by Kelly, Kevin
“Yes, sir,” I said sheepishly, realizing that I must be coming across like a complete moron. Thoughts of Brother Julius immediately flashed through my mind, and I found myself simply grateful that this guy didn’t have a ruler of his own to smack me with. I started to realize that playing college football this year might not happen after all.
I was alone and on my own.
“What high school did you attend?”
“Don Bosco, sir.”
“And what was your team’s record?”
“We were undefeated in the Catholic Conference, sir.”
“Don Bosco? Was that the team that beat Catholic Memorial?”
“Yes, sir!” I said, sitting up taller, surprised that he knew about the CM game. Perhaps there was a glimmer of hope.
“You any good?”
Dempsey’s warning flashed into my head: If anyone asks if you’re any good, look them straight in the eye and tell them—I try to be.
“I try to be, sir,” I said, nodding, looking him straight in the eye.
I could tell he was taken aback by my comment—and that he liked what he’d heard. To this day, I’m convinced that it was that single comment that enabled me to attend Bridgewater.
Monday morning, my father dropped me off at football camp, beaming with pride. As I waved goodbye and watched him drive out of the parking lot, I realized that, as a freshman, I knew no one on the team, that I had never met any of the coaches, and that I had no idea where I was supposed to sign in.
Not the best way to begin my college career, but I was ready for whatever they were going to throw at me.
In the summer months leading up to that day, I’d put myself into overdrive. I lifted, ran, swam, biked, and put myself through a brutal routine. Everything Coach Dempsey had taught me about preparation, technique, and attitude would now be tested at Bridgewater.
“Welcome to Bridgewater, Kelly. I’m Coach Mazafarro and this is our defensive coach, Coach Braun. What position did you play at Bosco?”
“Defensive tackle, Coach.”
“Really? How much do you weigh?”
“About a hundred and ninety-five, sir.”
Dempsey had always told us that, in football, size really meant close to nothing. It hadn’t occurred to me that I was actually extremely light for a defensive lineman. I’d been brainwashed into believing that quickness, technique, and desire were the only ingredients necessary to play good ball.
But all I got from the coaches at Bridgewater was a flat, “Well, we’ll have to wait and see.”
It was also then that I met my new roommate, John Censulu from Stoneham, Massachusetts. John was an All-Star Scholastic quarterback with a rocket for an arm. As we entered our first team meeting, I was stunned by the size of the players. Bridgewater was Division III and, though I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting, it certainly wasn’t players as big as these guys.
“Jesus, John! Look at the size of these guys. I hope I can at least make the kick-off team!”
I would later discover that many of the players had had offers to play at Division I or II schools but, due to their grades, lack of money, or minimal exposure to big school scouts, had been overlooked. What’s most obvious at the college level is that everyone can play football and play it well—a stark difference indeed from high school ball. College players are self-motivated, and your amount of playing time is determined by you and you alone. No one cares if you’re a freshman, if you’re homesick, or if you’re hurt. It’s a fast-moving machine that won’t wait for anybody.
I was not only physically prepared for camp; I was prepared mentally as well, determined to hustle everywhere I was told to go. During agility drills, I was always in the top five. And when it came to long-distance running, I was in the top three of the linemen. Where players get the most attention, however, is during the hitting drills. This is what counts most. Over and over, I chanted in my head: Quickness, technique, desire. Quickness, technique, desire . . .
During our first day of hitting, the coaches called for a drill that was simply impossible to do without getting your head handed to you.
The coaches had a player lie on his back and then, when the whistle blew, he’d roll over, get up on his feet as quickly as possible, and run head-long into three huge linemen who had a running start. The drill was designed to prepare us for busting the wedge during a kick-off return. During a kick-off, the return team usually has four of its biggest linemen join together in the center of the field (called the wedge) and form a wall as they run down the field. Their job is simply to destroy anyone willing to get in their way while the return man follows them up the middle of the field with the ball.
Most players feared having the responsibility of breaking the wedge due to the high risk of injury (along with the insane task of sticking your head into the middle of a gigantic, moving mass of muscle). Of course, there are always three to four players on every team with a few screws loose who love this part of the game. I, however, was most definitely not one of them.
During this particular drill, I studied the guys who performed first, and came away with sheer terror. The first seven guys got pancaked, and not a person on the field was laughing because we all knew we’d be next.
Dempsey had taught us back at Bosco how to break a wedge. He’d said that no player ever wants to receive a knee injury, so when you’re going in to dismember a wedge, go for the knees. Many times, Dempsey preached to us about the importance of protecting our knees, saying, “Boys, remember our knees are like our mothers, so protect them. If anyone ever plays dirty and tries to take out your knees, punish them! Just place your hand on the back of his helmet and face-plant him into the ground.”
Naturally, he also recommended that, when you run down the field during a kick-off, sprint as fast as you can and then aim your helmet knee-high, because your opponents will always lift up their legs to avoid being hurt. While Dempsey’s advice on becoming a gridiron kamikaze might sound easy, trust me when I say it took a lot of courage (and no small amount of stupid recklessness) to carry out his theory.
So here I was, a freshman, eighth guy on the ground, coaches curious to see how the new kid would do and the upperclassmen watching to see some fresh meat get initiated to the team. But when the coach blew the whistle, all distractions melted away and I spun out as fast as I could, sprinting at full speed into the wedge and, at the last moment, barreling my helmet directly into the two middle linemen, knee-high. Both players jerked their knees up, and I blew through the wedge unscathed. Coach Braun went wild, ran over, and grabbed my face mask to read my name from the white athletic tape stretched across my helmet.
“Where’d you play ball, Kelly?”
“Don Bosco, Coach,” I said.
“Well, looks like I just found my wedge breaker. Nice hustle!”
My heart skipped a beat. I feared the wedge. I wanted to explain what I’d done and the rationale behind it (as well as the rationale behind why I definitely shouldn’t be a wedge breaker), but I knew that would’ve been athletic suicide. Either way, I was screwed. If I told my coach I was scared to death of breaking the wedge, I’d have been sentenced to the bench and viewed as a coward. And if I said nothing, I’d be placed next to the kicker on every kick-off with the sole responsibility of sprinting forty yards down the field to break the wedge, and possibly my neck. It was like being in the front lines of a battle while crossing the field to face the enemy—the odds were high that you wouldn’t last long.
During a subsequent moment in camp, I was put in a category that had me hated by the upperclassmen, but one that also gave me some level of status and respect on the team.
Rich had given me some sound advice before I went off to camp.
“Remember,” he said, “if they ask you to take out the bags or sing a song in the dining hall, do it. But when you’re on the field, there is no such thing as a f
reshman and there is no such thing as a senior. If anyone takes advantage of you or tries to take a cheap shot, fight like a tiger. You may not gain any friends, but everyone will respect you.”
I kept this information always in the back of my mind. When I was at camp, I was friendly and outgoing. I would be the first person to say hi in the halls; in the locker room, I spoke to the players near me regardless of their class; and during hitting drills, I’d pat guys on the back after each good hit.
But on day four, all that team camaraderie came to a screeching halt. We were performing another new hitting drill where I, again, was eighth in line for the chopping block. The drill was simple enough on the face of things: a mock fumble designed to train players to react quickly to a loose ball.
Here’s how it happened. First, the coach tossed the ball ten to twelve yards, had two players sprint after it, and one player returned the ball to the coach. It’s a high-spirited drill, and the players need to be very aggressive to be successful. Again, I watched the first several players and thought, This drill is nuts.
Once again, Dempsey entered my mind: The most dangerous athlete on the field is an intelligent athlete.
When I counted down the line, I noticed I was going up against our defensive captain, Benji—the kind of guy whose presence and performance demanded respect. I could feel the butterflies in my stomach. When it was our turn and Coach threw the ball, I saw Benji turn, look in the direction of the ball, and run towards it. So instead of running at the ball, I ran at Benji, exploding right into his chest and knocking him on his ass. What made matters worse is that I then casually walked over, picked up the ball, and tossed it back to the coach. Laughing, Coach Braun went over to Benji and announced, “I want to let you know that a freshman just knocked you on your ass!”
While there were a few laughs from the upperclassmen and a little ribbing coming Benji’s way, what I didn’t know is that I had unintentionally embarrassed our captain, and now he was out of his mind upset—at me! As he paced in the back of the line, it was clear to everyone that he couldn’t wait to get his hands on me.
Benji, as it turns out, would eventually have his revenge, and it would affect my relationship with players and coaches alike.
Coach Braun blew the whistle and moved the defense to the pit-drill. We had so many players that each one of us would rotate in and out to play defense and then offense. Coach Braun ran the drill by simply saying “Set-Hit.” When he said hit, he would toss the ball to the running back, and two linemen would go at it. The ball would then be returned, and the next pair would step up to make their play. But when it was my turn to block as an offensive lineman, Benji cut in line and shouted, “Get out of my way! He’s mine!”
And Coach let it happen. I was to block Benji for the running back five to seven yards behind me. Coach Braun held the ball, and the entire team stopped to see what might take place between us, the team Captain and the Crazy Freshman. Coach lifted the ball to heft it, calling, “Set—”
Except Benji didn’t wait for “hit.” He came off the ball fast and drove a shivering forearm straight into my face mask. He didn’t care about the running back; he just wanted to take my head off. As he kept on clubbing me with his forearms, I did my best to ward him off to one side. We pushed and shoved each other some, but the coaches broke us up quickly enough. By the time I went to the end of the line, I was smoking hot! My previous hit on Benji was clean; I’d simply outsmarted him in the drill. But I wasn’t going to let him get away with a cheap shot that could’ve easily injured me. I hadn’t been prepared for him to cheat in the drill, and after he’d jumped the gun, I’d felt a burning pain down the back of my neck.
And I knew that the one shot wouldn’t be enough to satisfy Benji.
So when our turn came up again, everyone was fired up and the upperclassmen really wanted Benji to kick my ass, to make an example out of me. I could hear them snickering, Kick his ass, Benji! and Yeah, he’s only a little pussy freshman!
I can remember Dempsey sitting us down and speaking to us about toughness. “Boys, toughness exists in everyone; it simply depends on the situation. Take a bully in your neighborhood that everyone’s afraid of. On Monday, he beats you up, and you do nothing, but on Tuesday, the same kid says, Fuck you, to your mother. Then you’ll be the one sending him crawling home with a black eye.”
Dempsey’s words raced through my mind, and this time, when Coach Braun called “set,” I was the one exploding early out of my stance and tearing into Benji, my helmet striking right under his chin. I then took my right hand and made a fist and slammed the left side of his helmet right into his ear hole. The hit stood him up and he paused for a second. That pause gave me enough time to grab his face mask and pull him to the ground. By the time I got on top of him and started throwing punches, the players and coaches had jumped in. Everyone was yelling, coaches and players alike.
Benji went wild! We were both yelling at each other and the coaches were really pissed with me. After they chewed me out, we ended the drill and joined the offense. The upperclassmen were glaring at me and the freshmen all wore looks of Wow! Who the fuck is this kid?
As I was jogging over to join the team, I found myself running behind Coach Braun, just close enough to hear him mutter to one of the other defensive coaches, “Did you see that? When’s the last time you ever saw a freshman go after a team captain? I like this kid!”
What was becoming obvious to me was the extent to which I had taken Dempsey with me to college. Every thought, every hitting drill, and every experience on the field had me reflecting on a shared moment or lesson taught by Dempsey. It was like watching the pieces of a puzzle coming together to create the hidden picture you couldn’t see earlier. Everything was starting to make sense to me.
But, during my first week of college football, I was creating an impression I’d hoped not to make. On the one hand, the fight was important and gave me some much-needed street cred. On the other hand, deep inside, it bothered me. It had emotionally and socially cut me off from the upperclassmen. What made matters worse is that Benji and I had lockers right next to each other. I was and wanted to be a team player. I wanted to like Benji as a friend and a captain. But, for the time being, I was an outsider.
Benji and I would spend the next few weeks dressing beside each other in awkward silence. But after a week, I could tell that both of us wanted some way to reconnect; we just didn’t know exactly how to do it.
The first game of the season was coming up—an away game. I would receive devastating news that Thursday during practice. For away games, we could only dress forty-two players, and I hadn’t made the cut. Although it was common for freshmen not to make the away games, I could not remember ever feeling so low—three weeks of sacrifice and hard work with nothing to show for it. I was ignored by the upperclassmen, and now I couldn’t travel with the team. I couldn’t even play on the kick-off team to break the wedge.
The night before the game, we had a team meal together. Before everyone left, I went over to the varsity players and wished them luck. I could tell that they too felt enough time had passed, and responded with sincere thanks. Making my way over to Benji, I stuck my hand out and said, “Best of luck tomorrow, Captain.”
He looked me straight in the eye. “Thanks, Kelly. Thanks.”
That would be the last time I would miss suiting up for a game. After that, I buckled down, determined to make my mark on the team. As a second-string defensive tackle, I got playing time during every game, and was, at last, a true member of the team. Of course, I was also the wedge breaker on the kick-off team, but I didn’t mind one bit compared to the alternative. Breaking the wedge or sitting on the bench? That choice was a no-brainer.
To dress for a game after busting your ass all week, only to sit on the bench and watch the game be played, was painful. Whether the team wins or loses, you never really feel part of it. And besides, being a wedge breaker is
a position of real status on the team. No one really wants the job, so there’s mutual respect given to anyone willing and able to do it, willing to sacrifice life and limb diving head first into a sea of oncoming jerseys.
Benji and I grew to be good friends. We played on the same side―defense―and, for the upcoming away game against Plattsburg, he actually agreed to room with me. I was on cloud nine! Life couldn’t have been better for a freshman playing college football. I was going to start my first varsity game, was on the travel squad, and was now rooming with the defensive captain.
After a nine-hour ride, we found the Plattsburg campus in full Halloween swing. I was surprised with how much freedom we had to roam the campus. With an eleven o’clock curfew, we hit a few parties, walking into a few mixers and a frat keg party. I was surprised at how comfortable Plattsburg students made us feel on their campus, especially after it was discovered that we were football players from Bridgewater State—their school’s arch rival.
“Hey, come on in and have a drink!” they’d cheer.
“Should be a great game tomorrow—we heard you guys are undefeated. Here, have two drinks then!” called some smart-ass with a smile.
And, as much as we were tempted to party with these (admittedly pretty cool) kids, I knew there was no way I was going to risk being benched for drinking or missing curfew. It was painful, but both Benji and I returned to the hotel early. When I went to sleep that night, I was very much aware of how calm I was. I’d imagined myself being much more nervous the night before the Plattsburg game, or at least that I’d have difficulty falling asleep. Instead, I just thought back to Coach Dempsey and what he would’ve said to me if he’d known I was starting varsity as a freshman: Don’t let me down, Kelly! You better play well!
I was calm during the team breakfast, but once I started getting dressed for the game, the butterflies came creeping in. Ask any athlete about pregame nerves and they’ll tell you that it’s when you don’t get the butterflies that you should really start to worry. Again, I thought of Dempsey and his advice to meditate on your responsibilities and conserve your energy. Moving to a corner, I laid down and closed my eyes, visualizing every offensive play and all of my corresponding responsibilities on defense.