by Kelly, Kevin
But I was in a funk, and just going through the motions, hoping for the game to end. On one particular play, Fitzgerald got the better of me and Costello ran through my hole for an eight-yard gain and a first down. As Fitzgerald got off the ground, he looked me in the eye and said, “You’re not that fucking tough.”
Then I heard Dempsey yell from the sidelines, “Kelly, what the hell are you doing out there? Wake up!”
Well, wake up I did. Fitzgerald’s comment was exactly what I needed to get back in the game. I got pissed-off at myself; I’d been playing selfish, letting down my teammates, and I knew it. Refocusing, I played the remainder of the second half angry. I had something to prove to myself but, more importantly, to prove to Fitzgerald. Earning your opponent’s respect is a critical component of the game. Costello didn’t gain much on our side of the defensive line the rest of the game. During the next two Xaverian possessions, Skip and I each had a quarterback sack, and I was fortunate to block a punt.
But the game was still close throughout the second half until our very own Chester Rodriguez returned a punt for seventy yards late in the third quarter. Chester wove in and out of Xaverian’s punting team, and his tremendous effort sealed the deal. We remained undefeated with an 18-6 victory.
After the game, Fitzgerald came over, stuck out his hand, and said, “Nice game, Kelly. Good luck against Archies.”
I still wasn’t happy with his chickenshit comment from earlier in the game, and I certainly thought about leaving his hand hanging there in midair and just walking away, but I couldn’t stoop to that level. Besides, I should have been thanking him for the wake-up call.
As I entered the bus, I paused, watching my teammates celebrate before turning to Peter Masciola. “Next week,” I said, “we’re playing for the championship. Who knew?”
Masciola, his uniform soaked and dirty, didn’t say a word. He just smiled and patted the top of my head.
The following week was special for both the players and coaches as we prepared for our game against Archbishop Williams. Though we all felt the weight of the upcoming game, there were no rah-rah gimmicks. The coaches turned into true teachers. Dempsey brought us back to basics and reminded us that the entire game would be won or lost based on who controlled the line of scrimmage.
“Boys, it’s going to come down to who wants it more. Remember, quickness, technique, and desire. They’re not going to roll over for us. They want this game just as much as you do. The key will be your ability to sustain your emotional commitment, to make the fewest mistakes, and, finally, to convince them through relentless hitting that they can’t possibly win.”
All week, the defense line worked on technique. We did double-teaming drills, spinning out of blocks, and tackling: “Drive your helmet through his numbers and wrap him up!” Dempsey reminded us. “Anyone who breaks down and tries to arm tackle or, worse, refuses to wrap up after a good hit, may determine who loses this game! That’s just selfish, cowardly football.”
We reviewed our stunts and ran them to perfection. We watched game films twice that week (a first at Bosco), and what stuck out to us was just how much Archies looked like us. They played good team football and were solid across the board. They could hit, and they made very few mistakes. Emotionally, we were more sober. The year had unfolded as a surprise, but now we knew who we were. We knew we deserved to be here and that we could compete with anyone in the league and, for that matter, anyone in the state.
Our next game was it―the entire season, the championship.
Just one year prior, we’d been playing one another to see who would claim last place in the conference. We claimed that title with no problem then, but because of our tie with Boston College High, a loss by us now would allow Archies to be co-champs with Catholic Memorial, and we would end up with absolutely nothing.
Let me put it this way: Championships in Massachusetts were determined by a complicated point system. CM had beat Archie’s during the season, and we’d beat CM, but if Archies beat us, then we’d lose the championship because of the tie.
Archies’ quarterback, Morrissey, stood just over six feet tall at two hundred and ten pounds, and was the toughest in the league. He had a cannon of an arm, and he not only loved to run with the ball, he could dish it out to any defender trying to tackle him.
Dennis McCarthy, a tough Irish kid from Quincy, was the main running back in Archie’s backfield. He was quick with his mouth as well as with his hands and feet.
I played against an offensive tackle named Joe Pellegrini (a tackle I would end up lining up against yet again some years later when I played for Bridgewater State and he for Harvard). He was an excellent lineman who would later start for the New York Jets!
It was imperative that I deliver on my side of the line, that I play the game of my life. All week long, I visualized run plays, trap plays, being double-teamed, rushing the quarterback—I was determined to get into Pellegrini’s head. I wanted him going back into the huddle convinced he was in a dogfight—and losing.
Dempsey took extra time to speak to linemen all week after practice. He wanted all of us to be on the same page: We were going to play relentless football.
“A key ingredient is getting to Morrissey,” he explained. “He’s the most talented quarterback we’ll see all year. We have the quickest defensive line in the league. If we can put pressure on him and get him to play out of his rhythm, we’ll have a chance. Kelly, I’m going to stunt you and Martini often throughout the game, so be ready!”
The game was just what we’d expected. Both teams were playing all out. Currier went back to platooning our running backs, and Ski kept us in the game with key passes.
On defense, our line pursued Morrissey and we gang-tackled their running backs. Our linebackers and defensive backs came up quick to hit, and covered their receivers exceptionally well.
Their defense was also playing a great game. At halftime, Archies held an 8-7 lead. Dempsey was not happy, and he laid into me with particular force.
“Kelly, do you plan on playing anytime today? Get your head out of your ass and hit someone, will ya?”
It didn’t matter how I thought I was playing. If Dempsey criticized me, I would get angry and turn it up a notch. Dempsey had a pull on me. He had made me into the player I had become and, more importantly, he believed in me. I wasn’t about to let him down, especially not during this game. He knew I’d respond. I wasn’t in the same frame of mind as in the Xaverain game. I knew what was at stake. We all knew.
The game was a classic, just the type of game a championship should be. Both teams were giving their all on every play and the outcome was going to be determined by the final drive of the game. We took the lead in the fourth quarter. Stevie Riley ran off tackle from the seven-yard line and, with one minute and thirty-seven seconds left in the game, we went ahead 13-8.
Archies didn’t flinch. They marched right down the field and had a real chance to win it all in the final seconds. My heart was pounding wildly. I kept looking at the clock thinking, God, we can’t lose the whole season with less than thirty seconds left in the game!
Archies’ players were exuberant. Their fans were on their feet, losing their minds screaming, hoping for a last-second victory. Archies’ sense of urgency could be felt as they came up to the line of scrimmage on their own forty-three-yard line.
Wanting to avoid a last, long completion for a touchdown, we shifted into our prevent defense, which called for us to take one defensive lineman out of the game and replace him with an extra defensive back, giving us additional coverage in our defensive backfield. Our defensive backfield played their receivers tight and thus gave us time to put pressure on Morrissey.
With thirty-seven seconds left in the game, Archies had enough time for only two more plays. On a third down, Morrissey scrambled to his right but threw an incomplete pass. The final play of the game, fourth down, would truly b
e all or nothing.
My career consisted of three years of football, two of which had been miserable. With no time left on the clock, it would end in either complete glory or devastating loss. Our defensive backfield held tight. Bandini, Elwell, and I exploded out of our stances to get to Morrissey as he moved to his left and then to his right before finally setting up for a throw. A receiver broke open just for a second. Morrissey caught his eye and, as he lifted his arm to throw the winning touchdown, all three of us hit Morrissey at once.
The 1974 Bosco Bears were the Catholic Conference Champions!
Archies’ fans sat in total silence as Bosco’s side of the field went wild. My immediate reaction was one of numbness; I wasn’t sure how to feel. After shaking hands with the Archbishop Williams players, Eddie Dominguez and I agreed to go out to the fifty-yard line and absorb the moment. We were the last two players on the bus. Currier and Dempsey waited for us. Shaking Currier’s hand in congratulations, I felt so happy for him, and happy that, after all his years of coaching at Bosco, he had finally gotten his big win.
When I turned to Dempsey, he gave me a hug, and I thanked him for what he had given us, and for what he’d given me.
The ’74 Bosco Bears, the smallest team in the school’s history, sat on top of the Catholic Conference as champions! Every game had been an away game for us; we went into everyone else’s backyard and beat every home team. Were the games in the Catholic Conference competitive? Was the caliber of the players tops in the state? Eight players from the conference would end up playing at Division I colleges in 1974, and five would move on to the NFL.
The bus ride home was nothing like the experience of sitting silent and cold after the Malden Catholic game. This was pure joy and, yes, the sweat now felt great. No one wanted the feeling or the ride to end. Years of losing, years of coming in last place in the league, years of doubt, of wondering why anyone would want to play this game—all of that was erased. All of the questions were answered with absolute clarity.
Football mirrors life. It teaches that the strong survive and that self-discipline is the key to happiness and success. Learning to never quit, no matter what the odds or how difficult the struggle, produces lifelong benefits. Learning to sacrifice for others, to be a team player at work, in your neighborhood, and in your family is the foundation to a happy life. What the championship gave us was an unalloyed confidence that we could achieve anything we put our minds to—a gift that would be ours for as long as we lived.
I couldn’t help hearing my brother’s advice echo in the back of my mind, If you quit, I promise you will regret it for the rest of your life. The weight of Tommy’s words ran a shiver up my spine. I wondered how I would have felt watching this season, and especially this final game, from the sidelines.
The experience of becoming champions would never have taken place without the contributions of our coaches. For the linemen, our success was pinned on one man, Coach Clyde Dempsey. He taught us superior line technique and forced us to play with intelligence. We were all true disciples. And I, in particular, was especially aware that I never would have had the season I’d had if he hadn’t believed in me. I had played the season with Dempsey’s advice and drive in my head. I had repeated his mantra throughout each game: quickness, technique, and desire. During games, I’d imagined Dempsey watching me from the sidelines to determine if I was going all out on every play. I would use any scenario I could think of to give me an edge.
No other coach before or after Dempsey had ever had that level of impact on me as a player.
At the end of each year, Bosco held its Annual Athletic Banquet for all sports. This year it would take place in our new gym. In my freshman year, I’d watched athletes receive the MVP awards. The football players looked like full-grown men, all tall, broad, and tough. The bearded Leo Falter, who’d already become a father, won the MVP lineman my freshman year, and I remember going home and fantasizing about winning the MVP in football my senior year. I remember laughing out loud at the thought.
Our guest speaker at the banquet was Hank Bullock, defensive coordinator for the New England Patriots. He gave a speech about the greatness of sports in our society and how athletes had the amazing gift of being able to dream. If we worked hard, those dreams could come true. But what he said at the end of his speech stayed with me for life: “Some of you will receive trophies this evening for your accomplishments. Congratulations! You should feel proud when you receive these awards. I want you to look at them, and kiss them if you want. Then I want you to go home and stick those trophies in your closet. Because those trophies will mean absolutely nothing next year. If you are lucky enough to play in college, I want you to realize that everyone sitting in that locker room will have won a trophy just like yours. Next year, you will have to prove yourself all over again.”
I purposely sat at the last table in the gym. I had not invited my girlfriend to the banquet, as many of the other players had. Instead, I’d invited Tom, who’d said, “No, thanks, but if you come home with a trophy, I’ll feel bad for not attending.” So there I sat, with my stepmother and father. I just wanted to receive my football letter and head home. I don’t remember why I felt this way, but I did. My high school career was over, and I was thinking ahead to college.
The first trophy of the night was for MVP lineman. Coach Dempsey would announce the recipient. I knew that any one of our linemen could easily be awarded this trophy. There was no superstar lineman on our team and, as far as talent was concerned, we were all pretty much equal. I had actually pointed out Derrick Martini to my stepmother during Dempsey’s remarks.
“I have always been a man of few words,” Dempsey began, standing up at the podium with his thick glasses balanced on his nose. Seeing him there, feeling the anticipation of all that awaited me outside of high school, I felt a sudden rush of memory, of the first time I’d actually seen Coach Dempsey and all the anxiety and excitement that had accompanied the realization that, This is my coach. This is the guy who’s gonna turn it all around for us. “This player has improved two hundred percent from last year,” he went on, smiling, “and if everyone played with his level of commitment, then this gym would be full of banners. I’m proud to present this trophy to Kevin Kelly.”
The words took an eternity to reach me. I was stunned. My stepmother, a normally quiet, reserved woman, jumped out of her seat and screamed.
The walk to the stage took forever. When I reached Coach Dempsey, I wasn’t sure what to do. What I was supposed to do was stop, shake hands, and look at the photographer. But I was so uncomfortable, having to get up in front of everyone to receive the trophy, that I shook hands with Dempsey as fast as I could, didn’t make any eye contact with him, and rushed back to my seat.
In most every other sport, you usually had a good idea of who would be the MVP: the star basketball player, the star hockey player, and so on. But for the ’74 Bosco Bears, the MVP lineman just wasn’t obvious. Skip Bandini, Billy Elwell, Derrick Martini, and Chris Staub all played both ways on the line. Both Abe Benitez and Tommy McGregor had exceptional years. Eddie Dominguez, our captain, had played both ways since his sophomore year. The trophy could have gone to any of these players. I’d had a solid year, and I’d contributed to my team, but I was not the Most Valuable Lineman. To be honest, I think they should have given the award to the entire line. We were the perfect example of a unit that worked well together. With our lack of size, if we’d had a weak player, it would have been exposed early on and we never would have had a winning season. After the dinner, I received congratulations from teammates, coaches, and even some parents.
All I could do was look for the door.
My father was so proud of me that he took me to the Old Colony Restaurant on Morrissey Boulevard in Dorchester for an after-banquet drink. Smiling proudly, he placed the trophy on the bar for all the patrons to see. The folks in the bar were kind enough to clap and even offer a few thumbs up. I
understood that this was a big moment for my dad; it was the first trophy one of his kids had ever won.
When I arrived home, I left the trophy on the kitchen table for Tom to see when he got home from hanging out with his buddies.
When I finally went to bed and was beginning to come down from the rush, Coach Bullock’s words about trophies crept back into my head. And so, the next day, I kissed the trophy and put it in my closet.
Before graduation, I would seek out Coach Dempsey to thank him. He greeted me with a warm smile. When we’d first met at the end of my sophomore year, I was still a boy, unsure who I was as a person and an athlete. About to leave Bosco, I had grown to be a young man.
“Coach, I never would have had the year I did if it wasn’t for you believing in me, and I just wanted to thank you.”
“Kevin, you deserve all the credit. You’re the one who worked hard on the field. It’s been a pleasure. Best of luck next year in college.”
I shook Dempsey’s hand, turned, and walked away. It wasn’t a movie ending. It wasn’t a big emotional moment when we both had tears in our eyes and hugged. It was a natural parting. I wasn’t wondering about whether or not I’d see Dempsey again. I was moving on to the next stage in my life. I was ready. Or so I thought.
Little did I know that my relationship with Coach Dempsey was only just beginning.
1975
“When I look out at this team, I don’t see white football players on this team, and I don’t see black footbal players on this team, I don’t see Irish or Italian football players on this team. I only see football players on this team.”
—Coach Dempsey
The timing was perfect. We’d been at Bosco for four years and all of us were ready and even excited to move on with our lives. The strict Catholic philosophy, the coat and tie attire, and the all-boys environment, were now joyfully behind us. Some goodbyes with certain faculty and dear friends pulled emotional strings, but they quickly faded by the time I pulled into Forest Hills.