Two dozen alumni from our Calumet City, IL high school class reunion wandered into a plain windowless gym at the old school. It had been fifty years since I wandered around there, and I felt a swell of emotion as I entered the room.

Many memories came flooding back. One was that of Al Vega, our cross country and wrestling coach at the school who for years took athletes at the school, T.F. North, under his wing. Over the years, Mr. Vega had become a legend. Another graduate, Jim Fuentes and I, stood underneath a painted sign on the wall, “Al Vega Wrestling Room.”

“He was like a father to me,” said Jim, one of his top wrestlers who now donates an annual scholarship fund for graduating wrestlers.

I could say the same. Mr. Vega’s attention to the freshman boys who were wet behind the ears meant a lot to us. As a matter of fact, I brought to the reunion a small plastic trophy that you could buy at a dime store. Mr. Vega had given one to each of the freshmen back in 1969. It was a modest reward for those who successfully finished the season. I remember at the time that he said that he paid for them with his own money.

I have other trophies and medals that are bigger and for long running races, but this is the one that I cherish the most.

Hot pepper trick

One of my memories is the time Mr. Vega picked up my running friend John and I in his big dark green Buick Electra. That car seemed as big as a boat. Mr. Vega took us on one of his Sunday morning athletic jaunts. He would go to the YMCA in his old neighborhood on the South Side of Chicago, or to Rainbow Beach to play handball. John and I would then play sports and otherwise horse around for the morning, and then he would drive us back.

One day on the way home Mr. Vega stopped at a favorite Mexican food store. As he got onto the expressway, he reached into a brown paper bag and handed us a plump green jalapeno pepper.

“I want to see what you guys think of this,” he quipped, holding up the small green vegetable. “I’ll bite off the tip, and you guys take the next bites.”

Our ignorance of Mexican cooking would be our downfall.

There was no doubt some trick to this. Maybe Mr. Vega’s Hispanic taste buds were more accustomed to the scorching hot flavor. But as soon as I bit off the end of that spicey explosive, my tongue and mouth erupted into a flaming hot furnace. I remember rolling down the car window and gasping for cool air – to no avail. I felt like dousing my burning mouth with water, but we didn’t have water bottles in those days.

I don’t remember my friend John’s reaction. Even today, I recall the joke when putting a jalapeno pepper into my own bean recipes (and very sparingly, by the way).

It was a humorous event that has me thinking to this day. A tough but caring coach, Mr. Vega was not above a bit of tomfoolery.

Al Vega passed away about five years ago, but the happy memories remain.