Both Sides of the Line

by Kelly, Kevin

  The Hyde Park Cowboys and the Arrival of Dempsey

  “As I watched the mayhem grow, I couldn’t help but laugh. Only my coach could have been responsible for something like this.”

  —Kevin Kelly

  After flunking out of Bridgewater State―there’s no other way to put it―I still had hopes of returning to college and playing football. I was attending Quincy Junior College and earning high enough grades to transfer, but I also needed to be playing football at the intercollegiate level.

  It just so happened that my hometown team—the Hyde Park Cowboys—was joining the Eastern Football League, a New England semi-pro league.

  These semi-pro Cowboys had the exact same uniforms as the NFL’s Dallas Cowboys, and were the best-looking team in the league. Billy Mouradian, beloved in the neighborhood, sponsored the team. He owned a bar in Hyde Park called Billy’s Saloon. He was a soft-spoken, quiet guy, and he loved his team and its players.

  During the Cowboys’ first year of play (1975), they marched into the championship game totally undefeated, only to lose it in triple overtime (that’s seven quarters of football). I have never before or since heard of a game lasting that long. The final score was 10-7, with Charlestown pulling out a victory over Hyde Park in the final seconds.

  During this time, I also spoke with Coach Currier about returning to a four-year college that played intercollegiate football. He informed me that the defensive coordinator at the University of Hawaii, Rich Blangardi, was a former player of his and that he was visiting New England, looking for players who might be interested in attending school out west. So I made contact with Coach Blangardi, and he told me that I’d have to improve my grades before he could help me out.

  Despite this meager encouragement, I was out of my mind excited about the opportunity to play ball for the Rainbow Warriors. Suddenly, I had a renewed purpose and a clear goal. I knew I had to stay in shape while I hit the books, so playing for the Hyde Park Cowboys proved to be the perfect challenge.

  The word was out that the Hyde Park Cowboys was the team to play for, so a lot of college graduates and former Park League players joined up fast. There were even a few players who had achieved All-American status, and a few more who had actually tried out for the pros. There was so much depth on the team that the third-string was easily as talented as the first. Players came from all over eastern Massachusetts. I was struck by their size, ability, and skill. I found myself hoping once again to just make the kick-off team.

  I would be proud to play for my hometown, to play alongside some of the toughest and most talented players to ever come out of Hyde Park. Many of the Hyde Park players weren’t just older than me—they were men I’d looked up to and even feared while growing up: Ricky McComick, Richie Flippen, Hunky Fisher, Frankie Fanning, Bobby and Joey St. Peter, Bubba Lynch, and Larry Devoe. I was, to say the least, intimidated.

  There were a handful of Hyde Park players my age as well: John “Oakie” O’Connor, Ronny Walsh, Dennis Hicky, and Jay Crowley. None of us had ever played together before, but we all knew each other from the neighborhood. I wasn’t sure where I’d fit on the team or if I’d even get to play, but I knew I had to try. If I could compete in this league, it meant I had a chance to play ball in college in Hawaii.

  The first few days of tryouts consisted of lots of no-pad conditioning drills and wind sprints. The head coach (also from Hyde Park) was Jimmy MacIntire, a solid coach and a good guy. He knew me as one of the little kids from the neighborhood, but always treated me with kindness and respect.

  The first day of pads was a disaster for me. I had to buy my own helmet and find some pads quickly. My helmet was the first generation of AIR helmets, which require the player to put it on and then have someone pump air into it. The air enabled it to conform to your head size and create a snug cushion, displacing the impact of a hit more evenly. Unfortunately, someone had pumped my helmet full of air without the helmet first on my head, so when I tried to pull my helmet down to the appropriate position, which would have been even with my eyebrows, all it did was slide and puff back up to my hairline. I could snap on my chin-strap, but only barely.

  Not only did I look like a goof, but the helmet actually made hitting more unsafe and the impact uneven. It was extremely frustrating, but there was nothing I could do about it at that point. To make matters worse, the only football pants I’d been able to find were an old pair from Pop Warner that had the thigh-pad pockets torn out. My only option was to take white athletic tape and wrap five complete revolutions around my thighs to hold my makeshift pads in place. On top of all that, I wore an old, heavy-knit, bright red football shirt decorated with dull gold satin numbers.

  I looked like a total misfit and no one—and I mean no one—would talk to me.

  All of the other players looked sharp, clean, confident, and experienced. They must have been laughing their asses off at me, wondering who the hell that clown was running around on the field.

  After a few basic drills, we started into double-teaming, where a defensive lineman has to take on two offensive linemen at the same time. There are a few specific techniques that defensive linemen learn that are very effective against a double team, so that when this happens during a game, the defensive linemen don’t get blown back five yards off the line of scrimmage or, worse, get knocked on their behinds.

  At the end of the line, waiting my turn, I was really excited, eager to see how these well-established athletes would play. I knew I was going to get to watch some of the very best players in the region go up against each other—a rare and valuable opportunity.

  The first guy up was the largest lineman on the team. Well before practice had started, I’d noticed him walk onto the field. He was six-foot-five and two hundred and seventy-five pounds, cut like a bodybuilder and wearing an Oakland Raiders jersey. He looked like a man who knew how to handle himself but, then again, so did the offensive linemen. At the snap of the ball, there was a massive collision, with the offense getting the upper hand. I was surprised to see this hulk of a man not using any particular technique against the oncoming players; brute strength alone can’t win when it’s two-on-one. Dempsey’s never-ending preaching that technique always trumps size rang true yet again. The next few players came up and tried their hand, but still no one penetrated the line of scrimmage.

  When it was my turn, I knew I wasn’t going to out-muscle or out-tough any of these guys, so I instinctively did what I’d been taught. On the snap of the ball, I crabbed between the two linemen, basically getting on all fours while exploding between the two. The two offensive linemen didn’t even touch me, and instead were left searching for me while I was already on the other side of the scrimmage line in a hitting position, looking to my inside.

  When I returned to the back of the line, I got stares from a few of the other linemen. No one said a thing, but I could tell by their faces that they were impressed. I knew some of them thought it was just a fluke, so I decided to try another technique my next time up.

  On my next turn, I lined up straight across from the lineman to my right. Both of the offensive linemen knew that I would have physical contact with that player first. This gave them a tremendous advantage because of the angle it would create. Instead of having two options for where I could go when the ball was snapped, I would have put myself in a position that left me with only one option, and that was to come straight across and into the lineman opposite me. As I stood ready, I imagined how both the offensive linemen and the players in line behind me were likely wondering what my reason for this could be. Why had I chosen to make things seemingly easier for my opponent?

  But on the snap of the ball, instead of hitting the lineman directly in front of me, I exploded left and forward. The lineman to my left wasn’t anticipating this, and so his body wasn’t ready for the early contact I created. In an attempt to adjust, he rocked backwards. I slipped between the two linemen, again ending
up on the other side unscathed. After three to four rounds of double-teaming drills, the other players finally started to talk to me.

  A few wanted to know where I’d played ball in high school, but I didn’t get the chance to answer before Coach Mac came over and said, “I heard you played for Clyde! I expect you to run through walls for me!”

  After tryouts were all said and done, I made starting defensive tackle, despite weighing a mere two hundred and five pounds. But even then I couldn’t take all the credit. I was part of the starting defense for one reason and one reason only: Dempsey, a master teacher, had taught me how to own the position.

  There was one player on the team that could bench-press four hundred and fifty pounds. He could lift your car and throw you through a wall, and yet he hadn’t mastered the techniques necessary to play the game at an expert level, so he sat on the bench.

  The Cowboys were a racially diverse team, with both black and white players. Boston was still in the middle of its racial meltdown, and so many of the players had professional lives directly related to forced busing. But on the field, we never discussed our city’s turbulent climate or let what happened off the field interfere with our team chemistry. When people work together, sharing sacrifice and experience, victory and defeat, they develop a bond, almost like soldiers in battle. Playing football, although not at all the same as dedicating oneself to a life-risking career, still creates an atmosphere that puts the mission ahead of any individual player. So when you’re part of a team and you put your heart and soul into the attempt to win, that effort generates a tremendous level of respect between players. It’s an unspoken connection that creates a special bond between athletes.

  In 1976, the Hyde Park Cowboys became the perfect example of why and how race didn’t have to be a source of conflict between us as neighbors, friends, or teammates. Firemen running into a burning building don’t stop in mid-stride to wonder, “Wait a minute. Who’s running in with me to save that child—a black guy or a white guy?” Football is all about the mission. When everyone sacrifices and works hard together, a bond is formed that’s entirely beyond race.

  Earl Garrett, an African American All-American defensive back from Boston State College, was a talented player, respected and well-liked by everyone on the team. He was probably about six or seven years older than me, but we still got along great and I often looked to him for guidance. Then, during one particular practice, we heard that Earl’s mother had passed away and that the wake was being held that night.

  There wasn’t enough time for all of us to go home, shower, dress, and get to the wake in time, so six carloads of players, dirty, sweaty, and still in uniform, drove down to Morton Street in the middle of Roxbury, an all-black neighborhood, to pay our respects.

  Standing outside the funeral home, we asked a relative if he could ask Earl to join us outside so we could offer our condolences. We weren’t about to enter the wake in our sweat- and filth-stained uniforms. But when Earl’s father appeared at the threshold, he must’ve seen our sincerity and the love in our eyes, because he said, “All you boys are welcome. Please come in.”

  We were greeted with endless smiles and appreciation by all. Earl hugged every one of us. Here we were, in the midst of one of the hottest racial periods in Boston’s history, and yet we were sharing a beautiful moment of unity—racial differences be damned.

  I now regret that, at the time, I never tried to make a connection with the Boston Globe so they could have written a story on the Hyde Park Cowboys. Our team unity and athletic success could’ve served as a model of peaceful action for our city. What Dempsey had told us back at Bosco rang true for the Cowboys: We didn’t have black football players or white football players; we simply had football players.

  With one victory under our belt, the next week of practice shouldn’t have held too many surprises. But then, suddenly, there was a commotion on the field. Players were gathering around someone. Wandering over, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  What’s Dempsey doing here?

  A swarm of guys had gone over to greet him, and a giant swell of pride swept over me as I watched the sincere respect everyone showed him.

  He’d been slotted to play defensive nose-guard for the Cowboys, which meant we would play next to each other on the defensive line.

  I had died and gone to heaven!

  All through practice, I watched Dempsey like a hawk. During hitting drills, he was everything I’d thought and hoped he’d be: quick off the ball, flawless in his technique, and always displaying a kind of tenacity that can’t be taught. It was rewarding to see my mentor execute all the techniques that he himself had coached.

  One evening during practice, we set up for a pit-drill session, and Dempsey and I were lined up against each other. Feeling cocky, I went out on a limb and joked, “I’ve been waiting years for this moment.”

  Dempsey laughed, and we both came off the ball half speed.

  Dempsey patted me on the helmet and winked at me. “You lucky bastard!”

  But truly, I had no desire to go live against my coach. I had too much respect for him, and I knew he didn’t want to embarrass his old pupil in front of the other players. Besides, it just didn’t feel right to become violent with him.

  By 1976, I had already heard plenty of stories about Dempsey’s legendary fights and his connection to the mob as a collector. At Bosco, most of the Dempsey stories came from the Brighton kids. Some of the players seemed to know plenty of stories about Dempsey’s street reputation, most of them about Dempsey as a collector for bookies in the area. Even my father was beginning to warn me to keep my distance from Dempsey. “I know you idolize your coach, and I know you’re excited about playing ball with him, but you need to be careful.” But I barely heard the warnings, so engrossed was I by Dempsey and the legend he’d become.

  We had a player on the Cowboys (I’ll call him John T.), who was one of the biggest and scariest-looking individuals I’d ever met. I heard through the grapevine that he and Dempsey often teamed up together when collecting money from people who were late, or who’d refused to make payments after borrowing from the bookies or the mob.

  Personally, I think I would’ve sold my mother into slavery for petty cash if these two guys had ever come to my door looking for money—they were that terrifying. John was a white guy with an impressive Afro; wild, beady eyes; and a goatee topped with a thin mustache. He was a hunk of walking muscle just waiting to smash into someone.

  One day during practice, John came up to me, put his arm around me, and said, “I understand you played for Clyde at Bosco. You know what that means, Kelly?” But before I could answer, he went on, “That means we’re brothers. I love that guy,” he said, sticking his thumb out toward Dempsey. “He taught me everything I know.”

  I smiled politely, thinking, Thank God I know Dempsey, for I couldn’t imagine running into John in a dark alley. But, thanks to this connection, we ended up getting along just fine.

  The first game Dempsey and I played together was truly memorable. He and I were on the kick-off return team. And as we peeled back to form our wall for the return man, Dempsey noticed that his player to block was running with his head down. Dempsey put on the brakes, then sprinted straight through him. SMACK!

  The hit could be heard throughout the entire stadium. As the player lay unconscious, I looked over to our sidelines and saw the entire team hunched over, laughing and giving each other high fives. Dempsey’s first hit in the new league signaled exactly what type of player he was: a man among boys.

  As the two teams waited for an ambulance to take this poor guy to the hospital, some fans started a riotous bottle fight. It was a night game, so as the bottles crisscrossed from one side of the field to the other. With beer streaming out against the stadium lights, it looked like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

  Watching the mayhem grow, I couldn’t help but laugh. Only my old coach co
uld be responsible for something like this.

  The players eventually ran out to help break up the fight, but a few fans paid a heavy price. Some lay unconscious, and plenty had serious injuries.

  During practice and in games, Dempsey was impressively quiet. I never saw him lose control on the field. He was like the lion surveying his kingdom from the top of the knoll, his game face saying it all. And during games, of course, he was a killer. He walked onto the field with the confidence of a heavyweight champion. His goal was simple: give one hundred percent for four quarters. If you’re not willing to hit me for four quarters, I’m going to be your worst nightmare!

  Once Dempsey knew a player was ducking him, he became like the shark that smells blood. He physically dominated that player, ready to punish him for giving up. Dempsey had zero respect for any player who quit on the field.

  For me, it was pure joy to play alongside my old coach, having found a place where I was no longer the student to my mentor, but a teammate. Often after practice, he would stay behind to work on his own techniques or to teach other players new skills. He was truly a special guy. Even on my best day, I could never hold a match to Dempsey’s quickness, toughness, and commitment.

  Before the first play at many of our games, trash talking often took place on the line of scrimmage between opposing teams, but I never participated for two reasons: A) I’d been coached not to, and B) I really was too small to be taken seriously. Dempsey had taught us that, if you’re going to talk trash, you better be able to back it up, because if you don’t, the other guy will own you all day.

  I may not have felt I could live up to the hype, but others sure did. During the championship game, there was plenty of it coming from both sides. I heard one player from the other team call out, “I’m going to tear your fucking head off!” to which one of my teammates jeered back about how good the sex was with the other guy’s girlfriend.