Both Sides of the Line

by Kelly, Kevin

  Unfortunately for us, the game ended in a 12-12 tie. It was a disappointment to dominate on both sides of the line of scrimmage and not be able to come away with a victory. BC ran fifty-eight plays on offense for a grand total of fifty-five yards. Bosco racked up two hundred and seventy-eight total yards against a team whose linemen easily outweighed ours by sixty-five pounds. There was no doubt we deserved to win. We all knew it, and we were all still disappointed, certain we were about to get chewed out by Dempsey.

  But then, when he finally reached the locker room, Dempsey was beaming. “If they’re number one in the state, then where does that put us?” We gave out a giant holler. Even so, I wasn’t totally convinced that the BC game predicted anything about our team’s future with any kind of certainty. It was too soon.

  The game film showed that we had gifted, committed players. We were quick off the ball, we hit with intensity, and we played intelligent football. We also realized that we had no superstars. What we had was a group of players who understood team football. We played for each other, and it was beginning to show. Dempsey’s philosophy of getting us to believe that size meant nothing in the game of football as long as we worked together was beginning to take hold.

  What we experienced in practice the following week was a rare event. The coaches were actually civil. We worked hard, but the tone was lighter. If there was a mistake, the coaches turned into teachers rather than coaches reaming us out. The only yelling came when it was deserved―someone repeatedly making a mental mistake. Players and coaches alike felt a sense of accomplishment and pride for our efforts against BC. It was a new feeling for most of us. As the week came to an end, there was a cautious sense of confidence.

  In coaching philosophy, Currier and Dempsey were similar. Both were demanding, and both believed in the power of endless repetition. But their coaching styles and their ability to connect with players was significantly different—different to the point, in fact, where it’s not even fair to compare the two. Currier and Dempsey were a marriage; we needed both of their styles to be successful.

  But it was Dempsey who had the unique gift that made us really work. Players felt Dempsey genuinely cared for them, even in the wake of the Michael Monahan accident. Dempsey had a different pull on the players than Currier, whom many kids never warmed up to, never felt any care or fatherly respect from. For me, I respected Currier as a coach and enjoyed him off the field, but when he got hot, his words could turn belittling fast. Dempsey could also display frustration and anger—Lord knows he could do that—but when he vented, his words were aimed more toward the team in general and its performance rather than at any one individual.

  Dempsey was a player’s coach. He was always relating a football experience to a life experience.

  “Feeling fear before a game is natural,” he told us. “We all feel it. Even the pros feel it. If you didn’t feel some fear before a game, then I can promise you you’re not gonna play well. The butterflies show you’re ready, because it shows you care.”

  Currier, on the other hand, didn’t value these kinds of comments. He wanted tough kids on his team. He wanted results.

  But both coaches had the same approach toward injuries. It was nerve-racking and even taboo to approach either coach to say you were hurt. Playing hurt or through an injury was part of the sport. Coaches had a way of making every sign of human imperfection or weakness feel like an act of cowardice.

  “Kelly, your elbow is swollen and you want an elbow pad? Hey, Murphy, McDonald, Duggan, raise your arms. Do you see any of these guys wearing any pads on their arms, Kelly? Unless I see a bone comin’ through your arm, you don’t need any pansy pads on your elbow or anywhere else.”

  Our next game was against Matignon. Coach Currier had actually coached for Matignon before coming to Bosco. The school was known for its remarkable hockey teams but, in 1974, their football team wasn’t as competitive as the other powerhouse teams in the Catholic Conference. Both our offense and defense executed well against them. Bandini, Staub, and Dominguez dominated on the offensive line. Libardoni and Riley had tremendous games running the ball, and Ski threw for three touchdowns. Murphy, our small, quiet wide-out, was turning into a clutch, sure-handed receiver. He ended the game with six receptions, two for touchdowns. We won easily, 33-6.

  Yet, once again, the coaches were lukewarm in their post-game remarks. They wanted to make sure we didn’t lose our edge.

  That game was followed by one against Boston Tech, which was loaded with kids from my own neighborhood. A neighbor of mine, Steven, was the frequent victim of merciless ribbing. I never knew exactly why he was singled out; he’d always been relatively quiet and was a good kid. When Steven turned sixteen, however, and started to hit the weights and put some muscle on his frame, he tried out for quarterback and, when it was our week to play Tech, he got the nod to start at QB. I was happy for him. But his newfound identity had tapped into an arrogance not apparent to me when he was a loner.

  “Best of luck next week,” I said to Steve on the T.

  “Yeah, well, you guys aren’t that good,” said New Steve. “We watched a game film on you guys. I think you suck. I’m pretty sure we’re going to kick your ass.”

  “Is that right?” I said, taken aback. “Look, I’m all for being confident going into a game, but Steve, it’s hard to talk trash when you only have one win under your belt.”

  I now knew why Steven got shit as a kid: His social skills were more than a little lacking. But even though he was, as I recall thinking, a little prick, I was still pulling for him and for the rest of the Hyde Park kids to have a good game.

  On the first play of the game, Steven fumbled the ball on the snap from center, only to have an instant replay moment the very next play. Fumbling two times in a row during your quarterback debut isn’t a good sign. He was replaced, never to return to the game.

  We whipped Tech pretty good, 28-0. McGillivary had an outstanding game, recording three interceptions and two touchdowns. Our defensive line decimated their offensive running game. Billy Kelly, a tough kid and a good athlete from Hyde Park, was one of Tech’s captains and ran in their backfield. Although we’d never hung out, I had known Billy since childhood. On one play, when Billy ran off tackle, I met him at the line of scrimmage. I bent over to help him up when I accidentally stepped on his hand. He let out a yell, jumped up, and got in my face with a, “What the fuck, asshole!” He wasn’t aware I’d tackled him.

  Looking straight into his face mask, I grinned, patted the top of his helmet, and said, “Hey, Kel, nice run!”

  For a brief moment more, he still didn’t recognize me. Then, when it hit him, a reluctant smirk came over his face. “Oh shit, I should have known it was you!”

  I chuckled, gave him a pat on the ass, and said, “See you again real soon!”

  Carouso, Cemate, Libardoni, Marciola, and Riley ran the ball inside and outside almost at will. The defensive line shut down Tech’s running game. Staub, Bandini, Elwell, and I put a relentless pass rush on Tech’s replacement quarterback. Trask and Libardoni once again dominated the middle of the field with outstanding performances as linebackers. And though this was Ski’s first year playing quarterback at the varsity level, his ability to digest the coaches’ instructions and, more importantly, quickly implement that knowledge during a game situation was remarkable.

  But the game belonged to Colie MacGillivary. He was simply all over the field. “I still think of the Tech game as a highlight moment for me athletically,” Colie later told me. “It was just one of those times when everything came together. The game seemed like it was being played in slow motion.”

  We were beginning to establish ourselves as a team, but it was still too early to believe we were anything special.

  As a team, we were humble in our victory over Tech, but Dempsey and Currier weren’t about to let their tight rein around our necks loosen anytime soon.

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sp; The following week, I saw Steven on the bus. I’d always had a soft spot for him. He wasn’t a bad kid, but he seemed to always have a black cloud over his head. So I sat next to him and, without ever looking at me, he muttered, “Don’t rub it in.”

  I didn’t say a word.

  A few years after high school, Steven and a few other guys tried to rob a jewelry store in downtown Boston. The whole thing unraveled and the police shot and wounded Steven and killed his partner. No one in Hyde Park was terribly surprised.

  Despite the beating we’d given Tech, I focused my thoughts on the next game on the schedule. We were heading into the real meat of the season, where our true mettle would be severely tested.

  Malden Catholic was known for fielding excellent hockey teams and for always producing tough, competitive football players. Over the last eight seasons, they were consistent contenders for the championship and, during the previous season, they’d gone 7-3. It was a Bosco tradition to play them on a Friday night at their home field—a tradition that would be our first real test since the BC game. We were very much aware that, up till that point, none of our wins had been against teams from the Catholic Conference or against teams with winning records.

  The Malden Catholic game was a pivotal moment for the ’74 Bosco Bears. We had an excellent week in practice and continued to develop our team personality. We were quiet but confident, small but powerful. During agility and hitting drills, we became almost businesslike. There was little talking or any of that rah-rah nonsense―Dempsey couldn’t stand that crap. “Where are all those players during the second quarter?” he’d say. “They’re just wasting time and energy. Let your hitting do the talking for you.”

  Gone were the days of put-downs, sarcastic comments, and insults. We were slowly coming together as a team. Dominguez, Cemate, and Libardoni were all outstanding captains. Dominguez was easygoing and supportive. Cemate was quiet, and led by example. Intelligent on and off the field, Libardoni was tough as nails, loved to compete, and performed with a college-level intensity. Every football team needs an Al Libardoni; he’s the kind of player that defines a team, a player that everyone respects, and a player that can back it up on the field every week. A true leader.

  All three of them had played at the varsity level since their sophomore year, and my senior year of that season, we all learned why. Under their leadership, we all started to support one another, both during practices and games, whether there were mistakes or triumphs.

  Going out onto Malden’s field, we had a level of confidence that we’d never felt before. The first quarter set the tone for the entire game. We scored twice, driving the ball sixty-four yards in thirteen plays and, with eighteen seconds remaining in the quarter, Ski threw a twenty-seven yard bullet to Murphy in the end zone. Once again, our offensive and defensive lines dominated the opposition. We went on to play a near perfect game and beat a very tough Malden Catholic team, 29-8.

  Everyone entered the bus elated from the win. All the starters were soaked with sweat, but it was that good-feeling sweat, the kind you don’t mind living in for hours. It was sweat from hard work and success.

  Losing game after game, year after year, you begin to feel so beaten down—a feeling that only losing teams can relate to. It’s like small countries in the Olympics that get the luck of the draw to play a powerhouse country. The Americans in basketball, the Russians in hockey, and the Cubans in boxing—the opponents knew they were beaten before the competition even began.

  The Buffalo Bills developed this disease during their four straight Super Bowl losses. You could see it in their eyes during their third and fourth Super Bowls; deep down, they just didn’t believe they could win. During their third Super Bowl appearance against the Dallas Cowboys, Dallas scored first. With the score 7-0, the cameras panned the Buffalo sidelines and the looks of despair were everywhere. The Bills were emotionally defeated, and they were experienced pros! They played hoping to win versus playing expecting to win. That’s simply not how champions play. Champions play with a look of defiance that says, We’re going to drive the ball down your throat and, by the way, try to stop us.

  As we basked in our moment of victory, Currier came on the bus and caught us completely off guard. He was steaming hot and told us all to sit down and to keep our mouths shut.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re so God damn happy about,” he yelled from the front of the bus. “You call yourself a football team? The score should have been 29-0! But you decided to give up and let them score with two minutes left in the game. What a disgrace! If you think for one second that you can let up next week against CM, you’ll have your asses handed to you. Oh, and by the way, remember how I told you yesterday that you’d have the weekend off? Forget it. Practice is on Sunday morning—eight o’clock sharp.”

  We all sat in shock, stunned and open-mouthed, trying to comprehend what we’d just heard.

  Really? I thought. Can’t we have just one moment of joy?

  But this was the type of speech we were all well-acquainted with by then (having heard it many times before). It was bad enough that we were going to have to practice on Sunday, but the subway ran less often on Sundays, which would mean getting up at six in the morning to make it to practice on time.

  As we took the long, silent ride back to school, the victory sweat suddenly made me feel cold, and the joy of our triumph vanished. I leaned over from my seat and whispered to Craig, “I may be a little confused, but didn’t we just win that fucking game?” We both laughed but kept it low. God forbid the coaches caught us laughing.

  Currier’s coaching style wasn’t for everyone but, as crazy as the moment seemed to us, he knew exactly what he was doing. And it played an important role in helping us zero in on the biggest game in Bosco history.

  Catholic Memorial epitomized the term powerhouse for Boston high school sports teams during the early 1970s. They were great in every sport and, for athletes, it was one of the most sought after schools in the greater Boston area. CM, BC, and Xaverian Brothers were at the top of the food chain in the Catholic Conference academically, financially, and athletically. There was one entrance exam for all three schools, and they never had any problems meeting their annual enrollment numbers.

  Bosco had a different clientele. Not too many suburban kids were trying to get into Bosco. We were viewed as a trade school and therefore were less highly valued than a more liberal arts-oriented school. Many suburban parents assumed that the brightest kids weren’t looking to attend Bosco, and that the kids who did attend Bosco were there because they weren’t smart enough to get into one of “The Big Three” (CM, BC, and Xaverian).

  But what really made Bosco stand out from the rest was its location. The Big Three were all nestled in pleasant settings and boasted outstanding athletic facilities. Bosco, on the other hand, was downtown, with the Combat Zone and the Pine Street Inn as neighbors. Located at the corners of Washington Street and Tremont, there was simply no land at all around the school. There were no trees, no shade, no grass. The school’s mass was vertical―seven stories high.

  In those days, the CM Knights were always well-coached. With their winning streak of thirty-three games, they had established a football dynasty. They played with a cold, calculated precision that resembled a military drill. Every CM opponent would get sky-high at the idea of being the ones to finally dethrone the mighty Knights, only to collapse the moment CM scored their first touchdown. Against CM, all other teams seemed to simply throw their hands up and say, “Well, here they go again.” Smelling the blood of the psychologically defeated, CM became an unstoppable machine and steamrolled their opponent.

  The Knights were also explosively fast and possessed depth at every position, especially in the backfield. The flow of their game was seamless, a businesslike, impersonal force, overwhelming opponents with ease and precision. They never antagonized or trash talked. Just stone faces behind face masks.
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br />   The ’74 Bosco team was going into the CM game undefeated, but before we could take on the Knights, we had Sunday morning practice to deal with.

  It was a crisp, bright morning in late October. No one was happy about Sunday’s practice, no one was happy about getting chewed out after a great victory, and no one was happy about having to putter around while we waited for the coaches to get on the field. Finally, a player yelled out, “Fuck ’em! Let’s start practice without them.”

  Eddie Trask, our outstanding inside linebacker, proceeded to set up a pit-drill (which usually everyone dreaded). No big speeches. We just started going at each other, live! Currier and Dempsey came out of the locker room, two hundred yards away, and stopped, surprised to see what was happening. When they finally did approach us, they had us gather around and take a knee.

  “First,” Currier began, “I want to acknowledge our victory Friday night. You played well, and Coach Dempsey and I are proud of you. I want us to embrace the win, but I guarantee you that if you mentally let up at any time during next week’s game, CM will beat you. It’s that simple. A game like next week’s comes around maybe once every ten years. You boys have a chance to make Bosco history. You will take this game with you the rest of your lives. Now, let’s have a hell of a practice and get ready for CM!”

  And, just like that, Currier brought us from anger and mutiny to focusing on one purpose as a team. Our attitudes were in check, and we had one of the best practice sessions I can remember, driving the sled one hundred yards to end the practice. We were in high spirits as we left the field.

  The rest of the week went smoothly. The coaches held back, showing no frustration when we screwed up. Instead, they gave us words of encouragement. The players appreciated the tactical switch in their approach.

  There was only one thing on my mind the entire week; it didn’t matter if I was sitting in class or at home, waking up or falling asleep, the CM game was ever-present. I knew it was the same for my teammates. In the back of our minds, we were haunted by the same thoughts: How will we perform as a team? How will I perform? Can we beat them? What if we lose?