Both Sides of the Line

by Kelly, Kevin

  Forty years later, though, Jeff was able to admit, “It played with my psyche. I’m sure it impacted my senior year. I didn’t have the year I should have. At times, I held back.”

  The idea that time heals all wounds is a myth, if not a flat-out lie. Trauma is an experience that needs to be dealt with, not hidden away to fester. I have interviewed more than twenty players from the ’74 and ’75 teams, many of whom I had not seen since that season, and Michael Monahan’s hit consistently brought up deep emotions that they’d repressed for years. That dreadful moment stayed with all of us and left a deep scar that never healed completely.

  Ultimately, there was a lawsuit against Riddell, the helmet company, and a settlement was paid out to Michael’s family.

  Michael visited the team once or twice during my two remaining years at Bosco. On one occasion, he was wheeled over to meet the linemen. Everyone stopped to say hello. Coach Dempsey came over and instinctively stuck his hand out to Michael. There was an awkward silence; Dempsey quickly pulled his hand back and patted Michael on the shoulder.

  There has always been this weird thing in football, almost an unspoken rule: If a teammate gets injured, you keep your distance, as if the injury is contagious. Perhaps, way back when, coaches kept players away from injured players because they were nervous that being around them too much would take the edge off their aggression―would detract from their willingness to play all out. Whatever the reason, and however silly and unfair it was, we all kept a general distance from Michael, though his accident remained alive within us.

  For the longest time, I didn’t know where Michael was living or how he was doing, assuming he was still alive. Also, none of us knew how to approach and support Jeff. It only took a few months before all of us lost touch with Michael and ceased speaking of his accident publicly.

  After a full forty years had passed, Skip Bandini stood and said to Jeff at our team reunion, “It was unfair that you had to deal with this alone. It wasn’t right, and we’re all sorry.”

  At first, the entire room was silent. Skip’s words were brief, but he had a look in his eyes that summed up all of our emotions. Skip spoke directly to Jeff with a look of compassion, support, anger, and frustration. It was a profound moment of closure, not only for Jeff, but for all of us.

  The room broke into applause.

  I know two things: All of us still feel some level of guilt over Michael’s accident. And all of us own a little piece of Michael Monahan.

  The Miracle

  “If there is any certainty, Don Bosco is destined for the cellar in the Catholic Conference.”

  —Boston Globe, 1974

  In May of 1974, I was walking on the historic pathway surrounding Castle Island in Southie with my brother Tom. Castle Island is a Revolutionary War fort located at the mouth of Boston Harbor. It was built after the Boston Tea Party to confront any British ships attempting to enter the harbor. The old cannons can still be seen high on the walls, an intimidating deterrent to unwelcome visitors. The walkway is shaded with beautiful maples and oaks and is cooled by a salty, ceaseless ocean breeze, making it one of the most pleasant and sought-after escapes in the entire city.

  “I’m not sure if I want to continue playing ball at Bosco,” I told Tom, taking a seat alongside him on a park bench to watch the seagulls fight over a fried clam from Kelly’s Clam Shack. “We suck, the experience sucks, and no one is having any fun.”

  “Kev, I’m not sure how much fun you’ll have, but I will tell you this: If you quit, I promise you, you will regret it for the rest of your life. Kellys don’t quit. Think it over carefully before you decide.”

  And that is exactly what I did. During the entire month of June, I weighed the pros and cons of playing football and came to the conclusion that my senior year was too important to walk away from. By July first, I was all in.

  I made a renewed commitment to play. I decided I was going to put last year’s agonizing season behind me and be a contributing member to the team, regardless of whether we had a winning or losing season. I hit the weights, ran, and pushed myself all summer long like a possessed animal. I wasn’t going to try to kiss any coach’s ass. For the first time in my three years of Bosco high school football, I actually went to camp with attitude, with confidence. I wasn’t playing for Currier or for Dempsey or to assuage the grief I still felt for my mother’s early passing. I was playing for myself.

  No one—and I mean no one—had any inkling that we would amount to anything special in 1974. The Boston Globe predicted we would come in last place in the conference: “If there is any certainty, Don Bosco is destined for the cellar in the Catholic Conference.” Not only did the Globe believe we weren’t going to do anything special, none of the players did either.

  The Catholic Conference had long been one of the strongest football conferences in the state of Massachusetts, with Xaverian Brothers, Malden Catholic, Boston College High School, Archbishop Williams, and the state’s powerhouse, Catholic Memorial (CM). Catholic Memorial had gone undefeated for three and a half years, thirty-three games—a state record. They had played in three straight state Super Bowls. Don Bosco had never beaten CM. My sophomore year, they beat us 54-0. My junior year, they beat us 41-20. They had size, speed, and, most of all, confidence.

  Before we left for football camp, CM wasn’t on anyone’s mind. I was the only person on our team who was reminded of CM every single day. Many kids from Hyde Park attended CM, and they couldn’t help but brag about its many athletic accomplishments. They were great in every sport: basketball, hockey, swimming, track, baseball, and especially football. Success in sports is directly related to school pride, and the CM kids were on the brink of an overdose.

  I hated CM.

  Often I’d have to listen to how great they were with the occasional, “Hey, Kev, you guys going to suck again this year?” I’d burn inside but knew there wasn’t much of a defense I could muster.

  By August, I was in shape and ready for camp. My mind was focused and my emotions were in check. Before the season, I read two great books that helped shape my attitude: Jerry Kramer’s Instant Replay and Dave Meggasey’s Out of This League. Both authors had played pro-ball, in Green Bay and St. Louis respectively, and both had shared the many mixed emotions players experience while playing this crazy game. There is always a mental tug-of-war going on in a player’s mind. On one end, there’s the love of the game, the desire to compete and do well. On the other end, there’s the reluctance to hit, be hit, or work hard enough, consistently enough to win. Maybe it’s a natural mental place for most athletes. Like soldiers in war, they don’t want to be there, but something deeper drives them to succeed. During battle, they respond to the training and the mission, casting aside normal human instincts to quit and run.

  We would often hear from our coaches, especially Dempsey, how football mirrors life, how winners never quit, and that these attributes would benefit us in the future. Many of us weren’t sure if this was just a string of baloney thrown out to keep us motivated, or if these words of wisdom were actually wise, perhaps even true. Regardless, it was reassuring to me to learn that from time to time even the pros struggled mentally with all the psychological and physical challenges of playing the game.

  By now, I could see a pattern to football camp: Monday and Tuesday would be hell. We would do nothing right. Coaches would chew us out for countless mistakes. The drills would seem endless. We would find ourselves running plays over and over. We would cringe as Currier or Dempsey blew the whistle yet again, stopping practice to highlight mistakes.

  Both Courier and Dempsey came straight out of the Lombardi school of coaching. Both regarded Lombardi as the greatest coach who’d ever lived and did their best to copy his coaching style. On one particularly rough Tuesday, during our morning session, Currier became so frustrated with our performance that he stopped practice to yell: “Boys, I’d break both my arms and b
oth my legs to beat CM. The arms would heal, the legs would heal, and we would beat CM, but I’m just not sure if there is anyone here that would be willing to do just that!”

  Inspired, Dempsey also chimed in, “You know what the problem is, boys? No one has any of these!” Dempsey made two small circles with his fingers, signifying “balls.” They were undoubtedly right. We all wanted to do well and win, but no one was willing to match their fervor.

  Wednesday was pit-drill day at camp, and it weighed heavily on all the players’ minds. But after the pit-drill sessions were over, everyone’s spirits were sky-high. The next two days, the coaches built the team up and we were so filled with confidence for the big scrimmage Saturday, we knew we’d go into the season on a positive note. I was no longer a timid sophomore. I had matured into a ball player, both physically and mentally. I ran angry and hit angry. Dempsey often told us that true football aggression is a learned behavior. I had finally discovered what he was talking about.

  Saturday, we once again scrimmaged against Watertown at their beautiful resort for spoiled kids. They were just as big as I remembered them being. They looked plenty tough and had one ingredient all coaches pray for: depth. Yet, surprisingly, we dominated them, perhaps for the first time ever, on both offense and defense. Then, for a change, we were astonished to find that it was the Watertown kids getting screamed at by their coaches for messing up and losing ground—not us. Not any more.

  On one play in particular, their head coach blew his whistle and made their offense line up on the line of scrimmage. The coach grabbed the offensive guard I was playing against by the face mask and dragged him toward me, pointing wildly and yelling, “How is it possible that your man could make a tackle on the other side of the football field? Run the God damn play again!”

  Wow, I thought. That was an exchange usually delivered to one of us by our coaches, not to a Watertown kid by a Watertown coach.

  Dempsey, on the other hand, came over to me in the huddle and patted me on the helmet, “Nice hustle, Kelly.”

  Coming from Dempsey, that small compliment meant big things, and it gave me the added confidence I needed.

  As we departed for Boston, I looked out my bus window, shocked while watching the entire Watertown team running sprints up a monster hill—and immediately after a two-hour scrimmage in the searing heat! Watertown went on to an undefeated season and a win at their first Super Bowl but, on that Saturday afternoon, neither team could have predicted their future. It did, however, allow us to enjoy, just a little bit, the hot air blowing through the open windows of our run-down school bus as we trundled back from Watertown’s Resort to our girls’ locker room in Bean Town.

  Almost every ethnic group from Boston was represented on our ’74 team. Our offense was led by our quarterback, Mike “Ski” Ewanoski from Brookline. We would platoon six running backs, two juniors and four seniors: Colie McGillivary from Dorchester and Paul Carouso from Somerville, who were our junior backs; Stevie Riley from Brookline, Peter Marciola from Roslindale, and two of our captains, Craig Cemate from Brighton and Alan Libardoni from Somerville, were our four senior backs (all six of them tough and dependable). Chester Rodriguez from Dorchester, Gary Green from Brighton, and Shawn Murphy from Cambridge were our wide receivers.

  Our offensive linemen were all in great shape, quick off the ball, and wielding a true attack mentality. Chris Staub (from Revere) played tight end; Skip Bandini (from Brighton) and Tommy McGregor (from Hyde Park) played tackle; Derrick Martini (from Somerville) and Abe Benitez (from Jamaica Plain) played guard; and Eddie Dominguez (also from Jamaica Plain) served as our third captain and played center.

  On defense, Billy Elwell (from Watertown) and Chris Staub started as defensive ends. Skip Bandini and I played tackle, and Derrick Martini rounded out the defensive line as nose guard. Al Libardoni and Eddie Trask (both from Somerville) played inside linebacker. Colie McGillivary, Chester Rodreguiz, Craig Cemate, and our only starting freshman on the team, John Sylva (from Quincy), were our four defensive backs.

  We were also fortunate to have a group of back-up players who could fill in on both offense and defense whenever players needed a breather or injuries occurred. Vinny O’Brien from Jamaica Plain, Richie Abner and Jerome Frazier (both from Dorchester), and Frankie Marcioni from East Boston played both on the offensive and defensive lines.

  Our first game during the ’74 season was a non-league contest against North Reading, a suburb just north of Boston. They were an unknown to us, this being our first time playing them. With two losing seasons under our belt, it was nearly impossible to know what to expect. How would we perform? How would we respond if we ended up down by a touchdown or two? And, most importantly, how would we react to each other?

  During my three years, Bosco struggled to establish team togetherness—critical for any team sport like football—but this year and this team were different; it only took a short amount of time for us to learn to support each other whenever we made mistakes, whether it was fumbling a ball, dropping a pass, or missing a tackle.

  We managed to beat North Reading, but just barely, at 8-0.

  Our defense managed to shut out a tough running offense, and it was the first sign that we had players fully willing to hit and gang-tackle the ball carrier.

  Staub and Elwell both had outstanding games as defensive ends. They put pressure on the quarterback all day, and North Reading had no success running plays to the outside. McGillivary, Rodriguez, Sylva, Cemate, and Carouso shut down North Reading’s attempt to establish its passing game. Our two linebackers, Trask and Libardoni, stuffed Reading’s running backs all afternoon. It was a complete and beautiful defensive effort.

  Still, Currier and Dempsey were lukewarm in their praise.

  “Okay, boys, it is always important to establish a win to open the season—we’ll take it. But we still have a lot of work to do on offense. Linemen, you need to stay on your blocks, and we need to sustain offensive drives down the field. Defensively, we played tough; good job, boys. Now it’s time to put this game behind us, and start getting ready for BC. They are big and loaded with talent. We’re going to have to play much better than today if we expect to walk off the field next week with a win.”

  The Boston Globe rated Boston College High School as the number one high school football team in the state. Their offensive line averaged two hundred and fifty-five pounds. Our linemen averaged, at most, one hundred and ninety pounds. In the ’70s, BC’s average weight was the size of any Division I college team in the country. Their key running back, Catoria, was just over six feet tall and weighed two hundred and twenty-five pounds. For the ’74 season, we were up for a major challenge right out of the gate.

  With Dempsey on board, we knew it would not only be a tough week of practice, but that our coaches would have us prepared for BC. So, we settled in for a week of hell. All week long, Dempsey screamed at us that Catoria was going to run over and through us. “If you think we’re going to win this game with just one player trying to tackle this kid, you’re dreaming!” “Gang-tackle, gang-tackle, gang-tackle” is all we heard that week. “I want to see six Bosco jerseys on this guy every single time he touches the ball!” Dempsey even took the time to remind us that Catoria was being recruited by none other than Notre Dame.

  By Thursday, I was convinced that BC had Superman in their backfield.

  But then Dempsey kept me after practice the next day, put a hand on my shoulder, and told me a secret: “Listen, in the next game, you’re going to play against one of the premier linemen in the state. Gallagher is big, tough, and talented. But you can beat him. I want you to break his body up into thirds. If you’re trying to dominate his left side, I want you to explode all your weight and strength into that side. Your quickness needs to negate his strength. You power-cleaned two hundred and twenty pounds and benched close to three hundred—you’re plenty strong. I need you to have a great game, Kelly. Don’t l
et me down.”

  The game was played at East Boston Stadium near Logan Airport. Bosco had no home field, so when we played at East Boston Stadium, we would alternate years as the home team or the visiting team. If we wore white jerseys, we were the visiting team; green jerseys meant we had home field advantage. We wore white jerseys against BC. It was hilarious—only the Catholic Conference could think of something so clever. Regardless of the color of our jerseys, we were still traveling to East Boston.

  Tom watched from the stands along with our father. During the pregame warm-ups, Tom turned to him and said, “Looks like a college team playing against a Pop Warner team. We don’t stand a chance. I just hope the score isn’t too embarrassing, and Kevin doesn’t get killed!”

  We didn’t need to worry about any overconfidence on our side. But our coaches’ strategy worked. On defense, we dominated Catoria. We pounded him all day long. Our offense moved the ball up and down the field almost at will. In the middle of the third quarter, Catoria ran the ball up the middle. He got hit by four of us. As he slowly lifted himself off the ground, he turned to his linemen and said, “What the fuck? Why don’t you guys block?”

  One of the linemen fired back, “Shut the fuck up and just run the fucking ball.”

  Hearing this, I bounced into our huddle and said, “Listen, they’re turning on each other, so let’s turn it up a notch! We can win this game! Keep going!”

  The BC offensive linemen started to come off the ball slower and with less enthusiasm.