Both Sides of the Line

by Kelly, Kevin

  But as we seniors looked forward to the next chapter in our lives, our city was still being torn apart by forced busing. Boston was gearing up for its second year of the program and the emotional and financial cost to all was crippling.

  A strange twist to the busing issue for me, however, was the awareness that my father, for the first time in his career, was actually making some money. The city simply didn’t have enough police to handle the issues created by forced busing. Schools needed police in the morning during the arrival of students, and again at the end of the day when students were being bused home. Demonstrations and mini-riots were popping up all over the city.

  Boston cops were given the green light to work as much overtime as they could handle. My father, who’d struggled financially for years, was simply never home during this time. He worked double shifts three to four times a week and never once complained about being tired.

  “Dad, take it easy,” Tom said once. “You’re not that young anymore. Try to pace yourself.”

  “I’m okay. Just make sure you’re helping your mother with your brothers and sisters.”

  “How bad is it out there?” I asked, craning my neck from the car’s front passenger seat to look at my father’s riot gear in the back.

  “Southie, Charlestown, Hyde Park, and Dorchester are the most troubled areas; the residents in those sections will not consider the slightest compromise. A lot of people are getting hurt on the subways too.”

  My dad was fully aware of the rampant trouble between blacks and whites on the T.

  Interestingly enough, as many cities around the country struggled with forced busing laws in the mid ’70s, racial tension and prejudice in sports was actually making some positive headway. In the ’50s and ’60s, many college and professional football teams struggled to find racial harmony. Black and white players never roomed together. Many teams with black players traveling throughout the country, especially in the South, weren’t welcome in restaurants or hotels there. Vince Lombardi of the Green Bay Packers and George Halas of the Chicago Bears were exceptions to the rule. They were the first pro coaches in the ’60s to room black and white players together in the NFL. Lombardi was once told during an away game that his black players couldn’t enter through the front door of a restaurant and had to enter through the kitchen, so Lombardi said, “If one of my players has to enter through the kitchen, we all will.”

  At Bosco, Dempsey had addressed the forced busing issue before we ever even left for camp in the fall of ’74. Dempsey, knowing that forced busing was having an impact on all of us, wanted to address it up-front and make his opinions on the matter known. His speech was straightforward, pinning our attentions down with a this-is-non-negotiable look:

  “Everyone gather around and take a knee. I want to be clear with everyone: When I look out at this team, I don’t see white football players on this team, and I don’t see black football players on this team, I don’t see Irish or Italian football players on this team. I only see football players on this team. Regardless of what is taking place in your neighborhoods or throughout the city, we are a team first, and we can win only if we play as a team. Let me also make this clear to everyone: Beating on someone because of the color of their skin is pure chickenshit.

  “All over the news you’re hearing about black and white kids getting jumped, sometimes being outnumbered by four or five to one, sometimes more. That’s not anyone’s definition of being tough. You’ll find out what you’re made of when you’re put into a position to stick up for someone, and then don’t. Tough to look yourself in the mirror the next day knowing you’re a coward.” Dempsey paused, his lips tight, his eyes glaring at the faces in front of him. “Any questions?” he barked. At our silence, he nodded, pleased. “Good. See you tomorrow.”

  It was short and sweet, but it put us in the right frame of mind. I knew Dempsey was right, though I had no idea that later that same year, I would have my moment—the moment to prove what I was made of, to prove whether I was willing to stand up for what was right or confront the reality that I was a coward.

  Although forced busing was daily news, seniors from the ’74 team, for the most part, tuned out the city’s problems as their minds drifted off to upcoming college days. Before school ended, the seniors met one final time to discuss our futures and reminisce about the last four years, knowing full well that it might be years before we saw each other again, if ever. Sitting on the bleachers, after school, in our beautiful new gym, looking out over our stunning, first-of-its-kind, green and gold, rubber-floored basketball court, we were silent, just taking in the moment.

  Suddenly, our captain, Al Libardoni, broke the ice: “I’m heading off to Springfield College in western Massachusetts to play baseball.”

  “Baseball?” we all said in unison.

  “What about football? You were MVP of the Catholic Conference for Christ’s sake,” Vinny said, gesturing to the rest of us to show our support.

  “I met with the head coach, Ted Dunn,” Al shrugged. “He’s an old-timer who has a few years left but seems to be out of his mind.”

  “Why?” asked Pete.

  “Here’s what he told me: ‘Al, I don’t think you can play at the college level. Your arms are too short and you won’t be able to tackle anyone.’”

  We were all dumbfounded, trying to digest what we’d just heard.

  Our leader and one of the most talented players to ever come out of the Catholic Conference had seemingly played his last football game―in high school. If any of us could have walked onto a college football field and had an immediate impact, it was Al Libardoni.

  “What about you, Pete?” I asked.

  Peter Masciola, a halfback and defensive back, was strong, durable, and bright, and had ended his high school career as an all-around athlete.

  “I’m going to attend Stonehill College in Easton, Mass,” he said. “They don’t have a football program, but I plan on playing hockey.”

  “Me too,” said Craig. “I’m off to American International in Springfield to play hockey as well.”

  Craig Cemate, another talented halfback and defensive back, was also one of our captains. Hailing from Dempsey’s hometown of Brighton, he was a quiet and multi-talented runner who liked to hit. He was also one hell of a hockey player.

  But it was Vinny O’Brien who truly surprised us. “I’m off to Fairfield in Connecticut. I’m too light to play on the line, so I’m going to give running back a shot.” Vinny gave one hundred and fifty percent on every play in high school and was what Dempsey would’ve called an “all in” athlete. Although we were surprised by the news, none of us doubted his ability.

  “What are your plans, Eddie?” asked Pete.

  Eddie Dominguez, our third captain, was one of our best liked and most admired players. Eddie wore a smile every day at school, and made you feel good whenever he was around. Eddie had been a two-way starter for three years, tough and smart, with a caring heart, but he had a falling out with Currier that cost him his starting position mid-way through our senior year.

  It stemmed from the Boston Tech game. We’d defeated Tech pretty easily, but the offensive line hadn’t performed very well. Although our performance was, admittedly, sub-par as a whole, Currier used Eddie as the scapegoat and demoted him from the starting line-up. What was really troubling, though, was that Currier ignored Eddie for the remainder of the season. It was a baffling decision that made no sense to any of us. Calling that coaching decision unfair and undeserved is an understatement.

  “I’m off to the Police Academy for the city of Boston.”

  Next up was Abe: “I’ve been sitting on the fence trying to make up my mind, but I’m heading to the Berkley School of Music in Boston,” he said. Abe Benitez, our starting guard and a baseball standout, had a passion for music and wasn’t sure if he should attend college to follow his passion or be more practical and pursue a
business degree. Ultimately, he sought out Dempsey for advice.

  “Abe, let me tell you something. When I was a kid, everyone made fun of me because my mother made me play the violin. But I actually enjoyed playing. Listen to your heart and follow your passion,” advised Dempsey.

  We got a kick out of hearing our line coach, legendary for his street fights, giving advice on the study of classical music, but none of us would’ve ever dared tease him about it. We all smiled in wonderment, proud of Abe’s decision.

  “I’m not attending college,” Stevie said. “It’s not for me.” Stevie Reily, our tough-as-nails fullback, grinned at our astonishment. “I’m going to work with my dad in roofing.”

  Stevie had played both football and hockey during high school. I liked Stevie; he was blunt and direct when others weren’t brave enough to be. On the team, though, he kept his distance and didn’t have much fondness for Currier. “A couple times, after I was out of high school,” Stevie later told me, “I approached Currier and extended my hand, but both times he walked away from me. To this day, I still don’t know why. I heard he didn’t like hockey players.”

  “Yogi, you’re awful quiet over there,” Al said. “What’re your plans?”

  “I’m staying in Hyde Park,” Yogi replied. “I’m hoping to settle down and start a family. I’ll be living close to home for a while.” There was a long silence as everyone drank in the moment. This was it, I realized. For the ’74 champions, high school was over. As I looked around at my teammates, I couldn’t help wondering what was in store for us at college and beyond.

  For Dempsey and Currier, the new football season in 1975 would be a dream year. For once, they were predicted to be at the top of the Catholic Conference, with Bosco widely considered the powerhouse to beat. The many juniors who started varsity in ’74 had returned as seniors. Everything went their way. They were bigger and stronger, and loaded with confidence. With them, there would be no doubting or hoping for victory. They carried experience into every game and were champions from the start.

  What a difference a year makes. In ’74, we had no idea what was about to unfold. We’d had two consecutive losing seasons, and there was no indication that anything would change. But for members of the ’75 team, an emotional mindset was locked in. They knew exactly what they had as a team, they knew how they were going to perform, and they came into the year with a strong indication of where they were headed.

  They would tear through the Catholic Conference.

  “Practices were joyful, and the coaches were much more relaxed,” Carouso said, reflecting back on those days with a smile. “Sure, we worked hard, and both Currier and Dempsey kept us from becoming complacent, but they knew what they had. We kicked ass throughout the conference, and all of us, coaches included, rode the wave.”

  Bosco went 9 and 0, with one game left on the schedule. St. John’s Prep from Danvers, Massachusetts had joined the Catholic Conference that year. They were a solid football team with an experienced, seasoned coaching staff. Bosco needed one regular season victory to clinch the conference and qualify for its first Super Bowl appearance. But Bosco lost in a heart-breaker, 17-7. That meant sharing the championship with another school in the Catholic Conference. That meant no invitation to the State’s Super Bowl championship game.

  Ski, our quarterback my senior year, would receive a hockey scholarship to Boston College, and later be drafted by the Philadelphia Flyers. Billy Elwell would play football at Northeastern. Colie MacGillivary played baseball for Bay State. Chris Staub went on to play football at the University of Rhode Island. Chester Rodriguez played football and basketball at Boston College. Skip Bandini would become an All-American lineman for the Massachusetts Maritime Academy. And John Sylva would play for U-Penn, our only teammate to go Ivy League.

  Dempsey’s bond with his players started to grow even stronger. He prized loyalty, and his boys paid him back by performing flawlessly on the football field. The 1975 season brought him his second championship in three years, and he knew this group was special. He also had a keen sense that many of his players didn’t have a clue about what they wanted out of life. Dempsey was determined that his players were going to have two major opportunities that he hadn’t had: playing college football and receiving a college degree.

  Dempsey touched so many lives with his unorthodox methods and remarkable coaching but, back in ’75, this wasn’t something we took the time to appreciate. The culture was at a violent peak and we had a tendency to keep our minds in the moment rather than in the future.

  Taking Dempsey to College

  As Boston was coming apart at the seams, I had one thing on my mind, and that was finding the opportunity to play football in college. Bosco had a terrible college counseling office (if we even had one). We didn’t know the meaning of an elective or the term “drop-add”; neither had existed at Bosco. Our courses had been laid out for us year after year, no negotiation, no choice.

  I was off to Northeastern University to play football in the Yankee Conference. Jack Freeman, Assistant Coach at Northeastern, had previously coached at Don Bosco, and the connection gave me a strong foot in the door. We spoke briefly on the phone and, within two weeks, I had my acceptance letter.

  Mark Nemes, one of my hometown’s most gifted athletes, was a star running back at Northeastern. We were both excited about playing together in the fall.

  “It’s going to be great having two Hyde Park boys playing for the Huskies next year! Kev, we’ll work out all summer and be in great shape for football camp.”

  Pound for pound, Mark was one of the strongest athletes I had ever met. With bullet speed—running a 4.5 in the forty-yard dash—Mark finished his freshman year as the Huskies’ starting halfback. The campus had been all abuzz about this new exciting kid from Hyde Park.

  But, as excited as I was about playing for Northeastern, I was concerned about money: I hadn’t been offered a scholarship. I was, however, offered the opportunity to earn a scholarship. I had no problem with proving myself, but I simply couldn’t ask my father to pay my way up front and hope that financial help would somehow arrive the following year. But still, I was hopeful. Camp was going to begin on August 17th. On August 3rd, I called the coaches’ office to set up a time to swing by and pick up my equipment, only to be informed that, as a freshman, I didn’t need to report to the team until September 28th—the first day of classes. I was stunned. The season ended November 2nd. If I didn’t report until late September, there’d be no way to earn a scholarship. This suddenly put Northeastern out of the question.

  Rich Moran, another football icon from Hyde Park, had had a similar experience. Rich, like Mark, was a huge athletic talent and had set his sights on attending Brown University, but it all fell through at the last moment. Instead, Rich ended up at Curry College in Milton, Massachusetts. Rich was entering his junior year at Curry as captain, All League, and All New England in football, as captain of the baseball team, and as a forward for the hockey team. He was a legend at Curry. To this day, he’s the only three-sport college player I have ever met. Rich was one of those players who I’d always idolized as a kid growing up in Hyde Park. He was a tremendous athlete who had a strong street ethic that was admired by all.

  After getting in touch with Rich, he brought me to Curry to meet the coaches. They were wonderful and seemed excited to have me join the team, especially after being endorsed by Richie.

  “Nice to meet you, Kevin,” Coach Champa said. “I understand you played for Dempsey at Don Bosco. Clyde is a good friend of mine. You boys had a hell of a year this year. Sure, we’ll help you get into Curry, but we don’t have any more financial aid to give out—not till next year.” Once again, I was stuck. Tuition at Curry was a staggering $2,800 a year and, seeing as my father’s base pay was $13,500 before taxes, paying tuition out of pocket just wasn’t possible.

  To play with Mark would have been a dream come true,
and the same was true with Rich, as we’d have both played defense together. Curry really made me feel welcomed and I left the campus feeling great, but enrolling just wasn’t in the cards. The toughest phone call I ever made was to tell Rich that I simply couldn’t afford to attend Curry. Rich’s true friendship was solidified with the following statement: “As a football player, I’m telling you to come to Curry but, as a friend, you have to play at Bridgewater.”

  Nothing more needed to be said; Rich fully understood.

  Bridgewater State College had shown some interest in me in the spring of my senior year, which I knew about only because of a brief conversation I had with Coach Currier. Bridgewater never spoke directly to me nor I to them, but their tuition, at $600 a semester, was much more affordable.

  I called their head coach, Coach Mazafarro, and not only did he remember me, but he said he’d be excited to have me try out for the team. I knew no one at Bridgewater and was clueless as to whether or not I’d actually be admitted into the school, but I was ready to play football. I had been preparing myself all summer and, for some strange reason, knew in my bones that I was going to play somewhere. So, two days before camp, I found myself sitting across from the school’s Dean of Admissions.

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Kevin Kelly, sir.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Kelly?”

  “Well,” I began nervously, fidgeting in my seat across from him, “I was recruited to play football here, and I was hoping I could attend camp next Monday.”

  “Did you apply here, Mr. Kelly? We can’t seem to find any paperwork from you.”

  “Well, actually, I haven’t filled out any paperwork yet, sir.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” the Dean said, taking off his glasses and folding his hands up under his chin, as if he was getting ready to scold a four-year-old. “You’re sitting in my office on a Friday afternoon, while my staff is ready to head home, and you’re asking me to admit you today so you can attend camp on Monday?”