by Kelly, Kevin
And though we were city kids coming from some tough neighborhoods, we were all bug-eyed and tongue-tied, not quite knowing what to say to these women (some of them beautiful) when they teased us. Most of us, after all, hadn’t even been on a date yet, let alone had sex.
Another Bosco neighbor was the Pine Street Inn, Boston’s largest homeless shelter. It was common for students to step over people sleeping in the subway station or in one of the nooks outside the school. But no one except the freshmen were ever shocked by this. These homeless people were part of the fabric of the inner city, a part of us and our days, and eventually becoming our normal.
Located at 300 Tremont Street, the school was originally opened in the 1930s as a trade school known as the Continuation School for Girls. During the late 1940s, Brandeis University purchased the building. After his tour of duty in the Navy, it was here that my father attended night classes and earned his high school diploma. In 1954, the Boston Board of Sales approved a $100,000 purchase offer by the iconic Archbishop of Boston, Cardinal Richard Cushing, who single-handedly ruled Boston from the mid-1940s until his death in 1970. Mayor Hynes of Boston opposed the sale, citing a recent appraisal that valued the building at $308,000, but Cardinal Cushing had done his homework and met with Boston’s political powers before Hynes took a look. And just like that, in the fall of 1955, Saint John Don Bosco Technical High School was open for business.
The school was run by priests and brothers of the Salesian Fathers, a Roman Catholic religious order founded in the late nineteenth century by Saint John Bosco. In the early 1970s, the surrounding Catholic schools were releasing their grip on traditionally strict dress codes, but Bosco, taking pride in tradition, maintained the status quo. As we waited for the subway, we were stared at and smirked over. We were the only kids in the city wearing suit coats and ties, our hair cut above our ears, and our shoes polished, but the administration loved it. Dana Barros, our dark-skinned, white-haired, slickly dressed administrator, always enjoyed bellowing down the halls, “Boys, at Bosco we’re not ashamed of our dress code. We’re proud of it!”
The administration didn’t draw the “old school” line at uniforms, either. Corporal punishment was also so much a regular part of our school days that not one of us would’ve ever thought of telling our parents if teachers or administrators hit us. Most parents supported the school’s disciplinary code. If I’d gone to my father or mother complaining about getting smacked, they’d have only asked, “So what did you do to upset Brother Julius?”
This conversation would have taken place, of course, while I was getting smacked all over again by one or both of my parents—just to make sure the Brother’s message was driven home. Most parents were not only embarrassed if their kid acted out at school, but were afraid it might lead to expulsion. And for the Kelly boys, if you were ever expelled, you might as well just join the Marines, because what was waiting at home for you was much worse than any boot camp. It didn’t take long for all of us to learn never to share anything with our parents when we got disciplined at school. The Bosco priests and brothers knew this was part of the student culture, and they took full advantage of it. It was a mainstay of the Catholic school upbringing for students to submit to corporal punishment. Toss some Catholic guilt into the equation, and you’ve just created the perfect conditions for neatly controlling a population of teenagers.
Bosco was the number one technical school in New England back then. The way it worked, we’d all declare a trade freshman year and continue with that trade for the next three. Each trade comprised theory, mechanical drawing, and a hands-on shop class. Cabinet-making, building technology, drafting, electronics, printing, and electricity were always the most popular trades.
I picked cabinet-making and building technology, and was taught by the most legendary teacher in Bosco history: Brother Julius. He had a glass eye and a thumb the size of a hammer’s butt end. He was more than simply “old school.” Stories of being poked, slapped, or knocked into the next century by Brother Julius were handed down from class to class for four decades. All three of us Kelly boys ended up on the receiving end of Brother Julius’ hand, thumb, and projectile more than once during our time at Bosco.
The most memorable of my Brother Julius experiences, however, wouldn’t take place until my senior year.
Shop class with Brother Julius was held on the school’s seventh floor, where we had a good view of the nearby streets. So when a homeless man climbed atop a bus stop shelter one afternoon and then fell off, landing on a spiked fence, we had the perfect vantage point. The spike went through the man’s kidney, and he bled to death right there on the street as we watched.
Not many of us had seen a dead person before, so we all just stared out the window in horror, watching as the police and firemen pulled the body off the fence. Brother Julius, on the other hand, had absolutely no sympathy for the homeless in general (which I always found unbelievable considering the mission of the Salesian Order). To him, the homeless were nothing but street bums. He felt that God gave everyone the tools to be successful in life, and if you threw away that opportunity, you were committing a mortal sin for which God would punish you.
As I looked out the window that day, gaping at the bleeding, dying man, Brother Julius came up behind me and looked out over my shoulder. Then, in a whisper, his Italian accent thick in my ear, he said, “Dat shoulda bin you, Mr. Kelly.”
I turned to him and, without a thought, laughed. He winked at me with his good eye and told everyone to get back to work. Some might struggle to comprehend this interplay between teacher and student but, for me, it was a momentary exchange of affection. It was the moment we both knew we understood each other.
On the last day of my senior year, while we stood together in a line waiting to return our tools, my closest friend, David Killion, was staring out the window, daydreaming and holding up a wooden folding ruler in his hands. Without thinking, David started fanning the back end of the ruler; he spread the ruler as far as he could, then let it snap back into place—something Brother Julius could not only see but hear. He walked over slowly and asked David to stop (Brother Julius always had a calmer demeanor around seniors).
David, realizing what he’d been doing, apologized immediately, dropping his ruler flat onto the desk. Satisfied, Brother Julius went back to collecting our tools. Minutes later, however, David again began daydreaming and staring out the window while fanning and snapping the ruler down. This time, Brother Julius pounced, snatched the ruler out of David’s hand, slapped him across the cheek, in line with his jaw-bone, and split his face open. Then Brother Julius calmly handed the ruler back to David and said, “Now you will learn.” No one else said a word.
During our high school days, no one would ever think of hitting a priest or brother, but David would certainly have been justified. Kids were surprised and angry, sure, but by our senior year, we were pretty much programmed to keep our heads down and our mouths shut.
After Brother Julius passed away years later, alumni filled the church for his funeral. Over time, we’d begun to realize and strangely appreciate the energy and tremendous attention to detail that Brother Julius had given us. We’d learned to respect and admire his commitment and the unique Julius-brand of caring that he’d always showed us. For many Bosco students (David Killion likely not among them), he became one of the most beloved and memorable of our teachers.
Another colorful icon at Bosco was Father Angelo Bongiorno. Father was unlike any other priest at Bosco. Though he stood but 5’-8”, had pure white hair, wore glasses, and came across as a reflective and seemingly mild-mannered intellectual, he boasted a body builder’s physique. When my brother Tom had him for math during his freshman year in 1968, he entered class one day with one of those body building spring bars that then were being advertised in the back of every comic book in America. In the ad, a body builder was seen using both hands to bend a thick, metal bar with a heavy-duty
spring.
“Anyone who can bend this bar will receive an ‘A’ in this class for the entire year,” he said. Everyone tried but not one kid received a free “A”.
Father had an extensive vocabulary and loved to toss out fancy, multi-syllabic words just so he could watch our dumbfounded reaction. “Sullivan, you are phlegmatic and hirsute!” In retrospect, it seems a strange combination of words to describe a kid―”You are calm and hairy.” But I guess that wasn’t the point.
Father was also in charge of the cheerleaders, who hailed from our sister school from Southie, Cardinal Cushing for Girls. Father often grabbed the pompoms and led the cheers to get the school pumped up at a pep rally. It was hysterically funny to see this muscle-bound priest prancing about with pompoms in the gym of an all-boys school. “Do ya got the spirit? Yay, man! Let the freshmen yell it . . . Go, go . . . go, go, go!” If Father was gay, or if any of the students wondered if he was, there wasn’t much conversation about it, because he also had a mean streak, and when he let loose, no one wondered what sexual orientation he favored!
During my senior year, I had Father for Trigonometry, and for some unexplainable reason, Michael May, a classmate, decided to test Father Angelo’s patience.
“Okay, boys, please stand for morning prayers,” Father said. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, good morning, God!”
Seated in the back of the room, Michael piped up: “Well, good morning, Angelo!”
Everyone froze in disbelief!
Father blew a gasket, “What are we doing here?” he said. “Running a zoo?”
He wasn’t too sure who said it, but he didn’t care. He suddenly burst forward in Michael’s general direction. With an open hand, he whacked every kid he could reach. I wasn’t taking any chances, and I certainly wasn’t about to announce my innocence, so I went straight into survival mode and dove under my desk!
On the athletic side, Don Bosco was truly unique in that it had no athletic facilities—no gym, no pool, no playing fields, no track, and no weight room. Since Bosco was located downtown, the only way to expand its facilities (short of buying up and demolishing surrounding properties) was to go below ground. In 1957, architectural plans were drawn up for an underground athletic complex, but the project was held up in litigation with The Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority, which was desperate for land with which to build a new tunnel.
Then, in 1973 (my junior year), Bosco finally managed to acquire a new gym, pool, and weight room. Of course, our football team remained without a home field on which to practice, so we had to travel across town to Science Park every day.
Most private school students today are blessed with excellent athletic facilities right on their own campus. Even back then, every other team in the Catholic Conference had a home field at their school. Our pile of weights, on the other hand, was tucked away in the girls’ locker room at Science Park’s public swimming pool. But though many saw this as a laughable void in our program, we Bosco boys came to regard it with an odd sense of pride and bravado—we were inner city kids at an inner city Catholic school, and if that meant traveling miles across the city to practice on a field where the grass would be destroyed by the second week of September, then so be it.
Science Park was located on the Charles River, in the backyard of Boston’s world famous Science Museum. The public swimming pool there served as both our locker room and weight room. During the school year, the pool was closed to the public so, unfortunately, the Bosco kids didn’t get the chance to meet any girls at our makeshift locker/weight room. (But then again, I guess God fulfilled our desires by having the strippers and hookers greeting us in the mornings.)
With its riverside walkways; the Esplanade (where the Boston Pops performed every Independence Day); and the world-renowned Massachusetts General Hospital on the opposite side of Storrow Drive, the Science Park area really was quite breathtaking. The Boston Garden, home of the Celtics and Bruins, was located in Boston’s renowned Italian North End, and across the river (into Cambridge) were MIT and Harvard. The river itself is where Paul Revere and William Dawes crossed to begin their ride out to Lexington and Concord in 1775. In the 1970s, the Charles River made national news as one of the most polluted in the country. But though swimming in the Charles then would’ve been hazardous to your health, the river still looked beautiful from a distance.
Practicing out there meant that, each day after school, we hiked thirty minutes with our football bags, shoulder pads, and helmets slung over our shoulders. Everyone knew we were Bosco kids, the only gold-helmeted teenage boys trudging through downtown. And if it wasn’t raining, snowing, gusting, or freezing, the walk could be rather pleasant.
The first sights on our daily trek were two scenic landmarks: the Public Gardens, the oldest public garden in America (1837), and the Boston Commons, the oldest public park in America (1634). Thousands of tourists flock to the Public Gardens each year to ride Boston’s famous Swan Boats. Being able to close your eyes and smell the endless flowers, or to throw peanuts to the ducks following behind (all while drifting past one of Boston’s renowned traffic jams) was a gift.
The Boston Commons has a slightly darker history than the Gardens—it was once not only a public area where farmers grazed their animals, but was also used for the occasional public hanging. Today, it’s the front lawn to the gold-domed Massachusetts State House (though even now, if you own livestock and wish to bring in your cattle or sheep to graze on the commons, the laws are still in place for you to do so). For the most part, instead of grazing cattle, the Commons are now filled with students studying, businesspeople walking briskly up from the subway, children playing on the jungle gym, couples strolling, and homeless people gathering.
During the warm autumn months, we all envied the lovers holding hands, lying down on blankets together, and drifting off for nice afternoon naps in the sun. No one would dare say how much we wished we could’ve traded places with them, but we were all thinking it. To trade our toughness for a nap in the shade with a beautiful girl—that was what toughness was supposed to get you in the first place, right?
On our route to practice were the expensive specialty shops on Charles Street, with sidewalks of red brick dating back to the 1700s. We cut across the street past Buzzy’s Roast Beef, Boston’s best greasy spoon, and then passed the Charles Street Jail (which dates back to 1851). Hustling across the overpass, across Storrow Drive, we’d arrive (finally) at the girls’ changing room, and our makeshift locker/weight room.
Each season, it only took about two weeks of practice before all the Science Park grass disappeared. Of course, calling it grass in the first place is being generous. Science Park was nothing but crabgrass and weeds supported by a sandy base. And, after a couple weeks of fifty kids running and tearing up the surface, we were left with what appeared to be competition for the Sahara. During the hot, dry weather, it was a dust bowl. Sweat made the dust stick to every pore on your body. We blew our noses after taking a shower and our towels were covered in black, gooey muck. When it rained, it was a mud bowl. When it froze, it was as hard as playing on a broken, splintered sidewalk.
Snow, of course, was the worst condition to play in. After thirty minutes of practice, the snow turned to slush and, after an hour, we’d lose all feeling in our toes. By that point, we had no feelings in our fingers from either tackling or making catches (gloves weren’t permitted then). And if the wind was blowing off the Charles, then our ears (which you couldn’t reach to warm while helmeted) felt as if they’d simply fall off during the next hit.
Practice uniforms that had once been fresh and clean were soaked and streaked with mud; the only thing warm in us was the anger and frustration we felt for volunteering for this madness and abuse in the first place.
To the coaches, the field and weather conditions were of little consequence. Somehow, it was all supposed to be character-building for us, and the coaches
only seemed to relish in our misery.
It was a well-known (though unspoken) rule to never look at the Lechmere clock during practice. Of course, we all did anyway, and especially during the cold months. It hung across the Charles River, outside the Lechmere building, and it taunted us. Getting caught looking at the clock sent a message to the coaches that we weren’t paying attention (or were just thinking of ourselves), and any hint of selfishness on the field was considered the ultimate sin.
“Kelly, I hope I didn’t just see you looking at that clock. If I did, you’ll being doing laps for the next hour!”
It wouldn’t be until my senior year that the city would finally sod Science Park. That our competition had the luxury of athletic facilities (facilities that included actual grass!) right at their school while we only had Science Park seems comical to me now. But during the ’72 season, we Bosco boys hiked three miles to practice on a surface that was more conducive for a rock fight than a game of football.
CURRIER
Our head coach, Bob Currier, was from Brighton (as was assistant coach Dempsey). Bob had attended St. Columbkille’s through high school and in 1951, after graduating from college, returned to his high school to begin his coaching career as an assistant football coach. After a few years, he moved up to the Catholic Central league and became an assistant coach at Matignon High School in Cambridge, Massachusetts. While at Matignon, players quickly learned to seek out and listen to Currier rather than their head coach. Currier had a superior understanding of the game and, because he could make adjustments during a game when things weren’t working out well, his players trusted him. In 1963, Matignon went on to an undefeated season.