Both Sides of the Line

by Kelly, Kevin

  “This game isn’t about you,” Dempsey said, his tone absolute. “It’s about us, our team. All you need to do is make a commitment to the guy to your left and the guy to your right that you will give one hundred percent for four quarters.”

  “Boys,” Currier snapped, regarding us all with fists on his hips, “I know I don’t need to give you a pep talk to get you ‘up’ for tomorrow’s game. If you’re not sky-high by tomorrow afternoon, you don’t have a pulse.”

  Without waiting for a response, he turned immediately and walked off the field, leaving us there together for a few moments alone. Not much was said but, as we left the field, we were one.

  The night before the game, I lay in my bed and actually prayed to God. I never claimed to be the most devout of Catholics, but I was searching for an intervention from a higher power. More than anything, I feared losing the mental game and suffering a psychological beating by CM. I wanted us, as a team, to believe in ourselves and live up to our potential. Every thought and emotion in my body and soul wanted nothing more than to win this game. I spoke aloud, “God, the game is going to start at one o’clock and end at three, which means that, at three, someone is going to win this game and someone is going to lose this game. All I ask is, please, don’t let us quit. Just let us play a full one hundred percent for two hours!”

  After my little conversation with God, I was in a state of peace and I soon drifted off to sleep. All night, Dempsey’s words played in my head like a broken record: Quickness, technique, desire. Quickness, technique, desire. Quickness . . .

  The next morning, I woke calm and relaxed. But during the train ride into Bosco, I started to feel those butterflies in my stomach all over again. This was the biggest moment of my life, and the anticipation, excitement, and fear of losing started to overwhelm me. While on the T, I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing down, telling myself to relax.

  When I finally arrived at school, I walked into our new gym and noticed that, while all of us were getting our uniforms on, the gym was in total silence. The noise from the ventilation system was the only sound. I walked over to Ski and, when he saw me, said, “Kev, not today!” No cockiness. He said it so matter-of-factly. Ski had this look of confidence that I’ll never forget. “Not today.” He didn’t need to explain what he meant.

  There was something tangible in the air. You could feel it, almost taste it. It was unspoken, and all of us were connected to it. Spoken words would have taken away from the atmosphere. We had heard every encouraging athletic phrase ever spoken. But words would have been meaningless. This was truly our game. It was our time, and all of us knew it.

  CM was already on the field as we ran out for our pregame warm-up. Their captains were playing their role, trying to get players fired-up for the game. There was plenty of grunting and hollering and jumping up and down. Their warm-up wasn’t anything special. Every team warms up in a similar fashion. Emotion is an important part of the game, and getting up for a game is part of the fabric that makes football so intense.

  But something incredible happened to us then. Not one of us, not even the coaches, said a word during pregame. We were so focused and so intense that we hardly noticed how quiet we were. The energy between us was powerful. There was a connection. Every move, every sense, was heightened.

  I remember glancing over my shoulder at the CM kids and noticing that many of them were looking over at us, trying to figure out what we were up to. It was as if we were beating them psychologically before the game had even started!

  The game was fast and hard-hitting. CM played with exceptional speed, and we had to play at our highest level just to stay competitive with them. One critical play in the first quarter helped to set the tone for the day. On third and four on our forty-six yard line, CM’s quarterback pitched the ball to the outside. Sylva, our starting freshman at monster back, made an incredible open-field tackle of the receiver, forcing a CM punt.

  We took possession and drove the ball sixty-one yards for a touchdown. It was Bosco’s first go-ahead touchdown in the history of all our games against CM.

  Our defense played a near perfect first half. Libardoni intercepted a pass on one drive, and Elwell recovered a fumble during another one. Our defensive line gang-tackled on runs and put constant pressure on their quarterback when CM attempted to pass. Shawn Murphy had the game of his life as a wide receiver, with two touchdown receptions in the first half. Ski played flawlessly as quarterback, picking apart CM’s defense with crisp, accurate passes. He also added to CM’s frustration with three first half runs for first-downs. Skip Bandini was playing both ways against Smyth, their All-Scholastic tackle, and was doing one hell of a job.

  At halftime, we climbed into the bus (our makeshift away-locker room), somehow leading 19-0. We were stunned. Speechless. No other team had put up these type of numbers against CM in a decade.

  Yet everyone knew this game was far from over.

  “I want you to know,” Currier said, standing up at the front of the bus, “that they’re going to score on us. It’s okay. Listen: Teams collapse when CM scores. I’m telling you that, if they score, it’s okay. So when they score, just keep on playing the way you’ve been playing and we’ll be alright.” His anxiety was our anxiety. In the back of all of our minds was the fear that CM would punch in one touchdown and, from then on, it’d only be a matter of time before they beat us. These thoughts were perfectly normal, especially since CM had had our number for years.

  Well, sure enough, in the beginning of the third quarter, CM marched right down the field. They were looking as unstoppable as the CM of old. The more they moved the ball, the more confident they became and, eventually, our defense was looking at a first and goal on our two-yard line.

  CM, the greatest team in Massachusetts state history, had four attempts to move the ball six feet for a touchdown. That’s four tries to move the ball seventy-two inches. The first play was stuffed as CM ran the ball straight at me, Elwell, and Libardoni. On second down, Eddie Trask, our inside linebacker, stunted off tackle and made a super hit on their fullback. Eddie’s hit breathed life back into our defense.

  In the huddle, we held hands in solidarity. On third and one on our own one-yard line, Eddie once again came up with another great hit. Our sidelines and fans in the stands went crazy, and the surge of energy jolted through all of us. For the first time in my high school career, I saw doubt on the faces of the CM players.

  They had fourth and goal on our one-yard line. I was lined up in the guard/center gap and, though I can’t explain why, I somehow knew that no one was going to block me. Bobby Jones, from Hyde Park, was starting in the backfield for CM. Today, Bobby and I are old friends; we even played a bit of semi-pro together for a few years. But during our high school days, he was an arrogant, cocky little shit. Every year on the bus to Forest Hills, I would have to hear how awesome CM was. Wearing his CM jacket, looking down at the big CM letters stitched into its fabric, he’d smirk and say, “Bosco gonna suck again this year?”

  I’d have to grin and bear the abuse because there wasn’t much of a comeback, except for, of course, “Fuck you, Jones.”

  The ball was snapped. I blew through the hole. CM ran a sweep left. I dove at the quarterback, reaching out with my right hand. I clutched the right shoulder pad, but as he pulled away from me, I lost my grip and rolled off. However, CM’s quarterback lost his balance, and his pass to Jones was too low to catch. It bounced off Jones’ feet.

  As I ran off the field, I saw Dempsey leaping about wildly, and I remember laughing, watching this human refrigerator awkwardly jumping for joy because his boys had pulled off a “next to impossible” goal line stand. The Bosco fans, the cheerleaders, and the players on the field were exultant. CM’s players, on the other hand, jogged off the field, heads down. It was a break in the cycle, a sight never before witnessed. The play sealed the deal. The Bosco Bears not only beat CM. We shut them out 25 to 0
.

  The bus ride home was insane. But while everyone else was going nuts, I felt a triumphant sense of calm, an ultimate sense of contentment. Everyone cheered as Currier and Dempsey climbed aboard the bus. We hugged and congratulated one another as they told us—finally—how proud they were of us.

  Currier spoke to the linemen: “I promise never to yell at any of you ever again—well, not until Monday, anyway.” We laughed, and a loud cheer came from us all. Dempsey congratulated each player one by one and, when he got to me, we hugged. When I pulled away, I could see he had tears in his eyes. I knew that we never would have been celebrating this moment if Dempsey hadn’t joined the coaching staff. I prayed that the joy I felt would never end. I could have stayed on that bus for hours, drinking in every moment. The longest winning streak in Massachusetts’ history had come to an end, and we did it on their own home field! Ten weeks after the start of camp, Bosco, unsung and unappreciated, sat in first place in the conference.

  You often hear the term “team effort” in sports. Our victory over CM was the perfect team effort. Everyone played an exceptional game; everyone had been poised, efficient, and confident. We dominated every phase of the game: offense, defense, field position, and special teams. We gang-tackled, blocked tenaciously, ran tough, and threw and caught the ball with deadly accuracy. Our coaches called a perfect game. Currier platooned all our running backs, while Dempsey substituted offensive and defensive linemen all day long to keep us fresh. All in all, we had put on a clinic.

  That night, I rode up to Reading with my parents. We were late arriving at the annual banquet for Camp Mohawk, a summer camp run by our priest, Father MacAndrews (aka Father Mac). A large contingent of Hyde Park boys helped run his camp, and I was one of them.

  The Camp Mohawk banquet was always held on the last Sunday in October, which, that year, happened to coincide with the CM game. Steve Perry, a Hyde Park boy and CM student, was one of Father Mac’s favorites. Father Mac had a great sense of humor and, at my expense each year, he’d always make me get up to announce the CM score to the banquet guests. The audience would have a good laugh when the scores were announced while I would receive clichéd words of encouragement from parents, like “Keep your head up, Kev,” and “Better luck next year, Kev.”

  Perry would shoot me a smug grin. Everyone knew CM’s football reputation.

  So when I walked in that October, they expected the usual.

  Steve Perry and Father were at the head table. They looked up at me from their seats as I approached.

  “25-nuthen,” I said, answering the traditional question.

  “25-nothing,” said Perry. “Well, that’s rather respectable. CM took it easy on you this year.”

  “Wait,” said Father Mac. “25-nothing, who?”

  “25-nuthen us! Father, we did it!”

  No one believed me, especially Perry, who, for three years, had been gloating nonstop about CM’s accomplishments, while at the same time laughing at Bosco’s failures.

  When he was finally faced with proof, his jaw practically dropped to the floor.

  Father got up and gave me a hug. He immediately walked me to the front of the room and grabbed the microphone. The room held at least five hundred people, and yet it was completely silent as Father reminded the audience that, for the past several years, he’d made me announce the score of the CM game. He turned to me and asked me to remind everyone of the years’ scores.

  “54-0, Father.”

  “And last year, Kelly?”

  “41-20, Father.”

  A light laughter rumbled through the hall.

  “And how about this year, Kelly?”

  “25-nuthen, Father.”

  “25-nothing? 25-nothing, who?”

  “25-nuthen, Bosco!”

  And, after a moment of ripe silence, the place erupted into applause!

  “Nice job, Kev. Congratulations.”

  That night, I lay in bed in complete bliss. I knew this moment would stay with us for the rest of our lives, and that my teammates and I would be forever bonded.

  Before I fell asleep, Currier’s speech from camp floated back through my mind; I’d break both my arms and both my legs to beat CM. The arms would heal, the legs would heal, and we would beat CM.

  I wondered what Currier and Dempsey were doing at that very moment but, more importantly, I wondered how they were feeling. Before the season, had they believed we had this kind of potential? Regardless, they must have felt proud of each other, having beaten the greatest team in the state with a blowout performance.

  The next day, as I waited for the bus, I knew that everyone was fully aware of the CM/Bosco game score. I had three years of frustration to take out on Bobby Jones, and I was justified to unleash a barrage of comments to rub in the victory.

  As I walked on the bus, I found Bobby sitting near the back alone. When our eyes met, he looked down at the floor. No, Good game, Kelly, or Hey, you guys deserved the win. And I didn’t say a single word to him either. The fact that all he could do was look down, unable to muster the sportsmanship to congratulate me, was all the justice I needed. The feeling of true victory is intrinsic, and I was overwhelmingly content. To antagonize him with Bosco’s dream achievement, with a sarcastic comment or criticism of CM’s performance, would’ve been contrary to how I’d been coached. Dempsey would never have forgiven me if I’d stooped to that level, displaying such a lack of sportsmanship. What’s more, it just didn’t feel right all of a sudden. It didn’t feel necessary to trash talk after such a great win.

  Monday’s Boston Globe published a wonderful article on the game:

  The state’s longest winning streak is dead, killed not by trickery, inspiration, or secret strategy. Catholic Memorial’s 33-game unbeaten streak died, instead, at the hands of cold precision. It was a matter of execution, pure and simple. “We just did what we’ve been doing all year,” said Bob Currier, head coach of Don Bosco. “Our offensive line gave Ewanoski time to throw with good blocking in the first half.”

  Ewanoski finished with 12 of 14 for 143 yards and three touchdowns. Defensively, the word was also execution. Six times the Bears forced CM to turn over the ball (four interceptions, two by Alan Libardoni). Three of the turnovers led to Bosco touchdowns. There were no alibis or excuses from Jim O’Connor, the CM coach. “Bosco just outplayed us. They forced mistakes with good plays. They just deserved to win.”

  Bosco held a victory pep-rally and, to my surprise, the senior class chanted my name, motioning me to come up to the microphone and say a few words. Currier looked back at me and smiled, giving me the nod to go up. I thanked everyone for supporting the team and emphasized that the victory was the greatest achievement in Don Bosco history. I didn’t know it at the time, but the 1974 victory over CM would outshine all others in the school’s subsequent history.

  Next on our schedule was Cambridge Rindge and Latin, which hadn’t won a game all year. During practice the following week, the coaches’ biggest challenge was trying to bring us back down to Earth and get us back to work. The coaches were nervous that we wouldn’t be able to get up for this game in the same way we had for CM. They knew Cambridge would be sky-high to play us, and that it would make their entire season to knock us off our pedestal. And, boy, were they right. We played flat and with zero emotion. At halftime, the score was 12-0, Cambridge in the lead.

  All the good feelings from last week, all the pats on the back and the love between the players and coaches, came to a screeching halt. Currier and Dempsey were out of their minds.

  “Let me make this perfectly clear to all of you,” said Currier. “If we lose this game, the CM victory will mean absolutely nothing. The entire season will be a giant waste of time and a historical disaster for our team and the school.”

  Somehow, this woke us up for the second half, and we managed to pull off a 20-12 victory. Currier and Dempsey were so
relieved that, for the first time in Bosco’s history, we didn’t look at film the following Monday. Currier said the game was over and he didn’t want to spend one more moment thinking about Cambridge Rindge and Latin.

  “I’m just so happy we came out of there with a victory. Besides, watching that first half again would only make me sick. Let’s move on. We still have three games left, and each one is going to be tough. If we have any thought of becoming the first team in Bosco’s history to win the Catholic Conference, we’ve got to get through Xaverian Brothers and Archbishop Williams, two excellent teams with plenty of talent, size, and incentive.”

  We were definitely in uncharted territory—opponents now viewed us as the team to beat. Teams were saying it would make their season to beat the first place Bosco Bears. It was a strange, wonderful feeling, walking through the neighborhood with friends and neighbors shouting out words of encouragement.

  Xaverian Brothers of Westwood, which were our next opponents, had a talented and well-coached football team. Their line had size and plenty of skill. Their running back, Paul Costello, already knew he’d be heading to Princeton, and an All-Scholastic defensive back of theirs was heading to Boston College.

  The first half turned out to be a slugfest, with us hanging on to a 12-6 lead. Xaverian was playing all out. I remember looking at the scoreboard, nervous, thinking that Xaverian could really win this game. Because their offensive line was playing tough, they were effectively moving the ball on us. I was playing against a kid named Fitzgerald, and he was a handful. For some reason, my heart just wasn’t in the game, and I knew it. I didn’t want to be on the field, and I could tell Fitzgerald sensed this as well. All season, I had made it a priority to send a message to the opposing lineman that I was going to be relentless all afternoon.