![]() The schoolyard pastime at Saint C’s was a rough game that combined tag and tackle. There was a hole in the fence where, if the teacher on patrol wasn’t watching, you could escape at lunch, then hustle up the block to the pizza place, cram down an Italian sub, and make it back by the bell. The school grounds, a half-acre of fenced-in blacktop, resembled a prison yard. Saint C’s was their place-a dark and antediluvian building that squatted behind the church like a big brick toad. Their houses were smaller, their attitudes tougher. My classmates lived in the welders/policemen/coaches part of town. I lived in the doctors/lawyers/accountants part of town. ![]() In the seventh grade at Saint C’s I was an outsider, and not only by religion. ![]() I was not a Catholic, but my parents, displeased with the public schools, sent me anyway. The setting is a Catholic grade school I’ll call Saint Crispin’s, in the early 1970s. This is a story about a priest I knew, and what he did to me.
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