By Joe Romano, ‘63
Rod MacCleod, ’62, was a man among boys. He had been in the navy, and in January 1961 he was in his mid twenties. Every male student on campus wanted to be him, and every female wanted to be with him.
He was called Magoo because like Mr. Magoo he was near sighted and could not make much out beyond a few feet. He actually made the varsity basketball team for two years and sank every layup he attempted, but I kept track, and he never made a shot when he was more than two feet from the basket.
Rod took pride in his appearance, and unlike many male students, who went about unshaven wearing wrinkled pants and sweatshirts turned inside out with the sleeves hacked off, his chinos were neatly pressed, and he owned a series of stylish turtlenecks. If it was chilly he also wore a blue James Dean-style windbreaker with a hood.
His car was a blue MG convertible, and he kept it in immaculate condition.
Rod seemed to know the ways of the world and how to deal with them. Six of us had gone to Fort Lauderdale for spring break one year. None of us had much money and were using up our income tax return money, hoping it would last till we got back to campus. We ran into Rod, and he led us to the Elbo Room, a watering hole on the corner of Route A1A and Fort Lauderdale Blvd; I believe it is still there.
There was a man at the door checking IDs. Rod was over 21 and got in with no trouble of course. The six of us had only three borrowed IDs, so after three of us got inside we handed them back out through the men’s room window. Rod got us a table right next to a large party of adults. Rod knew we did not have much money, so he told us what cheap food and beer to order.
Then he watched the adults next to us, and when they left and before the busboy could clear off the table he confiscated all the leftover rolls and butter. Yes sir, he knew just about everything.
Back in the early ‘60s each September we had an old-fashioned kind of hazing called Rat Week, which pretty much set the tone and pecking order for the year. There was, however, no Rat Week for students enrolling second semester. Doug Hoehle enrolled as a freshman in January 1961. He considered himself a tough guy, a street fighter. He had apparently never run up against a power strong enough to force him to contemplate who he was or where he was going in life. Within a few minutes of arriving on
campus he swaggered to the SUB, spotted Rod’s MG, sidled over, sat down on the front fender and plopped his heavy boots on the hood.
Rod happened to be sitting on the front porch of the SUB drinking a Dr Pepper. He jumped off the porch, approached Hoehle and politely asked him to remove himself from the MG. Hoehle’s response was both insolent and insulting. Rod grabbed Hoehle and forcibly removed him from the fender. Hoehle regained his balance and rushed Rod, his fists up.
All it took was one punch to Hoehle’s cheek. He went down, and when he got to his feet he stumbled away.
A few minutes later we were back in our room in Rankin Hall when Rod opened the door. Not a hair was out of place. His chinos were still creased, and he was wearing a black turtleneck.
“Did you see where new kid went?” He said, his voice calm.
We pointed down the hall. He thanked us and closed the door behind him. He and Hoehle had a short talk. After that things went smoothly, and nothing was out of place except for a small bandage covering two stitches in Hoehle’s cheek
That was the beginning of a new life for Doug Hoehle. He had come up against a force he could not batter his way through, and it changed him. After a few detours and false starts he graduated from Rutgers University and made a career of working with the mentally disabled.
They have both passed on now, but what happened that day and the transformation it brought about still burns bright.