I think I was born with class issues. My English father resented being a northern lad and if he ever had a Yorkshire accent, it was shed long before I was born. One of my mother’s favorite pastimes was pointing out when someone was putting on airs. You’re not that big a deal, pal.

And yet somehow, we ended up living in one of nice suburbs of Rochester, NY where I grow up. It was important to my parents that we do so, for the schools, the parks, the environment, the everything, even if we didn’t quite fit in with everyone else.

My town was called Brighton. Here’s the kind of town Brighton is. My friend’s mom was a guidance counselor across town in a suburb called Greece. One time there was a crew of Brighton kids stealing from homes and local businesses (bored kids stealing for thrills is a sign of privilege in itself). She said that her Greece students loved it when the Brighton kids were caught. And then of course there were people like my other friend’s father whose stereo store was robbed but he refused to press charges because they were just kids.

I remember being at a job once where a guy I worked with heard that I lived in Brighton and that the street I grew up one was called Oakdale and he said, “Of course the guy who lives in Brighton lives on a street called Oakdale.” In a recent trip to Rochester, I took a Lyft from the airport. The driver and I chatted. “Yeah, Brighton. I went to Brockport. We don’t like you guys.”

In my freshman year of high school, I needed a soccer team to play for. My local travel soccer team had disbanded. My friend Josh had gone across town to a town called Gates to play soccer the year before and I decided to join him. They had a spot for me.

It was a pretty Italian town, so, it was great to play soccer there. It was slightly different than Brighton, though. What I’m dancing around is something that we don’t really ever say out loud in America. Gates was a more working class. A lot of the kids were first generation American with Italian names that I’d never heard before. Angelo. Enzo.

I’m first generation American myself but from England, so, who cares?

Things went well for me with the new team. I fit in as well as a new guy to the team could. I felt like I was making friends. One guy named Mark said the he thought I was a good player. It was a nice compliment.

So, my local public school was well respected. Apparently it’s been nationally ranked (so I’m told by my friend’s who’ve graduated from there, though I had never seen the rankings). Even so my father thought it was a good idea to send me to the private all boys Jesuit school down the road, McQuaid. I’m glad I went there but, as with any private school, it had its share of rich pricks. Whether I was an authentic one or not, I behaved like one from time to time.

Our school’s rival was Aquinas. They were called the little Irish, complete with a Notre Dame fighting Irish ripoff mascot, perhaps a remnant of a bygone era where the student body was actually Irish. Generally, Aquinas kids were from the other side of Rochester and when they announced the names of players at the start of a game, it sounded like the cast list of a Martin Scorsese movie.

One of the guys on my new team was from Aquinas. So, obviously, since we’re teenage boys, we have to seek each other out and talk some trash to each other. One day, Enzo did just that about soccer. It was totally good natured and to this day, I don’t know where my response came from. All I can say is that, as a teenage kid, all I really cared about was grades and what was coming next. It was all I had going for me. So, when Enzo talked about our respective schools, I shot back, “Yeah, well which one of us is going to get into the better college?”

Enzo’s completely justifiable reaction can only be described as the facial expression equivalent of dude, you suck. “Yeah,” he said, “well that has nothing to do with soccer.”

Things changed after that. The other guys cooled on me. It could have been from my comment, maybe it was just how it would have turned out anyway. I remember, though, seeing an opposing player who had left my school. I told the other guys, “I played with that kid at McQuaid. He left, though, even though he had a full ride.”

This guy Larry said, “So, he would have been set for life, right?” And the other guys laughed with him.

I joined another team the following year.

Two years later after a varsity game against Aquinas, I saw Enzo. He shook my hand and said, “Good game, Rob.” Maybe he didn’t remember my college crack but I did. I like to think that he did remember but he was just a bigger man than I was.

It was years before I would go to college and then to New York City and meet actual rich kids who went to actual elite schools and were from actual rich towns. I’m not that big a deal, pal. I would realize that being from the rich suburb of Rochester is kind of like vacationing at one of the nicest beaches in Vancouver. Sure, it’s nice but it’s not really something to brag about.

The radio personality from my youth on 96.5 WCMF was a guy named Brother Wease. He used to end each show with, “It’s nice to be important but it’s more important to be nice.” Words to live by.