Senior Year

by Dan Shaughnessy

  We never spoke after that and I have no idea where he is now.

  That's the nature of those final days of high school. You say goodbye to the most important people you have ever known, the people who went through all the changes with you—and then you never speak to them again.

  The theme of Sam's 2006 yearbook was "Look At Me!" It was as if the Newton North yearbook staff made a conscious decision to validate every Time and Newsweek theme-issue description of their Echo Boomer generation. "Look At Me!"? Not very subtle. These were the indulged children of boomers, kids who never had to wait for anything, kids who got a trophy just for showing up. They'd been told they were special since they were in cribs, and now they were getting back at us with this hideous message. On page three of the yearbook, the staff explained the theme, stating, "At North you can always find a place where you can stand out by doing what you do best. Be proud of your year at North. Define who you are. Take action to be that person. Relish in your individuality and strengths. You're simply screaming out LOOK AT ME!"

  Ugh.

  While I sat in the car waiting for Newton North versus Newton South at Babson, I could not resist the urge to thumb through Sam's yearbook and, naturally, I read some of the messages he'd already gathered from classmates. It felt a little bit like peeking at somebody's diary, but Sam didn't seem to be guarding the material. My favorite inscription came from a beautiful young woman named Kayla, who had been Sam's classmate for thirteen years. He'd regarded her as a nemesis back in the early days, calling her "Satan" for a few years. I figured it was the standard guy thing at work—boys act out their secret crushes by teasing the prettiest girls. It's how we avoid true feelings and fear of rejection. Now, in the spring of 2006, Kayla was bound for Duke, and she told Sam, "It's been a pretty sweet thirteen years! So I admit I hated you for a good chunk of it, but you've finally matured into a pretty cool guy. Good luck at BC. I will definitely be seeing you when you play Duke."

  North jumped to a 7–0 lead in the first two innings against South. It was North's first game of the season with metal bats, akin to being let out of jail for the hitters. Ryan Walsh hit a monstrous homer in the top of the first, and in the second inning, the South pitcher hit Walsh on the elbow with the first pitch he threw. This provoked some noise from the North bench and for the first time I heard some of our parents say unkind things about rival players. When the rains came in the middle of the second, the game was called off, and they agreed to start over two days hence at the Newton North field.

  That night, there was a neighborhood party feting graduates-to-be who had matriculated at the nearby Underwood Elementary School. Some of the former grade school teachers attended and one of them brought workbooks from days when these kids were 6 and 7 years old. There was a slide presentation (Joan Baez's cover of Dylan's "Forever Young" is the standard soundtrack), and photos of our kids as grade schoolers peppered the walls of the giant Victorian home. In every photograph that included Sam, he was holding a bat or ball. My senior son was unusually engaged while thumbing through the aged materials. This surprised me. I'd never thought of Sam as sentimental. Reminded me of me for a change.

  Alexis came up to me during the party and said, "I don't know how to feel right now. It's like I'm happy and sad at the same time."

  When we got home that night, Sam's black cap and gown (orange tassel) were hanging from the bathroom door behind our hallway entrance. They were the first things you'd see when you came in the front door and they would remain there until the night of graduation.

  He left his official school file and his senior writing portfolio on the kitchen counter. The school file includes thirteen years of grades, absentee data, and teachers' comments. Naturally, I still have my file from Groton High School, and it's always fun to reread what the teachers really thought of me back in the day. Miss Barney, who was young and a certifiable looker in 1971, wrote, "Dan is somewhat immature (self-conscious) for a senior ... occasionally becomes nervous and flustered which impairs his performance." Ouch. Then there was this beauty submitted by my well-meaning French teacher, Mr. Lacerte: "In spite of all the effort he put into learning the language, he never truly mastered it. Had he attempted a fourth year, I am sure he would have failed completely."

  Thanks, Mr. Lacerte. I'm sure the admissions department at Holy Cross loved that one.

  Sam's writing portfolio was amusing and arrogant. The spiral-bound book featured essays he'd written during his years at North, leading with the final paper of his high school years, a two-page ditty entitled "Done." In the first paragraph, he wrote, "I do not care much for analytical writing. I also hate to read. I have managed to not read more than about twenty pages of any book in high school. Pretty impressive I must say. My strategy is nearly flawless. Every teacher will give one writing assignment per book. It is always on a theme or some crap like that. The basic plot is all you need to know, and then look up a few useless quotes."

  Not something that needed to be forwarded to the good folks over at Boston College.

  The Newton North Tigers went to Natick on Saturday of Memorial Day weekend for their final game in the Bay State League. After parking my car, the first person I saw was Doug Flutie, who had just retired as Tom Brady's backup quarterback with the Patriots. Doug's nephew, Billy, was a pitcher/infielder for Natick, and he was going to Boston College on a football scholarship as a placekicker/quarterback. Doug and I talked a little bit about BC and the Bay State League, then assumed our positions on opposite sides of the Natick field. I'd seen him often in the Patriots locker room during the 2005–2006 NFL season and was ever impressed with how much he cared about the high school exploits of his niece and nephew. He seemed to be the only guy in Boston pro sports who knew more about the Bay State League than myself. It could be argued that he'd become more accomplished and famous than any athlete in the history of Massachusetts high school graduates, yet he was still part of the scholastic culture almost three decades after his glory years at Natick High. Doug's only son, Dougie, is autistic, and the Flutie parents have raised millions of dollars to make life better for other autistic children. Young Dougie's presence at the Natick-Newton game reminded me that I should stop worrying about small things and embrace my family's good health. Nobody gets everything.

  Rounding into tournament form, J. T. was at the top of his game and took a no-hitter into the ninth at Natick before allowing a couple of hits and settling for an 8–1 victory. Michael Walsh, the sophomore younger brother of our star third baseman, crushed a homer to left in the middle innings. Dad Walsh walked around to left field to gather the souvenir, his second in two days.

  It was late in the season, late in the week, and Natick ran out of able pitchers. This made for an easy day to hit, and I was anticipating Sam's final time at bat when I saw him peeling off his batting gloves and playfully squashing his helmet down on the head of backup first baseman John Michael McGrath. John Michael had hardly played all season, and I was glad Coach Sis was giving him a chance in a game that was clearly in hand. Sam being Sam, I wondered if he'd be annoyed about losing an at-bat against an inexperienced pitcher. John Michael grounded out and finished the game at first base.

  "Good game," I said to Sam when I saw him at home later that Saturday. "Were you okay when Sis sent John Michael up to hit for you?"

  "That was my idea," Sam said. "John Michael's a good kid. He's worked hard all year."

  Wow. So there was hope for my son. He did get it. Okay—so he wasn't a candidate for the Team Above Self Award—but at least he'd finally demonstrated some awareness of sportsmanship and fair play. He'd forfeited an opportunity for an average-padding base hit, maybe even another homer, in order to take care of a young guy who'd been riding the bench all year. Maybe it was a reaction to seeing what his sisters went through trying to play Division I softball as walk-ons in a world of stud recruits. Maybe it was something he'd read or heard. I didn't care.

  The South game was replayed at North's home field on Sunday, the
day before Memorial Day. We had perfect weather and a fairly big crowd for the Newton civil war. Iron Man Greeley got the ball for the final game of the regular season, and he won his sixth game 6–0. Despite the lopsided score, there was considerable tension in the crosstown finale. Sam got into a beef with the home plate ump over a called strike in the first inning. A couple of innings later, he almost got tossed after being called out in an attempted steal of home. He was officially warned by the umpire and so was our head coach. One more word and both could have been banished for the rest of the day—and (state rule) for the next game, which would be the first game of the state tournament. One more ill-chosen word and Sam's high school career could end with a suspension. He could wind up sitting with me in the stands, watching his team eliminated in the first game of the state tournament.

  Never one to talk to my son during a game, I went over by the bench where Manny—Sam's crusty, trusted Legion coach—was hanging over the rail.

  "Manny, tell him to be careful," I pleaded. "He could lose the tournament."

  "We were all thinking the same thing," Assistant Coach Tom Donnellan told me the next day. "We all talked to him. Manny, too."

  North's 15-5 record was the best in Coach Siciliano's twenty-year tenure. He'd also won one of the most prestigious teaching awards at the high school. He told me his goal was to win three games in the state tournament. None of his teams had ever moved past the second round.

  Sam finished the regular season with a .344 average, 1 homer, and 16 RBIs. He had 15 strikeouts (9 looking), 27 walks, and got hit 4 times. His on-base percentage was .565, but I knew he was disappointed that he hadn't had a dominating season at the plate. People were expecting more after the way his junior year ended and after the manner in which he was recruited. A future Division I player was supposed to do better than that in high school, and I knew he was worrying about the perception that he was overrated.

  Never one to coast, Sis scheduled a scrimmage with mighty Boston College High School on the morning of Memorial Day. This would have been unthinkable in Groton in 1971. First of all, our season was always over by the end of May. We never finished over .500 in my three varsity seasons, and even if we had, there's no way we'd have practiced or played on Memorial Day. It was a major holiday in our town. My dad was a Purple Heart veteran, an honored member of the local Legion post, and after years of marching he got to ride in a yellow convertible during the Memorial Day parade. The parade route took my dad right past our home on Hollis Street, and I have fond memories of watching Dad wave from the front seat of the sports car. In my earliest years, the parade was significantly longer because students of Groton School and Lawrence Academy were required to march, en masse, wearing their official school blazers. I liked to think that Groton School grads FDR and Teddy Roosevelt must have marched past my house decades before I was born. In my day, we watched young Peter Gammons walk with his Groton School classmates. By the time I was in high school, Vietnam War protests were in full bloom and the rebellious students of Groton and Lawrence Academy were no longer required to march. The parades were pretty small after that.

  The days after "Senior Countdown" were cushy. Sam got to sleep in, then spend the afternoon at baseball practice as he waited for the tourney draw and the end of the rain season. He and Alexis painted the front porch floor in preparation for their graduation party. I kept reminding Sam not to do anything foolish with all this free time and held my breath each night when I shuffled to my bathroom window at 3 A.M., praying that the Acura would be parked in the driveway.

  I got a nice e-mail from Emily's mom. Graduation week and the end of the softball season prompted her to dig out a column I'd written when Kate played her final game at North. She wrote, "As I reread it today, I am reminded of how much I dread the end of high school softball, prom, and graduation for Emily (and probably more for myself). The girls managed to land a berth in the tournament and I am spared one more day of the inevitable; the closure of my last baby (my only girl!) finishing school, playing her last competitive softball game, and being part of a team. Softball has been a big part of Emily's life."

  The girls won their first tournament game but lost to Lincoln-Sudbury 2–1 in the second round. Newton had a runner on second base with no outs in the seventh (scheduled to be the final) inning when rains came and washed away the rest of the game and the careers of Emily and her senior teammates. The same thing had happened when Sarah was a senior at North. Late in a tournament game, rains made the field unplayable, ending the season. It was the last moment of Sarah's high school career. Sarah and her teammates, soaking wet and muddy—some with big league eyeblack running down their faces—hugged and cried. Then one of them looked out at the field of streams and said, "At a time like this, there's only one thing to do—mudslide!" They gleefully circled the swampy base paths and slid on their bellies across home plate. Many of them would never play competitive athletics again. It was a snapshot of competition, sportsmanship, and the sheer joy of high school team sports.

  Sam took Emily some ice cream the night her career ended.

  On the first Sunday in June, when most eastern Massachusetts fields were still under water, the Newton North Tigers won their first game of the tournament 14–1, beating Lynn English at the North diamond. This game was played only because Joe Siciliano got up at 5 A.M. and went to the high school with a pump (purchased by the athletic department for $180), a rake, and dozens of bags of Quick Dry. He got help from a couple of players' dads, and by 3 P.M., the field looked pretty good. Sam walked four times and was hit by a pitch before popping up in the eighth inning. He swung the bat only twice all day. He went up to a reporter and joked, "I've got your headline for tomorrow—'Shaughnessy Walks All Over Lynn English.' " By this point, I think I was more frustrated than my son. Ted Williams's mantra "Get a good pitch to hit"—an expression we'd included in our family yearbook tribute to Sam—was becoming something of a joke. There simply were not that many good pitches to hit. The Globe said he was getting the "Bonds treatment."

  The next day was senior prom. Sam had been hoping the Tigers would play on the night of the prom, rather than on the day after the prom. This was a theory I first heard from Earl Weaver when I covered the Orioles. Baseball's conventional wisdom holds that the most rigorous schedule for a ballplayer is a day game after a night game. Not so, contended Earl: "What's worse is a day game after a day game when you are on the road. That's because you got more time to ruin yourself out on the town after a day game—then you gotta get up in the morning and go play again."

  Prom night presented some obvious hurdles. Most of the players remembered the 2005 tournament, when they played their second-round game the day after the senior prom. It was a mess. Sleepless and maybe hung-over, the Tigers committed eight errors and were beaten 8–1. One of the senior infielders arrived at the field without his glove or his cleats. The senior catcher attempted to play even though he'd been awake for more than thirty-six consecutive hours.

  "We had a little meeting about this," Sam told me after practice, while he was getting dressed for the prom. "Guys agreed to try to get to bed by seven in the morning. Nobody's going to stay up the whole time. So we can sleep until about two and play at four. It shouldn't be too bad. I asked Mom to get us a case of Red Bull. That ought to do it."

  Prom certainly has changed since I was stepping over cow chips in Joanie McGovern's driveway in 1971. In those days, it cost $25—ten for the ticket, ten for the tux, and five for flowers. Now it's a $70 ticket and a tux rental north of $100. Sam said Emily didn't want flowers. (Softball players are like that. Sarah was a catcher, always bruised, and had a purple welt on her biceps en route to her junior prom. What kind of corsage goes with a hematoma?) Let's not forget the limo cost. I gave my sister 50 cents for gas money to have her boyfriend drive Joanie and me. Now it's white stretch limos, twelve kids to a car. The young ladies are known to spend up to a thousand dollars on dresses, shoes, nails, hair, and tanning appointments. There was some
controversy at North this year when one female member of a relay team opted for the prom over the state track meet. Her team was favored to win a state championship, but she spent the night with her date at the Copley Marriott, leaving three junior teammates on the sidelines.

  Sis let the seniors out of practice early on prom night. That didn't stop Sam from sweating long after he started pulling on his tuxedo. On humid days, a simple shower doesn't do it for the Shaughnessy men, and Sam had an ice bag on his head as I helped him with his cuff links, vest, and bow tie in front of the full-length mirror on our second-floor stairway landing.

  "I'm like you, Dad," he said. "Once I start sweating, I can't stop."

  We went to a classmate's home for the traditional mass photo op, and again I was struck at a specific change from thirty-five years ago: in 2006 there were no fat kids, no kids with zits, no slouch-shouldered boys, or moon-faced girls who hadn't yet developed cheekbones. There were at least thirty kids at the photo party and every one was striking. Dads sipped flavored-waters while the moms took photos of the dressed-up kids. I went out to the street and talked to one of the limo drivers—a tough-looking black guy who was smoking a cigarette as he sat in the white Ford Excursion, door wide open.

  "High school kids," I started. "This must be some assignment."

  "Hey, we were all in high school once," he said.

  "You going to keep them on the straight and narrow if they try any knucklehead stuff?"

  "Won't be no problems," he said. "Kids are kids. They start anything, I finish it. I fought in the Gulf War, man. This is nothin'. "