John Rossi: On turning 90

This month, on April 7th to be precise, I will turn 90. 

When people find out my age, I always get the same question. To what do you owe your long life? The question is something I have thought about a great deal as I grew older.

It wasn’t heredity. My father died when he was just 43 and as the oldest of six children, I have outlived all my siblings except my youngest sister. On the other hand, I always took care of myself, never smoked and haven’t hadn’t had a drink of hard liquor in 60 years. I was never a big eater or had much of an appetite and have noticed as I grew older, I lost my taste for certain foods, especially meat. In the last week, the only meat I have had was bacon with my breakfast, the only meal I enjoy.

My weight never fluctuated much. I weigh approximately what I did when I signed up for the draft 70 years ago, 155 then; 145 now. I exercised all my life and even took up jogging before it became fashionable, although quickly gave that up as boring. I was something of a gym rat all my life and still have a membership in one of the gyms.

So, what is the answer? I believe it is partly luck. I have never been hit (so far) by any crippling health problems although as I note, at my age that could be just around the corner. I believe the answer is two-fold — my career and my wife.

First, I was very fortunate in my family. I was raised by aunts and uncles who never had any children and doted on me. My uncle who was a substitute father always wanted a son and thoroughly enjoyed the task of raising me. I owe him my interest in baseball which grew from being a fan of to being a serious historian of the game. I also owe him for encouraging my interest in history, taking me to Philadelphia’s historical sites when I was young and buying books on the past that I expressed an interest in.

Although not a Catholic, he sent me to La Salle High School because he wanted me to have a good education. I was an indifferent high school student and barely graduated but in college I discovered my academic love; the scholarly study of history. During my sophomore years I was in a class with seniors who were preparing for graduate school — two went on to get Ph.Ds. and another became the archivist for the CIA. 

I found to my surprise that I could keep up with them and more importantly my professor, the distinguished historian, John Lukacs, saw something in me and took me under his wing. He mentored me and was responsible for sending me to Notre Dame for my Masters and Penn for my Ph.D.

Shortly after finishing my graduate classes at Penn in 1962, I was hired as a part time teacher at my alma mater. I remained there for the next 56 years, the best years of my life. I enjoyed the classroom experience, mixing with bright young men and women, and thought each day as I went down to my classroom how lucky I was. 

Some of my students went on to have distinguished careers as doctors, lawyers, or in business. A few went on to earn Ph.D. degrees and become University teachers. One even became a successful crime novelist. The leading Orwell scholar in America, John Rodden, was one of my students and I introduced him to Orwell’s essays. He dedicated one of his books to me. William Burns, former ambassador to Russia and later head of the CIA was a student, and one of the best I ever taught.

But the main reason I have survived as long as did was who I married and how it came about is certainly unusual. In January 1964, I attended the American Historical Conference held in Philadelphia. I was talking with a friend of mine when two women walked by. One was tall, shapely built with dark brown hair, green eyes, and wearing a green suit. I remarked “now that is a pretty girl,” and thought no more of it. Six months later I was heading to the 12:15 Sunday Mass — not my usual one because I had been up late the night before — when I saw the girl from the Historical Convention heading to Mass also. I did a little detective work to find out who she was.

Her name was Frances Patricia Quinn, her mother was from Ireland, and Frances went to Holy Family College. Since one of my friends taught History there, I called him and quizzed him about her. He told me she would be at his wedding to which I had been invited. At the wedding I caught up with her and in one of the worst pick up lines ever, introduced myself: “I think we are fellow parishioners.” 

It worked. 

We went on our first date the next week. After my second date, I told my best friend, that’s the girl I want to marry. Seventeen months later we were married and remained together for 56 years. Frances was beautiful, smart, and had the kindest heart of anyone I ever met. She was an enthusiast who was responsible for the best things in my life, especially raising my daughter. She refused to go to work until my daughter finished grade and high school, believing it was important to be there for her.

Living with her was fun. I believe that the success I had as a teacher to a large extent was connected to the pleasure she brought into my life. She was the one who encouraged me to start writing and was a superb editor of my work. She encouraged me to think seriously about the history of baseball and helped me develop one of the first academic courses in the nation on “Baseball and American History.” 

During her last illness — she suffered from rheumatoid arthritis — she became quite a fan herself. When the Phillies were a bad team in 2016-17 and I lost interest, she would say “Oh, turn on the game. I like Tom.” Later she became a fan of John Kruk who she always called “The Kruker.” She even picked up some of the finer points of the game, surprising me by talking “sliders” and pitchouts and even criticizing umpire calls. Unfortunately, she died in the summer of 2022 before the Phillies got on their present run.

When my last book came out, the editor asked for a dedication. That was easy: “Fifty-Six Years Wasn’t Enough.” And it wasn’t.