He may be silver, but revenge is sweet

We were headed toward the cobblestone roads of hilly Manayunk, after descending the steps of St. Lucy's church on Smick Street.

We waved our custom-made towels - "HITCHED" - and finished the set of impromptu photos before finding the parking lot. The trolley was there for the wedding party. Next stop, the Conshohocken Marriott.

The reception wasn't for another two hours but Amy Zurzola Quinn and I were on deadline, apropos for the betrothal of two journalists. We were ready for our close-ups, Mr. DeMille.

Once we reached the reception area at the hotel, we found a quiet niche between two banquet halls. The photographer set up his lights.

Amy, glowing and gorgeous on one side of the chair, me, smiling and hungry on the other.

And that's when it happened.

"You and your daughter look so beautiful," said the schmoe walking by on his way to the men's room.

The Father of the Bride.

We laughed because I had heard it all before, having my fu manchu go half-white at 25, and the mop on top going totally gray by 35.

Amy says that, to this day, my silver locks were what attracted her in the first place. "My Silver Charm," she called me. (By the way, the thoroughbred Silver Charm almost won the Triple Crown the year we met, 1997. We had $20 to win on the Derby and Preakness.)

It was a nice way for me to think of my perfectly coiffed hair and not feel old. I am still convinced she overlooked the hair hue because of my blue eyes.

For the record, there is an age difference of 18 years, though that is by calendar only, not emotional quotient or maturity. Plus, her cooking prowess made her seem like the 46-year-old, not the 28-year-old.

So I sucked it up, and my gut, too, as we headed to the reception, and, of course, later, the dance floor. I have happy feet, so once the photos were done, it was all one big party anyway. The color of my hair didn't matter.

To me.

But don't think for a minute the photo-shoot interloper was the only one thinking it. Not long after our first date (Tiger Woods wins the Masters), some of Amy's friends and family had coined a nickname for me: Billy Batts, the guy who gets whacked by Joe Pesci at the bar in the movie Goodfellas after he tells the character Tommy to "go get your shine box."

First of all, Batts' hair was grainy salt and pepper. Dirty gray. Not silver. And his face was all kinds of ugly. He got by because, in mob terms, he was a made man.

So it's probably a good thing I didn't know they were calling me Billy Batts behind my back. I might have taken out a contract on the wiseguy who came up with that line.

But now, revenge is sweet.

Some 15 years later, as I keep my head (of hair) while others are losing theirs, it is amusing. Most of the culprits are now the same age I was then. One shaves his head. Another is bald. Two are probably searching for Rogaine right now on Google, and a third is channeling Keith Hernandez and Walt Frazier, looking for a discount for Just For Men hair coloring. (By the way, have you noticed that if you color your hair and then stop, it winds up looking orange?)

So, all is forgiven. I have my hair. A lot of it, well, maybe, enough of it. It is still silver.

But some memories are golden.

Amy's dad, John Zurzola, also had silver hair on our wedding day.

Over this last summer, he courageously passed away at age 86.

A Navy man through and through, he suffered and struggled but was a bull to the end.

He raised five daughters, a feat worthy of a medal. He earned his silver. Five weddings. Mine was the last.

So, it is an honor, forever, to have been mistaken for him on such a glorious September day in fall 2000.

The Father of the Bride.

John Quinn is the sports editor of The Inquirer. Though he was not born with gray hair, there aren't many people left in journalism who remember him without it.