Game of Death(Gerald R Gioglio) “For God’s sake give me the young man who has brains enough to make a fool of himself.” – Robert Louis Stevenson-


“White” “Wheat” and “Toast.” That’s who we were. Three Jersey Boys in the 1970s, all in our mid-to-late 20s. A trinity of the lighthearted and profane.

For a time, Jay, the White guy and me, the olive-skinned Sicilian-American (Wheat) were brothers-in-law, eventually becoming life-long friends. Ralph (AKA Toast), our African-American partner completed this culturally diverse fellowship.

The banter between us was often politically un-correct, but this casual familiarity was relaxed, affable and expected. Jay was something of a Don Rickles protégé; like Rickles much of his humor had an edge, an attitude, something beyond ubiquitous Jersey snark. Most encounters would generate a laugh, some folks might be appalled, others insulted. Jay could get under someone’s skin with a pointed nickname (consider “Nurse Hottie”) or with a Rickles quote like: “Italians are fantastic people, really. They can work you over in an alley while singing an opera.” Yep, he could definitely test the sanctity of Mother Teresa.

Ralph was a kind, fun-loving guy with the singing voice of a cherub, a true rhythm and blues aficionado. Let’s put it this way, if the modern-day singing competition “The Voice” was televised back in a day, Toast would definitely ‘turn a chair.’ He was funny too. Like, laying too much ‘trash talk’ on him might generate the quip, “Oh man, you so Black you blue.”

Our love for Baseball, Beer and BS solidified our relationship. All of these were consumed in vast quantities. The Blues and 60s Rock n’ Roll provided the soundtrack complementing our adventures.

Now and again, we’d travel to Queens to enjoy a day of New York Mets baseball. After the game we’d head to McSorley’s Olde Ale House in Manhattan, one of our favorite watering holes.

Opened in 1854, McSorley’s motto was “We were here before you were born.” A plaque over the bar summarized the rules of the establishment, quite simply: “Be Good or Be Gone.”

As the 1970s dawned, the pub still featured sawdust on the floor, spittoons around the bar and a solitary, ancient bathroom dominated by a row of tall, ambered porcelain urinals. McSorley’s refused to admit women until 1970 when that singular bathroom might have become the city’s first unisex comfort station.

The thing is, patrons couldn’t just order one ale. If you ordered one, you automatically got two. No exceptions, it was Standard Operating Procedure. So, think about it, if each member of a party of three buys a round, each got six beers… for starters.

One night, a rowdy group of stupid-drunk NYU students—probably freshmen-- took offense with one of Jay’s quips, a screaming match ensued as things got heated. Red-faced, loud and increasingly obnoxious it soon became clear these young guys were looking for a fight. With Jay snapping back and Ralph increasingly upset about not being able to settle things down, I decided to challenge the students to a different sort of fight.

Approaching the guy who was clearly the group’s Alpha-Male I said something like, “Look man, the sign says ‘Be Good or Be Gone,’ I’m sure you fellas are not finished drinking and neither are we. How about we settle this a different way? We’ll treat for plates of McSorley’s famous crackers, cheese and hot mustard. Then, how about you and I eat crackers and play what we call, ‘A Game of Death.’ You know, New York versus New Jersey.” I explained the simple rules to the students; nodding, yet still sneering our antagonists agreed to accept this challenge.

A Game of Death involved slathering McSorley’s outrageously hot mustard on a cracker layered with a wedge of sharp cheddar cheese, topped with a thick slice of raw Spanish onion. Trust me when I tell you this fiery concoction was double-plus-super-hot…and-a-half; the onion alone made your eyes water. The mustard was so hot it should have been on the City’s Haz Mat list. We’re talking sinus-opening, tongue-scorching, throat constricting fire in every bite.

There was only one rule; each combatant made the other opponent’s cracker, continuing to do so until one of us stopped eating or took a drink. The first person to do so lost the game.

I was pretty good at it having played with my buddies and especially when others joined our trio at McSorley’s. I felt confident, but then again, my antagonist was a few years younger, drunker, angrier and rowdier than me. So, who knew how this battle would go? If I lost, the victors could thump their chests and might be sated. If he lost, perhaps the spectacle would defuse the anger and tension.

I saw a quiet calm in Ralph’s face; a brash glint of self-satisfaction danced in Jay’s mischievous Irish eyes. Yes indeed, we were ready to rock this party.

My opponent took a cracker, and smoothly ran a thin coat of mustard across it, much like his mother might have when making him a ham sandwich. Concentrating on his work, he stacked a generous ration of cheddar over the mustard and topped it with a nice slice of onion.

In the meantime, I deposited a substantial dollop of hot mustard on my saltine, much like a father might top-up a cupcake with an extra swirl of frosting. Finishing up, I added a thick slice of cheddar cheese and a lavish portion of pungent Spanish onion. A gastronomical Atomic Bomb.

Game on, we sat in anxious communion; about to break bread. We looked up after finishing our creations and exchanged crackers. I sat poker-faced with something of a Buddhist half-smile. He smirked, eyes dilated in an alcoholic haze, overly convinced of his own invincibility.

The secret of success in a Game of Death is to not breathe while chewing and swallowing a loaded cracker. This way, the sinuses and lungs are not overwhelmed by taste and smell. Slowly, I inhaled, picked mine up and calmly began consuming half of the cracker.

My opponent snickered dismissively, grabbed his cracker and stuffed the entire ‘Atomic Bomb’ into his mouth. Advantage Team Jersey.

It was epic. His face turned red. As chewing slowed, a bead of sweat dripped down his forehead. His boozy eyes sharpened, then widened. He was literally fuming, the heat now baking his sinuses, lungs, tongue and throat. Suddenly, his body jerked upright. Quickly looking around he sees his buddies pointing and getting a kick out of his predicament. Stunned, smoldering and undone, he bolts out of the chair and sprints toward the restroom. Now, everybody was howling hysterically while I serenely munched on the second half of my cracker. Victory Team Jersey!

The students headed back to their table laughing about the game and their vanquished buddy. “He’s still in the bathroom!” “Whoa, man, that was a trip!” “Did you see that face?”

Nonviolence, in a manner of speaking, prevailed. We had not come to blows.

Ralph put a relieved hand on my shoulder.

Jay ordered us another round of ale.

I fixed myself another epicurean delight.

© 2021, Gerald R Gioglio

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