Fairfield University - Manor Yearbook (Fairfield, CT)

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nightly from that den of inequity. Walls shook, floors reverberated, and ceilings bounced from the pounding of heavy feet observing the 3 a.m. festival of worship held nightly somewhere on Loyola 2. Mind you, Loyola l and 3 were no Trappist corri- dors either, but they simply were outclassed by that infamous corridor that separated them. Unfor- tunately, though, the inhabitants of Loyola 2 had a habit of flunking out. To be a freshman is to wake upin the middle of the night and suddenly realize that you are nothing. For a month or so, in our quiet moments, we often experienced a long, dark night of the soul in which we wondered what we were doing at this place, mourning our lost power, and cringing from the swirling mass of new faces with which we tried to associate newly-memorized names. The girls of the College of New Rochelle were the lucky recipients of our first off-campus social contact in college iwe had had the early mixer with Marymount and a regular fiasco with Manhattan- ville in which the only contact made was the smack of hostile glances and frigid reiectionsl. By the overloaded carload, we invaded New Rochelle on Friday and Saturday nights where we could often be found discussing the German monetary crisis with a belligerent refugee from Fordham in the back room of the Roosevelt. In Freshman year, the Ship Ahoy, cabaret in New Rochelle, was our favorite watering place. lt was a nightspot of excellence equalled fperhapsl only by the Persian Room at the Plaza, with a clientele of unsurpassed beauty and riches. lt was to the Ship Ahoy, then, that we brought our new friends-the Freshman Class at New Rochelle, who were won over by our unique charm and grace. Unfortu- nately, the management of this establishment was not as enthusiastic as the girls were about our pres- ence. We had a habit of leaving this establishment in a state of disarray when we left at 2 a.m. Soon we spread our wealth to the Barge, Tompkin's Steak House, and the White Horse Tavern where we were again received with something less than overflow- ing enthusiasm. The Ship Ahoy, though, remained the top night- spot in Freshman year. The place should be the ob- ject' of a sociological and psychological study. The question to be solved would be: How can three hundred people pile into a place made for two hundred, scream fin order to be heard over the bandj for most of the night, be unable to move voluntarily because of the crush, lose your girl for two hours, have a beer spilled down your neck, receive an elbow in the eye and still have a great I . .j l J . I, 1 'v it f 77

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CLASS HISTORY September 12, 1965 was a muggy, overcast Sunday that brought us to the Fairfield University campus. It was a traumatic day falthough we tried desperately hard to keep those exaggerated smiles pasted on our facesj for the newly-arrived Freshman Class, the Class of 1969. For, in the space of that one Sunday afternoon, we suddenly discovered that we had somehow slipped from the top to the bottom of the student ladder. No longer were we the kingpins of the school. We were Freshmen again. We found ourselves iust barely reaching the very bottom rung. We were in strange territory, with no power, and with little to grasp onto for comfort. The journey upward would have to begin again. We were quickly thrust into Orientation Week Qalthough somewhat reluctantlyj, carefully planned for us by the Juniors. We were given our beanies and led about like a herd of cattle from the gym to Xavier, and then rerouted back to Canisius. We filled out forms, signed up for activities that we had no intention of ever joining, gave our money to any cause that begged for it, and generally wished that it would soon be over because the sun was out, it was very warm, and we wanted to go to the beach. But Orientation allowed us very little time to ourselves. We were led Qvery reluctantly, into the auditorium for a retreat that was to extend into the week. After it was declared that the latter part of the retreat was optional, most of us opted for our own special retreat at Fairfield Beach. We also ex- perienced our first college mixer that week with Marymount College. The mixer was a great relief to us because it was our first real contact with anyone from the outside world in almost a week. Our class came from all over: Paris, San Juan, Oakland, Louisville, Wellesley, Sheboygan, Bridge- port, and the Bronx. The Loyola Hilton f Sorry, but we simply cannot promise private baths at this time. j became home for all of us. It was not an especially nice-looking home, having been done in Fun Gothic style, but it was fyou might sayj satis- factory. It came complete with restaurant, church, sick-bay . . . and bedlam. The admissions staff of the University somehow managed to put all the escapees from the local Funny Farms on Loyola 2. This was a drastic mis- take, especially for the inmates on Loyola 1 and Loyola 3. Banshee wails and howls that strongly resembled a she-wolf in agony were heard almost 26

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time? Somehow, we did this, and did it weekly. And, somehow, we enjoyed it. The Fall was gobbled down by Winter and we were soon inundated by cold, snow, and books. Exams were upon us before we realized it. We rushed to our rooms and began to memorize the name of Alexander the Great's horse and the characters involved in the defenestration of Prague. In Philosophy, we learned how to write about ex- perience, understanding and judgment for five pages of an exam book, if we had to, without having the slightest idea what we were saying. We also memorized Ulysses by Tennyson to regurgi- tate it on the English exam, because we knew that one of the thought-provoking questions asked would be: Recite from memory the first ten lines of 'Ulysses' by Tennyson. Finally, the preparation was over and exams were upon us. The confrontation began between a group of Freshmen versus the labyrinths of Theol- ogy, Philosophy, Languages, History, and English. It was a rolling, tumbling battle: mental dust flew, cries of anguish erupted from parched throats at 4 a.m., and No Doz became as valuable as LSD. But, finally, it was over! We had finished ffor better or worsej the first semester. Returning to our rooms after the last exam, we fell upon the bed, and with head throbbing, eyes swollen and rolling, and stomach crying for food, we muttered: I'm going home for a rest, I do believe l've had enough! New England winters are dismal, especially when they impede any movement away from the campus. The snow and deep freeze of the winter of T965-66 often forced the less hardy of us to remain in the dorms for longer periods of time than what we would have wished. We played long games of bridge and even sometimes caught up on our read- ing. The basketball season kept us relatively sane dur- ing this long, boring period from December to March, and the varsity team of that winter is now legendary. We had come to a small school for a good teacher-student ratio, or for some reason like that, but we had also come to a major basket- ball power that was enjoying its finest year. The team exceeded even the most optimistic predictions of its most loyal supporters. After a loss to St. Joe's Qrated No. l in the country at the timej, the Stags registered a stunning victory over Boston College that catapulted the team into national prominence. To prove that the victory was no fluke, the team ripped through the rest of the sched- ule and finished at 'I9-5. This fine season was ruined, however, with the death of Captain Pat Burke and 28 by the unexplained denial of a berth in the N.I.T. by a group of sinister men lurking behind closed doors in New York. Spring came very slowly and hesitantly that year. lt would often poke its head from under the melting snow in the Quad and promise warm weather soon, only to be swamped by six fresh inches of snow. But finally spring did come and we celebrated it on March l8th, a warm and sunny Friday, when a vast, joyous mob exited from this sleepy town for the St. Patrick's Day Weekend in New York. The Commodore Hotel was naive enough to have an all-college mixer for over T500 people. Our class taught the other schools how to enjoy themselves on a weekend like this. In the space of one week- end, most of us were at parties in the Taft, Statler Hilton, Commodore, New Yorker and Biltmore. This partying continued until Sunday when the troops began to find their way back to school. To see this group returning from the Big City-ex- hausted, hungry and disheveled-reminded one of the return of the Lost Brigade. But we did have fun,