One Lucky Guy From the Streets to Paradise

By Michael Rocco

This uplifting and educational memoir from Michael Rocco is all about the importance of family growing up Italian-American in Hoboken, New Jersey, as well as sharing many helpful hints drawn from Michael's 45 years as a successful manufacturer's sales representative. His life was filled with lessons to be le

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: May 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781649908667

Michael Rocco

As a kid, Michael Rocco grew up on the streets of Hoboken, New Jersey. Success never came easy, but through perseverance and hard work, he became the national sales manager for two major Canadian companies, receiving a Salesman of the Year award four times from four different companies. Now in retirement, he considers himself one lucky guy to live in a luxurious senior development which he calls Paradise. There, he has found a new passion in life. He belongs to a doo-wop/country singing group, the Silver Satens, that performs shows for many different clubs, as well as sponsoring music nights for guests and residents of Paradise. He has also performed on stage in several plays. Michael and his wife were blessed with two wonderful children and four awesome grandchildren, and recently celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Beginning Of My Life….

My life began on September 1, 1949. I grew up in Hoboken, New Jersey. I was born into a typical Italian American family surrounded by lots of relatives. My immediate family consisted of my mom, dad and baby sister. We rented our house because back then, living in Hoboken, most families could not afford to buy a house. We lived across the street from my grandpa and grandma. Fortunately, my grandparents owned a three family house. They lived on the second floor. My Uncle Harry’s family lived on the first floor. My Aunt Gerri, my father’s only sister, lived on the top floor. My Uncle Pete lived with his family in the house behind my grandparent’s house. My Uncle Andy, the plumber, had his own house six blocks away.

Every Sunday morning, I went with my dad to visit my grandpa. Sometimes, my uncles were there also. The grown-ups had coffee with anisette. While they were chatting and drinking, I would run upstairs to my Cousin Jerry’s house. Jerry and I were very close even though he was nine months older than me. Around two o’clock in the afternoon, my grandma would have a sheet on her bed with fresh made raviolis just waiting to be put into water to cook for all of us to eat. Meatballs, brasciole, and Italian sausages were cooking in the gravy. The aroma of the gravy on the stove could be detected in the hall and all the way up the stairs.

On Sundays, grandma’s front door would be left open wide for anyone from the family to come in or out. By two o’clock, three folding tables would be spread out down the middle of the large living room. Many folding chairs and kitchen chairs were set up for all the adults and all the grandchildren. We ate dinner on Sunday afternoon, as most Italian families did. At night, we could have a leftover meatball sandwich or some left over antipasto. Before that, coffee, pastries, fruit and nuts and other desserts were served to the adults. All the cousins went into the back bedroom to roughhouse. Sometimes we got carried away and were bouncing off the walls. However, it was mostly the boys. Grandma would swing open that bedroom door and under her apron was a miniature cat of nine tails. She would swing at us on our backside to break us up. The girl cousins played with their dolls or played school. My grandma was the typical little, tough grandma that Italian comedians, like Pat and others, joked about. This amazing lady who had a gold tooth and who always wore an apron, stood four feet tall. She had long red hair that she always wore in a bun. She usually dressed in black because she was in mourning most of the time. She was a tough cookie, alright. However, if anyone in the family needed her, she was there for them. If anyone was sick with a fever, she would sit by their bed and apply rubbing alcohol and pray for them.

My grandpa was a prince. He was a hardworking, great husband, father and grandfather to all of us. He would give us the shirt off his back. He was very much respected and loved in the neighborhood. He always had a pleasant way about him and he was always smiling. A day without a smile is a wasted day. He was a proud Italian American. My dad, who was his first son, had the privilege of naming me after his father. As I got older, I was always so proud to be referenced to my grandfather, Michael. I was named after the right person. It is our family tradition to name the first born after the grandfather. Jumping ahead, I continued the tradition by naming my son after my father, Vincenzo. My son has also followed the tradition and named his son after me, Michael.

Both my grandparents spoke broken English. Even though only sometimes you could understand my grandpa when he spoke, you were in awe listening to him tell stories; stories that you heard a thousand times but still made you laugh. You would never tire of listening to them. If grandpa wasn’t telling his stories after dinner, he would be singing. My uncle would get out the amplifier and microphone so my grandpa could sing a repertoire of his Italian songs. A good time was had by all.

My Cousin Jerry and I grew up together. I lived on the same block as the park where all our friends hung out. My cousin lived across the street from the park. I remember my cousin and me playing basketball, punch ball and box ball in the basketball court. At the same time, my grandpa would play bocce ball on the other side of the fence with his friends. You were never alone in the park. There was always someone to hang out with. There was my generation and my older Cousin Sammy’s generation. Sammy was my cousin Jerry’s older brother. They were known as The Big Guys. We were known as the Little Guys, but were all called Park Boys. Maybe, I am jumping a little ahead, but, when I finally went to high school in Hoboken, no other group of guys would start up with me or my friends. We were protected by the Big Guys.

The Trophy

Right before high school, my cousin and I enjoyed many similar things like going away together with our families on vacation to Atlantic City. We also joined a CYO football team together. The team was known as Saint Dukes of the Cross. This was our place of worship in the parish where we were all parishioners. We played rough and tough football in the park with the guys, however, this was regulation football. There were forty of us on the team. The team was sponsored by the church. It was run by Father Ward and coached by three Hoboken cops. This was the real deal with uniforms, cheerleaders, and the whole nine yards, no pun intended.

In eighth grade and my second year in regulation football, we beat all the teams in the district. We were rewarded with a trip to Miami Beach, Florida. We drove to Florida in two buses. Everyone involved with the team went, including a reporter from the Hoboken Chronicle. We played an all-star team representing Opa-locka, Florida. It was really cool.

In the morning we dressed into our gym shorts, sneakers and our Saint Dukes of the Cross tee shirts that Father Ward bought for all of us. We would then have a light practice. In the afternoon, we would walk the streets of Miami chaperoned by our coaches and Father Ward. While walking in town not far from our motel, we noticed a bar which had swinging saloon type doors. When the doors swung open, it gave us a quick view of the ladies dancing in sexy outfits. A few of us made plans to go back that night. When we got back to the motel, after lights out, we climbed out of our first floor windows. Our idea was to head back to the bar that night and hang around in front of the entrance.

Sure enough, when those swinging saloon type doors swung open, we all got a glimpse of the dancers in their flimsy outfits. It must have been about an hour when we got cold feet and headed back to our motel. Before we could get caught, we quickly climbed into the rooms through the windows and got into our beds.

We played in the Orange Bowl where the NFL teams played. We, the Saint Dukes of the Cross, represented the North and the team from Opa-locka represented the South. We witnessed two soldiers dueling at the 50 yard line. The Yankee soldier was dressed in blue and the Confederate soldier was dressed in grey. I don’t have to tell you that the soldier in grey won, because naturally, we were in the South. After the dueling event, we played the game. The other team won by 7 points. The experience was unbelievable. Imagine being 13 years old in Miami Beach during Christmas week and playing football in the Orange Bowl like the pros.

A couple of weeks after we returned home, we were honored with a celebration at a swanky, expensive restaurant. All of Hoboken was proud of us. The reporter that accompanied us to Florida wrote a favorable article about the game. He mentioned how hard we played and that we were up against their all-star team. At the dinner, we received a trophy for winning the district championship which enabled us to play in the Orange Bowl in Miami in the first place.

The trophy was presented to us by the mayor of Hoboken. This was the only trophy that I ever won in sports competition. Later in life, however, I won many achievement awards in my profession. One time, I worked for two companies at the same time. I was voted salesman of the year in both companies in the same year. With the money I earned and the plaques I received, I purchased my own super bowl ring. I had the name of the companies engraved on the ring. I also added two diamond chips. Here I go again, jumping ahead of myself.

Tragedy

Hoboken wasn’t always peaches and cream when I was growing up. It was 1961, I was 12 and in seventh grade, when tragedy hit my family. My Uncle Andy, the plumber, died unexpectedly. He was in his late thirties and died of pneumonia. A couple of months later, my mom’s brother, who was a longshoreman, died in a bizarre accident. He was found with all his clothes and heavy work boots on, floating dead by the dock. Sadly, he did not know how to swim. The same year, my dad lost his right hand as a result of a work related injury. One sad day, my dad had problems running his press machine. He called a supervisor to unclog a jam. The supervisor shut down the machine and unclogged it. He put the machine back on so my dad could go back to work. A short time later, the machine stopped working. Again, my dad had to call the supervisor. The supervisor shut down the machine and was able to get it working. He watched how the supervisor solved the problem. The third time that the machine clogged, the supervisor had to come again to shut down and unclog the machine. Then the machine clogged for a fourth time. My father figured, after watching the supervisor, he could solve the problem on his own. This 1,400 pound press came crashing down, trapping my dad’s right hand. You see, my dad unclogged the machine, but he never shut the machine down first.

My Uncle Harry, who was my dad’s brother, just happened to work there as a shop steward. He witnessed the press crashing down and ran for a crowbar. He needed to get the press up enough to get my dad’s mangled hand out from under the press. My dad was rushed to the hospital. It turned out that he was in the hospital for eight weeks. He had three operations. Finally, they had to amputate his hand because an infection set in. The choice was, either lose his hand, or lose his life. My dad was my hero. He was a great father. He fought for five years in World War II. He was with the 7th Armored Division, 17th Battalion. His division went through Europe and ended in Germany where the war was won. My father sat on top of a tank and was exposed as a machine gunner. He was never injured during the war but came home to this tragedy. He taught jujitsu and boxed for the army. He was a committee man in the neighborhood for Mayor Tony Abato. He worked along with the mayor’s brother, Frank, who was the ward leader. I remember as a kid, my dad took me to exciting political rallies. He also took me to pass out food and toys to the poor people in the neighborhood around the holidays. Well, when my dad finally came out of the hospital, he never returned to politics. This unfortunate accident changed his life going forward but a settlement from the accident afforded my dad the chance to buy a modest two family house in Nutley.

Bye Bye Birdie

I can remember my first crush. I was in the 8th grade. Her name was Kathryn Kelly. She was a very smart girl. She had a fabulous mom and dad and an older sister. They were all very educated. Kathryn’s mom and dad both worked and the sister went away to college. We went steady and I was allowed to come and sit with them to watch TV. She lived right off of Washington Street, which was a good 15 block walk from my house. She was well worth the walk.

I was considered one of the tough guys who hung out at the park. Kathryn and her mother saw a different side of me. They saw a warm and caring, good natured kid and they liked me. Her mother liked me so much that she took us to see "Bye Bye Birdie" in Radio City. After we graduated, they moved away and I never saw them again.

Short Story/Tales of the City

I remember one year a bunch of us park boys talked JoJo’s big brother into signing a lease for us. We wanted to rent a storefront in the middle of the neighborhood and make it our social club. With a little coaxing and a case of beer, he agreed.

We blackened the two big picture windows so you couldn’t see in or out. We fastened a curtain onto the door so we could slide it open to get some sunlight and also to see who was calling on us. We picked up an old couch, a table and chairs to sit on and whatever other furniture we could scrounge up.

The scene was straight out of the Bronx Tale. We wore car coat length black leather jackets, not like the biker style, fedora hats in black or brown, baggy dress pants with cuffs and wing-tipped shoes. We always wore a high roll or a long collar shirt or Italian knit. We dressed like the cast from the Bronx Tale before the movie was even made.

We had the club for a few months, when one winter day, a few of the guys started a snowball fight in front of the club. The fight wound up inside the club and wrecked the joint. Unfortunately, that was the day the landlord just happened to be passing by. Well, that was the end of that. Nothing is forever and boys will be boys.

Chapter 2

The Suburbs

When I was 15, we moved away from Hoboken and the family. My dad was able to buy his first house. My grandpa was so upset with my dad that he refused to talk to him for a month. My grandpa was a smart man and realized that life was changing in Hoboken. Eventually, he understood why we had to move. The innocence of the time was ending and nothing has been the same since. As things started to change, families started to spread out across our land. People no longer lived in walking distance to their relatives. This brought a lot of change to families and not always for the good.

My family stayed in New Jersey. We moved to Nutley, New Jersey which was a half hour from Hoboken. I called it the suburbs. Some of my relatives realized that times were changing and they also moved near us.

Moving to Nutley was a plus for me. My friends and Cousin Jerry, who still lived in Hoboken, were starting to smoke pot. I wanted no part of it. I remember my cousin calling and asking me to join him and some friends on a trip to Canada. I gave all kinds of excuses not to go because I knew no good would come of it. I am thankful I was smart enough not to go because my life could have changed forever. Jerry’s life was changed. He flipped out on LSD. He has never been the same since. It broke my heart to hear my cousin, who was like my brother, was not able to put a sentence together. It was the sixties now with the British Invasion of the Beatles. They came on the scene with their long hair, their music and drugs. This was the decline of America that we all knew and loved.

I was pretty popular in high school. I was lucky because I made friends the first day I moved to Nutley. I was sitting on my stoop when this pretty girl named Patty came strolling by. She stopped to chat with me. She invited me to join her and some friends at Lucky Abbets candy store. Of course, I said yes. That night I met Stumpy, Bailey, and Lesh. Jumping ahead, six years later, they were all at my wedding, except for Bailey, who was my best friend at the time. He was in Vietnam.

I might add that Jerry, my cousin, and Franko, who is my life long, truly best friend, were in my wedding party. Although I felt very close to Franko, out of respect to my cousin, I asked him to be my best man. I did, however, make a promise to Franko that he would be my son’s godfather.

I started dating some very pretty girls, like Joy, who was my first puppy love. Joy was a beautiful, Jewish girl who I took to my junior prom; however, there was a problem from the start. Her parents were great business people who owned a big jewelry store. They really wanted Joy to date Jewish boys. So, eventually, our relationship ended. During my senior year, I was footloose and fancy free and dated a lot. By the end of my senior year, when the yearbook came out, I was voted the class flirt and also nicest smile. The reason that I won nicest smile is because I was always smiling, which carries on to my present day life in Paradise.

High school was a lot of fun but, by the end of my senior year, I started to wonder what I was going to do with my life. I was working part time, after school, in a book company on the loading dock. I knew it wasn’t the type of job that I wanted for the rest of my life. This is the point in my story where my life changes. Although good things have happened to me, I have also experienced many disappointments. Through it all, at age 64, I was able to sell my big house, downsize and buy a house in Paradise. Then, I was able to semi retire at age 66. Now Dakota and I live in the lap of luxury. Well, I jumped ahead again.

After High School

Well, as I said, I knew that I wasn’t going to college and I knew that I didn’t want a career on the platform of the loading dock working at the Topship Company. After my graduation, I went to the post office to see if I could become a mailman. It was a respectable job. You wore a uniform and had good benefits. When I picked up the application, they gave me a pamphlet and said I had to study for a test. However, me being 18 years old and thinking I could conquer the world, I took the test without studying. I needed a 70 to pass and I fell short by three points. I received a 67. There was a part of the test that you really needed to study and by not studying, I failed. Now, here is the kicker. If I were Spanish, or American Indian or any other minority other than being an Italian American, I would have passed. Minority people just needed a 65 to pass. Well, I said, The hell with you, and decided to go to trade school. IBM was just coming on board; and if I had just invested a thousand dollars in their stocks, I would be rich by now, but that is another story. A friend suggested that I look into IBM school. He invited a salesman from the IBM school to come to my home and talk to me and my parents. He wanted to assess me to see if I was a popular candidate for the school. He gave me a short test to see if I was qualified. The school was going to cost $1,000. I passed the test and was promised a job if I completed the school but my dad wasn’t convinced. He told the salesman that I was not going to attend the school. He felt that I wasn’t capable to do the work needed and he was not going to pay for the schooling. With that, the salesman left. I went running out of my house after the salesman. I asked the man if I was able to get my dad to sign the paper, and get the $1,000 together, would I be able to attend the school then. He said, Yes. I went back to my house and had a talk with my dad. I came to realize that he did not have confidence in me to be anything other than a working man in a book company or a can company. He thought that would be the extent of my capabilities. At that point, I decided to show my dad that he was wrong. I KNEW THERE WAS SOMETHING MORE THAT I WOULD BE CAPABLE OF DOING.

I continued working on the platform of the book company in the daytime. After work, I attended the IBM School and was paying off the debt every week. As I mentioned, the fee was $1,000 for the seven month course. I was not being trained as a programmer, but as a tech person who operates the machine. I was on a quest to find the right niche for me. After I graduated from the IBM school, the job they wanted to place me in was a lonely night shift job at Kennedy Airport. At 18, this was not the place I wanted to start my first job with IBM. There were no other positions offered to me, so, I declined and was back to the drawing board.

Stumpy to the Rescue

Not long after graduation from IBM School, I met a nice Italian girl named Valerie at a college frat party that my friends and I crashed. She was very pretty. When I went over to introduce myself, we hit it off immediately. When the party died down, I asked to walk her to her car. She said, Sure. So I threw my keys to one of my friends and told him I was walking her to her car. When we got there, we went into the back seat to say goodnight. Luckily, my car was just two cars away and I saw my friends go into my car. The next thing I knew there were four guys banging on the windows of