Both Sides of the Line Read online

  Copyright 2016, Kevin Kelly

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by electronic means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote passages in a review.

  Published by Bancroft Press

  “Books That Enlighten”

  P.O. Box 65360

  Baltimore, MD 21209

  410.764.1967 fax

  www.bancroftpress.com

  ISBN

  978-1-61088-169-2 cloth

  978-1-61088-171-5 Kindle

  978-1-61088-172-2 eBook

  978-1-61088-173-9 Audiobook

  Cover and Interior Design: J. L. Herchenroeder

  Printed in the United States

  To my wife Xiaofeng and daughters Tianyao and Michelle, thank you for your love and support during this long journey.

  To my brothers, both Bosco alums, Tommy ‘71 and John ‘87.

  And to the brotherhood, a special group of men, the 1974 Don Bosco Bears.

  Prologue

  In 1998, while placing a call from a phone booth outside the Shady Glen Diner in Turners Falls, Massachusetts, I caught the Boston Globe’s front page headline from a nearby newsstand: “Don Bosco Technical High School Shuts Its Doors After 43 Years.” I ended my call, bought the paper, found an open table, and tore through the Globe trying to understand how a school which, for over four decades, had educated thousands of inner city kids (including all three of us Kelly boys) could be closing its doors.

  It turned out that Bosco had tried to change its course and mission, took some financial risks, and ended up bankrupt. Memories of high school—my teachers, my classmates, my coaches, my teams—flooded me. But none were more powerful than those of our 1974 football season. Deep down, I selfishly enjoyed the fact that I was part of the only team in Bosco history to win the Catholic Conference Championship. But with Bosco shutting down, despite its history, despite our stories and triumphs, I realized it was all about to evaporate into obscurity.

  Bosco was unique in many ways, not all of them great. Despite having students from every section of Boston, it had a weak alumni association, and so I had seen only two of my former teammates over the previous thirty-seven years. I suppose I could’ve acquiesced to that reality, put the paper back on the stand, and left things as they were. But that’s not how things happened.

  I felt a power go through me, a determination I hadn’t felt in years: I was going to track down as many players as I could from our ’74 season, and together we would keep our memories alive.

  That’s how it all began, and though it did start out as my story, over time, it became our story. And, perhaps most of all, it became our story of Coach Jack Clyde Dempsey, a talented, street-tough football coach who’d shaped up a bunch of undisciplined kids, taken the smallest team in Bosco history, and engineered a miracle season. A coach who’d also had a dark side, a side he did his best to keep hidden. A side that, one fateful night, changed his life forever. And so what seemed like a simple, straightforward football story turned out to be anything but.

  Our coaches preached for years that the challenges on the football field would mirror the challenges we would all face throughout our lives. What I discovered was that our team, made up of lower-middle-class city kids from every ethnic background, would do more than simply mirror these challenges.

  Over the next fourteen years, I tracked down twenty-four of my teammates and discovered just how extraordinary their life stories are. I discovered that, during our high school years, many of my teammates dealt with things that made the challenge of playing football almost a relief by comparison. We all faced family issues, sure, but for some of us, they stretched beyond the typical and into the almost unimaginable: alcoholism, abandonment, neglect, jail, prejudice, illness, poverty, murder, and suicide.

  But with the bad came plenty of good, because these were also all the things that, in one way or another, brought us together as a team. We came from tight-knit neighborhoods and from families that provided discipline (even when those families consisted of neighbors and older siblings who stepped up in place of unavailable parents). We grew up in a time and place where parents knew only tough love and where “survival of the fittest” was all the philosophy we had. I would discover that my teammates took those challenges and disappointments and used them as fuel to become as successful in life as they’d been on the field. They also took with them the undeniable fact that they were winners: tough, strong, and driven, with a deep, hard-earned sense of pride.

  After forty years, we were finally all back together again, the old team once more.

  Players flew in from all over the country. Each man wore his jersey, and each took a turn speaking about his school, coaches, and the ’74 season. As I listened in admiration, amazed to be surrounded by them all once again, a swell of pride overtook me. No other team in Bosco history could ever wear the “green and gold” with more pride than the twenty-five of us. Undersized and underestimated, we had accomplished the unthinkable.

  In that moment, I knew that the one badge we all still wear—the one that bonds us together for life—is the badge of CHAMPION.

  Summer 2010

  “When I came to America, I thought there were three kinds of kids: Catholic school kids, Jewish kids, and public school kids.”

  —Frankie Marchione

  “Thank God the Boston Police rejected my application,” I said, shaking my head. “I’d make lousy detective. After three years, I’ve only found seven of us.”

  Max and I had gotten there first, so it fell to us to wait, buzzing with nerves I hadn’t felt since my football days. Standing by the Charles River, looking down at our old practice field from atop the Storrow Drive Bridge, I felt my chest tighten with nostalgia.

  After four long decades, members from Don Bosco High’s 1974 championship team were about to come together once more.

  “Don’t forget Coach Currier—you found him too, Kev,” Max said, smiling. “What made the search so difficult?”

  “Well, when Bosco closed its doors in ’98, they didn’t leave any resources behind for finding alumni. But trust me, I’m not complaining. This is a great beginning.”

  Max Williams and I met in 2000 at Deerfield Academy, a world-renowned boarding school in western Massachusetts. My wife taught Chinese there. I was an assistant principal at a nearby public elementary school. Max’s father, Bob, was Deerfield’s athletic trainer who also happened to be our neighbor.

  Max, himself a Deerfield alumnus, had been a three-letter man who, after college, went on to play professional hockey until he sustained a career-ending injury. Max is solidly built with long, flowing blond hair more fitting for a man of the ’70s. He is polished, well-mannered, and articulate, but with a look that only other athletes can really pick up on. It’s that I’m cool as long as you don’t cross the line look. After hanging up his skates, Max headed out to LA to pursue his lifelong passion to be an actor and writer.

  During a Christmas visit, Max’s dad looked over at me and said, “Hey, Kev, tell Max about your coach, that Dempsey guy.”

  “Geez, Bob, it’s Christmas, and that’s a long story. Maybe some other time? Plus, I’m not sure the Dempsey story is appropriate for Christmas dinner.”

  “No, no, go ahead,” Bob assured me, smiling. “Max’ll love it.”

  Over the next hour and a half, Max hung on my every word. He didn’t take his eyes off me for a second. When I finished, Max took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I feel like I just sat th
rough a movie. What a story! Kev, you’ve got to write this down. It would be a bestseller!”

  Over the years, off-and-on, I attempted to write what simply became known as The Dempsey Story, only to find myself swept back into the real world of Now: working full-time as Assistant Dean of Students at Deerfield Academy while helping to raise my two daughters. But still the story haunted me; I found myself telling and retelling it to anyone who would listen (a bit of the “Irish Curse,” I suppose, to know what stories need to be told and then feel compelled to tell them).

  Finally, after a full decade had gone by, Max called and said, “Kev, I’m coming out to Boston, and you’re either doing this now or you’re never going to do it. And guess what? You’re doing it. Try to find as many guys as you can, get them together, and let’s get started.”

  He was right. Not only had I always believed in the story, but I knew the collective pieces by heart: Don Bosco High with its Catholic corporal punishment, an entire student body made up of kids who grew up in the roughest parts of Boston, the ’74 season, the friends and competitors, and the coach who led the smallest team in Bosco’s history to its only championship.

  But there was one hidden twist to our journey: discovering Dempsey’s dark side—the side that most of us, his players, his would-be sons, refused for years to believe possible. Yet, by the end, we would all come to the stunning realization that the man we’d all idolized and aspired to be had taken his last breath behind bars.

  “Truth be told, Max, after Bosco closed its doors, I was afraid that the ’74 team would be wiped away. But hold on to your hat, ’cause today is going to stir up some interesting conversations. This is the first time any of us have tried to reconnect in decades. Not sure if we’ll ever find all the players, but I’m determined to try. And at least I found Skip Bandini. Skip and I played defensive tackle together. He went on to be an All-American lineman at Massachusetts Maritime Academy, and now he’s head football coach at Curry College. I can’t wait to see him again after all these years.”

  “So, this is where you guys practiced?” Max said, looking out over the water. “Hey, this is a beautiful spot. From what you told me, I’d had visions of a sewer pit.”

  That July morning was beautiful; I’ll give him that much. Not a cloud in the sky and the air was crisp at 8:00 a.m. A slew of sunfish and sloops sailed lazily west on the Charles River to where the water splits Boston and Cambridge. At our backs, the city streets were quiet, with the Prudential and Hancock buildings looming in the distance (the two largest buildings in Boston, fifty-two and sixty stories tall, respectively).

  “Don’t be fooled by the scenery,” I grinned, pocketing my hands as I breathed it all in. “What you’re looking at now wasn’t here back then. I mean, during the mid-seventies, Boston was dealing with some major issues. The economy was in shambles and the unemployment and crime rates were high. We were still dealing with the gas crisis, at times waiting in line for up to thirty minutes for gas.

  “See that beautiful building there with all the mirrors next to the Prudential? That’s the Hancock. During its construction, those fifteen-foot mirrors began popping out of their frames and shattering when they hit the sidewalks. Every window had to be removed and replaced with plywood, and it stayed an eyesore like that for three years. The construction ended up costing a hundred million dollars!

  “But nothing during the ’70s—and I mean nothing—tore this city apart more than forced school busing. The subway ride you and I took this morning? With every race in the city sitting side by side? That definitely was not my or any of the players’ experience during high school.”

  “Why? What made it so bad?”

  I shrugged, my eyes stuck on the shining face of the Hancock. “In the fall of ’74, a Judge Garrity ordered the introduction of forced busing to address issues of inequality in the Boston public schools. And, well, violence just erupted all over as white and black high school kids were forcibly bused into each other’s neighborhoods. Most of us Bosco kids had to take the MBTA subway system to get to and from school, so the busing part of it didn’t impact us quite as much, but the atmosphere on the subways was made all the more tense because of it, and often violent.

  “Hyde Park High School (not far from where I grew up) was featured in Time magazine for the level of violence in and around the school. State Police with K-9 dogs were assigned to roam the hallways, adult monitors were in every bathroom, and the students were forced to move through the school in single file,” I said, shrugging again, shaking my head at the madness of it all.

  “For us Bosco kids,” I went on, “the forced busing and all it caused was something we had to prepare for every day. I mean we even had to—wait a minute!—Look who’s here!” I laughed, greeting Abe Benitez with a hug and healthy slap on the back. “Benitez, Benitez, Benitez—I can’t believe it’s you! Geez, Abe, you look terrific! Great to see you! Max, Abe was our starting right guard, built like a tree trunk—5’10” and a hundred-ninety pounds,” I said, guiding Abe over to exchange handshakes.

  Abe was one of those guys who’d always been quiet and shy until you got him on the football field, and then he turned bullet-proof tough. Abe’s parents came to America from Cuba, just prior to Castro taking over, and settled in the Jamaica Plain section of Boston.

  I remembered a scrappy kid with bruises and grass stains, but that day I was greeted by a neatly dressed, clean-cut businessman decked out in studious-looking glasses, polished shoes, and a noticeably expensive fall parka.

  He carried himself with class.

  “Hey, Kev, great to see you too,” he said, turning to accept Max’s extended hand. “Great to meet you, Max—and don’t listen to a word Kev says; he’s full-blooded Irish, which means he’s full of shit more than half the time!”

  “It might be forty years later, Abe, but apparently you still know this guy quite well,” Max chuckled, happy to throw in a quick jab.

  Then a laugh bellowed out from behind us, a laugh that could only belong to one person: Skip Bandini. A tremendous offensive and defensive tackle, Skip grew up in Brighton, the kind of guy who always talked the talk because he knew he could back up every word. He’d played football with a chip on his shoulder. Off the field, he was always extremely intelligent with a surprising capacity for tenderness. Get him talking about his mother or his relationship with Dempsey, and he’ll be fighting back tears. Skip’s mother raised her children alone, their father only periodically popping in and out of their lives. But Skip never held a grudge against his father, because that’s just one of Skip’s gifts: his ability to see the world through someone else’s eyes.

  In terms of size, Skip exploded after high school. His bones now carried two-hundred and forty pounds of muscle on a 6’2” frame. In high school, he’d only weighed one hundred ninety-five pounds. A thick-necked, full-blooded Italian with jet black hair and piercing eyes to match, he was intimidating in both looks and person. He wore a Curry College hooded sweatshirt with matching coaching shoes. The only thing missing was a whistle around his neck.

  “Well, well, well, Kevin Kelly and Abe Benitez,” Skip said, hands on his hips as another great laugh shook through him. “I can’t believe I’m starin’ at you two again after all these years!”

  No handshake from these fellas—the three of us embraced without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Hey, look who just drove up behind you,” Abe grinned. But none of us had to look back to know; Mike “Ski” Ewanoski’s voice isn’t one a person forgets.

  With the horn blowing and the black-tinted window lowered, Mike’s big grin hung out in the breeze as he called, “I can’t believe I’m spending my Sunday afternoon hangin’ out with you knuckleheads.”

  “Ski,” our team’s quarterback, had arrived. Sharp and athletically gifted, he’d inherited his father’s Polish surname and his mother’s Irish good looks. Poised, confident, and cocky, he flashed us a mil
lion dollar smile that’s impossible not to warm to. Mike grew up in Brookline, a wealthy suburb attached to Boston. To us, he’d been the rich kid, none of us ever realizing that he’d actually grown up in the projects. As it turns out, his father had to work three jobs just to make ends meet, so it’d been left to Mike’s mother to keep the family together. Tough, but with an endless well of love, she’d pushed the family forward and nudged Mike (along with all four of his siblings) toward athletic excellence.

  Mike entered Bosco during his junior year and, though he’d never played quarterback in his life, he led us to the greatest football run in the school’s history, an 18-2 record over two seasons. Mike was always the pretty boy, the one with the John Travolta disco look that got all the girls chasing after him. On the field, though, he was a fierce competitor.

  “I see our quarterback is still a cocky shit,” Frankie said, stunning us all into another wave of greetings, embraces, and cheers.

  Frankie Marchione had been one of many outstanding linemen on our team. He arrived in America from Italy at the age of seven, and settled into East Boston’s all-Italian neighborhood. Not speaking a word of English, his father immediately enrolled him in a local Catholic school. You can’t help but be drawn to Frank. He can be both sharp and gruff, but if you stop and listen a while, you start to hear a deep thinker with a wide view of life based on experiences that can only be envied.

  “When I arrived in America,” he once told me, “I thought there were three kinds of kids: Catholic school kids, Jewish kids, and public school kids.”

  Frank whipped out a couple of white paper bags filled with donuts and other pastries, all from his bakery. “Hey, who brought the fuckin’ coffee? I know it wasn’t that cheap Irish bastard Kelly!” Frank hooted, throwing me a quick wink. The first words spoken between us in nearly forty years and already he was busting my chops. We both laughed as we hugged.

  John Sylva, the only freshman on the ’74 team, arrived next. John came from a family of nine who’d lived in Quincy, Massachusetts (one of the few Bosco kids not from Boston proper). Easy to like and easy to talk to, John is quiet, intelligent, and dependable. Starting out as an inside linebacker, he always brought his street-toughness to the field.