Bobby Cuddahy was a Ducky Boy. And like most Ducky Boys he was Irish,
under five-foot-six, and crazy. Webster Avenue was Ducky Boy country. They
roamed their turf like midget dinosaurs, brainless and fearless. They respected
only nuns and priests. They would fight anyone and everyone and they'd never
lose. They'd never lose because there were hundreds of them. Hundreds of
stunted Irish madmen with crucifixes tattooed on their arms and chests,
lunatics with that terrifying slightly cross-eyed stare of the one-dimensional,
semi-human urban punk killing machine. And they were nasty - used tire chains,
car aerials, and the "Webster Avenue walking stick," baseball bat
studded with razors. Their
ladies' auxiliary was even meaner. They would attack single guys and sometimes
groups of guys. They used car aerials and in a single singing flash could pare
a cheek so skin would be hanging down to the neck.
They ignored injuries. They'd sit there and
bleed. Or they'd amble to confession covered with blood. They'd confess things
like using the Lord's name in vain or farting in public. And Father O'Brian
would also ignore the blood, listen to their droning, and give them a few Hail
Marys to do. If he was in a particularly good or bad mood, he would march the
confessor to the tiny concrete courtyard in back and administer ten lashes with
a car aerial. No one complained. They could barely communicate verbally.
Conversation was unknown. The only thing they did along with the rest of the
human race was go to church. They'd go six, seven, sometimes ten times a week.
They loved "Faddah O'Brian," an ex-Fordham University football star,
who unlike most poverty area priests didn't give a shit what the youth did as
long as they came to church. He didn't believe in baseball leagues or social
work. He believed in confession and physical punishment.
This is a superbly written book about coming of
age in a section of the Bronx. Yet the
book is not about teen-age gangs, but about survival and the groping for
answers to unformulated questions."The Wanderers" is an outstanding work
of art because Mr. Price never imposes himself on the reader. His dialogue is
musically true and emotionally correct. He respects his art and his subject,
and illuminates our daily world with insights that allow us - at times force
us - to feel closer to other human beings whether we like and approve of them
or not. - Hubert Selby Jr.
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