Parcells

by Bill Parcells

  One extreme case of Ida’s bargaining, giving insight into a personality trait of her oldest son, occurred at a clothing store in nearby Carlstadt, New Jersey. Its owner, Mutchie Marcatelli, was a longtime friend of the family acquainted with her penny-pinching ways. So when Ida inquired about a fancy coat costing $800, Marcatelli preemptively offered her 50 percent off.

  Automatically, Ida said, “Ha!”

  After a stunned moment, Marcatelli rallied. “Mrs. Parcells, you can have the coat. Take it as a present from me.”

  Ida responded, “Ha! What do you think I am? A charity case?”

  Confounded, Marcatelli asked, “What do you want to pay for it?”

  “I’ll give you two hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “Sold!”

  In Hasbrouck Heights, organized sports like Pop Warner football and Little League baseball were embryonic. Video games didn’t yet exist, and television was just entering the picture (most channels were test patterns). With so much time on their hands, boys naturally focused on sports. By the time Duane turned nine, Army Field had given way to Cape Cod homes, and most of the town’s athletic fields were near the Meadowlands, southeast of town. Duane often chose to make the hilly three-mile ride on his bicycle to a playground near Teterboro Airport. “Coming home was a bitch, pedaling up all those hills,” Parcells recalls.

  The alternative was playing in the neighborhood. Depending on personnel and mood the choices included curb ball, step ball, and punch ball (whacking a ball with a closed fist). The kids often just grabbed a soft red rock nearby and used it to mark out first, second, and third bases on the asphalt. The fire hydrant on Duane’s side of the street was home plate. Curb ball required only the Spalding High-Bounce, a lively pink rubber ball, and, of course, a curb. “We played it all over the place,” Parcells says. “You only needed two guys and a street that wasn’t busy.”

  A perfect pitch against the edge of the curb produced a home run. Balls hitting just below that ended up as grounders, and if the defense didn’t field the dribbler cleanly, a runner ended up on first base. Danny and Duane, generally on opposing teams, often had heated arguments involving the rules. “If there was a controversy, Parcells was right in the middle of it,” says George Swede, whose backyard touched Army Field. “And he knew his rules.”

  Duane possessed excellent hand-eye coordination, while Don was the more gifted athlete, inheriting his father’s physique and speed. Charles had kept his sports scrapbooks hidden away, never mentioning his athletic exploits to his boys. Aside from buying essential equipment, Charles didn’t push them toward sports. Regardless, his two kids, especially Duane, fit into the town’s sports-crazy culture like a hand in a baseball glove. “I loved getting up to bat,” Parcells says, “or putting the ball in the bucket, or tackling some guy.”

  The National Basketball Association, founded in 1946, was in its infancy, and the NFL’s heyday was on the horizon, so baseball, the national pastime, was Duane’s favorite sport. With Charles regularly bragging about his Yankees, who had won five straight World Series titles from 1949 to 1953, Duane’s rebellious streak prompted him to become a Red Sox fan. Boston was the only team preventing the Yankees’ baseball hegemony.

  At night Duane frequently used his Bendix radio to tune in to baseball games, unlatching the toaster-sized gadget to turn it on. While Ida and Charles thought their older son was asleep, he lay under the sheets in the dark, spellbound by the night-game broadcast. As an adult, he would use his uncanny memory to ace baseball trivia quizzes involving that era.

  When Duane was nine, Hasbrouck Heights created a baseball team for kids ages eight to twelve in the Bergen County Peewee League. After tryouts Duane was named to the squad for his first organized competition. The Peanuts, who wore gray uniforms with red trim, played against neighboring towns. Their archrival was Lodi, which was slightly west of Hasbrouck Heights and a tad more blue-collar. From April to August the Peanuts hopscotched throughout Bergen County playing more than thirty games. “It was like The Bingo Long Traveling All-Stars and Motor Kings,” jokes Parcells, referring to the blaxploitation comedy about ex–Negro Leaguers barnstorming through the Midwest in the 1930s.

  Generally, Duane’s teammates were as many as three years older than he was, which usually meant they were more polished. Duane, whose primary attribute as a second baseman was strong fielding, batted toward the bottom of the lineup. “I was an easy out,” he says. His first hit came on a swinging bunt that produced a roller down the third-base line. “I can remember it like it was yesterday. I couldn’t beat out anything, because I was so chubby. But I did beat it out. That’s a hit; that counts. Box-score readers don’t know whether or not it was a frozen rope to center field.” The next year, however, Duane’s hitting improved markedly, and he moved up a few spots in the lineup. By his final season he had become one of the team’s best players with a .600-plus batting average, and in one game he smashed three homers.

  Around that time, Duane visited Yankee Stadium for his first professional sporting event: Charles took his two boys to watch the Bronx Bombers face the Washington Senators. From the first moment Duane was transfixed. The Yankees’ blue pinstripes were pristine, and the crisp, white boundary lines contrasted sharply with the emerald field. “I couldn’t believe what I was seeing,” Parcells says. “It was so green. I was just awestruck.”

  Duane experienced a similar feeling when he attended his first Giants football game on December 5, 1954, as part of a group of Boy Scouts. He watched from the Polo Grounds bleachers as New York defeated Pittsburgh, 24–3, in front of 16,856 spectators. The memory remains vivid for its pageantry: The Steelers, quarterbacked by Jim Finks, wore gold helmets and black jerseys with gold numerals. Charlie Conerly guided the Giants, in their blue helmets and matching jerseys emblazoned with white. Parcells says, “The seats weren’t very good, but it was the whole display that really got to me.”

  The thirteen-year-old was hooked.

  The tremendous popularity of television overlapped with the start of the New York Giants heyday, which ran from 1954 to 1963. The Parcells family bought their first TV set in 1950, and Duane, his bedroom festooned with team pennants, watched the New York Giants religiously. His favorite show was the team-produced Quarterback Huddle, hosted by Marty Glickman and broadcast on CBS. Duane sat cross-legged in front of the TV while Glickman interviewed heroes like Charlie Conerly, the winning quarterback in the 1956 NFL championship; defensive back Emlen Tunnell, the first black to make the Giants and the Hall of Fame; and defensive tackle Arnie Weinmeister, also elected to Canton despite a brief career. “It was pretty hard to be in New York in those days and not be a Giants fan,” Parcells says, “unless you were Communist.”

  By the time Duane entered the eighth grade, two new siblings had joined him and Don: Doug was born in 1953, and Debbie arrived a year later. After three boys, Charles and Ida were especially pleased that their newborn was a girl. These new additions to the family compelled Charles to look for a larger home. He found it ten miles away in another suburban town, Oradell, a short drive to the George Washington Bridge. Charles paid almost $10,000 for the new split-level brick ranch, its driveway lined with oak trees. Like other towns in North Jersey, Oradell had been a farming community before giving way to an onslaught of middle-class families wanting to live relatively close to New York City.

  “I liked Hasbrouck, but hey, there wasn’t any family vote on the move,” says Parcells, whose school year at Franklin Junior High was disrupted. “I was apprehensive, but you gotta do what you gotta do.”

  Duane Parcells began attending Oradell Junior High, where he shared a striking resemblance with a fellow eighth grader named Bill. The two were constantly mistaken for each other, but Duane didn’t mind. At least “Bill” could never be confused with a girl’s name. So he never corrected his schoolmates, and within a year virtually everyone except his parents called him Bill.

  Ida didn’t find out about the unofficial name change until she
saw it in the local paper’s sports section, where her son often appeared, being one of the best baseball players in summer youth leagues. Ida and Charles were more amused than angry. In college Charles himself had tweaked his first name to Charley. Duane’s parents didn’t force him to revert, though they continued using his given name. Occasionally Ida mocked her son by calling him Willie—never Bill.

  Despite the frugal example provided by his mother, Bill Parcells was a spendthrift, constantly borrowing money from his brother Don to blow on baseball cards and accessories for his English racer bike. After Bill’s freshman year in high school, his father required him to get a summer job. Bill worked as a janitor at a local junior high school, saving enough to buy a blue-and-cream 1956 Ford, even after Charles made it clear that his son would be responsible for all costs. Whenever the car had problems that Bill couldn’t fix himself, it sat in the garage. Regardless, Bill continued to wash and wax it.

  In the summer of 1956, William “Mickey” Corcoran was named basketball coach of River Dell High, the new regional school in Oradell that would count Bill Parcells among its students. Corcoran had played basketball at Saint Cecilia High for Vince Lombardi, who was also the school’s assistant football coach. Lombardi’s first year as head coach in 1939 coincided with Mickey Corcoran’s sophomore season. At five-ten and 130 pounds, with a tough Irish face that made him seem bigger, Mickey was a cocksure and instinctive point guard. The coach lived one block from Corcoran’s family in Englewood. Occasionally after practice, Lombardi instructed Mickey to telephone home for permission to travel to Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, for a meal made by the coach’s mother, Matilda. On their drives into New York City, coach and player spoke mainly about strategy.

  During Mickey’s basketball career at Saint Cecilia, the Saints won slightly more than they lost. But Mickey experienced the genesis of Lombardi’s motivational legend. A temperamental disciplinarian, Lombardi had sharp mood swings that caused fellow coaches to nickname him Mr. High-Low. Despite being Lombardi’s favorite player, Mickey was often the target of his vitriol. “Tear your butt and then pat you on the butt,” Corcoran recalls. “Knock you down, and then pick you up. The man understood how to handle people.” Lombardi inspired Mickey to become a coach.

  Months before classes commenced that fall at River Dell High, Corcoran started gauging prospective players. In the first session, Corcoran rolled out two basketballs, instructing his charges to perform layup drills at both ends of the court. At six-foot-two and 190 pounds, a sophomore stood out: Duane “Bill” Parcells was the biggest boy on the court. But the oversized underclassman also caught Corcoran’s attention with his unusual behavior.

  Taking a bounce pass and darting down the left lane, Bill used his left hand to kiss the ball off the glass. As he jogged to the back of the rebounding line, the blond, blue-eyed boy paused for a long moment, hands on hips, to stare at his new coach. “It was as if he was looking to give me his approval,” Corcoran recalls, chuckling. “He wanted to know if I knew what the hell I was doing as a coach. He looked me over pretty good every chance he got.”

  Despite lacking speed, the über-competitive power forward was easily Corcoran’s best player. He had a feathery touch, a nose for rebounds, and exquisite timing in blocking shots that more than compensated for his unspectacular leaping ability. Bill’s nifty post-up moves demonstrated the agility of a smaller player.

  The first time Charles Parcells picked up his son after basketball practice, he approached the new coach to introduce himself. As usual, Bill was the last player on the court, taking extra shots after practice. While Bill gathered his belongings out of earshot, Charles Parcells and Mickey Corcoran talked. Charles said, “Every once in a while, Duane gets out of line. So I just want you to know you have my permission to kick his ass if you need to.”

  Corcoran smiled. He had already been planning on instilling in his players the hard-nosed principles he had learned under Lombardi, but he felt further empowered by Charles’s blessing. “After that I had all I needed to coach him,” says Corcoran of Parcells. “His father and I were on the same page.”

  During the college basketball season, Mickey Corcoran took some of his players into New York City to watch the Columbia Lions and Fordham Rams play at home. Occasionally, Corcoran, well-connected with college coaches in the area, traveled with his crew as far away as West Point. At the basketball games, Bill made sure to sit next to Corcoran. While teammates relaxed, Parcells whispered questions about strategies and decisions. In almost a decade as a coach, Corcoran had never met such a cerebral player.

  However, Bill also had an emotional side, which sometimes got the better of him. During one practice, when his sweet jumper turned sour, he drop-kicked the basketball at the ceiling. Corcoran yelled, “Parcells, you’re gone,” and Bill wasn’t allowed back without an apology.

  Bill’s hair-trigger temper was even worse in games. River Dell faced Park Ridge during a winter contest that Corcoran’s Golden Hawks led by 17 late in the first half. As a loose ball flew out of bounds, a Park Ridge player pointed at Bill as having touched it last. The referee concurred, giving possession to Park Ridge. Bill ran over and screamed in the official’s face: “What are you listening to him for?” The official blew his whistle, signaling a technical foul. Corcoran reacted by taking Bill out of the game. Bill stewed on the bench as River Dell’s lead dwindled from 17 to 12 to 8. “If I put him back in and we win,” Corcoran explains, “he’s going to have me by the balls for three more years.”

  Corcoran kept Bill on the sidelines while River Dell’s lead evaporated, sending the game into overtime. The Golden Hawks lost by one point, and in the locker room afterward, Corcoran blasted his top player. “Parcells, you weren’t worth the two points you cost us on that technical foul you drew. If you ever get another one, you’re not going to play another minute for this team.” Back home that night, Bill sat silent and stone-faced at the dinner table. Without finishing his meal, he headed for the basketball hoop mounted in the backyard and shot baskets in the cold.

  Charles Parcells exploited Bill’s obsession by requiring high grades for participation in sports. So, despite spending countless hours on the gridiron, diamond, and court, Bill forced himself to study enough for stellar grades. Parcells says of his father’s academic condition: “It was kind of like the sword of Damocles was hanging over my head. I was the Damocles of northern New Jersey.”

  In Coach Corcoran’s two-hour practices, ninety minutes were spent on defense. Corcoran preached that a strong defense allowed a team to successfully compete against opponents with superior talent. River Dell players who didn’t demonstrate intensity on defense didn’t last on Corcoran’s Golden Hawks. He believed that zone defenses were relatively ineffective, so the team played man-to-man exclusively, and players were schooled to fight through picks. A sharp strategist who often seemed one step ahead of his counterparts, Corcoran explained to his team that every game contained the key to triumph. Finding it was the difference between winning and losing, so he stressed tireless preparation for specific game situations.

  One of Corcoran’s coaching gifts was diagramming plays without providing superfluous information that risked overloading his players. Perhaps the best example occurred during a game in Bill’s junior season. The score was tied late in regulation, and River Dell had possession when Corcoran called a timeout with eight seconds left. In River Dell’s huddle, Corcoran told Bill that he would get the ball at the extended foul line, the imaginary line from the free-throw line to the sideline.

  Then River Dell’s coach broke down the play. He anticipated that the defender of the offensive player throwing the pick would slide over to guard Bill. After Bill received the ball, Corcoran added, another defender would attempt a double-team. “He didn’t say another word,” Parcells recalls of Corcoran. “My job was to get the ball in the basket, but he solved a lot of problems for me: how I’m going to get the ball and where I’m going to get the ball. That’s great teaching, and g
reat motivation.”

  Bill came off a screen as scripted, catching the ball on the wing with his back to the basket. He turned around before the double-team could get there, and splashed a jumper over the shorter defender who had switched on the screen. The Golden Hawks erupted in jubilation at the game-winning shot. As word of Bill’s exploits got around town, he began hearing comparisons to his father. His interest piqued, Bill asked his dad about his storied past.

  Charles turned cryptic. “That’s ancient history.” So Bill poked around and discovered his father’s old scrapbooks, with news clips detailing Charles’s three-sport stardom at Hackensack High. Bill knew that his father had played college football at Georgetown, but he was surprised by the degree of his success. A photo in the New York Times, published October 28, 1934, showed the sinewy and elusive halfback darting past a defender to gain nine yards on rain-soaked turf at Yankee Stadium. At the future home of the New York Giants, roughly 15,000 spectators had witnessed Charles Parcells set a school record for punt returns: 197 yards.

  Given his long hours and commute to Manhattan, Charles Parcells didn’t attend many of Bill’s games. Regardless, the corporate lawyer was so concerned about placing undue pressure on his son that his rare appearances stayed under wraps. Coach Corcoran occasionally snuck Charles in through a field-house door before tipoff, and Charles took a seat that minimized his chances of being seen by Bill. “I didn’t know it at the time,” Parcells says, grinning, “but he was in cahoots with Mickey Corcoran so I wouldn’t know when he was at the games.”