit, you couldn't live with all the razzing and verbal abuse, and for sure you couldn't live with yourself. So they lined up to do it again, and no one could stop them. No one even tried, because it would have been pointless.
Neither one feinted the next time. Neither one faked. Neither one chickened out. Jakester came in like a pile driver square into the Midnight Rambler's left front fender, collapsing the tire and leaving Bator tilting to one side, like the Titanic going under. Jakester pulled away, parked in the middle of the street, got out and climbed on the hood and struck a Rocky pose in triumph. We all cheered him. And then we remembered the vanquished. What had happened to Bator? Was he just a grease spot?
Bator emerged dramatically then, climbing out the driver's side window. He surveyed what was left of his car, turned to us with that grin, and said, "Ooops!"
All these years later and I can still see that. That's what's so nice about making memories. You have fun at the time, and then you get to have the fun all over again reliving them. There's only one thing I like more than laughing. That's sharing it.
Shortly after I started OAR (my first business — Orthopedic and Athletic Rehabilitation), I ceased the home care business. My private evening practice did well, even though there was a haunting distraction: one of my employees.
My secretary, specifically.
I would have had an affair with her, but we were already married.
Diane served as my secretary for the OAR business, and we developed a routine of spending some of our extra income on Friday night celebrations. It was nothing elaborate. After the last patient had left, we'd stop at a beef'n'beer place and dare to speak our dreams out loud. It became a ritual. (And the dreams would all come true — the part-time, evening practice eventually would blossom into a full-time business with branches all around the country.) We didn't know what would unfold at the time, of course. We were just happy speaking our dreams out loud, and listening to that unbearably cute little strawberry blonde at the end of our table who was forever giggling and stacking the sugar packs.
Kelly.
I wanted to give her, and her brother soon to follow, and Diane, the kind of life I had been exposed to in recent months, and the only way I knew how to do that was to keep piling on the work load. I was managing the Sports Medicine Clinic at the hospital, conditioning Homer (ice hockey player Paul Holmgren) and some of the other Flyers, doing physical therapy three nights a week, and lecturing and writing on the wonders of fitness and sports medicine at every chance.
But I wanted more.
As my work with the Flyers and (team president) Jay Snider drew favorable reviews, (team owner) Ed Snider began to introduce me to some movers and shakers. It turned out that even the wealthy and the influential are not immune to vanity or injury. Many of them wanted personalized service, either to get fit or to get well. For a change, the doors weren't slamming in my face; they were beginning to open.
One of those open doors led me to Dick Butera. He was an entrepreneur. (There was that word again. Except now I knew what it meant.) Dick had made big money developing real estate in Hilton Head, South Carolina. Then he created a public insurance company. Like most entrepreneurs, he got easily bored, and restless. I would come to understand that restlessness. What happens after you have made the money is that the need for challenge remains. The competitive instinct never really dies. Money, once you have enough of it, is really just a way to keep score.
So Dick had set his sights on Aspen, Colorado — on duplicating his Hilton Head success there. He was going to acquire the Aspen Club, a huge fitness facility in that lavish resort town. He liked my sports medicine concept and was impressed with what we had accomplished in such a modest facility at Haverford Hospital. Imagine what might be possible on a larger, grander scale. After all, in Aspen the hills were alive not so much with the sound of music as with the sound of multimillionaires breaking their legs while schussing down the ski slopes.
I was introduced to Dick at the Snider house. Jay and I had just finished a karate session. Dick, who had just finished lunching with Ed, put up both hands in a mock martial arts stance in front of Jay, who only smiled and obeyed Yin, throwing two air punches that whistled past Dick's ears. The breeze from them ruffled Dick's coif. He put his hands down in a hurry.
Dick's brother, Bob, had been a gubernatorial candidate in Pennsylvania, and was president of the Flyers when I first joined up to work with Homer. And Dick's then-wife, Julie Anthony, was the Flyers' first sports psychologist. She had been a professional tennis player and was an avid fitness advocate. So we all shared many of the same passions and enthusiasms. It looked like a natural fit, all of us out there in the opulence of Aspen, with all that money lying around just waiting to be scooped up.
I flew to Aspen to see for myself. I had never been further "west" than Pittsburgh. This was going to be a monumental decision, one of those life-altering decisions that had to be shared, of course. So I returned for Diane and Kelly and our newborn son, Michael, and we all flew out to Aspen. Half a day on a plane with two infants and enough equipment to keep the 101st Airborne Division supplied for a month. ..You want to test the strength of your marriage, subject it to that stress.
On the surface, it looked like an unmatchable deal. I'd be able to create the biggest and best sports medicine center anyone had ever seen. In a gorgeous place fabled for its scenery and its smorgasbord of athletic activities. So who could possibly pass on such a dynamic and challenging opportunity?
Uh, this dummy right here, that's who.
It just didn't feel right, and I knew why. It would be a dream, but not my dream. Not totally, completely mine. I wouldn't have the final say. I wouldn't have exclusive control of my dream, my destiny.
I didn't want to have to answer to anyone except myself. And my soul mate.
Saint Diane supported my decision. And later, she confessed that that had been her undeclared decision from the start. Bless her. But she never did forgive being subjected to that cross-country marathon. To this day, whenever she hears the word "Aspen" her right arm comes up in a Pavlovian reflex, and she punches me with a good two-knuckle karate punch. I taught her too well.
Remember this: sometimes, the very best moves are the ones you never make.
Next week: Heading to the 76ers.
Excerpts from the New York Times best seller,"I Feel Great And You Will Too!" by Pat Croce with Bill Lyons, &Copy; 2000, are reprinted with permission from Running Press Book Publishers, www.runningpress.com, 1-800-345-5359.
Running Press is working on a new book with Pat Croce called "110% 110 Strategies to Feeling Great Every Day." In this book, Croce shares simple techniques to help remove psychological blocks and set the stage to stimulate positive thoughts. This book is due to come out in November 2001.
Pat Croce