but Julius was convinced that it had something to do with Aqueduct racetrack and She`s
All That, a horse he owned with Vic Vicello, one of his poker cronies. Vic was an elusive
figure who wore a pink handkerchief in his yellow sports jacket and took care never to
enter their home if his mother was present.
His father`s new job was managing a liquor store owned by a cousin felled at forty–five by a coronary, that dark enemy which had either maimed or killed a whole
generation of fifty–year–old male Ashkenazi Jews raised on sour cream and fat–flaked
brisket. His dad hated his new job, but it kept the family solvent; not only did it pay well,
but its long hours kept Dad away from Laurel and Pimlico, the local racetracks.
On Julius`s first day of school at Roosevelt High in September 1955, he made a
momentous decision: he would redo himself. He was unknown in Washington, a free soul
unencumbered by the past. His past three years at P.S. 1126, his Bronx junior high
school, were nothing to be proud of. Gambling had been so much more interesting than
other school activities that he spent every afternoon at the bowling alley lining up
challenge games betting on himself or on his partner, Marty Geller—he of the great left–handed hook. He also ran a small bookie operation, where he offered ten–to–one odds to
anyone picking any three baseball players to get six hits among them on any given day.
No matter who the pigeons picked—Mantle, Kaline, Aaron, Vernon, or Stan (the Man)
Musial—they rarely won, at best once in twenty to thirty bets. Julius ran with like–minded punks, developed the aura of a tough street fighter in order to intimidate would–be welchers, dumbed himself down in class to remain cool, and cut many a school
afternoon to watch Mantle patrol the Yankee Stadium center field.
Everything changed the day he and his parents were called into the principal`s
office and confronted with his bookie ledger–book, for which he had been frantically
searching the previous couple of days. Though punishment was meted out—no evenings
out for the remaining two months of the school year, no bowling alley, no trips to Yankee
Stadium, no after–school sports, no allowance—Julius could see his father`s heart wasn`t
in it: he was entirely intrigued by the details of Julius`s three–player, six–hit caper. Still,
Julius had admired the principal, and falling from his grace was such a wake–up call that
he attempted to reclaim himself. But it was too little, too late; the best he could do was to
move his grades up to low Bs. It wasn`t possible to form new friendships—he was role–locked, and no one could relate to the new boy Julius had decided to become.
As a consequence of this episode, the latter–day Julius had an exquisite sensitivity
to the phenomenon of «role–lock»: how often had he seen group therapy patients change
dramatically but continue to be perceived as the same person by the other group
members. Happens also in families. Many of his improved patients had a hell of a time
when visiting their parents: they had to guard against being sucked back into their old
family role and had to expend considerable energy persuading parents and siblings that
they were indeed changed.
Julius`s great experiment with reinvention commenced with his family`s move. On
that first day of school in Washington, D.C., a balmy Indian summer September day,
Julius crunched through the fallen sycamore leaves and strode into the front door of
Roosevelt High, searching for a master strategy to make himself over. Noticing the
broadsides posted outside the auditorium advertising the candidates for class president,
Julius had an inspired thought, and even before he learned the location of the boys` room
he had posted his name for the election.
The election bid was a long shot, beyond long shot—longer odds than betting on
the tightfisted Clark Griffith`s inept Washington Senators to climb out of last place. He
knew nothing about Roosevelt High and had yet to meet a single classmate. Would the
old Julius from the Bronx have run for office? Not in a thousand years. But that was the
point; precisely for this reason, the new Julius took the plunge. What was the worst that
could happen? His name would be out there, and all would recognize Julius Hertzfeld as
a force, a potential leader, a boy to be reckoned with. What`s more, he loved the action.
Of course, his opponents would dismiss him as a bad joke, a gnat, an unknown
know–nothing. Expecting such criticism, Julius readied himself and prepared a riff about
the ability of a newcomer to see fault lines invisible to those living too close to the
corruption. He had the gift of gab, honed by long hours in the bowling alley of wheedling
and cajoling suckers into match games. The new Julius had nothing to lose and fearlessly
strolled up to clusters of students to announce, «Hi, I`m Julius, the new kid on the block,
and I hope you`ll support me in election for class president. I don`t know crap about
school politics, but, you know, sometimes a fresh look is the best look. Besides, I`m
absolutely independent—don`t belong to any cliques because I don`t know anybody.»
As things turned out, not only did Julius recreate himself, but he damn near won
the election. With a football team that had lost eighteen straight games and a basketball
team almost as hapless, Roosevelt High was demoralized. The two other candidates were
vulnerable: Catherine Shumann, the brainy daughter of the diminutive long–faced
minister who led the prayer before each school assembly, was prissy and unpopular, and
Richard Heishman, the handsome, red–haired, red–necked football halfback, had a great
many enemies. Julius rode the crest of a robust protest vote. In addition, to his great
surprise, he immediately was embraced vigorously by virtually all the Jewish students,
about 30 percent of the student body, who had heretofore kept a low, apolitical profile.
They loved him, the love of the timid, hesitant, make–no–waves Mason–Dixon Yid for the
gutsy, brash New York Jew.
That election was the turning point of Julius`s life. So much reinforcement did he
receive for his brazenness that he rebuilt his whole identity on the foundation of raw
chutzpah. The three Jewish high school fraternities vied for him; he was perceived as
having both guts and that ever so elusive holy grail of adolescence, «personality.» Soon
he was surrounded by kids at lunch in the cafeteria and was often spotted walking hand in
hand after school with the lovely Miriam Kaye, the editor of the school newspaper and
the one student smart enough to challenge Catherine Schumann for valedictorian. He and
Miriam were soon inseparable. She introduced him to art and aesthetic sensibility; he was
never to make her appreciate the high drama of bowling or baseball.
Yes, chutzpah had taken him a long way. He cultivated it, took great pride in it,
and, in later life, beamed when he heard himself referred to as an original, a maverick, the
therapist who had the guts to take on the cases that had defeated others. But chutzpah had
its dark side—grandiosity. More than once Julius had erred by attempting to do more
than could be done, by asking patients to make more change than was constitutionally
possible for them, by putting patients through a long and, ultimately, unrewarding course
of therapy.
So was it compassion or sheer clinical tenacity that led Julius to think he could yet
reclaim Philip? Or was it grandiose chutzpah? He truly did not know. As he led Philip to
the group therapy room, Julius took a long look at his reluctant patient. With his straight
light brown hair combed straight back without a part, his skin stretched tight across his