It was freshman year when I saw him tossing his cookies into  shrubberies in front of Dablon. That evening, I had no idea that he would become one of my closest friends. The friendship between Lancelot “Lance” Foote and me has lasted to this day. Within our crew of guys he was the only one who didn’t chase girls. They chased him. He had a lost puppy look, soulful eyes and an air of vulnerability that the young ladies on campus found irresistible. Freshman year was a rough one for us guys. The girls had the advantage of the law of supply and demand. For every girl there were two and a half guys. The female members of our class had little interest in us. If they wanted male company there was a surplus of sophomore, junior and senior suitors from which they could choose. We may as well have not existed.

Lance was the exception. Within the first week he had a mini-harem of adoring devotees. We tried to imitate him. When I tried to make my eyes look soulful, the best I came up with was an annoying squint. An attempt to appear vulnerable got me  a reputation of being “needy.” As far as a lost puppy look, the best I managed was a confused schnauzer look. The answer to my problem was close by, though. At that time the legal drinking age was eighteen. Where the “Lost Horizon “ is today there was a bar, more of a dive actually, called “Wanda’s.”  But it was a college dive.

At the time there was in Syracuse an all-girls college called “Maria Regina.” There were NO GUYS AT THAT SCHOOL!  My buddies and I had no competition. It was at “Wanda’s” one night when there was a group of Maria Regina girls that I met her. Her name was Senna Carceresca. She was a freshman. Her high school in Syracuse was “the Convent School.” Her father didn’t want her to go to Le Moyne because of “those damned college guys.” He was pathologically protective and he owned guns. You would think that knowing this I would have avoided her. The thing is, I just figured that was something all Italian fathers said. Besides, she had the one quality that I found most alluring in a girl. She tolerated me.

We went on a few dates that were actually enjoyable for both of us. Well, one thing led to another. I was dropping her off at her home one night and she asked me if I wanted to come in. She also mentioned that her parents weren’t home and not expected back for awhile.

All kinds of alarm bells should have been going off in my brain. Unfortunately it wasn’t my brain that was the body part in control. There is a saying that in romance “the heart wants what the heart wants.” My heart wasn’t the controlling organ either. While we were in a passionate embrace the room was suddenly lit by car headlights and I heard the crunch of gravel on the driveway. There was on both mine and Senna’s part a flurry of buttons being buttoned and zippers being zipped As the door opened I heard a basso profundo growl, “What the hell is this, where’s my shotgun?” In a situation like this one of the sounds you don’t want to hear is a pump shotgun being chambered with a cartridge. At this point the body part that was previously in control turned it over to my feet. I ran for the back door where my feet went into overdrive when I heard Senna screaming, “Daddy, daddy please don’t kill him!” That was as close as I’ve come in a long and interesting life to losing complete bladder and bowel control. I made it to my car, turned the key, put it in gear and drove. I am one of the few people in automotive history who was able to make a 1962 Ford Falcon lay a patch of rubber.