His Bridge Over Troubled Water

As a man goes blind, his friend watches his back

- Paul Hond

ONE DAY during his freshman year at Columbia University, Sanford “Sandy” Greenberg, class of 1962, stood on campus by a grassy plot with his classmate Arthur Garfunkel. “Sanford, look at that patch of grass. You see the colors? The shapes? The way the blades bend?” Garfunkel asked.

Greenberg was smitten. Other guys talked about girls and sports, but Garfunkel wanted to talk about ... a patch of grass!

Was there a luckier guy on campus than Greenberg? Here he was, a poor kid from Buffalo, New York, on full scholarship, taking classes from superstars such as anthropologist Margaret Mead, physicist Leon Lederman, historian James Shenton, and poet Mark Van Doren. And he had a great new pal, a brainy kid from New York City with a pure tenor voice.

But in the summer of 1960, just before junior year, Greenberg’s fortune changed. He was in Buffalo, playing baseball, when his vision “steamed up.” He had to lie down on the grass until the clouds went away. The doctor said it was allergic conjunctivitis.

Back at school that fall, Greenberg had more episodes, but he didn’t tell anyone. He didn’t believe it was anything serious. Still, his roommates—Garfunkel and Jerry Speyer—saw that he was having trouble.