St Ignatius High School - Ignatian Yearbook (Cleveland, OH)

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Above: That was one stubborn building. exclaims Harry the wrecker to his associate. Though decrepit, the Rhumba Bar refused to fall without maintaining its pride as a landmark institution. Far Left: Homeward-bound after a day of destruction, this bulldozer makes a final pass over what was once a favorite Jesuit hangout. The Jesuits were rumored to have taken advantage of the ninety cent chilli special offered by the Rhumba Bar to its preferred customers. Left Buried in the remains lie the bones of the Cleveland chapter of Hell's Angels. The dust of decades of death, destruction, and hell-raising rises to the heavens, dissipating like so many memories. Rhumba 25

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BAR MEETS BAU a We gotta get our a!!es outta here and go bust some hippie heads. Above: A lot of history passed its time within those busted and buried tavern walls. Now. the Rhumba, a victim of arson, seems destined to become the next school parking lot. uffalo Bill's defunct. Sweet Jesus, so's the Rhumba. In 45 minutes one snowless December day. Death by ball and bulldozer. The obese woman's moved on. but the legends linger. A lot of history passed its time within those busted and buried tavern walls. G. Peter Holsappel opened the establishment's doors the day Hoover was elected president in 1928. Two men died. Bobby Vitas, a working class Republican, was doing shots of J.D. and getting hopelessly loaded. Goddang • %ing Democrats. Trying to elect a %ing Catholic president. Smith—He's a goddang pope's dog. Ain't gonna have no pope's dog for president.” Jeff Dooley, a working class democrat and one of those %ing Catholics, was sipping his tonic and gin. He ordered a whole bottle of Jack Daniels, shattered it on the bar. leapt from his stool like a hyena, and beat, sheared, and shredded poor Bobby dead. Fat Pete” Holsappel. meanwhile, had grabbed his double-barreled sawed-off shotgun. He told Jeff to cut the crap. Poor Jeff didn't listen. He left the bleeding mess of Bobby V. bleeding on the floor and started for Fat Pete with his J.D. stiletto slashing. Poor Jeff's brains splattered the new walls, liberated from their cranium by a point blank blast from Pete's firestick. Eisenhower was president in 1957 and Don Garrick owned and bartended the Rhumba. Elvis Presley was raising eyebrows and James Dean's bones were sprouting weeds. P.J. Barnhardt and Ralph Steadyman were quaffing some post-workday Schmidts and watching the tube. October winds kicked up the grime on Lorain. A guy on the TV said the Russians had just placed Sputnik in outer space. Sputnik? wondered P.J.. What in the gracious God's hell is Sputnik?” Ralph, whose brother would one day work for NASA, naturally knew exactly what Sputnik was. Ralph knew everything. Hey, good buddy Peej, what is you—stupid? Sputnik's them commies' latest pree-mier— he was too goddam American for 'em. so they just blasted his butt to the moon. P.J. though that was a lot of bull, and he said so: Bull barnacles. Ralph!” Unshaken. Ralph declared, I bet you 100 cash Sputnik's their old pree-mier. You're on. Steadyman, gambled P.J. The two friends agreed that Don Garrick would settle the issue. They asked the barkeep. Ralph won. P.J. Barnhardt was an honest, gregarious man. so he ordered a round of Schmidts for everyone and. the following day. paid Ralph in full. The summer of love was long over in 1970. Vietnam wasn't. Nixon was busy bombing. The Hell's Angels called the Rhumba home. Their Harleys cluttered the street. Their leather stalked the floorboards. Buster Beefheart, the owner, liked his studded clientele. He found them alliterative, metonymaic. in a word, poetic. Yo. a!!hole, barked a biker, it's Five %ing o'clock. We gotta get our a!!es outa here and go bust some hippie heads. The bar cleared amid a cacophony of unmuffled horsepower and a reek of unleaded gasoline. Several hippies suffered busted heads that night on Coventry. In 1987. the Rhumba fell victim to fire. Some swore a Jesuit had torched it. The school was interested in the property. Then came the ball and bulldozer. Ponder, darling, these busted and buried walls. Ponder and remember. 1 ] I 24 A Day in the Life

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Above- Sean Kilbane expresses the grimace of a hard-earned victory. He prepares to shake the frozen ground with the ball in the spirit of an NFL player. risp. My feet crunch in the frosty grass. A brown watermelon sails through the air with the finesse of a flying cow. Bad pass. I'll jump. I jump, stretching, twisting, and straining for that air-filled skin. A pig died so I could make this catch. I think. I grab the ball, not too hard: it snugs into my basket. But I never saw the defender. Right there all along. Too much effort to go for the ball: he wants to punish me for making the catch. The ground rushes up to collide with my body. I peel myself from earth. My mind still spins. My lungs still heave. We call a huddle. I really need a time-out, guys. I suggest. We call time out. The quarterback draws some lines in the dirt. Everyone ignores the lines. Everyone just go out. We all agree. I'll just sit out this play, I think. I’m still panting. Quarterback barks, backpedals, and scans the field. I take a few steps and catch my breath. Quarterback eyes a man downfield and fires. Eyes follow the arc of the ball. It's smooth. Silk. He bumbles the catch. Defender rips the ball from its unstable grasp. He charges towards me. I don't particularly like trying to stop moving trains, but I guess I have to. I'm the last man between that bull and the end zone. I run at him. I collide with his legs, churning pistons. He bucks my chin. My teeth chop into my tongue. He drags me into the end zone. I flap from his legs like a damn flag in the wind. They are winning. After spitting the blood from my mouth. I set myself to return the kick-off. Kicker punts the ball. It spirals toward the blue. My ball. I stand between the ball and the ground. My team forms a wall. The ball sinks into my arms. I dart forward right between two defenders. Arms reach and lock onto my clothes like burrs. Burrs really annoy me. I burst forward and shake off the grips. I can hear my adrenalin pumping in unison with my heart. All the way. I think. I tail behind Blocker. He dumps a guy onto the brittle grass. Someone drops on me from behind. Just not fast enough. I collapse under his weight. Again. I meet the hard ground. Half the field to go for a TD. We go through the offensive routine: I call a timeout. This time I will go all out. As Quarterback fades. I surge forward. Fly pattern. Endzone approaches rapidly. Lame duck approaching over my shoulder. I whip around to snag it. Defender rushes at me madly. I beat him: he must be angry. Ball tucks into safety. I dash to the endzone. ten yards ahead. Defender is on my back again. I refuse to buckle. Instead. I shake him off: I hate burrs. I smile as I cross the goal line. Ball spikes the ground. Score now tied, but it's only noon. We have five hours of game left to play. 26 A Day in the Life