Ronald Henry Manzella

What I said at the cemetery

Ron Manzella picked me up at 7:10 in the morning. Every single day. Football or no football. Didn’t matter — 7:10.

He’d be sitting at the entrance to Ivy Hill Park in that little old pickup, paint dulled by sun and hard work. Nobody asked him to be there. Nobody paid him. Nobody was watching. He just came. And then the next morning, he came again.

I was a kid nobody was betting on. Ron decided otherwise, and he never announced it. He just showed up at 7:10.

That truck was the university of life. Most of what I know about being a man, I learned in the passenger seat between Ivy Hill and that old door.

He’d tell me: “Danny, what you do today reverberates through time. Like a pebble in the middle of a pond. The ripples go on forever.”

And then he’d look over and ask me the question. A thousand times he asked me. “Is that what I taught you? Who are you going to be, Danny? Someone who can be counted on? Or just another wannabe schmuck?”

I’ve been answering that question my whole life.

The man was granite. That’s the only word. Toughness, grit, courage, no apologies. Do the right thing — all the time, every time, whether it costs you or not.

And he was still teaching it at the end.

I walked into his room and I said, “Coach, we’re late for practice. What are you doing here? Let’s go.”

And he woke up. His daughter was there. His grandkids were there. He opened his eyes, and he mouthed a few words to me that I am not going to repeat at a cemetery.

Flat on his back and still granite. Still tough. Still Ron.

And then I leaned down and whispered in his ear. I said, “Coach, it’s okay if you want to go. You did your job. We got it from here.”

He kept fighting.

Of course he did. That’s him. He was never going to take the easy exit just because somebody offered it to him. Not even from me. Not even at the end.

His family told me they believed that visit gave them another week with him. I need to say this plainly, because they will never say it about themselves: they are the heroes of this story. Not me. I got one morning. They never left his side. All the way to the end. That’s what he taught, and they’re the ones who lived it.

And Linda. Fifty-three years. High school sweethearts. Linda, you carried the heaviest part of this. Every morning he gave me was a morning he wasn’t at your table. Every kid he picked up — and there were a lot of us — was time out of your life, not just his. You never once made me feel like I was taking something. Thank you. I don’t know how else to say it. Thank you.

Now I want everybody here to come with me for a minute. It’s 7:10 this morning, and I made the ride one more time.

I’m parked at the entrance to Ivy Hill Park. Same spot he’d be waiting.

We pull out. Past the park. Right at the end.

Past Seton Hall Prep — which he saved a bunch of us from.

Left on South Orange Ave. Right on Scotland Road. Down to Valley Road.

And then Metcalf comes up. Coach, I brought some of that field with me. It’s going with you. You spent enough of yourself on that dirt — you’re taking some of it back.

And then the church. That old door. BOYS, cut into the stone, right where it’s always been.

That’s where the ride ends. Same as it ended every morning of my childhood.

Except this morning I was the one driving. And Ronnie was sitting next to me.

Ron, the pebble hit the water a long time ago. Look around you. Every person standing here is a ripple.

And to answer your question, one last time — I’m someone who can be counted on. You made sure of it.

Thank you, Coach.

I’ll see you at 7:10. And I won’t be late.