Matt Steinmetz

There were five masses at Holy Guardian Angels Church on Sundays when I was a kid: 6 a.m., 7:30 a.m., 9 a.m., 10:30 a.m. and noon. We always tried to go as a family but only because mom and dad would make us. We were a 9 a.m. family when we were one.

But as my brother got into high school and beyond, he began to weasel out of those family masses and go on his own — to the mass with a noon kickoff, if you will. It made sense. He was a teen-ager and he used weekends to sleep in. I’d find out, though, it wasn’t all about my brother’s beauty sleep.

So now I had a choice. I could go to mass with mom, dad and Gretchen, my sister. Or I could go with Bob later. It was such a no-brainer. The 9 a.m. masses were terrible; they were about Jesus, the blood of Christ, forgiveness … that stuff. But the noon mass was so different. The noon mass was about baseball! That’s right, baseball!

Little did mom or dad know at the time, but Bob went to the noon mass for one reason and one reason only: Rocky Colavito Jr. See, Rocky’s dad was the great Rocky Colavito Sr., a true legend of baseball in the 1950s and 1960s. Rocky Sr. played minor-league baseball in Reading, PA, and he fell in love with my mom’s best friend, Carmen Perotti. Rocky Sr. and Carmen are still alive and married, and my mom is both their best friends now.

After Rocky Sr. retired from playing, he became a coach for the Cleveland Indians and also the Kansas City Royals. That puts me at 11-years-old in 1975-ish, which makes my brother 18 or 19. My brother went to noon mass so he could see Rocky Jr., roughly the same age. There were open pews all over Holy Guardian Angels but Rocky Jr. and my brother never sat. They stood in the back, in the corner, and they talked baseball for an hour. Check that: They whispered about baseball. Go ask my brother what the homily was about during any of these masses and he’s got no chance. He and Rocky Jr. missed it all — the entrance hymn, the gospel, the collection, you name it.

Rocky Jr. told my older brother everything — because Rocky Sr., was still so tapped into the game and its players. I’d stand beside my brother, picking up parts of the conversation … a Bobby Murcer here, an Oscar Gamble there. It was like Rocky Jr. was on the inside: Freddy and Jimmy were Fred Lynn and Jim Rice. Stuff like that. While it was frustrating not getting the whole story, it would only be temporary. Bob would tell me everything on the way home.

“Uncle Rock thinks there’s big trouble in New York,” I remember my brother saying once. I was a huge Yankees fan growing up; my brother liked Boston. “Why?” I said. “He said that every time Thurman Munson and Reggie Jackson pass each other in the clubhouse or hallway, the whole team shudders.”

I thank Rocky Jr. for the Bronx Zoo foreshadowing; I thank my brother for the rides and info; and I thank god I got out of that 9 a.m. mass.

If this one were to be titled it would be: “No prescription from this doctor.”

Julius Erving didn’t make me love basketball. But he sure made me love Larry Bird and the Celtics. His fault, though. Or maybe it was Turquoise Erving, his wife at the time’s fault. I never did find out who broke my heart.

It had to be the Sixers’ 1977-78 season, Erving’s second season in Philly after he’d played in the ABA. The reason I’m pretty sure it was that season was because a group of us headed down to the Spectrum from Reading, PA to watch the 76ers play the New Orleans Jazz, and I remember Leonard “Truck” Robinson. He was on the Jazz that year.

But what I remember more about that night was a promise broken. It was late second quarter, pops gave me a fiver, and I walked out onto the concourse to get a soda.

To this day I can’t remember if the Sixers’ wives were raising money for Multiple Sclerosis or Muscular Dystrophy. All I know is I was a few steps away from the concession stand when I heard a woman call out: “Would you like to help?”

I was 13. How the hell was I going to help anybody? “Help with what?” I answered. I looked to the side and there were three or four women standing behind a table. They were wives of the 76ers’ players. As I approached the table, I said to the one woman: “I only have five dollars.”

“That’s OK,” she said. “Every little bit helps.” As I got closer to her I saw her name tag: “Turquoise.” Well, there’s only one Turquoise that I’d ever heard of and that would be Dr. J’s wife. You know, had things progressed differently from that moment on, I may have ended up loving Erving and not Bird. But, alas, it was not to be. It was never to be.

When I saw the name tag, I said: “Hey, you’re Julius Erving’s wife! Wow! That’s so cool.” She confirmed, and that’s when I came up with one of the best ideas I thought I had as a kid. “Like I said, I only have five dollars.” Reassured again, I found myself ready to part with the fin.

“Hold on,” I said. “How about if I give you this five dollars for M.S. or M.D. (still can’t remember) and then you get me your husband’s autograph?” She looked at me and said: “I think I can do that, young man.”

I handed her the five dollars, and she handed me a piece of scrap paper. She wanted my address so she could mail the autograph to me. Yes, maam: 3408 Eisenhower Avenue, Reading PA, 19605! That was early 1978, and I still remember my excitement on the way home in the car. Well, it’s 40-plus years later and I’m still waiting for that fucking autograph. That’s right, Turquoise stiffed me. She flat-out stiffed me.

Oh, the joy it brought me years later to see Bird kick Erving’s ass. In the early- mid-1980s, I would find myself at Franklin and Marshall College, which just so happened to be where the Philadelphia 76ers held their training camps. I was on the basketball team and we got to “work” some of their practices, which just meant standing with towels under the basket waiting for sweat to be wiped off the Mayser Center floor.

It was incredible to see Sixers’ players around the small campus in Lancaster PA, but there they were. I would see Erving here and there during those times on the court and down in “the pit,” where the locker rooms, weight room and equipment stuff was. I could have gotten Erving’s autograph anytime I wanted during those three or four years. But I wouldn’t have asked him for an autograph if my life depended on it at that point.

I had one real chance to get to Erving, and confront him on all of this. He was walking down one part of the gym and I was walking toward him. There was no avoiding him. He got closer and closer, and as we passed, he nodded his head, acknowledging me. I didn’t even look up at him. I just kept walking. That’s right, I snubbed him. I snubbed Julius “Dr. J” Erving! I snubbed him like Kramer snubbed Jerry’s old girlfriend Gail Cunningham.

I’m older now and willing to mend fences with Erving. But I’m still waiting for that damn autograph.