Tough close at St. Anthony
THIS IS how it ends for Bob Hurley, an urban bulwark and basketball coach at St. Anthony High in Jersey City for half a century. He goes for a bike ride in the morning with Bobby Vogt, a player on one of Hurley’s first teams and now a Jersey City detective, in Liberty State Park. He returns home to his place in Paulus Hook, changes into a patterned shirt and gray sweater vest, slings a book bag over his right shoulder and heads into a meeting with two members of the Archdiocese of Newark shortly after noon. No nuns flank him. Prayers are futile now. Hurley, also the school president, learns his fate. St. Anthony High will close. It cannot reach an enrollment of 200 students next year. It also cannot guarantee a necessary $500,000. There is no emergent money coming.
“Our seats had not gotten warm and we were done,” he says.
This is how he enters the school shortly after 2 p.m. He meets his wife Chris and daughter Melissa on the steps to the four-story building at 175 Bob Hurley Sr. Way. It bears a sign — “Home of the Friars” — above the door. He kisses both and greets his grandchildren, Gabe and Anna, before entering to inform the faculty and staff that the school is closing. An e-mail goes out to students’ parents at the same time. His face is grim as he walks up the stairs, past the sheets of paper that read “KEEP THE FAITH” and “CATHOLIC SCHOOLS: DIVIDENDS FOR LIFE.” His blue eyes are reddening around the rims. He sits on the stage in the school’s auditorium, kicking his legs out. Students are dismissed and exit through a side door to evade television satellite trucks choking the street. An armed Jersey City cop stands by.
“We had a good run, huh?” Hurley says as trustees and friends gather inside.
This is how Hurley sees it. There is a ring from the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame on his right hand, and gilded trophies from eight undefeated seasons, 13 Tournament of Champions titles and 28 state titles sit atop a high shelf. He is worried about his five-foot freshman, Des, and how he would adapt to public school. He touts success stories of his former players, and mentions the importance of holding city youths accountable. He harps on rules, values and discipline. He tries to reconcile Catholic education with the changing landscape. He knows the sins.
“If the Catholic Church didn’t have so many issues with lawsuits and pilferage over a long period
KEN MURRAY/NEWS of time, there’s several billion dollars that would have been available to be utilized where it is needed most to do Christian acts,” he says. “What happens is places like this are affected.”
This is who Hurley wants to thank. There are the Felician nuns, Sister Alan, and Sister Felicia. There are board of trustees members. There are two old players in the room. Carlos Cueto, class of 1994 is a Cuban guard from Union City who played for Hurley in high school. He is a high school history teacher now. When he heard that the school was closing, he found a babysitter and hustled over. To Hurley’s right is Jerry Walker, a member of the 1989 national championship team. He is scheduled to address criminal justice students about juvenile delinquency at St. Peter’s College tomorrow at 10 a.m. Hurley, a former Hudson County probation officer, is the headliner at 11 a.m. Hurley shares a story about Walker.
“He was always in my short hairs,” Hurley says. “I can remember getting out of the car one time taking a softball bat and sitting on his porch with his mom. He was sitting in the bushes across the street because he was out too late, and he didn’t want to come while I’m standing there swinging my softball bat, but that was for the dramatic effect. His mother said, ‘I think we’ve got this now.’ I headed home.”
This is what Hurley wants etched on his headstone. He is 69 and considers how he started at the school when he was 19. When he was growing up in the Greenville section of Jersey City, he never thought he would be the first in his family to graduate college, that he would win more than 1,000 high school games or have to craft a stump speech to try to raise funds to the extent he has. More than a million dollars has come in, and he was opening donor envelopes Tuesday, holding out hope that a school-preserving check might soon surface. Not enough. The fight was over.
“Not one of my players has ever come back to me and said, “Coach, I wish you pushed me harder,” he says. “I never wanted to be the friend when they needed someone to push them.”
This is how Hurley walks out on the day that he knows the school’s days are numbered. Husband and wife pass the walls lined with college acceptance letters and the sign that greets all who enter: “You are entering a special and safe place and... the street stops here.” Hurley strides onto the sidewalk and speaks with Joe Paglia, the team’s conditioning coach. Hurley asks how the team is doing during a workout across the street in a charter school gymnasium.
“I think they knew something was up when I wasn’t yelling at anyone,” Paglia says.
Hurley nods. He addresses the team for five minutes. Teammates embrace.
Hurley leaves with his wife. Construction trucks motor past and cranes frame the Catholic schoolhouse across the street.
“It’s always we,” he says. “If you think you’re different than anybody else, check on the day of your funeral how many people are going to go based on the weather.”