Both Sides of the Line

by Kelly, Kevin

  The answer was painful: probably not.

  As a player and teammate, I’d idolized Coach Dempsey. But, like my beloved mother before her death, I’d pushed aside Street Dempsey, Dark Dempsey, Depressed and Angry Dempsey, into whatever compartment had worked best for me. I’d felt comfortable remembering the man who’d coached me and whom I adored in high school and after. I’d relished the memories of playing a glorious year with him as a teammate. And I honestly hadn’t wanted to see Dempsey behind bars.

  Would he have felt humiliated by such a visit, or had I just been too afraid of recognizing my coach for the murderer he was?

  Either way, I’d made it work in my mind. It was the easy way out.

  As I struggled with the news, I found that I also felt robbed—I hadn’t gotten the chance to speak with him one last time. I hadn’t gotten the chance to give him a voice through this book, or to thank him again for all he’d done for me.

  I had wanted to discuss his childhood at length, to know more about his relationship with his father, his mother, and his friends. I had wanted to dig into his past so I could better understand the devastating decisions he’d made after I graduated from Bosco. What had driven Dempsey to be so disciplined in one area of his life (football and coaching) but be so dramatically chaotic and destructive in others?

  I had wanted to ask the tough questions about what really happened between him and White. Had they really known each other prior to that July night? Had Dempsey been on cocaine that evening? What ultimately made him pull out his gun, and why the hell had he pulled the trigger three times? I wanted to know if he regretted that evening. I wanted to know if the statement made by White’s family, read in court prior to sentencing, had troubled him. I wanted to know if the reflective and mentoring Dempsey could speak to the Dempsey who had so completely failed to live as he’d always instructed us to.

  Could Dempsey look into the mirror and be honest with me? Could he look in the mirror then, in his prison cell, and even be honest with himself? Coach, Collector, Friend, Teammate, Dempsey, Mior, Murderer, Prisoner—who was he exactly?

  Finally, I had to accept the reality that I’d missed the chance to see my coach one last time. I had to accept the reality that one of the most influential men in my life was now dead.

  Later that year, I called the legendary Will McDonough, sports columnist for the Boston Globe and color analyst for ESPN. I was looking to speak to Steve DeOssie. Steve had played for Bosco and was the only player from our school to ever make it to the pro level. Recently retired, DeOssie was just beginning his career as a local sports announcer for the Patriots. I was hoping to get a statement from Steve about his relationship with and views on Dempsey. So when McDonough asked why I was looking for DeOssie’s number, I dove right into the meat of the story and how I was writing a book about Don Bosco’s ’74 team and our legendary coach.

  “Who was your coach?” McDonough asked.

  “Jack Dempsey from Brighton.”

  “You mean Jack Dempsey from Boston English? Kevin, I attended Boston English and was a three-star athlete there. I later coached Dempsey when he played football for English!”

  I laughed directly into the phone. I couldn’t help myself. “Is there anyone in Boston who doesn’t know this guy?”

  “Jack Dempsey was, pound for pound, one of the toughest and most talented football players ever to come out of Massachusetts,” McDonough said. “Boy, was he one hell of a tough kid!”

  “Coming from you, Will, someone who’s seen decades of top-flight athletes in Massachusetts, that’s one hell of a compliment!”

  After a few months passed, I sat down, pulled out my yearbook, and opened it up to the football section. As I looked over the photo of my old teammates, I realized that over thirty-eight years had passed us by. Don Bosco had held no reunions and, with many of my old teammates, I’d lost total contact. Where are these guys now? I wondered. What have they done with their lives? What went through their minds if and when they heard about Dempsey’s death?

  I was determined to find out.

  Closure

  “If our Bosco experience gave us anything, it allowed us to believe that if we could survive playing football at Bosco, we could survive anything in life.”

  —Al Libardoni

  Googling old teammates and catching up with people-who-knew-people, I set to work tracking down the ’74 team. From 2001 to 2003, I touched base with Al Libardoni, Coach Currier, and Peter Masciola, and though time and life dimmed my commitment to write the story, Max Williams wouldn’t let me quit or let the book die. Throughout the first decade of the new millennium, Max would call often from his home in Los Angeles.

  “Kev, how’s the Dempsey story coming?”

  “Max, I haven’t written much, but every time I tell the story about Dempsey, Bosco, his America’s Most Wanted appearance, and the ’74 team, people always have the same response: ‘Boy, you should write a book!’ It doesn’t matter if they’re young or old, male or female—everyone’s response is always the same.”

  “I’m telling you, Kev, stay with it.”

  The problem was, I wasn’t a writer. As a matter of fact, writing was (and is to this day) my biggest weakness. I was intimidated by the very notion of trying to write it all down and couldn’t see the forest through the trees. It seemed a herculean task.

  Then finally, in 2010, Max had had enough.

  “Kev, I’m coming out there. Either you write the story now or you never will. Try to find as many players as you can.”

  A few weeks later, Max came to Boston just as he’d promised, and a handful of us met near the Charles River. It would be the first of four meetings, with each meeting successfully growing in number of players found. Over the next three years (and with the help of a fairly large number of people), I slowly began locating all of my teammates from the ’74 team.

  In 2010, through Richie Moran, I found Skip Bandini.

  “Kev, Skip is head coach at Curry College, my alma mater. I’ve even attended a few coaching clinics with Skip.”

  Skip had likewise stayed in touch with Frank Marchione.

  Then a lifelong friend of mine from Hyde Park, Jack Shea, came forward, saying, “Hey, Kev, I met this guy who’s playing in a band with my brother, Rick. He said he played ball with you at Bosco.”

  “No kidding! What’s his name?”

  “Vinny O’Brien.”

  And, just like that, I had Vinny on the phone.

  “Hey, Vinny! Geez, how the hell are you?”

  “Great, Kev! I’m married with three boys, all grown up and doing well. I hear through Jack that you’re writing a book on the ’74 team.”

  “I’m really trying to track down as many of the guys as possible. We haven’t seen each other in so many years, though, so it’s difficult to know where to begin. I assume we’re located all over the country. One guy no one seems to have heard from is Abe Benitez. I wonder whatever happened to him.”

  “Ha! You wanna talk to Abe? I have his number. We’ve often played music together over the last ten years.”

  I would later discover that Vinny lived down the street from Ski. Ski had access to Chester Rodriguez, our wide receiver and defensive back, who was living in North Carolina. Chester and I spoke over the phone, but he was the one player who showed no interest in reconnecting with us. It was a shame, I thought. He’d always been talented, well-liked, and highly respected by his teammates.

  As for Chris Staub, I simply Googled him and got lucky.

  “Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, but does a Chris Staub live here?”

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “This could be an old friend, Mrs. Staub. Did your husband attend Don Bosco?”

  “Why, yes he did.”

  I also had an old number for Paul Carouso and hoped he still lived in Somerville (he did!).


  I had contact information for Tommy “Yogi” McGregor from my hometown of Hyde Park, as well as for Eddie Dominguez. Eddie was now working as a Boston cop and had kept in touch with John Sylva, now a Massachusetts State Trooper.

  Eddie also knew how to get in touch with Colie McGillivary, who lived in Dorchester. Colie, adding his own link to the chain, had contact information for Shawn Murphy. While having lunch with Colie and Shawn at the Holiday Inn in Dedham, I wondered aloud, “Whatever happened to Billy Elwell?”

  “Billy Elwell?” Shawn said, grinning. “He lives in Tewksbury.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “No kidding! I can’t believe we’re finding so many of us so quickly.”

  “I think Stevie Riley still lives in Dedham, Kev,” Colie chimed in. “He used to live off Route 1. His house should only be about three miles from here.”

  “Have you heard from Cemate?”

  “Last I heard, Cemate was in Atlanta. I wonder if Sylva can track Craig down.”

  It wasn’t long after that before I was yet again on the phone and on the hunt.

  “Hello, is this Craig Cemate?”

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “I’m an old teammate of Craig’s. May I ask who I’m speaking with?”

  “Yes, I’m his son.”

  “Well, is your dad home?”

  “Yes, but who should I say is calling?”

  I couldn’t help myself: “Tell your dad the MVP lineman from the ’74 Bosco team is on the phone looking for the MVP running back!”

  “Last I heard of Gary Green, he was living in Reading,” Craig said, the both of us still high from all our reminiscing and joshing around. “He works for the Post Office.”

  “Reading?” I said. “Jack Shea lives in Reading!”

  “Hey, Jack, do you know a Gary Green?’

  “You mean the mailman?”

  Gary and I connected via email, and he forwarded me an old phone number belonging to Richie Abner, one of our linemen (and a lineman whom Dempsey had particularly loved. His physical size and build resembled Dempsey’s from his high school days).

  Sadly, I also discovered that one of the brotherhood, Derrick Martini, had died in 2007. Derrick had been short and powerful. He was part Samoan and part Italian, with jet black hair, a million dollar smile, and a thick, muscular body. He’d made one hell of a nose guard. Over the years, however, he’d put on a large amount of weight and died of a heart attack at the still youthful age of forty-eight.

  That left only our lineman, Jerome Frazier, and our inside linebacker, Eddie Trask, to locate. I had one phone number for a Jerome Frazier living in Dorchester. I called that number many times over a six-month period, only to hear the phone ring and ring, and never even reaching an answering machine.

  Eddie Trask, on the other hand, simply hadn’t been heard from in years.

  Eddie wasn’t always the easiest guy to warm up to. He had a surly disposition, but he had been one great linebacker. Eddie was plagued with injuries throughout his playing career, but he never missed a game. He’d come lumbering up to the field looking like a mummy, with yards of white athletic tape wrapped around his body. It must’ve taken about forty-five minutes just to tape him up for a game.

  “Eddie and I were good friends,” Chris reflected, “and hung out with each other after high school. At one point, we were even going to join the Marines together. But then we slowly lost contact with each other. Last I heard, he was living in Plymouth.”

  It was rumored that Eddie had been in a bad fight that had left the other guy dead and Eddie in prison. In January of 2013, I found three Eddie Trasks living in Massachusetts, but none from Plymouth. I wasn’t very optimistic, but I had nothing to lose, so I hand wrote a letter to all three. I let them know that if they’d attended Don Bosco and been a member of the ’74 team, then we were holding a reunion and would love for him to join us. I left my contact information and crossed my fingers.

  I quickly heard back from two Eddie Trasks, both informing me they had never attended Don Bosco but wishing me luck in my search. There was never a response from the third letter, so Eddie was out. I was disappointed. I knew the guys would love to see him. Everyone I interviewed remembered Eddie warmly. His commitment to the team (and the way he’d made two crushing tackles on the one-yard line against CM) kept him rich and fresh in everyone’s memories.

  As I sat in my office and checked over the team photo, I was shocked to discover that we had found almost every starter from the ’74 Bosco Bears. It was a remarkable feat that, perhaps not so ironically, had taken a team effort to accomplish.

  I realized then how much I’d loved searching, finding, connecting with, and interviewing the players from the ’74 team. I had always held the deepest admiration and respect for them.

  In February of 2013, the reunion for the ’74 Championship team was set. Thirty-nine years had passed and yet there we were—twenty-three players, along with Coach Currier and Al Libardoni’s brother, Billy (an assistant coach during the ’74 season)—all finally in the same room again.

  Skip had offered to hold the reunion at Curry College. “If we’re going to do this,” he’d said, “then let’s do it right. I don’t want this to be some drunk-fest with no meaning. I want each guy to get up, talk about what Bosco meant to them, how Dempsey impacted their lives, and what the championship means to them today.”

  Skip ordered new game jerseys for all of us, so everyone got to wear their old high school team number at the reunion.

  Then, three days before the reunion, we got the news I’d feared most: A major snowstorm was predicted to hit New England the day of our planned gathering. Three players were flying in, their tickets already purchased. Some of the guys would have to drive hours to get to Curry College. Bruce Bortz, my publisher, who had stuck by my side for years believing in the Dempsey story, also had reservations to fly in with his wife from Baltimore to meet the team members.

  It had taken months to coordinate this day, and for many, this was a one-shot deal. Fortunately, we were, by this time, all connected by group email. So, the night before the reunion, Abe, who would have to drive a particularly long distance, sent the group an email I dreaded to read: “Kev, if it snows too hard, are we canceling the reunion or do we have a back-up date?”

  My thinking was not to have anyone drive in potentially dangerous conditions, no matter how badly I wanted us to reconnect. But then Frankie Marchione stepped in and, in true Marchione style, sent everyone the following reply: “What the fuck is wrong with us? When did a little snow ever stop us from practicing down at Science Park? We’re from New England for Christ’s sake! Everyone BE THERE!”

  I was up by five-thirty the next morning. After a stop for breakfast, I was heading toward my car and going over my mental “To Do” list, when suddenly my phone rang. “Hi, is this Kevin Kelly?”

  “Yes, it is. Who’s calling please?”

  “Kev, this is Eddie Trask. I received your letter. Not sure how you found me, but it was nice to hear from you!”

  I almost fainted.

  “Eddie?” I said, floored. “Jesus, I can’t believe we found you! How the hell are you?”

  “Everything’s going well. I’m married, and we have a terrific daughter. Unfortunately, I have a family obligation and can’t make the reunion today, but please tell everyone I said hello and wish them the best.”

  What a feeling! Three years! We had done our best to search out and find the entire ’74 team and, by February 16, 2013, we had done it!

  I stopped by Dedham to pick up Stevie Riley, and we both headed over to Curry College together. As I pulled into the lot, I was both excited and nervous. Slowly, players started to show up. We gathered first in Skip’s smallish office, exchanging hugs and slaps on the back. And, finally, by three o’clock, we were all together again. Every player wore their new Bosco football jersey, an
d everyone looked terrific.

  Eddie Dominguez couldn’t make the reunion, but he had shocked all of us by handing over the ’74 Championship banner to Peter Masciola. That banner hadn’t been seen by many of us for close to forty years. We laid it out on the floor and stared at it in total silence.

  Settling back into our memories and old friendships, I made a simple request: “Fellas, I purchased twenty-three footballs. You’ll notice that each ball has ‘1974 Catholic Conference Champions’ written on its side. If you could take a minute and sign each ball, then each of us will have a team ball with every player’s signature.”

  After the ball signing, we all took a seat in Curry’s football film room. It was a small auditorium, but perfect for our occasion. Then, one at a time, each player got up and shared how he’d picked Bosco as a school. He described his football experience and his memories of and relationship with Dempsey, and, of course, his recollections of our championship season. Something special started to emerge that was totally unplanned; players started to share not only where they’d come from, but their families and how they’d lived as kids, how they’d scraped by and fought their way through one mess after another. Players reflected on their adult journeys to success and how all of it was directly tied to the lessons we’d learned on the football field.

  All of us sat transfixed as each player got up and spoke.

  It started to become obvious that the seniors and juniors had had two significantly different experiences playing football at Bosco. The seniors had two miserable seasons with no team unity. Playing football at Bosco had been a challenge, and the negativity that’d hung over us going into our senior year had been palpable. We’d had few indications that we were special in any way or that we’d even be competitive. The juniors, though, were champions! They’d confidently walked into their senior year on fire. They’d known who they were from the start, and then gone out and proved it.