Both Sides of the Line

by Kelly, Kevin

  Occasionally, blacks visiting Boston and looking for a place to enjoy themselves would end up by chance at the Hatter. Other times, it occurred because some white jackass cabbie was intent on setting up an unknowing black kid to get the shit kicked out of him for walking into a white Southie disco.

  “Your cabbie wasn’t white and wearing a Shamrock clipped to his Scully Cap, was he?” I found myself asking that question all too often to any black guys brave enough to step up to the door. “Have you ever heard of South Boston?”

  “Shit, man! Am I in Southie? I heard about all you crazy white folks beatin’ up on blacks because of a school busin’ thing, right?”

  “Look, you’re welcome to come in, but I gotta let you know that there’s not one single black customer in this club. And these folks may not give you the warmest welcome you’ve ever felt.”

  All the bouncers at the Hatter, regardless of their own prejudices, knew that sending a black customer into the club unwarned was plain wrong. The Hatter bouncers were big and tough, but they were also great guys who acted with a sense of fairness. We didn’t mislead anyone, and we were always careful to warn people whenever we thought it was warranted. We even went so far as to provide taxis and suggest somewhere safer for them to go clubbing. In return, we always got a sincere thanks for the heads up, and every black patron took our advice and went on their way—all except one.

  One night, a group of four white college girls came in with a black male classmate from South Carolina. We went through our canned speech with the kid, but one of the girls said, “Nobody will touch him. We’re from Quincy,” and insisted he enter the club. I gave this chick a look like she’d lost her mind, but they went in anyway. We sent in six of our biggest bouncers to keep an eye out for them and to stay close.

  As I was sitting by the center double doors, three Southie regulars approached me and asked if I would open the middle doors. I thought they were nuts. It was winter and freezing out. When I asked why they wanted them open, one guy said with a smirk, “We just wanna take the nigger out in the back alley and kill ’im.”

  “He’s not even from around here—he’s from South Carolina, for Christ’s sake! What could you possibly have against him?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

  “I don’t give a fuck where he’s from. My younger brother got jumped by three niggers on the Orange line and needed nine stitches to close the gash above his eye. He’s only twelve and they beat the shit out of him!”

  “Listen, I understand why you’re angry. I would be too. But this kid had nothing to do with your brother getting hurt.”

  “I don’t care—I hate all niggers!” he said furiously.

  “Let me ask you this: If a group of white kids beat up your brother, would you want to kill every white kid you saw?”

  A few awkward seconds went by without anyone speaking until, finally, one of his buddies piped up, “C’mon, let’s just try another door.”

  The Hatter dance floor could easily hold three hundred people, but when one of the white girls from Quincy and the black student got up to dance, every single person walked off the dance floor and encircled it, staring them down. This guy hadn’t spoken to anyone or caused the slightest bit of trouble that evening, but the color of his skin changed the entire climate inside the club. It was really something to witness—something deeply disturbing. Maybe some of the people in the club felt as I did, but if so, no one dared speak up.

  The dancing couple felt the intense hatred coming their way and quickly sat down.

  “You satisfied?” I asked her, pissed that the girl hadn’t listened to me in the first place. I told her about the kids who’d come around looking to kill her friend—I’m sure some of the Southie girls would’ve loved to have gotten their hands on her too. I’ve watched plenty of Southie, Charlestown, and Dorchester girls fight. Many of them could throw a punch just as straight and hard as any guy. Hell, even I would’ve thought twice before messing with some of those girls.

  But this young woman would have lasted about three seconds before she lost some teeth, along with half her hair. We escorted her and her group to their car by sneaking them out the back door. Luckily, they were able to leave safely.

  Although I was enjoying myself at both the Hatter and Fenway, both jobs meant working with obnoxious drunks day and night, and I quickly began to lose my patience with people. I started to lose my ability to empathize.

  The bigger problem, however, was that I was simply unaware of this fact and of what it was turning me into.

  But then, tired of my bravado, frustration, and trouble-making, my father finally stepped in and announced that my tough-guy days were over.

  “Listen, it’s only a matter of time before you cross the wrong guys. You smack one and then you have no idea that they’re waiting for you after work. Three weeks later, we’ll find you in a dumpster. Trust me, Kevin, you’re not that tough. Keep your eye on the prize and go back to school.”

  My father gave all his kids plenty of room to grow, but when he stepped in to discipline or guide us, we listened.

  And I knew deep down that my father was right. I had fully committed to moving to Hawaii, and I needed to be true to that. So, during the summer of 1977, I reached out to Dempsey for help.

  “How was the T ride over from Hyde Park?” he asked, picking me up in his old Impala.

  “Crowded and hot, but what else should I expect? Hey, Coach, this is the first time I’ve seen Boston College’s football stadium. Christ! What a difference from Bridgewater State. Look at the size of this place! Outside of Foxboro, it has to be the largest stadium in New England. Look how far back the rows go—and four press boxes! Shit! Imagine playing here when the place is sold out. I’ve never played on AstroTurf, but I bet it feels like playing on a putting green. Players tell me you’re faster on AstroTurf, and I can see why. The turf is so tight you can turn on a dime. Coach, how much do you think something like this costs?”

  Dempsey stared straight into my eyes with that let’s get down to business look of his, before flashing a small smile that softened his face. “Well, since BC played Notre Dame on national television in ’75, BC’s football program has exploded, both financially and talent-wise. I heard the price tag was about four-point-five million.” Dempsey shook his head at the number, seeming as amazed as I was. “When you heading out to Hawaii?”

  “I’ll be leaving the first week in August.”

  “Great,” he said, pulling into a parking space, “that’ll give us eight weeks to get you ready for outside linebacker.”

  “Outside linebacker?” I said, baffled. “What’re you talking about? I’ve been playing defensive tackle my entire career.”

  “Kevin, Hawaii is Division I, and regardless of what you or I might think, they will never consider playing a two hundred and ten pound kid at tackle. Don’t worry, I’ll have you ready. Let’s stop shooting the shit. Go run a mile to warm up. We’ll do our agility drills, then we’ll review the basics to outside linebacker and end with conditioning. So, you’re impressed with the size of the stadium, are you?”

  “God, yeah! Just look at it!”

  “Good, because over the next eight weeks, you’ll run every single stadium step in here. Now get going!”

  I’m sure the look on my face was hilarious. Eventually, though, I let out a long sigh and said, “Well, one thing is for certain.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “You’re still the same ball-busting coach I had in high school.”

  “Ha! Were you expecting anything less?”

  Every Friday for the next eight weeks, I met with my former coach and teammate to learn the ins and outs of being an outside linebacker. This was not going to be an easy adjustment. Defensive tackles have a three-point stance, whereas outside linebackers have a two-point stance, meaning they stand. A defensive tackle must focus on the opposing lin
eman’s stance to pick up clues that might give him an edge. Outside linebackers, on the other hand, are looking for schemes in the backfield; the position demands a calmer, more strategic approach to the game. Defensive tackles must play an intelligent game as well, but at the snap of the ball, they have to be able to explode into the opponent’s face or chest, before they can then play the position. Linebackers are responsible for both the run and the pass, so an overly aggressive linebacker won’t last long.

  Deep down, I was frustrated. I felt I had truly become confident playing the defensive tackle position, having played it the past three years. I had proven that size didn’t have to mean everything. I’d proven it in high school during my senior year, in college during my freshman year, and at the semi-pro level as well. I kept wondering: If I’d been successful playing defensive tackle at the semi-pro level, then why can’t I play tackle at the University of Hawaii?

  “Yes, I preached and fully believe that size means nothing in the game of football,” Dempsey sighed, rolling his eyes at my consistent complaints. “But I also made it clear that a good, big man will always beat a good, little man. This is most evident at the pro level. The pros bring to the game the entire package: speed, size, quickness, technique, intelligence, and lethal toughness. You have to be ready for that and you have to be able to adapt.”

  My last night with Dempsey was one I’ll never forget. It was a perfect summer evening—warm with a slight breeze—and the type of weather that makes you wish you could sleep under the stars. The stadium was empty and quiet, with the perimeter’s street lamps providing just enough light for us to see each other and do all the drills and coaching that we’d planned for the evening. It didn’t matter that it was our last night together. Dempsey was his usual self: consistent, thorough, and unwavering.

  “Come on! Quicker! You’ll sit on the bench next year if you don’t react quicker. Stop thinking—react!”

  He put me through hell: agility drills, sprints, and running the endless stadium stairs. Then came the cerebral part of the game.

  “Outside linebackers have to read their cues quickly. The tight end’s head will tell you where the ball is going.”

  Dempsey was all business. I had matured as a football player and knew how everything we did here would affect any success I was to experience down the road. What was extra special for me was that I was fully aware of the unbroken bond that existed between Coach and me. I was also aware that what Dempsey was giving me at Boston College was rare. Not only was it the off-season, but I was also two years out of high school. These were his Friday nights, but he was giving them to me to help me get back to college and continue to play ball.

  Deep down, I knew I’d blown my academic opportunity at Bridgewater—it had been entirely my fault. I’d lacked academic goals, lacked life goals. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was trying to prove or what I really wanted out of life. Most of my friends were buckling down, finishing up college. They seemed to have a focus and direction to their lives while I was still just treading water, with nothing to show for my efforts but football.

  But I always had this sense that everything was going to work out whenever I was around Dempsey. He had a way of communicating, without speaking, that what we were doing was what was most important. With Dempsey, you lived in the now. I knew that he believed every word he spoke. He was so detailed in his teaching that, for a little while, the outside world didn’t enter my mind. Nothing was more important than what we were doing in that moment.

  Dempsey radiated enthusiasm and intensity. Attentive to detail, he was, as always, the master teacher who demanded commitment, hard work, and focus from his pupils. I can only relate this intense connection to a father/son relationship. When I was a boy, I always felt safe when I was with my father. I always felt that no one could harm me. I believed all would be right with the world when Dad was home. Dempsey had this same effect on me.

  In many ways, Dempsey anchored me.

  I have no memory of Dempsey ever going through the motions. It was as if he was waiting the entire day for this time to coach. At the end of each workout, we would sit on the AstroTurf, stretch, and discuss life. We’d talk about how forced busing was tearing apart the fabric of our historic and beautiful city. We’d talk about football techniques and old games. Or sometimes I’d just sit and listen to him recount his own athletic past.

  But during our last session, I was determined to confront him about the stories and rumors that had long been sullying his name. Though I knew I’d be crossing a delicate line, I had to know. I’m not sure where it came from, but somehow I mustered up my courage.

  “Coach, you preached God, family, and country back when I was at Bosco, and I took the bait. I’m drug-free and I drink very little. Your influence and your mentoring have had a direct impact on how I choose to live my life every day.”

  “Well, that’s great to hear, Kevin,” he said.

  “I do need to ask you something, though. There’s a rumor about you that’s been floating around the last few years.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “Do you work for the mob?”

  Dempsey was taken aback, and I could tell I’d caught him off guard. Then he pinned me with his signature street-look, that don’t fuck with me look. Still, somehow, I kept my gaze steady.

  After an awkward pause, a long exhale, and a dropping of his massive shoulders, he spoke, “Yes, I do.” I listened in stunned silence. “Look, these people I meet—they borrowed money to do something illegal, usually to sell drugs or to get involved with gambling. They knew exactly what they were getting themselves into. The first few times I visit someone, it’s a business meeting. It’s not like in the movies. If I hurt someone right away, then we’ll never get our money. I sit down, pull out a briefcase, and set up installment payments. But if I’m coming to visit someone three, four times, and they haven’t made a payment, well . . . things might get a little rough.”

  Dempsey explained his world in a flat, straightforward, no-apologies manner, as if everyone who gets involved in this business knows the rules and had better be willing to play by them.

  “Makes sense to me, Coach,” I said, my response surprising even myself.

  And that was that.

  I had needed an answer, and he’d given me one that allowed me to keep him at least near the top of the pedestal I’d built for him and put him on.

  Dempsey made the client out to be the bad guy, and justified his position in a neat and tidy way. He believed the service he provided was necessary. Dempsey had charisma and conviction in his voice and, as a kid still at the start of my twenties, I believed him—I believed him and let the matter drop because I wanted him to stay my coach, my mentor, and my role model. But, honestly, there was always a part of me that was drawn to his street side as well, that was drawn to the wildness and illegality of it all.

  If he had said, I’m going to collect some money tonight. Why don’t you join me? I could see a part of me wanting to go along. It would’ve been exciting to see Coach in action, strong-arming and scaring the shit out of some street punk. But I knew that in the long run, it would’ve been dangerous—not only because of the inherent legal and physical dangers of such a job, but also because of how it might’ve enticed me even deeper into that world. I’d had a taste of the street-life at the Hatter and, though it’d been exciting, it’d also changed me for the worse. Power, whether for good or evil, can become intoxicating and then addictive. I knew tagging along with Dempsey involved too many dead ends for me. That could never be my lifestyle.

  What I didn’t see coming, however, was what my confrontation with Dempsey would inspire: During the next few hours, Dempsey told me his life story. How much he embellished in order to impress me, I don’t know. But I can replay to the word what was shared that evening—it’s never left me.

  “I was the fat kid with glasses, walking home from school carr
ying my violin case,” Dempsey began, a story I quickly recognized as the one he’d also given to Abe Benitez a few years earlier. “I got made fun of a lot, and that’s when I learned to put down the violin and fight. When I was nine or ten, I came home one day crying after getting picked on. I headed straight for my room and closed the door to be alone. After a few minutes, my father walked into the room. ‘Clyde, stop crying,’ he said.

  “I lifted my head off the bed, and my father was holding the violin in one hand and a pair of boxing gloves in the other.

  “We’re not going to let this violin be the reason why you get beat up every day after school.

  “I remember my mother standing on the stairs and listening to my father, then quickly heading for her room and closing her door. I was half afraid and half relieved to have my father teach and inspire me to stand up for myself. I had tremendous respect for him. Street fighting helped me develop a resilient attitude. If you beat me up one day, the next day I’d be at your door saying, ‘Let’s try that again!’ Eventually, kids in the neighborhood figured I wasn’t someone to fuck with.”

  Dempsey found his success and respect on the football field. In 1964, Boston English High School was so loaded with talent that it was ranked seventh overall in the entire nation. He developed into a two-time, high school All-American lineman. He didn’t care too much for school, though, and hated time wasted on the smelly T train.

  “I would rather steal a car than take the subway,” said Dempsey. “I stopped counting the number of cars I stole at a hundred and seven. Of course, when my coach got wind of me skipping class and stealing cars, he benched me, and I went out of my mind. I thought he’d done it because I wasn’t playing well enough. So I made sure I lined up against the kid that replaced me, and I punished that poor son-of-a-bitch bad. I loved football so much that if my coach had just sat me down and said, ‘Dempsey, you miss one more class or steal another car, you’ll never see the football field again!’ then I would have gotten straight A’s and never stolen another car in my life. But it never happened. We never talked. After two games, I was back in the starting lineup, and the most relieved player on the field was the kid who replaced me; I’d been tearing him up pretty good during practice.