Fearless Phil

We called him “Fearless Phil,” the origins of the nickname unknown but I thought used mostly because in tiny Cambridge we believed the most danger any policeman would face would be a drunken farmhand riding an old dried-up milk cow down Main Street, an event I think that actually did happen, but I got this third hand, so don’t hold me to it. Much of my knowledge of Chief Sica, however, is of the first-hand variety and why I hold him such high regard today.

One of the most important things to known about Mr. Sica is he was, and I’m sure still is, highly intelligent. With kids like us, he was always three steps ahead of the game, and probably with most adults too. I can provide several first-hand examples. From these experiences and others I long ago concluded Mr. Sica did much to help raise a bunch of young and rowdy Cambridge knuckleheads.

My first direct contact with Chief Sica came when I was in the eighth grade after I decided to balance precariously on a narrow concrete bridge railing on Main Street over what we called “The Sewer Brook,” but I believe is more accurately referred to as Rice’s Brook. While doing my best daredevil imitation, Chief Sica pulled over in his patrol car and called out, “ Don’t jump, sir, I’ll marry your daughter.”

At the time I had no idea how Chief Sica worked psychologically, but instantly understood he wanted me off the railing before I got hurt. Much later, after spending over 30 years working with a lot of troubled teenagers, I finally appreciated how Chief Sica used his great sense of humor to send directions that would result in quick and voluntary compliance, thereby keeping the village and its people safe.

I was 2000 miles distant when I first began to deeply appreciate Chief Sica the most because I never knew previously what many police officers did as a matter of routine. This knowledge came most indirectly from close association with “Doughnut,” another derisive handle for a very good police officer. At first, like a lot of people, I thought Doughnut was lazy, but I’d never worked closely with him until my stint as a school administrator patrolling the halls of a large urban high school with a walkie-talkie I’d use to summon a real cop when necessary, and sadly, it often was. The school’s student population exceeded that of the entire Village of Cambridge when I lived there. We had more crime on a weekly basis than Cambridge saw in my youth in a year, and some of it was seriously violent. I soon learned from my patrol duties the last thing I wanted to be was a law enforcer, but also finally understood how important the job is and how few get to observe real police work up close.

I soon learned that Doughnut was at work almost constantly behind the scenes as a school resource officer. He frequently prevented crime before it actually happened. School police officers generally don’t want to arrest students; they are focused on keeping the school safe. Doughnut was as much a teacher/counselor as he was a cop, and today, not at all a surprising, works full time as law enforcement instructor. A better man could not be found for the job. I think the same goes for Chief Sica when he was Cambridge Chief of Police. I’d bet my house he prevented as much crime and injury just talking to people as he did writing tickets and making arrests.

My next Fearless Phil story takes place in and around what we called “The School Woods,” little of it remaining today due to development from what I’ve seen on more recent trips home. In the 60s and 70s this wooded area adjacent to CCS was a most convenient hiding place for all sorts of mischief some of us practiced almost full time. It was also the location of “Smoker’s Stump” where delinquents like me could knock down a Winston or two before going to school, well out of the eyes of people like Coach Record and Tesar or others who would report us for training rule violations that would quickly lead to suspension from whatever team we played for at the time. Kids who didn’t care who knew they smoked just stood on the dirt path that led to the school parking lot not far away.

Smoker’s Stump was also the designated location of many “I’ll see you after school” fights of which there were more than a few over the years, but none of them ever involved any sort of weapon and always ended when one or both sides just gave up. “You don’t hit a man when he’s down,” was a cardinal rule. Our idea of a “drive-by” was throwing an egg at someone, a topic for another time I’ll cover under “Halloween in Cambridge,” a story where Chief Sica again looms large. But let’s get back to the woods.

“One was scared and the other glad of it,” a friend of mine accurately described most youthful battles around Smoker’s Stump, just part of growing up male in Cambridge I guess. The most serious injury I can recall was Terry Dwyer breaking his hand punching my thick skull, definitely my best defensive weapon.

“The School Woods” also served on many weekends as a most convenient bar and grill for the underage set. Back when the drinking age was 18 it was really easy for a 15-year-old to get beer and I could embarrass many upstanding Cambridge citizens today who served as providers.

Of course, Chief Sica was completely aware of what went on and managed to keep the parties down to a minimum by patrolling the area frequently, shining his patrol car lights into the words, and often walking through them when he thought it necessary.

One of his raids in particular stands out. We had a fine old time going when Chief Sica hit us with his spotlight. We took off like crippled deer through the woods as fast as our legs would carry us. I ran dead smack into a tree at some point and actually did see mental stars. I’d bet again that Phil was laughing out loud as he rounded up the six packs we left and he dumped onto the back seat of his patrol car. He wasn’t finished with us yet though.

Chief Sica next drove to where he precisely figured most of us would bail out of the woods, just over the railroad tracks adjacent to one of the big Asgrow storage buildings.

As we charged over the tracks, Chief Sica hit us with his spotlight for a second time.

“Hey boys,” he said. “Where’re you going in such a big hurry? You’ll miss too much going through life so fast. In fact, you just missed out on one heck of a beer party back there in the woods.” Fearless Phil then shined his flashlight on the seat holding all of our beer.

“Don’t know why anyone would throw away perfectly good beer like that,” he said, “but then you just can’t figure some people.” With that, he got into his patrol car and drove off. While I have no further specific memory, I wouldn’t be surprised most of our parents received a telephone call that evening, far worse than any ticket Chief Sica could have issued, most informal but even more effective justice. He didn’t have to ask for ID either; he knew every one of us by first and last name. “Round up the usual suspects,” they say in the movies, and that would apply directly to our gang. We actually held meetings under the heading of “The National Dishonor Society,” the location I’ll leave out of print but quite a few people my age will remember well. I’m told our old clubhouse still stood until just a few years ago, quietly rotting in another wooded area not far out of town.

All this is not to say Chief Sica wouldn’t write a ticket or make an arrest he thought was fair and appropriate. One of my old hanging buddies I’ll keep anonymous got one that serves as a most appropriate Fearless Phil closing.

Chief Sica had just ticketed a friend for doing what we usually called “a burnout” and then going too fast for road conditions. The young would-be racetrack driver was officially cited on the ticket for “unsafe and imprudent speed.”

My pal was confused. “I get the unsafe part,” he said, “but I wasn’t being imprudent. I talked real nice to Phil.”