The Mirendas

 I had the rare privilege of being accepted, and treated as, an equal, by those whom I admired - a leader of the community, a quarterback at my high school, and the right-handed Kenny Stabler.

The Mirendas.

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PHIL MIRENDA THE GREAT

I am sure you’ve heard, at least two-hundred times before, about the generosity and spirit of the original Phil Mirenda. A tireless man who could never say no to his community, your Grampa was.

I started to write this thru the eyes of my fifth-grade self; which I still may.

But I wanted to open this story as a thirty-ish version of me, who, like your Grampa did before, had a kid enrolled in Saint Joseph’s Elementary school, in Mountain View. He would still bar-be-que for the SJMV spring carnival, like he always did; ignoring the advice of those who asked him to rest.

I was in the same parent-teacher meetings as the best guy that went to our church. And I should have stayed in such a path; as a parent, as a human. It was unimaginable, for me, to be behind the scenes with such a caring, generous man who could cook his butt off. For hundreds, if not thousands. Literally.

Mister Mirenda didn’t bbq chicken because people used to come from different parts of the state just to taste his exquisite culinary excellence. He did it because he could.

Even though Mister Mirenda asked me to just call him by his first name, I still couldn’t do so. Your Grampa never talked down to anyone. Phil Mirenda The First spoke to me exactly like he used to when I was in fifth-grade; always with spirit and humor. He would always shake my hand and greet me warmly, sincerely; just like when I was a kid.

When I was in my thirties, he was the same mountain of a man I knew when I was in fifth-grade. Only shorter.

If I knew better, then, I would’ve been more like your Grampa, Phil Mirenda The First.

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MATT MIRENDA

Autumn.

1973.

Victory.

Even tho I thought I was quick, with good hands, I always took a blocking back seat to most of the guys in my class, when it came to getting picked for teams in football. I was not well-spoken; just quiet, always doing as I was told. I looked like a Ricky-Ricardo-Junior - dapper, with Brylcream hair. Reserved. Shy. Not a lot of friends.

Then came 1973.

To my surprise, that summer, I tried out for, and made the Mountain View Pop Warner tackle football team. I didn’t know, then, that all one needed to make the Mauraders was to not throw up after tortuous sessions of throwing yourself on the ground, picking yourself back up, and run in place; only to do so again and again.

But after I made the team, they gave junior high school male Gold - real shoulder pads, pants that didn't fit, with pockets inside the legs to stuff thigh and knee pads, and a gold helmet. A real tackle-football worthy helmet. 

But, above all else, the Mauraders taught me how to block.

And so I did. With less effort, and more leverage. In the fall of 1973, I was a more convincing, more efficient version of my former-football self. At school lunch-hour, and recess, I was still blocking. Just much, much better.

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Your Uncle Matt was my classmate for eight elementary school years. And four Saint Francis years, too.

Matt was always a class act - good grades, great with the Ladies. As is typical of The Mirenda family.

Matt was not an imposing figure. An inch or two shorter than I was. Because of a heart defect, he had kind of a purple-ish tint to him. But all mention of heart murmurs and sleight of build and grades and arm-bruises ended once we all stepped out on the vast, flat dirt wasteland that waited for us behind Saint Josephs.

We changed into who we thought we were. Who we could be.

And, I thought, the best football-player among us was the purple guy with pointy ears. The Ken Stabler of the seventh-grade.

Your Uncle Matt Mirenda.

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Three, maybe four years previous, I learned well how physical, durable, tenacious, how competitive your Uncle Matt really was. I came to know Matt’s true character, when we were in third grade. You see, me and your Uncle Matt  boxed against each other at the Saint Joseph's spring fair.

Our short-lived boxing match was judged a tie. To watch such a match was almost comical. When third-graders box, they just stand in front of each other and throw baseless, random, punch-like gestures at each other, as much as third-graders can. The boxing gloves were as big as our heads - fluffy, almost pillow-like - incapable of rendering any physical harm to opponents. In no way did third-grader boxing matches, to casual observers, seem real.

But to the participant, it was real. It was combat; our first. And, by the time those two two-minute rounds were over, your Uncle Matt and I left the ring with one arm around the other’s shoulder. We finished the night as friends. With respect.

The best hamburger I have ever had in my whole life was the one I ate after that boxing match against your Uncle Matt. Made, of course, by your Grampa.

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In seventh grade, Matt had just thrown yet another long-bomb touchdown pass, with me blocking for him well. I turned around to greet him victoriously. You know, to do a high-five or some alpha male, celebratory gesture of some sort.

But when I did, I saw him looking down at the ground. Matt looked pre-occupied, almost …

Worried.

While all the guys in our class were chasing whoever Matt hit on a post pattern, more than a half a mile away, I grew concerned. Matt was looking down, furrowed brow, rubbing his chapped lower lip with his thumb; like he used to when thinking up his next John-Maddenesque offensive strategy.

But to me, Matt looked worried.

What’s wrong, Matt? I asked of the junior-high football genius.

Huh? Oh, nothing, nothing, he mumbled. I was just gonna ask if you could pppffffmmmnnng, he mumbled under his worried breath.

No, tell me, man, I insisted. I never spoke to any like that before; with urgency. Tell me what's bothering you; even with a little bass in my voice.

I just was gonna ask if you could play for us tomorrow night against Saint Williams ....

Flag football? On a Friday night? 

An unsanctioned flag football match? With referees? And uniforms? And I can't tell my parents? Or risk getting kicked off the Mauraders?

Only the Seventh Graders?

A chance to show off my newfound football prowess! To win the hearts and minds of my classmate peers. To establish myself in the field of interscholastic achievement. To boldly go forth where I had not yet gone before!

Yes. YES, I said.

I knew Saint Williams had the best looking girls in the SCVAL! Right behind Saint Nicolas, of course. I was in!

Matt brought me back into Reality, when he reminded me: Oh, but I forgot. You’re already playing for the Marauders, yeah?

It wasn’t Catholic-school kosher to play flag *and* tackle football. But it was only for just one night - a weeknight, a non-Maurader-game-or-practice-night!

The new Little Ricky Cabello shrugged his still scrawny, but football-trained shoulders, and said, yeah, I’ll do it!

Remember when, in Batman Returns, Danny The Penguin DeVito lays on his back, as mumbles ‘A plannnn is forminnngggg …’, with a grin?

Well, Matt didn’t do that. He never had to.

But, I exclaimed, I want to play flanker (an old school slang term for wide receiver).

That's when Matt got that fish-eating grin.

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THE CHEETAH

Ritchie Stevens was the fastest kid in school. But that’s not why everyone at school called him The Cheetah.

You ever seen National Geographic documentaries about cheetahs? Their first priority is to look good for the females. They flex their bony shoulders and lull their prey and potential mates with a false sense of casual, nondescript indifference, and cavalier look. Then, in a fatal instant, the weakest of the herd is dinner. Or a date.

Such was Ritchie Stevens; The Cheetah.

Sadly, I never knew Ritchie well, because he was in the same class as your Dad; one grade above us.

You see, your Uncle Matt had arranged to have eight-grader The Cheetah play QB for Saint Joe’s unsanctioned Seventh Grade Friday night match.

I believe your Dad was the starting QB for the Saint Joseph's Trojans Varsity flag football team.

But The Cheetah was a close second. And everyone at Saint Williams would recognize Tony Mirenda as an eighth  grader trying to pass as a seventh grader.

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Some kids play QB. Some play linebacker.

And some say, Just Win, Baby.

On the playground, your Uncle Matt was an undersized mix of Kenny Stabler and John Madden.

But, when he was involved in unsanctioned flag football matches, your Uncle Matt exuded a confident Commitment To Football Excellence.

I say this with the utmost sincerity and every respect deserving of both parties:

Your Uncle Matt was, and probably still is, the Al Davis of street football.

Just Win, Baby.

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C TONY MIRENDA

Tony the Tiger.

Antonio Banderas Mirenda. Too Tall Tony.

No one called your Dad these things.

But when I was in fifth grade, I made the Saint Joseph's of Mountain View Junior Varsity baseball team. I was, in my head, a boy amongst proverbial men. By making the JV baseball team cut, I was a teammate of the loudest, toughest, tallest, boisterous guys I had ever known!

The Cheetah. Marty Villasenor. Pat Ochoa. Chris Fowlie. I’ve seen these guys play city ball. And they were good. Real good.

But the only person these guys listened to when quibbling amongst ourselves before Coach got to practice, or when we were losing, was the guy that always had his catchers gear on, and warming up even before most got to practice, was your Dad.

The C stands for catcher. And Commitment.

After the warming up, and the Gear, what impressed upon me most was C Tony Mirenda's intensity. Granted, it’s kind of an ironic relief to see how much C Tony Mirenda has mellowed over the years. He is now a purry, Perry Como version of the tenacious hell-cat he used to be, when he was in sixth grade.

I don’t remember much about that particular season.

But I do believe that, if I messed up that year, I would have remembered such. I don’t know if I could ever have botched up in front of my baseball idols without suffering a lot of self-induced, inner turmoil.

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I was a little fish in a big baseball and football pond.

But I remember your Grampa, your Dad and your Uncle Matt well.

And I would have been a better man if I had followed their lead just a little bit more.

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