Both Sides of the Line

by Kelly, Kevin

  While in the corner, Benji came over to me, slapped me on the back, and said, “You’re going to do just fine, Kelly! Any questions, don’t hesitate to ask me!”

  I nodded without saying a word. Looking Benji in the eye, we shared a small ready grin, and ran out onto the field together.

  We came out of the gates quickly and scored two touchdowns in the first quarter. On defense, we were shutting them down. Both of our starting defensive tackles were down with injuries, so it was up to Danny McSweeney and I to come through and not be a burden to the defense. I was not going to let that happen on my end.

  But on one play, Benji screamed, “Kel! Quick! Eagle down!”

  I knew exactly what Benji wanted me to do. He wanted me to move down one position and line up against the guard. And I knew exactly why. Benji had read the play and knew the fullback was going to try running between the guard and tackle.

  I froze.

  The ball was snapped, and the fullback ran up the middle of the field for a twenty-five yard gain. And I had let it happen.

  Needless to say, Benji was hot in the huddle. “What the hell are you thinking about, Kel? Wake up!”

  “Sorry,” I squeaked, my voice coming out as high and pathetic as a guilty little kid’s.

  Everyone in the huddle burst out laughing. And I guess Benji couldn’t help himself because he smiled too, shaking his head at me.

  I should have felt good from all the support my teammates were giving me, but instead I only felt embarrassed. I’d let them all down.

  But then the old CM game came clanging to mind, and for once it wasn’t Dempsey but Currier’s voice that echoed back to me: 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.

  My mistake hadn’t enabled Plattsburg to score on us yet, but I knew it would if I let myself get rattled by it. Just keep on playing, I thought. Just keep on playing.

  We beat Plattsburg 44-0.

  The following Monday, the school played the film of the game throughout the day in the new Student Union Building, so Danny McSweeney and I got the chance to watch ourselves perform. We also listened to the announcer talk about the two freshmen starting for Bridgewater’s defense and who, as he put it, “did one hell of a job.”

  After that comment, the two of us thought we were something special. Danny would lean over, grinning, and yell out, “Hey, Kel, who the hell is that number seventy-two on defense? Did you see that tackle?”

  “Geez, I think that’s Danny McSweeney, that outstanding freshman defensive tackle!” Of course―and you know what’s coming―I’d then hit Dan with, “Hey, Dan, who the hell’s that number seventy-eight? Did you see him make that quarterback sack?”

  “Geez, I think that’s Kevin Kelly, the other outstanding freshman defensive tackle!”

  This adolescent dialogue went on for the entire showing of the game. We thought we were funny, showing off for the freshmen co-eds, but we were sadly disappointed. Eventually, it was just Danny and I sitting alone watching the game. But we didn’t care. We basked in our own glory before ending up at the campus pub to toast our victory properly.

  Bridgewater wasn’t Notre Dame but, for us, it surely felt like it.

  Freshman year was when all of the work ethic, drills, lessons, knowledge, and ability inspired by Dempsey came together for me. Dempsey was constantly on my mind in practice and during games. On game day, as a defensive lineman, you have to transform yourself into an intense, calm, aggressive, intelligent, and unselfish player. There’s no room for being reflective, for being concerned about your opponent. It’s really just a street fight, and there’s only one way to play: all out, hard, and tough. None of this could have happened without my years of growth at Don Bosco.

  Dempsey taught us that, on the line, there’s always someone who will emotionally quit—you just want to make sure it’s never you. Before each game, I made an emotional commitment to give my all on every play. And I would discover that Dempsey’s words rang true: Players did eventually start to duck and cut corners rather than hit “head on” every time. I, on the other hand, continued to evolve as a player and learned to relish any opportunity to dominate those who wouldn’t dedicate themselves likewise.

  It’s difficult to put into words, but there’s a real high that comes with the realization that your opponent has begun to quit and ceded you total control of the line of scrimmage. It’s always unspoken, but all players know exactly what’s going on when this kind of concession occurs. During a game, there’s always a breaking point when one player begins to quit, either because he believes he’s already given his best to no avail or because he’s checked the clock and decided his team can’t possibly win. With all of these factors, a player can pretty easily sense the level of intensity changing during a game. If you were outhitting and outplaying your opponent, and sensed he was quitting, that’s when you’d turn it up a notch.

  But, to be able to perform at that level, a player needs to start by focusing on the upcoming game way in advance. During the week, we’d have only one day to study films of the upcoming team. Coaches would try to pinpoint tendencies in the offense but, as a lineman, I also had to see if I could pick up any clues about the specific guy I was most likely going to be pitted against. Each night, I’d review my responsibilities and work to visualize my opponent, imagining how I would play each run, pass, trap block, and so forth.

  A perfect example of my being mentally prepared for a game was our performance against Tufts University. The offensive lineman I played against must’ve stood around 6’4” and weighed close to two hundred and forty pounds. His nose was smashed wide like a boxer’s and, when he got into his stance, his wrists and forearms bulged to an awe-inspiring size. A jolt of fear ran through me as I realized, Shit. This guy looks like he snacks on nails! But I swallowed, settled my nerves, and switched into Dempsey-mode: quickness, technique, and desire. Calmed, I studied the player’s body and split him into thirds, asking myself: How would I play against this guy if Coach Dempsey was on the sidelines watching me?

  For the first series of the Tufts game, I paid no attention to where the ball went. But when I finally did come off the ball, I came off it like someone shot me from a cannon, reminding myself that because size doesn’t have to mean anything, I could plow through any player on the field. And, sure enough, by the beginning of the third quarter, I owned my opponent. I wasn’t tougher or stronger than he was—not by a long shot! He just simply began to submit. He was coming off the ball slower; he was conceding control to me. But his coach or his buddies must’ve given him shit on the sidelines because, in a moment of frustration during the fourth quarter, the guy punched me square in my stomach while I was fully extended. The wind knocked out of me, I was forced to the bench for a few plays.

  Of course, all that time spent sitting out only made me hungrier for another play—hungrier to get back in and punish this kid.

  Back on the field, my eyes never left him, and I saw right away how his stance gave away the play, telling me that a pass was coming. When he moved his hand, I exploded off the ball and my helmet smashed into his face mask, my hands grabbing the inside of his shoulder pads. I jammed his pads high into his neck, standing him up and throwing him off balance. Then, with one last hit of my helmet to his face, he landed on his ass. That was it. For the rest of the game, he played passively.

  And, just like that, we had beaten a very good Tufts team, 23-21.

  After the game, outside the showers, I found him, walked over to him, and shook his hand.

  “Hey, sixty-three—nice game.”

  “Thanks,” he said, surprised. “You too. What position did you play?”

  “What do you mean?” I said, confused. “I played against you today. I’m number seventy-eight.”

  His mouth dropped wide open as he took in my height an
d weight for the first time. “There’s no way I played against you today—the guy I played weighed at least two hundred and thirty pounds.”

  “Well,” I grinned, pleased, “I guess I just have a big pair of shoulder pads.”

  Our biggest game of my freshman year was against Harvard. Harvard came out with what appeared to be a hundred kids, all of them poised and sharp. By comparison, we looked and felt like a group of misfits. All the same, we went on to shut them out, winning 21-0. I had two quarterback sacks and one interception. The ball got deflected and ended up in my hands, so I ran sideways with it for forty yards, desperately trying to turn the corner. Everyone on the sidelines was laughing as I ran the entire width of the field. After I finally managed to turn the corner, I gained a truly unimpressive two yards.

  Coach Braun laughed as I jogged over to the sidelines, gasping for air, “That’s why you’re a lineman, Kelly!” he hooted.

  After the game, I shook hands with Harvard players Joe Pellegrini and Dave Singleton (both outstanding players from the Catholic Conference). But the real highlight of the day came because Harvard agreed to feed us. Their dining hall was beautiful: rich wood paneling, high ceilings, and lighting reminiscent of a cozy, early-1900s dining room. They served us prime rib, and we all had to laugh, comparing Harvard’s dinner to our own state-run café back at Bridgewater.

  It was easy to laugh at the Harvard kids. We might’ve been in college, but we were still immature enough to look down on them for having what we didn’t have. We looked down on them—the rich, snobbish brats we’d all grown up envying and hating. They were kids who we were all certain didn’t really appreciate where they were going to school, kids that wouldn’t survive two minutes in our old neighborhoods. But, in all honesty, mocking them was just our way of hiding and deflecting the truth: Most of us would have loved to have attended Harvard and played for a school with such a rich history and tradition—and for a school that served such decadent prime rib!

  After the Harvard game, I went home for the weekend. Although the city was still at a boiling point over forced busing, my section of Hyde Park was comparatively calm except for two areas: the high school and my own backyard. A black family (I’ll call them the Jones family) had purchased a house across the street from Moynihan Park. They were a family of six, and couldn’t have picked a tougher spot to move into.

  Located across the street from Moynihan Park and the Roosevelt School, their house was at the epicenter of where forty or so white kids from the neighborhood tended to hang out most days. As a result, they were the victims of nonstop harassment, vandalism, and threats. It was so bad that the city of Boston actually paid to have a police cruiser park in front of their home every day and night for the next six years.

  Of course, there were neighbors who didn’t like the way the Joneses were treated, but they were a small minority. Only pride and fortitude could make a family stay in that prison of a home for as long as they did—either that or they had no other housing options. Every time they left the house, fear, anxiety, and anger had to have registered high on their emotional meter. When I look back at the whole experience, it amazes me how we can turn on each other solely because we look different, because of such uncontrollable components of our lives as skin color.

  Come to think of it, no one who had ever lived in that house had had it easy. There was never any privacy or peace. It was always too noisy and disruptive for folks, and so no one ever stayed long at that corner—no one except this family.

  The Moynihan Park is fairly large―roughly one square mile―and it’s completely enclosed by an eight-foot high fence. There’s a baseball field, two basketball courts, a tennis court, a shallow pool, and swings and slides for the younger kids. Asphalt paths weave throughout, and wooded and grass areas for benches and picnic tables are scattered everywhere. It’s a well-conceived park for city people looking to get away from their urban environment for a while. There are four entrances, one of which sits directly across the street from the Jones’ home.

  So when I came home for the weekend on a beautiful, cool fall day, I decided to stroll through the park, feeling perfectly safe and comfortable. And why wouldn’t I? This was my hometown. I leaned against a pole, one foot in the park and one foot out of the park, on the sidewalk. A group of kids were gathered at the entrance near me, but I kept to myself.

  The MBTA ran its city buses through Hyde Park, and two stops were at Moynihan Field. A bus pulled up, and Mr. Jones got off. He wore a yellow turtleneck and a brown leather jacket. He stood about six-foot-three, looked to be made of solid muscle, and was probably twenty pounds heavier than me.

  As he walked toward his house, about fifteen teenagers started yelling and cursing at him from behind the park fence.

  “You fucking nigger!” they yelled. “Get the fuck out of Hyde Park! We’re gonna kill you and your family! Come on, you pussy! Come over here and fight us!”

  Mr. Jones didn’t say a word, but he didn’t give an inch either. He gave a quick glance over at me, unsure as to how I fit into the mess. If it wasn’t so tragic, it would have been comical. I knew every one of the kids making such a sick spectacle of themselves, and not a single one of them could have fought this man without ending up in the ER.

  I now think back on Dempsey’s wisdom with pride and appreciation: 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. But in that moment, I didn’t need his words to know the right thing to do. Watching those kids humiliate that guy was more than enough to make my blood boil.

  “Chucky,” I called over to the hooting crowd, recognizing a kid named Charles as one of the loudest voices in the group. Everyone paused at my shout, waiting for me to join in. “You want to fight this guy?”

  Chucky looked to me, sizing me up just as Mr. Jones had. “Yeah,” he bragged, kicking the fence. “I wanna kill him.”

  “Fine. Then get your ass over here and fight him one-on-one. Fair fight. But if anyone jumps in, I’m fighting with him,” I said, pointing to Mr. Jones.

  Everyone was stunned, but I was too angry to let it go.

  “Come on, tough guy,” I said. “Come out and fight him. Don’t talk about it. Do it.”

  No one moved.

  “Yeah,” I said, disgusted. “Just what I figured. Just another loud-mouth pussy.”

  Mr. Jones had a stern look on his face, and I knew he’d heard and seen enough.

  Two cars pulled up and a kid who lived near Farmount Hill jumped out, shouting about how he wanted “a piece of the nigger.” From a distance, it must’ve looked to that kid as if all of us were surrounding Mr. Jones. He was just another punk who couldn’t fight one-on-one. At this point, I was not only ready to tear someone’s head off, I wanted to. So I walked toward the kid’s car, jabbed a finger in his chest, and told him just what I’d told the rest.

  He jumped right back in his car and sped off, another loud-mouth pussy.

  But still, I felt compelled to do more. So as Mr. Jones turned toward his house, I approached him. “I know this sounds crazy,” I said, “but the people who live in this area are good people. I wish I knew what to say to you that would help. I’m sorry.”

  And though he looked forlorn, he shook my hand and thanked me.

  Walking home, I couldn’t stop imagining what it must have been like for him to live that way, to worry about the emotional and physical safety of his wife and children every single day. I often think about what happens to kids who grow up influenced by racial hate. What happens to them when they become parents themselves and have to face so many of the same problems and dilemmas that their parents faced? And what happens to kids who perpetuate racial hate and later become parents? Years later, when they look into the eyes of their own children, do guilt and regret ever enter their minds?

  The
following Monday, I was back in college to complete the rest of our season. As I sat in class daydreaming, pretending to pay attention, my mind drifted back to the episode with Mr. Jones in Hyde Park. I thought of the many speeches from Coach Dempsey and realized that he too must’ve seen the world in a linear, absolutist form, much as my father had: black and white, right from wrong, fair and unfair. And, what’s more, I realized that I, in turn, comfortably held the same view. Though I’d long ago begun to adopt my father’s more absolutist approach to the world, there was something about Dempsey’s perspective that finally made me feel at peace with the idea. There was something about Dempsey that made me finally understand his belief that the challenges on the football field often mirror those in life.

  The Bridgewater State Bears ended the ’75 season 7-2. We came in second place in the conference. We had a great team and our freshman class was loaded with talent. Still, nine of us would not return for our sophomore year. We were good kids on campus, but we were immature academically, and so several of us (including me) were asked to leave the school, grow up, and return when we were ready to apply ourselves in the classroom.

  Coach Braun, unsurprisingly, was exasperated. “I’m extremely disappointed in you, boys. You’ve let your parents down. You’ve let your team down. And, most importantly, you’ve let yourselves down. You need to wake up, and you need to wake up now. You will learn that potential means absolutely nothing in this world. It’s only what you do with that potential that counts.”

  I knew Coach Braun was right, and I knew I had no excuses. I was disciplined on the field, but had failed to use that same discipline in the classroom. I was determined to play football somewhere. Where that would be, I wasn’t sure, but I knew I couldn’t stop quite yet.