Both Sides of the Line

by Kelly, Kevin

  What came next was a Dempsey classic.

  He was playing against a center who weighed about two hundred and sixty pounds. The guy could barely fit into his helmet, his head was so big. Yet Dempsey, through all of the chatter around him, looked up to the guy and said, “Hi. How you doin’ today?”

  The center ignored him.

  But Dempsey kept on, “You know, my mother’s in the stands and she would love to see me play a whale of a game today. I was wondering if you could take it easy on me so she can enjoy herself.”

  I couldn’t restrain my laughter, and two fellow linebackers joined in.

  The center looked up, confused and, with a high, squeaky voice said, “What?”

  The ball was snapped and Dempsey ripped into the poor guy, hitting him so hard he actually unsnapped the guy’s chinstrap and buckled his helmet halfway up his forehead. And, just like that, Dempsey owned him.

  While in the huddle during a third quarter timeout, Dempsey turned, clearly frustrated with me, and said, “Kevin, tell me about the guy you’re playing against.”

  “He plays flatfooted,” I said. “He points his feet outwards. He gives plays away by shifting his weight. I can read him pretty easily.”

  “What’s the down and distance?” said Dempsey.

  “Third and eight.”

  “Then what the fuck are you doing messing with this guy? Blow through the guard-tackle gap and I’ll meet you at the quarterback.”

  It was like something out of a movie. Just as he’d said, I blew the gap and we both hit the quarterback at the same time. While I was still on the ground, Dempsey turned and grinned, “Do I know what the fuck I’m talking about or what?”

  We all laughed, even the quarterback.

  I couldn’t get over the fact that my old coach was actually keeping an eye on me during the game, while still playing well himself and even taking the time to coach me too. It was perfect!

  I really pictured us playing together for years to come. But then, during the last few minutes of the game after we’d all but sealed a victory, players on both sides started to dial back their intensity a little. The Shamrocks ran a sweep left. Dempsey and I pursued the ball carrier. I was running behind Dempsey when suddenly, for no reason at all, this weasel lineman, this lowlife of a player, clipped Dempsey from behind, driving his helmet into the back of Dempsey’s right knee.

  Dempsey collapsed to the ground, reaching for his knee while grinding his teeth in pain. A clip that takes out a player’s knee is one of the most cowardly acts in all of football. The lineman had done it purely out of frustration and his inability to accept a loss. Sure, it hurts to lose, but you don’t end someone’s career because the scoreboard isn’t in your favor.

  Dempsey ended up needing surgery to repair a knee that had already been injured once before.

  The ’76 championship game with the Cowboys became the last game he ever played.

  The Cowboys won the championship 53-6. After the game, I refused to take off my sweaty, grimy uniform, instead walking around the locker room, showers, and coaches’ offices to make sure I shook every hand on the team. I thanked every single player and all the coaches. I knew that championships were hard to come by and that what we had accomplished was special. I was one of the youngest players on the team and it was such an honor to be able to play with these great men who’d accepted me and treated me with respect. These were men who walked the walk. They were solid family and community men who played with an unselfish zeal.

  Looking back over that season and the opportunity to play alongside Dempsey, I realize now just how rare an experience our season together truly was. Not too many players, at any level, get to share championships with a man as their coach one year and then as a teammate in another. As a person, he was the perfect teammate, always supportive and encouraging. As a player, Dempsey was calm and quiet, possessed of an unmatched discipline and focus. His air of confidence resembled what I’d always imagined General Eisenhower must’ve been like during wartime. Dempsey never worried about the score or how he was going to perform. The joy of playing was out-thinking the enemy and waiting for him to submit.

  Another gift from that season was simply getting to watch Dempsey apply everything that he’d taught me, and everything that he’d preached to me, in his own game. It was truly something to see—Dempsey pursuing a running back and making a tackle twelve to fifteen yards down-field.

  I’ve often wondered how I would’ve played against Dempsey if I’d had no idea who he was. I probably would’ve sized him up as many others had: a short, pudgy guy who looked odd in a football uniform. I’m not too sure how I would’ve reacted, however, when, after the first dozen plays, I realized he was quicker than I, employed flawless technique, and was plain beating the hell out of me.

  After each Cowboys game, we’d head back to Billy’s Saloon, all the players, fans, and Hyde Park locals together, to eat, drink, and share in the celebration.

  Of course, it wasn’t always that on the level.

  There was always plenty of cocaine available in the back room for those needing a boost for the evening.

  I was a straight kid and I never touched a drug, but both patrons and players coked up pretty frequently, claiming they could handle the “on-off” switch to cocaine.

  In front of me, Dempsey always drank lightly and never took any drugs. He had preached to us in high school a never-ending sermon about staying off drugs. But, at that point in our relationship, he knew he could be himself around me, and so often unwound in front of me as he never would’ve back in our Bosco days. Even so, he was careful never to show his other side when I was present. Maybe it was important to him to keep up an image for me; I’m not sure. He knew I idolized him. And it’s true; I would’ve been disappointed if I’d ever actually seen him snort coke. But it also never would’ve crossed my mind to confront him about it.

  But for Dempsey, cocaine would eventually become his undoing. Some of the stories that began filtering through our circle of friends were hilarious, but unsettling. One story placed Dempsey in New York’s Chinatown. Out of control in a Chinese restaurant, he suddenly stripped down and jumped into an ice fountain, completely naked. A call was made and a group from the Chinese mob showed up. It looked like things were going to get ugly until one of Dempsey’s friends dropped a name from the Boston underworld. After a confirmatory call north, they got Dempsey into a private room and let him dress, drink, and eat with no further problems.

  Another rumor had Coach and a friend stealing an eighteen-wheeler from New York and driving it up to Boston via Interstate 95. When they got the truck someplace safe, Dempsey, eager to see what they’d scored, went immediately to find out what the cargo was—perhaps a load of TVs, stereos, or appliances.

  “What the fuck?”

  “Jack,” his buddy said, coming around back to see what they’d purloined. “What’s the problem?”

  Dempsey spat out another curse, adding, “It’s nothing but women’s dress shoes.”

  In the days before the booze and cocaine use got out of control, both with him and our society, it really was just part of our overall fabric. At most every bar, night club, or after-hours party I attended, cocaine was available. As players, most of us drank, and many snorted coke, but there was a natural flow to it, with no one judging another for what he did or did not do. We were teammates first, and deeply bonded by winning the league championship.

  At the end of the night, players either went home to sleep it off or out to try to find a girl to spend the night with. Worst case scenario: An occasional fight might break out. But no one was going to end up in the hospital or go home missing an ear. At Billy’s Saloon, fights were rare and no Cowboys ever misbehaved—they had too much respect for bar owner/team sponsor Billy Mouradian.

  It was when Dempsey left the bar and headed, coked-out, into Boston that bad things sometimes happ
ened. According to people close to him, he would become dangerously unpredictable, and people were advised to keep a safe distance from him.

  Another alleged story about Dempsey’s dramatic and violent behavior was told to me by a teammate who played with him in Boston’s Park League. I won’t name him here because he requested anonymity.

  “Dempsey,” he said, “was, hands down, one of the most talented and toughest football players I ever played with, and I retired at the age of 40, which allowed me to see and play with some exceptional athletes. But I say this as a good friend: When his switch was lit, there was no turning him off.

  “At around 2:00 in the morning, I was driving home a carload of loaded guys, and Jack was sitting in the front seat. We were heading towards Kenmore Square when a guy in an Eldorado accidentally, or on purpose, cut us off. So for the next three miles, we took turns cutting each other off, and the guys in the car started to get really juiced up. Jack just sat there, staring at the guy in total silence. Finally, he said in a calm voice, ‘Box this [profanity deleted] guy in at the next set of lights.’

  “‘Come on, Jack,’ I said, ‘It’s late and I don’t want any trouble. We’re playing Southie in two days.’

  “‘No, no.’ he said, ‘It’s all right. This will only take a few seconds.’ He was waving his hand at me while looking over at the driver.

  “So, what the hell? I boxed the guy in, just as Jack had asked, and suddenly Jack jumped out of the car. The guy rolled down his window, yelling at Jack. Jack pulled out a knife and stabbed the guy six times in the neck. Miraculously, the guy survived. Unfortunately for me, someone wrote down my license plate number and called the cops. Because Jack and I were built the same, I was ID’d as the attacker and was charged with attempted murder. I was panic-stricken when my lawyer informed me I was looking at fifteen years minimum. Thank God we had connections in town. It cost me $15,000 to buy the judge off and to get the charges dropped. All I can tell you is this: When Dempsey got that certain look in his eye, he was unstoppable.”

  As a kid, and as a player who loved the man, it was hard for me to separate rumor from fact. I never saw Dempsey act remotely like the guy in all the stories I’d heard, but I doubtless saw his potential to lose it. When he was my coach, I saw his anger. When he was my teammate, I saw his ruthlessness. But I never saw him attack someone on the street or spiral out of control due to alcohol or drug use.

  But drugs and alcohol were indeed rampant throughout our society. A few weeks after the championship game, a group of players from the Cowboys and the Quincy Bulldogs went down to Baltimore to watch the Patriots play the Colts (back when the Colts were still in Baltimore). We left for Baltimore around midnight with all the food we could eat, all the booze we could drink, and all the cocaine we could snort. By four in the morning, many of the players were drunk out of their minds and exhausted. And by the time we pulled into Baltimore, many more were total wrecks. Three had passed out and never even left the bus—an eighteen-hour round-trip wasted. One of my teammates got arrested for running onto the field and hugging Horace Ivory, a Patriot player, after he scored a touchdown. During the game, we almost got into a fight with three rows of Colt fans.

  As we drove back home through Connecticut, team members caught their second wind. Our captain, Larry D., who was the life of the party all the time, discovered that three of the players had never in their lives snorted cocaine. Larry searched out each player while the entire bus chanted the player’s name and prepared them a line of coke. It was a brotherhood, and when the player gave in, the whole brotherhood cheered.

  Out of respect for my father, the influence of my coach, and my own fundamental beliefs, I’d never taken drugs before, so when Larry finally got to me—the last player on his list—I knew what to do.

  Grinding the coke as he looked at me and smiling craftily, he said, “Kel, I love you like a brother. Just a little pinch between your cheek and gum, and you’re home free.”

  The entire bus was chanting my name:

  Kel, Kel, Kel, Kel—

  Peer pressure isn’t when a social group dares you to do something you don’t want to do. That situation is easy to say “no” to. True peer pressure is when your peer group loves you, you love them back, and you don’t want to disappoint them, make them feel judged, or ostracize yourself from their trust. And I confess that I came close—very close—to taking a hit of cocaine myself. What’s the big deal? Just one time won’t hurt me. But then I suddenly thought that someday my own kids would look to me the same way I’d always looked to my father and to Dempsey, and they’d ask me: “Dad, did you ever take drugs?”

  I smiled back at Larry. “Hey, Larry, do me a favor. Pass me a tuna sandwich, will ya? I’ll get high on that.”

  A few guys laughed and, after a brief stand-off, everyone was back in their seats. I didn’t feel in any way superior to these men, but I was proud that I hadn’t caved in. Dempsey was not on that bus trip, but I’ve often wondered what would’ve happened if he had been.

  I’m just glad I never had to find out.

  My Final Goodbye

  “I was the fat kid with glasses, walking home from school carrying my violin case. I got made fun of a lot, and that’s when I learned to put down the violin and fight.”

  —Coach Dempsey

  After the ’76 season ended, I refocused on returning to a four-year college. Aside from attending Quincy Jr. College to help boost my pathetic GPA, I’d also landed two great jobs: working as a bouncer at the Mad Hatter, the largest disco in New England, and working crowd control at Fenway Park, home of the Red Sox (a dream job for any Boston kid).

  For a twenty-year-old, I felt I was at the top of the food chain. At Fenway, Crowd Control handled security inside the park. We wore beautiful, dark blue blazers highlighted by the Red Sox logo on the left breast pocket. Weekend night games were when we earned the real money. Fans, especially in the bleacher sections, would start drinking before they entered the ballpark and then try, with impressive creativity, to sneak in yet more alcohol.

  Our job was to frisk every person entering the bleachers and grandstand sections. We found booze behind calves and triceps, in hooded sweatshirts, bras, pocketbooks, men’s crotches, coolers, paper bags, and much more. We filled, on average, thirty different fifty-five gallon barrels of alcoholic beverages each night game, and still booze got through.

  The Boston Police Department would send twenty cops to work every home game, and once in a while I’d even get the chance to work alongside my dad. But only once did we join together in breaking up a fight. He sat back and let the young guys handle the physical aspects, then took over after everything was back under control.

  “Geez, what took you guys so long?” Dad said, pushing into the bunch as they cuffed the troublemaker. “Get out of my way. Let a professional show you how it’s done.”

  Most of the guys didn’t know it was a father ragging on his kid, so they just stood there, amazed, as I teased him back, “Yeah, old man, why don’t you sit down and adjust that pacemaker, and maybe get involved earlier next time?”

  My coworkers came away elbowing me, astonished and impressed, “Hey, why you talkin’ to a cop like that for? Are you crazy?”

  But before I could answer, Dad beat me to the punch as he cuffed the guy in tow. “Yeah, smart-ass, see if you get the family car next Saturday night!”

  Working at the Hatter was also a high status job; the women were beautiful and more than available. Bouncers at the Hatter wore red and black rugby shirts, which opened doors to connect with women who otherwise wouldn’t have given us the time of day. I actually used to have fun comparing how women would react to me when I was a customer versus nights when I was on duty. Sometimes the same girl who wouldn’t dance or even talk with me on my day off would be flirting with me a few nights later when I was working the door—having no idea that she’d ever snubbed me. But we didn’t c
are. It was just a big game, and we were trying to get as many dates as possible.

  The club was so popular that there were actually bouncer groupies. A Wednesday group of girls, and a weekend group of girls, would regularly hang out with us. Twenty-six bouncers would be on duty at any given time to control a crowd of eighteen hundred. Of course, I was one of the smallest bouncers there, but many of the other bouncers were fellow Cowboys, so I never got much lip about it. The fights at the club were legendary; someone would bump into someone else, or two guys would go after the same girl and, after a few hours of drinking, it wouldn’t take much to ignite the fuse. The fights inside the club always broke up quickly enough―there were quite a few of us working the floor.

  But the club parking lot was a different story. After six months of fights and wild injuries, the police started to worry about the large number of people getting hurt at the Hatter. The clientele started to change; the crowd became younger, and more groups with larger numbers started to come in, which increased the number of fights.

  One memorable night, the violence and forced busing dovetailed.

  Many blacks and whites in the city at this point didn’t trust each other. On both sides of the racial coin, many sought revenge whenever a relative or friend got mugged or jumped by someone of another race. A seemingly unending cycle of vengeance plagued Boston.

  The Hatter was the first generation of multi-room night clubs. There was a game room, a projector room that streamed movies (a first of its kind), and a large lounge area for taking breaks from dancing and the loud music. The disco room, with a dance floor seventy-five feet long, had a “Saturday Night Fever” feel. The floor panels lit up with all the colors of the rainbow in sync with the music, and all of it was, of course, topped off with a giant strobe light beating overhead. Four speakers the size of refrigerators hung from the ceiling, overlooking hundreds of white kids from all over the city: It was disco heaven.