Both Sides of the Line

by Kelly, Kevin

  Life was running smoothly for Currier when a friend insisted he apply for the head football coaching job at Don Bosco. Currier had no interest or desire. He felt Bosco’s athletic programs were run miserably, he disapproved of its athletic philosophy, and he even disliked the school colors. Sitting reluctantly in front of Athletic Director John Sull, with five candidates waiting in the lobby for their turn to interview, Currier was asked why he wanted the job. “Truthfully, I don’t want the job. My friend Murray said he arranged for the interview, so here I am.” A stunned Sull asked what Currier disliked about Bosco’s sports programs. “Everything! Your teams are undisciplined, your school colors are embarrassing, and your team records are terrible.” Sull was writing it all down frantically.

  “The following week,” Currier recalls, “I was offered the job, and accepting it was the smartest decision I ever made. Brighton had an excellent Pop Warner program, so I recruited as many of those kids as possible to attend Bosco. I built my nucleus from those kids.” In 1969, Bosco would become co-champions of the Central Division. In 1971, Bosco would receive the invitation to the big dance, the Catholic Conference. All of Currier’s hard work and dedication had paid off.

  He was intense and bright, and he demanded endurance and precision from all his players. He quickly made himself notorious for running a play over and over until it was run to his satisfaction, settling only for perfect execution. Nothing frustrated Currier more than mental mistakes―such things as missing an assignment, jumping off sides, running to the wrong hole, fumbling the ball, forgetting a play, or dropping a pass. And want to really get chewed out? Make the same mistake more than once.

  “Kelly, how could you possibly block the linebacker on that play? The defensive end is right in front of you! Please explain to me what could possibly be going through your mind!”

  Only a handful of players (most often the quarterbacks and running backs) were immune to Currier’s wrath. The linemen were the ones most often the objects of his frustration (truth be told, the linemen have the tougher jobs). As linemen, we have to explode into other linemen, and all six linemen at a time have to do their jobs perfectly for a play to be successful. Running backs just need to find an opening, and quarterbacks just have to hand them the ball or toss a pass to a receiver. So, at least during practice, it’d make sense that more mistakes would be made by the line than in the backfield.

  As a math teacher at Bosco, Currier ran his classes just like football practice. Every problem had a rule that solved it. If you didn’t know the rule, he would get in your face. It was like not knowing your football plays. Some students would lock up in fear as he ranted, grilling us for not knowing one equation or another. I still remember when Jonathan, a small, shy kid in my class, froze up when Currier asked him for the reciprocal of four-fifths.

  It wasn’t a difficult problem, so Currier asked, “What is the rule?”

  But Jonathan became so nervous that, as he started to answer, his words came out in a stutter. So Currier returned to the original question but, again, Jonathan was speechless. At this point, Currier came out from behind his desk, the entire room in an apprehensive silence, all of us just staring at this poor kid.

  “Okay, Jonathan, relax. Let’s start from the beginning. What’s your name?”

  “J-J-J-J-Jonathan.”

  “Great. What day is it?”

  “W-W-W-Wednesday.”

  “Now you’re cooking. What’s today’s date?”

  Jonathan paused, looked up at the ceiling, desperately searching for the right answer.

  “Within two days!”

  We snickered, unable to help ourselves as Currier continued to play with Jonathan.

  “The 12th?”

  “Beautiful! Now, what is the reciprocal of four-fifths?”

  But at Jonathan’s continued silence, Currier slowly began to turn red, his demeanor no longer light and easy.

  The harder Currier pressed, the more Jonathan stuttered. Currier refused to understand why the kid simply couldn’t come up with the right answer. “The rule never changes, Jonathan,” an exasperated Currier bellowed, “so why can’t you give me the rule?”

  Why Currier continued to torture the poor kid, I can’t imagine. The episode lasted five minutes, but it felt like half a day. And like most Catholic school kids, instead of speaking out, we just put our heads down and thanked God it wasn’t us.

  While I worried about screwing up on the practice field and hated getting chewed out by Currier, I was never too intimidated by him in the classroom. I just didn’t have trouble asking him for help. I can’t explain it, but I must’ve been one of the few who actually enjoyed his classes. He was exceptional in his ability to analyze problems and explain how one might solve them. If he was in a good mood, he’d even inject humor into his teaching. He’d often even drop lessons entirely to switch into a sports scenario or discuss some bizarre football rule that no one had ever heard of. In these times, it was our job—our solemn duty—to ask questions and do anything in our power to keep him going. But whether or not on a digression, when Currier spoke, I never took my eyes off him. He had my complete attention, and he knew it.

  Outside of practice, he was a great teacher and storyteller, but he also employed a cutting, sarcastic sense of humor. If you weren’t on the receiving end, it was hilarious. But if you were on the receiving end . . . Well, just take Johnny Cochran for example.

  Cochran was a teacher at Don Bosco. He’d been an All-Scholastic athlete in high school, a big guy, 6’4” and a good two hundred and fifty pounds. But something had happened to him—something must’ve happened to him—because, despite his size and successes, Cochran was often nervous and seemed to lack self-confidence. Because of this, he became an easy target for both coaches and students at Bosco. One day during history class, when Cochran looked particularly uneasy, sweating and shaking, I knew it was only a matter of time before the jokes would start rolling.

  Finally, after nearly a half hour of stammering and pacing, he announced to the class that he could not teach. “Boys, something terrible has happened. My mother is in Europe and cannot be found!”

  All of us fell silent and for the first time felt genuinely sorry for him. But then, later at lunch, a group of us saw Currier in the cafeteria and heard a very different story:

  “Coach, isn’t it terrible about Mr. Cochran’s mother? The poor guy can barely function.”

  Currier, rolling his eyes, said, “Johnny Cochran’s mother is with forty other people taking a tour of Europe. Cochran just doesn’t know where she is at this moment. Can’t you see Johnny at the airport? Will the big red-headed kid with the lollipop report to the Lost and Found counter? We just found your momma!”

  Ten of us surrounded Currier as he looked up at us with a dead-pan expression; we all walked away howling in laughter.

  But while Currier knew how to dish it out with the best of ’em, it was Dempsey’s pranks that really hit the mark. One of his most on-point gags took us seven years to learn the truth of.

  It all started in the ’70s, when Boston was the stolen car capital of the world. Most of us came from neighborhoods where seeing a stolen car was a daily occurrence, and where it was considered fairly normal. In my hometown of Hyde Park, we had our very own neighborhood car thief, a guy named Kenny Whiteman. Kenny was a tiny guy, but he had a giant personality and was a local legend. He’d begun stealing cars in the fourth grade and, during his early days, he’d carry a telephone book along with him to sit on so he’d be tall enough to see out over the windshield.

  He also was absolutely fearless. At the age of twelve, Kenny could drive sixty miles per hour down a city street with cars parked on both sides, giving himself just inches to maneuver, and do it all with only one hand on the steering wheel.

  Kenny had no problem driving by police sitting in their cruisers—he’d just beep his horn, “Hey, fellas, think
you can catch me while eating all those fuckin’ donuts?” and, with a giant laugh, he’d take them on a wild goose chase, never to be caught. Then he’d just show up at school the next day and sit quietly in class as if nothing had happened. Stealing cars was simply a part of who we were and where we lived. Of course, because of kids like Kenny, auto insurance rates went through the roof. So, to beat the system, many Bostonians would register their cars outside city limits under a relative’s name.

  In the midst of all this, Coach Cochran purchased a beautiful, cream colored, 1974, Ford LTD when, sure enough, he was once again sweating and stuttering his way through class.

  “Boys, my new car was stolen last night. I promise, if anyone finds my car, I’ll take you to Pier 4 for dinner.”

  Everyone sat up straight; Cochran had our attention. Pier 4? Only rich people went to Pier 4; my parents maybe went there every five years or so to celebrate something special, but that was it. Pier 4? Pier 4 was a beautiful restaurant located on Boston Harbor. Famous visitors to Boston would always head over to Pier 4 for their renowned seafood and giant popovers. The foyer walls were packed with autographed celebrity photos (and always with Anthony, the owner, smiling arm-and-arm).

  “Hey, Mr. Cochran, you pulling our legs?”

  No, he insisted.

  The game was on.

  Four days later, a group of us were walking to practice, when suddenly I looked up and saw Cochran’s car sitting right across the street from us.

  “Hey, that’s Johnny’s car!” I called out, pointing.

  “No shit!” Eddie Dominguez burst out. “Look, the doors are unlocked and everything.”

  Well, you can imagine how eager Eddie and I were to see Cochran the next day in class.

  “Mr. Cochran, you won’t believe this, but I found your car! And it’s right near the school—over on Washington Street!”

  “Oh, Kevin, that’s wonderful!” he gushed. “Thank you. I promise when I get the insurance check, we’ll go straight to Pier 4.”

  “Wait a minute,” Eddie chimed in, his frown deep and dramatic. “I’m the one that locked the car for you, Mr. Cochran. Kelly did nothin’! Why you takin’ him?”

  “Mr. Cochran,” I broke in, “you’re not going to listen to Dominguez, are you? He’s just lookin’ to mooch a free meal!”

  “Mr. Cochran, to be honest, I don’t even think Kelly saw your car,” Eddie said, jostling with me to be in front and closest to Cochran.

  “Hey, fellas,” Eddie added, calling over his shoulder to Skip and Paul. “Did anyone hear Kelly say, ‘That’s Johnny’s car?’”

  “Okay, okay, stop,” Cochran sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “I’ll take both of you.”

  Eddie and I turned and winked at each other and, sure enough, Cochran was true to his word. He took us to Pier 4. Two city kids, living the high-life, eating dinner at Pier 4—what a night!

  The story, however, was far from over because the question remained: Who the hell stole Cochran’s car, only to return it to the school within a week?

  Seven years later, when I was coaching at Bosco (with Currier still serving as head coach), we were both out one night and swapping Bosco war stories when I brought up this little bit of Cochran history and how Eddie and I had put one over on him to get to Pier 4. Currier heard me out but only looked at me in silence a moment before breaking out in laughter—too much laughter. I thought the story was funny, but not that funny. Currier could see the confused look on my face so, in between laughing and catching his breath, he informed me that it was actually Dempsey who’d stolen Cochran’s car. He’d been driving it to and from Brighton to get to practice on time.

  Dempsey, of course, had not been too concerned with how Cochran felt about having his car stolen. “We just needed someone to shit on,” he was overheard saying one day at practice.

  Dempsey’s ability to live on both sides of the line was one we quickly came to both fear and admire.

  But it was with Currier that all of us got started in football, and it was Currier who shaped the landscape for Dempsey’s eventual arrival and triumph.

  Currier had a gift for compartmentalizing his frustrations. He could chew you out unmercifully in practice on Monday and, the next morning in class, act as if nothing had happened. I still remember one particular day back in sophomore year. I’d screwed up in practice pretty badly, dropping a series of passes, and Currier had jumped all over me, making me run laps before replacing me.

  So, the next day at school, I was nervous about approaching him for clarification on a math question, though I knew I needed to. Taking a deep breath as he exited his classroom, I straightened my shoulders, called out after him, and asked for his assistance. Not only did he help me with my math problem, but he asked about my brother Tom and discussed the Patriots’ recent loss to the Oakland Raiders. I walked away uncertain if he was just a great guy off the field or the most forgetful person I’d ever met.

  At Bosco, we all looked forward to our lunch break. We were given thirty-five minutes to eat, socialize, and reboot for our afternoon classes. But, for the football players, one particular lunchtime highlight was listening to the coaches discuss the Patriots, Boston College football, and the upcoming games on our schedule. The conversations would be light, inviting, and threaded with moments of humor.

  But I soon learned that getting chummy with the coaches came at a price. Who we were on the field and who we were in the classroom were two different things. After practice, most everyone showered and got ready to leave. But some began chatting after practice with the coaches and, over time, this group started meeting on a regular basis. They continued to share football stories and lots of laughs, but with losing came special retribution for them.

  “Duggan, Finneran,” said Currier at practice after our 0-3 start, not to mention our demoralizing 42-9 defeat by Boston College High School the day before. “You have no problem hanging out and laughing with the coaches after practice like we’re all buddies, but you can’t deliver during the game, can you?”

  I made a mental note during my junior year to keep a comfortable distance from the coaches after practices. A quick wave good-bye and I was out of there.

  During our two miserable seasons, some of my teammates (including me) wanted to quit at one point or another, but chose not to because of the inevitable social repercussions. To be a quitter at an all-boys’ school was to carry a stigma that was awfully tough to overcome. No matter the reason, a quitter was a loser.

  There was also the ever-present and simple desire to play football. It was a game we all loved, and it was a big part of our lives. That meant most of us were willing to put up with just about anything to play. We lived and died each week with the Patriots. After school and on the weekends, we played pickup games of both tag and tackle football. Most of us played Pop Warner football. Many of us had older brothers who played high school football. They were regarded as the toughest kids in the neighborhood, and thus kids we all looked up to. We just didn’t realize that moving up to the high school level was not only going to be so much more difficult and less fun, but also, for the first time for many of us, carry a tremendous amount of pressure.

  Even with all this cultural and social baggage, there were still some very talented athletes at Bosco who refused to even try out for football because of Currier’s coaching methods. The word around school was, “It’s Bob’s way or the highway,” and some kids simply never responded well to being yelled at, embarrassed, and publicly humiliated.

  From my time as a player at Bosco, there are a few Currier coaching moments in particular that stick out clearest in my mind and that perhaps Currier wishes had never taken place. Once, during my sophomore year, Currier became extremely frustrated. It was a late October practice, and it was cold, cloudy, and windy. The field was muddy from three days of rain and we had just lost our fifth straight game. Morale was low. No on
e could do anything right, and we simply didn’t want to be on the field anymore.

  “Run that play again!” Currier shouted, spittle flying and his face red from the cold and aggravation. “How could you possibly miss that tackle, Kelly? If you drop one more pass, I’ll have you carrying a football twenty-four hours a day!”

  Michael Shea was a good kid and a decent athlete. I can’t recall the precise reason why Currier was so upset with him―Michael blew a play or perhaps dropped a pass―but the combination of mediocrity and lack of player enthusiasm caused Currier to come down hard on this poor kid: “Shea! You call yourself a football player? You’re a disgrace.” Then suddenly, the unthinkable—Currier spit in Michael’s face. A jolt was sent through the entire team; everyone stared in astonishment. It was an unforgivable act by a coach, a uselessly degrading act. How could any athlete benefit from such treatment? Where was the lesson, the mentoring, the inspiration in this? All of us could feel Michael’s rage, but he took it and we moved on, none of us ever bold enough to confront Currier about it.

  Being yelled at generates different responses from different players. For most, it’s a wake-up call to concentrate, to focus, to play for the team. For some, however, it only creates more tension, doubt, and resentment. Being humiliated, though, is another story. Two talented linemen, Billy Dunly and Paul Denny, had simply had enough by the end of their junior year.

  Billy, who actually played varsity during the middle of his sophomore year, turned in his equipment with no explanation. To a teammate, none was needed. No one was in Billy’s face asking why or what had happened.

  I not only got it, I admired the courage it took for Billy to quit.

  Paul teetered on the edge of quitting his junior year but ended up coming to camp his senior year. For Paul, the first few days brought a barrage of criticism: “Donga, what’s wrong with you? Why are you so out of shape? Jesus, Donga, run the play again!”