Swede: Weequahic’S Gentle Giant

Contents

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER ONE:

YOU’RE SWEDE MASIN’S KID?!

CHAPTER TWO:

SEYMOUR’S FAMILY

CHAPTER THREE:

GROWING UP WEEQUAHIC

CHAPTER FOUR:

ESTELLE, STELLA, ESTELLOOCH

CHAPTER FIVE:

THE SCRAPBOOK

CHAPTER SIX:

SWEDE’S CONTEMPORARIES

CHAPTER SEVEN:

OFF TO WAR

CHAPTER EIGHT:

SWEDE AND RELIGION

CHAPTER NINE:

THE DIRTY ROTTEN STINKING MASIN KIDS

CHAPTER TEN:

PAPA SWEDE

CHAPTER ELEVEN:

IDYLLIC SOUTH ORANGE

CHAPTER TWELVE:

UNIQUELY SWEDE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN:

SWEDE AND SUSIE

CHAPTER FOURTEEN:

THE DIVORCE

CHAPTER FIFTEEN:

SWEDE AND the NEWARK GREATS

CHAPTER SIXTEEN:

THE REAL SWEDE

(MASIN, NOT LEVOV)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:

THE MAGIC OF WEEQUAHIC

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: ALZHEIMER’S

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Index

INTRODUCTION

Every summer my wife Susie, our children Julie and Max, and I vacation for a week in Sun Valley, Idaho. For many of those years, my father was able to join us.

One day in July 1996 we were at the large community pool near our rented condo. I was standing with my father, chatting as we lifeguarded, watching the family play in the water. At one point he removed his baseball cap, sneakers, and sunglasses, and strolled to the diving board at the deep end of the pool. Watching him execute a jackknife off the one-meter board, I was so astounded and delighted by his dive that I could only shake my head in wonder. Here was this big, muscular, freakishly fit man, performing a perfect dive: great spring, beautiful form, and barely a ripple as he entered the water. Considering the fact that he was then seventy-six years old and probably had not attempted a dive in decades, he clearly earned a 10. I stood there in awe, wishing others could see what I had just seen. It was another great reminder that athletically and physically, my father, Seymour Swede Masin, was different than the rest of us.

Of course, there have forever been great all-around athletes, and there will be forever. But not many had all of the natural physical attributes as Swede: size, speed, quickness, strength, power, uncanny leaping ability, explosiveness, hands like vises, smarts, endurance, and gracefulness.

But the reason for this book goes far beyond my father’s athletic ability. Virtually everyone who knew him gushed about him as a person first, and an athletic phenomenon second. Indeed, I have always been surprised that the comments found in his high school and college yearbooks did not refer to my father’s success in sports. His Weequahic High School (Newark, New Jersey) yearbook caption read, Godlike in giving, but the devil to pay, referencing his generosity. His Panzer College yearbook caption read Panzer’s loss is the world’s gain.

As yearbook captions go, this was pretty serious stuff for someone whose persona to the outside world was that of a big, strong jock. It appeared as though the yearbook staff members wanted to go out of their way to respect him as Swede the Man rather than simply Swede the Athlete.

Initially, I intended this book to be a family history, targeting a very narrow audience. Then, as I started my research, I was astonished by the way my father was described and remembered.

World-class athletes of the past—such as Monte Irvin, Al Attles, and Lonnie Wright—offered glowing comments about my father, both as an athlete and as a man.

The nationally syndicated sportswriter, Jerry Izenberg, who has rubbed elbows with many world-famous athletes, told me matter-of-factly, Your father was God-like.

Then I called Hal Braff, Weequahic High School Class of 1952, and the mover and shaker of the school’s remarkable alumni association. I introduced myself, mentioned the book I was working on, and then asked Hal if he knew of my father.

Did I know of your father? he asked aloud—as if trying to recall. But then his response revealed something else: Let’s see, there was Superman … and then there was your father. He was huge: a legend.

God-like? Superman? This was the same unassuming guy I played hide and seek with? Wow.

The first memory I have of my father was in 1951, when I was three. We were living in a small garden apartment in Orange, New Jersey, and my father must have chastised me for something. (I’m sure it was a bum rap). So I ran over to where he was sitting, kicked him in the shin, and then, crying, made a beeline to my mother for protection. I can’t imagine I did much damage to my father’s leg, but it was the thought that counted. After that incident my behavior got much better. Sure, I was still kicking him in the shins and hiding behind my mother well into my thirties, but I no longer cried as much.

The last memory I have of my father was exactly fifty-four years later, in 2005. It was September 10, and I was sitting next to my father in a nursing home near the Jersey Shore, gently holding his arm, watching him take his final breaths. As I was staring at him, my mind was racing, thinking back to some of the memories, anecdotes, and incidents that we shared together.

The things that initially came to mind were about as random as can be. I remembered his intensity as he worked with me during my lengthy rehabilitation for the serious knee injury I suffered in high school; I remembered my longest day ever—waiting for my father to come home the day I burned the toilet seat with a book of matches (I kid you not); I remembered the absolute security I felt when he arrived at my sporting events, from Little League baseball games through college football games; I remembered, as a young boy, standing next to him in the bathroom most mornings, watching him shave, when he would invariably put a dab of shaving cream on my nose; I remembered asking my father to flex his bicep, only to be informed that he didn’t have one; I remembered playing hide and seek with him, and watching as my kids, Julie and Max, played the same game with him decades later; I remembered his wit, his strong singing voice, his playfulness, and his gentleness; I remembered how remarkably friendly he was to everyone; I remembered how much I loved being with him, as he was the greatest of company; and I remembered how low I felt when I let him down (which was at least every report card day).

Although I am sure he knew it, I don’t recall ever—not once in my whole life—telling my father I loved him. It may be a little late, but I’m telling him now. And hopefully this book, which tries to reconstruct his life as best as I can, will get through to my father. Because when this gentle giant passed away in September 2005, the world’s loss was heaven’s gain. Here’s to you, Swede.

CHAPTER ONE:

  "

YOU’RE SWEDE MASIN’S KID?!"

My siblings—Dale, Patty, and Doug—and I have each heard this question more than a thousand times. Yet, even after hearing the same question over and over again, and hearing all the over-the-top accolades and affection people have felt for my father, I never quite realized how special he was until I started working on this book. Clearly, it is human nature for people, when asked, to say nice things about your family members. But in talking with all sorts of people about my father, their reaction was almost always one of awe and admiration.

Surprisingly, it was not just Swede’s contemporaries. Indeed, what blew me away was hearing the way people from generations removed from my father (some who never knew him personally) would describe him and/or his persona.

People I knew of, but had never really known (and in many cases had never met), gushed about my father. One common thread was the way that people would describe Swede. They seemed to be stating facts, not opinions—as if it were obvious to everyone. Of course, I knew of him. He’s a legend. We all tried to emulate Swede Masin. He was a giant. A gentle giant. "Everybody knew of your father. We all worshipped your father."

* * * *

Seymour Swede Masin was an interesting guy.

He was a physical marvel, as strong as anyone I’ve ever known; yet he was gentle as a lamb, and his strength and power were rarely exhibited.

He owned a booming, intimidating voice when he was riled; yet he was very soft-spoken.

He could be a very strict parent, with a low tolerance for bad and especially mean behavior; yet he gave his kids plenty of space to mature on their own.

He was not at all comfortable showing affection; yet his kids clearly knew of his uncompromising love for them.

He had an aversion to spending money unless it was based on need; yet he was extremely generous with people who were less fortunate.

He fretted about the fate of the world; yet he was often very carefree with a terrific sense of humor.

He loved sports and games his whole life; yet he never took them too seriously and hoped his kids would follow his example.

He was the most wonderful of sons. He never wanted to upset or disappoint his parents; yet he temporarily broke their hearts when he married out of his faith.

He was an extremely aggressive competitor who wanted to win very badly; yet when the game was over, it was over.

He was very independent of thought, was never a follower, and had his own distinctive view of the world; yet he sometimes seemed to lack confidence in himself.

He grew up competing with and against macho jocks; yet he seemed more comfortable in the presence of women than men.

He was very proud of his Jewish faith; yet he never wore his religion on his sleeve.

He was often referred to as a legend by those who knew of him; yet that moniker embarrassed and puzzled him.

He was idolized by many; yet he was the most humble, unassuming person I’ve ever known.

He revered his parents, his brother, other loved ones, his teammates, his coaches, his competitors, his teachers, and surely his friends; yet I don’t think he ever realized he was revered back by all of them.

He was a real man, as macho as could be; the word mensch was invented for him; yet he never, ever, tried to act macho.

He was a little over six feet tall, and 200-plus pounds of muscle. A big, strapping guy for sure; yet in my eyes as a youngster, I knew he was not just a big man. He was the biggest, strongest man in the world. Not a doubt in my mind.

Closer to home, my Aunt Shirley, to whom I’ve always been close, said it succinctly: Swede was the greatest son, the greatest brother, and the greatest father. Period. She knew Swede since he was a teenager; few have a better perspective than her on the subject of Swede.

My sister Patty likes to tell the story of when she was a teenager, at a friend’s Bar Mitzvah. One of the adult guests found out that her father was Swede. She said he beamed with excitement and proceeded to march Patty around the room. He took her to each guest table: You know who this is?! She’s Swede Masin’s kid! And the guests would fawn over Patty because of who her father was. I heard it so many times! And each time the person confirming the information would be smiling and thrilled. These incidents were such eye-openers for us!

Like Patty, my sister Dale and my brother Doug still get asked if they are related to Swede. We’re amazed at how many people still recall his athletic greatness and notoriety so many decades after he competed.

For instance, while working a tradeshow in Las Vegas for the Columbia Sportswear Company, I was asked to meet with a new customer. While chatting, we discovered we had both grown up in South Orange, New Jersey. So he and I compared notes: people we both knew, teachers, etc. He was about five years older than me, so we had limited mutual acquaintances. But suddenly he said, Wait, is your father Swede Masin, that great Jewish athlete from Newark?!

His question caught me off guard, as this was the first time my father’s athleticism was limited to his religion, even though there must have been much pride among the local Jewish community for their star athlete. Like any other ethnic group, Jews were bound to be proud of their own. The many people of the Jewish faith in and around Newark in the 1930s and 1940s had in Swede a super star they could claim was one of them.

In any event, the gentleman from South Orange certainly raved about my father’s reputation and legendary status, which greatly impressed my Columbia Sportswear colleagues at the tradeshow. And once again it ignited a new round of taunting from my Columbia buddies: If your father was such a great athlete, what happened to you? The what happened to you? question came up frequently throughout my life—but usually from people who were simply teasing me. At least they were up front about it. I am sure there were plenty of other people who used to think that, but were kind enough not to mention it.

In reality, I can’t express how invigorated it would make me feel when those frequent episodes occurred. I loved to hear people praise him. The highest praise came from people who knew him personally. Those were the folks who loved him as a man. I would always look forward to telling him about these spontaneous conversations with people: the recognition of the legendary Swede. And my father always reacted the same way … humbly. He would always claim there was much exaggerating going on. Yeah, the older I get, the better I was.

In July 2007, my family and I made a trip to the East Coast, and were having dinner with my Aunt Shirley at the Crestmont Country Club in West Orange, New Jersey. We had just sat down at the table when some of my aunt’s friends came over to greet her. First were Julius and Sunya Lehrhoff, and when Julius heard I was Swede’s son he immediately began to glow. Although he had not attended Weequahic—instead he went to rival South Side High—Julius had frequently played paddle ball with my father at the swim club, and could not stop telling me how hard Swede could hit the ball. Nobody hit the ball like your father! He added, One day, I was playing against your father, and I drifted in front of him as he was about to hit. The ball hit me in the back, went through my body, and came out my chest! Sure, he was exaggerating, but even the passage of many years could not stop him from vividly recalling the impact of one of Swede’s shots. More importantly, when Julius became serious, he confided, You know, your father did not have an enemy in the whole world. He was one of a kind. So there I was, back in New Jersey after a long absence, and already the common exclamations of you’re Swede Masin’s kid?! were back.

Milton Luria is a graduate of Weequahic High School (Class of 1939) who had played football with my father. He heard I was working on this book and wanted to talk to me about Swede. After Milton had described Swede’s exceptional athletic ability, he took care to emphasize my father’s nature. "Your father was one of the nicest people I have ever known. He was shy and so unassuming; he never realized how great he was. On the football field, he was our one star, and other teams were all laying for him. They were looking to clobber him. When they did, he never complained about his linemen. He never said a bad word about anyone. We all worshipped him."

So did I.

The praise keeps coming. Hal Peanuts Lefcourt and Zoom Fleisher were a few years behind my father at Weequahic. When I introduced myself to Hal by phone, he was so excited and animated as he embarked on his praise for Swede. "Your father was the most prolific athlete ever to grace the corridors of Weequahic High School and Panzer College … Nobody came close to having a body like his! … And he never said a word [about himself]. He just did it! … We all tried to emulate Swede. During our telephone conversation, it sounded to me as if Hal was becoming very emotional. Like most of the Weequahic crowd, he exudes pride in his old neighborhood, teammates, classmates, and friends. Of my mother, Estelle Lepore back in the day, he joked, We all wanted to marry your mother! Then he said something that grabbed my attention: You have no idea about the blood you have in your body! He asked if I have kids. After replying yes, I have two, he exclaimed: Tell them they have no idea about the blood in their bodies!" It was a fun, exhilarating conversation for me, one that I quickly shared with my wife and kids. There is nothing better than to hear someone, in this case a man with whom I had never conversed, speak so highly of my parents. And he wanted to make sure that I understood how lucky I was to have such parents. Fortunately, it is something I have always understood.

Likewise, Zoom Fleisher was a terrific basketball player for Weequahic. In fact, his name was familiar because my father used to talk about him as one of Weequahic’s greats. He was in the same class as my mother; she was on the cheerleading squad that rooted for him in football and basketball. Like many others, he remarked about Swede’s temperament. He was not only a super guy, but he was the sweetest of guys … You should be very proud of both of them. This is yet another reminder of the impact both my parents had on friends way back when.

In the very first sentences of Philip Roth’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, American Pastoral (the book in which my father was considered the inspiration for the main character, one Seymour Swede Levov), the author describes how the Swede was a magical name in Newark during the pre-war years. Well, I occasionally catch myself getting caught up in a fact-or-fiction conversation with myself. Because based on the gracious, indeed, reverent way in which people describe my father, there did seem to be some magic associated with the Swede from Weequahic.

One day my cousin Richard (Uncle Leo and Aunt Shirley’s son, four years my senior) and I were talking sports, and I joked that my name was never in the paper without it saying Bob Masin, son of legendary Newark all-everything athlete Swede Masin. Richard replied Big deal. What are you complaining about? My name was never in the paper without it saying, Richard Masin, nephew of legendary Newark all-everything athlete Seymour ‘Swede’ Masin." Of course I wasn’t complaining. I loved being mentioned with my father’s name. Thank God it never dawned on me that some people might start comparing me to the big guy.

My college football and baseball teammate, Bruce Fad, and I have remained very close. He and a handful of other buddies frequently communicate via email. His moniker for me is SMK (Swede Masin’s Kid).

It’s odd, but growing up I don’t remember being overly conscious of Swede’s stardom as an athlete. In retrospect, he worked hard at downplaying his accomplishments. And he always went overboard in emphasizing schoolwork and de-emphasizing sports.

I recall conversations with Swede my first year in both high school and college when he suggested I quit the football team. He wanted to make sure I would not let sports interfere with my education and was particularly wary of the commitment needed to play college football. He wanted to make sure it was going to be fun for me—and he also didn’t want me getting injured.

It was clear my father walked a delicate line with his children. He loved sports. He loved competing in games. He never missed our games. But at the same time he didn’t want us to feel the pressure of being compared to him.

If I asked my father to play catch, whether with a football or baseball, he was always there. As a father myself, I now know that playing catch is also a great opportunity for parents and children to talk with each other. With Swede, the practice of playing catch continued, even when my father was well into his seventies. Whenever I visited him, there was always a ball nearby, ready to be thrown and caught.

When I was young, it may have seemed as if I might become another Swede myself. I was bigger and stronger than most of the kids, and I could be quite dominant in basketball games, in Little League baseball, and in the swimming races at Shadybrook Swim Club (our summer playground). For instance, in my last year of Little League, I pitched a no-hitter and hit two home runs in a 3-0 win. I also pitched in the all-star game against Nutley’s all-stars, and in six innings struck out fifteen batters, who were literally afraid to bat against me because of the speed of my pitches.

The reason I was doing so well at this age is simply that I had matured more quickly than my peers. I was 5’ 7 by the time I was eleven years old, and physically stronger than the other kids. However, nearly fifty years later, I am still 5’ 7; my only growth since sixth grade has been in width, not height. In a funny bit of irony, Swede’s kid—the one who overpowered the other kids at a young age—was described as tiny Bob Masin, the junior point guard, in a newspaper preview of Columbia High School’s basketball team. Tiny!! I thought that was a bit excessive. But it helped make me realize I was never going to be another Swede by any stretch of the imagination.

After Little League I rarely played baseball, and truthfully I even found the sport a little boring. But just before beginning my first year at Columbia High School, Jack Fletcher, our very colorful varsity baseball coach, visited our home. I suppose he had heard I had been pretty good in baseball in my younger years, and wanted to encourage me to try out for his team. And my being Swede Masin’s son may have led him to assume that I would be a star athlete like my father. However, I was planning to try out for the track team—figuring I would do exactly as my father had done: put the shot, throw the discus, etc. After all, I was Swede Masin’s kid.

So, it was an interesting conversation with Coach Fletcher; I wanted to be respectful, but I had already lost interest in baseball and was planning on track. The coach suggested my lack of size did not bode well for my chances in the shot and discus. Swede was present for the conversation, but said little. He would have been supportive of whatever sport I wanted to go out for; but as always he was hesitant to push me in any direction. So when Coach Fletcher asked Swede for his opinion, he tended to agree with the coach: that it didn’t look like my size (or lack thereof) would be in my favor for the track events in which I was interested. That is how, with my father’s gentle nudge, I ended up playing baseball for Jack Fletcher, and did much better than I ever would have done in track. At the same time I also avoided another direct comparison with Swede, in which I would have, once again, paled.

In doing the research for this book, I have spoken to many people. One of the more amazing revelations for me was discovering how well known my father was. It seemed as if he was known and respected by everyone: from famed author Philip Roth mentioning in a letter that he knew of my father’s legendary athletic prowess; to Alvin Attles, another Weequahic legend, joking that he got tired of hearing his coaches rave about Swede Masin; to Phil Yourish, executive director of the Weequahic High School Alumni Association, casually mentioning that everyone in his group (class of 1964) knew of Swede; to Mike Cohen, class of 1960, a great Weequahic player and eventually a big-time college head coach, saying matter-of-factly "we all knew of Swede Masin." In fact, Mike remembers being a little nervous when he finally was to meet my father—though the nervousness quickly dissipated when he realized how down-to-earth Swede was.

The anecdotes go on and on, and are amazingly consistent: Of course I knew of your father. He was a legend.

Many of the above conversations were with people who knew of my father but never actually knew him as a person. The accolades from those who did know him are my favorites. He genuinely touched many people during his life, and the love and respect in their voices and in their comments were wonderful. To those who knew him well he was a big teddy bear.

So, take it from my siblings and me, being asked if we were Swede Masin’s kid always made us smile and gave us pride. It made us feel special. I can not wait for the next time it happens—just so long as the follow-up question isn’t "and what the heck happened to you?"

Max, Leo, Seymour, and Sonia Masin, ca. 1926.

Seymour Masin, age 4

CHAPTER TWO:

SEYMOUR’S FAMILY

MAX AND SONIA

My father’s parents were Russian immigrants. Both were born in the 1890s and arrived in the United States in the early twentieth century. My grandmother, Sonia, was from a family of musicians. Based on the information available to me (mostly Aunt Shirley’s memories), Sonia’s family was well educated and did not suffer the hardships of immigration any better or worse than the endless newcomers to this country at the time.

My grandfather, Max, was not as fortunate. When he was a child, his mother and father were murdered, shot execution-style, during a Cossack raid on their village. These government-sanctioned raids, pogroms, were not an uncommon occurrence in Russia. Being Jewish came with more than a little peril in that time and place. My grandfather virtually never talked about this in the presence of the grandkids.

As Pop Pop Max related, he was sent by relatives to escape the conditions in Russia at age fifteen to the United States, the land of promise. Like countless others, the immigration officials mistakenly misspelled his name. Max Mazin (pronounced Mozzin) was now officially Max Masin. As my grandfather related, he arrived with two rubles in his pocket and the address of a distant uncle living in the tenements of Manhattan.

He got a job as an ironworker at a factory that manufactured fire escapes. In his thick Russian accent, he told