Tom Foley cocked his big Saint Bernard head to one side and smiled.
It had been a day cluttered with reporters, glad-handers and others wanting a piece of him. Now he had a chance to catch his breath, and the Irish storyteller in him emerged.
“It was the single greatest moment of achievement in my life, before or since,” he said, pausing for emphasis. “I thought, what’s left? This is it. It doesn’t get any better than this.”
Savoring his new title? Not quite. He was recalling his election to the “Knights of the Leash,” then a paddle-carrying, crested sweater-wearing contingent of glorified hall proctors at what is now Gonzaga Prep.
