Both Sides of the Line Read online

  Dempsey also preached God, family, and country, and he believed that football mirrored life. “You’re not always going to win in life, you’re not always going to get every girl you ask out, or get every job you interview for. It’s not if you win or lose, but how you win or lose. That’s the key.”

  When driving a point home, Dempsey didn’t speak with his mouth. He spoke through his eyes, his soul.

  “You’re going to be asked often if you’re any good. If you say yes, you’re bragging. If you say no, you’re putting yourself down. If anyone asks if you’re any good, look them straight in the eye and say, ‘I try to be.’”

  He preached about living a clean life. Getting caught up with drugs and drinking was a death sentence for us, he said. We always had kids on the team who didn’t buy into the coaches’ restrictions, who would label it “bullshit,” but those kids were the minority. I didn’t worry too much about whether or not I’d drink or take drugs; I had watched my brother Tom get his ass whipped pretty good by Dad when he caught him drinking, and that was all the incentive I needed to steer clear of the stuff.

  But, more importantly, I didn’t want to let my coach down. He was my role model, and I found myself admiring him in the same way I admired my father. I respected and feared Dempsey. I never felt physically afraid of him, of course. It was more like the fear felt when you disappoint someone or embarrass yourself. Great coaches have this gift. They are able to get players to play beyond themselves and to think of the team.

  When Dempsey would lift with us, we all got to see just how powerful he really was. Without an ounce of fat on his body, he was as solid as a cannonball. He benched over four hundred pounds, squatted over five hundred pounds, and power cleaned (lifting the weight off the floor to shoulder height) a staggering two hundred eighty-five pounds! Power cleans were his love. He dissected and discussed every movement and would not accept any other interpretations of the lift:

  “Bring your ankles to the bar, bend your knees, and grab the bar a little wider than shoulder width. Keep your back flat. Now place your eyes on the ceiling. Your body will always follow your eyes. This will keep you from lifting with your lower back. Lock your elbows. When lifting the weight from the floor, you should never bend your elbows or try to derive momentum from bending your elbows. This will only put pressure on your lower back and expose you to a potential injury. Now, drive the weight off the floor with your legs. Explode your elbows to the height of your ears, and flick your wrists while simultaneously dipping under the bar until it rests under your chin.

  “Benitez, come on up and give it a try. Now, say each step aloud so I know you understand what you’re doing.”

  Over and over, Dempsey would repeat the rules of lifting. Benching and squats received plenty of attention, but the power clean was the football lift. You had to dip and explode to power clean properly, and that’s exactly what he wanted his players to do when they hit opponents on the football field. Dip and explode to block. Dip and explode to tackle. Dip and explode to make a first down.

  After workouts, he introduced agility drills. He expected us to be in tip-top shape for camp. Mastering your stance was directly related to how quickly you could come off the ball, he instructed. A poor stance could also give the play away.

  “I want quick, light feet—not heavy feet. Jesus, Kelly, pick up your legs crossing over the dummy bags. Eyes up! Look at me! This whole team will be doing sprints if I see one more player looking down at the ground crossing those bags!”

  Besides being an outstanding football coach, Dempsey was a master teacher. His attention to detail was unmatched. Everything had to be done perfectly. He didn’t care if you were a starter or if you played third string, he wanted his entire team to perfect the techniques of the game.

  “Defensive linemen, listen up: You need to study your offensive lineman’s body throughout the game. He will begin to give away hints about where the ball is headed, and whether the play will be a run or pass. If it’s a running play, he’ll want to drive-block you off the line of scrimmage. You’ll notice that he’s leaning forward and all his weight is on his down hand. If he wants to pull down the line and trap-block, he’ll lean into the direction he’s heading and put less pressure on his hand. If he’s going to pass block, most of the weight will be on his heels, and there will be very little pressure on his hand, because he needs to move backwards quickly to set up his pass block. The offensive lineman knows when the ball is being hiked. You don’t. Picking up on these clues helps you to neutralize his advantage. When the quarterback starts his cadence, you are to put one hundred percent of your concentration on the offensive lineman’s hand. Why, MacGregor?” Dempsey asked, making sure we were paying attention.

  “Because it’s the first part of his body that will move on the snap of the ball?”

  “Excellent. Did everyone get that?” Collective nods. “Offensive linemen, we will all have the same stance. I will teach you the proper stance, and you will all do it my way. First, we always run up to the line of scrimmage. Place your right toe against your left heel. Slide your right foot out in a straight line, a little wider than shoulder width. Point your toes inward, pigeon-toed, and then sit with your arms resting on your thighs. When you sit, notice that your toes straighten out perfectly. Set your right foot a step back, six to eight inches. Place your hand on the ground with minimum pressure, and always head up. When coming off the line to block, dip, and explode, make sure that your first moment of contact is no higher than your stance. Drive up through your opponent while simultaneously punching your hands through your opponent’s mid-section.

  “I want everyone’s undivided attention! Staub, are you listening to me? I hope I didn’t just see you glance at the clock across the river.”

  “No, Coach.”

  “Good, because anyone looking at that clock will be running laps until sundown. There are three main points on your opponent’s body that are critical when blocking a defensive lineman,” said Dempsey. “The right hip, left hip, and the center of his chest. If you can come off the ball quickly and dominate one of these three points, you’ll be successful. Low man always wins. A quick, little man with the right technique will beat a slow, big man every day.

  “Football is a series of angles. If a man weighs two hundred sixty pounds and you weigh two hundred ten, just focus on a third of his body. If your goal is to get your head on the opponent’s left hip, then that’s the only part of his body you’ve got to worry about. Your job is to get to that point as fast as possible and, if you’re quicker than your opponent, success!”

  At the time, Dempsey’s instructions about tactics and techniques were all so foreign to us. But, over time and after hours of repetition and practice, everything made sense. He had a way of breaking down every aspect of the game and making it sound simple.

  For defensive linemen, Dempsey wanted agile and aggressive players. Defensive ends and tackles were taught to place all their weight down on their hand and come off the ball, as if racing in a sprint.

  “Dip and explode while you read your man!”

  He wanted his players to be smart. One reason why football is so draining is the mental fatigue of the game. A player’s actual playing time during a game is only about six minutes. But the intellectual part of the game—the focus and emotional commitment combined with the physical demands―can feel a little like doing wind sprints while getting beat with a baseball bat and taking a math test.

  You’re coached to not think but to react to what is in front of you. But your reaction is directly related to the time spent in practice and to your own football intelligence. “The most dangerous player you’ll ever play against is an intelligent player!” Dempsey said.

  Even after years of coaching and playing on high school, college, and semi-pro teams, I have never met another line coach who taught football players to focus on the hand as intensely as Dempsey. Whenever I discuss defe
nsive linemen technique with coaches, reading an offensive lineman’s helmet has always been a popular method taught to players.

  “The head will take you to the play,” is what many coaches teach. Unfortunately, many players, including those on the college level, think that this means for them to wait and read, resulting in hesitation. Many players try to read the helmet and react after the offensive linemen move. Any hesitation on the defensive line gives the offense an advantage. Dempsey believed in focusing on the hand because it is the first part of the body to move. He believed a quick defensive line could wreak havoc by disrupting the timing and responsibility of the offensive linemen.

  It is important to read a player while in motion. Hitting a lineman while in mid-stride often disrupts his ability to successfully do his job. Astonishingly, today, many coaches teach defensive players to look out the corner of their eye at the football, and to move at the snap of the ball. Dempsey would have had a field day ripping into that approach. He believed that offensive linemen gave away little hints to what type of play was going to be run. “Reading an offensive lineman’s body is crucial. You want to pick up every signal he’s giving you. Most linemen will take you to the ball before the ball is in the quarterback’s hands.”

  Dempsey taught, demonstrated, and mentored all of us in his style of football. When practice went smoothly, he could be relaxed and, at times, jovial. But when there were too many mental mistakes, he became explosive. When he reached his boiling point, he wouldn’t hesitate to jump in and “go live” against some poor son of a gun.

  On one such occasion, Dempsey grew frustrated that Jimmy Duggan, our captain and one of our most talented linemen, wasn’t playing angrily enough. Jimmy was a skilled athlete and a nice kid from Southie. At 6’3” and two hundred forty pounds, Dempsey was expecting Jimmy to tear up the league, play all out, play mean! So one day he kept Jimmy after practice. “Okay, Duggan, I’m going to hike the ball on the second hit, and I want you to come off the ball as quick as you can, okay?”

  “Yes, Coach.”

  Instead of hiking the ball on the second hit, Dempsey hiked the ball on the first hit, catching Jimmy off-guard and knocking him on his ass.

  “Oh, Duggan, I’m sorry. Let’s try that again. This time it’s on the third hit.”

  “Okay, Coach.”

  Set hit, hit—bam!

  Jimmy was on his ass again, confused and trying to figure what was happening. This went of for ten minutes. Finally, Dempsey exploded at the kid: “Duggan, what’s wrong with you? I’ve been beating the shit out of you and haven’t hiked the ball on the proper count once! Aren’t you pissed at me?”

  “Well, no, Coach. Why would I be mad at you?”

  “Duggan, get off the field!”

  From a distance, we were watching our captain getting the shit kicked out of him. It quickly sent the message that no one would be spared Dempsey’s wrath. We all knew there was only one way to play football for Dempsey and that was his way—the right way!

  CAMP

  “Remember: On the field, there’s no such thing as freshmen, and there’s no such thing as seniors. You’re all equal on the football field.”

  ―Tom Kelly

  By August 1973, just before my junior year started, I figured the team was in good physical and psychological shape. I know I was. During the two months before camp, lifting weights, doing agility drills, and running wind sprints was my daily life. Three weeks before football camp, I left for the Berkshire Mountains in western Massachusetts to work at a summer camp for boys. There were steep hills and trails, and I took full advantage of the opportunity to get into the best shape of my life.

  Fear was a strong motivator for me, and I already knew to fear Dempsey for what he was going to put us through. Most of all, though, I knew to fear the bench because the bench, for anyone unprepared for Dempsey’s training, was where they’d inevitably end up.

  After one workout session in June with Dempsey, he shared with us how he prepared for an upcoming season. “I lifted weights for two and half hours every day, ran three miles every day, put myself through a torturous series of agility drills four days a week, and then ran the Charles River in full pads for nine months.”

  That’s commitment, and that’s what he expected from all of us. I took Dempsey’s words to heart and, though I didn’t run any rivers in full pads, I lifted and ran all summer long to ready myself for camp.

  Dempsey not only made an impression on the players, but he made sure his presence was felt by the other coaches as well. Coach Smith, for example, a line coach and English teacher for years at Bosco, was one of the first to end up on Dempsey’s radar. “Smitty” had a great sense of humor and was extremely popular with the students. Quick-witted and sharp-tongued, Smitty could (playfully) tear you up with sarcasm in the classroom as well as on the field. Truth be told, however, he wasn’t the greatest football coach. His knowledge of line technique was minimal, and it never seemed as if he’d played much football himself, even as a kid. Smitty was a good-sized guy, but had a generously-proportioned gut and was out of shape.

  Knowing all of this, Dempsey accepted Smitty’s invitation to a preseason cookout party at his Cape Cod cottage with the other coaches and friends. It would be Smitty’s first time meeting Dempsey and, after hearing endless stories about the man, was looking forward to knowing him.

  The weather was beautiful, and everyone was having a nice time, with most of the guests spending their time out on the deck overlooking the ocean, when suddenly there was a large crash inside the cottage, followed by the sound of someone screaming in pain. As the guests rushed in, confused as to what could possibly have happened, they found Smitty pulling himself out of the fireplace.

  Apparently, Dempsey had been demonstrating offensive blocking techniques to Smitty, who had expected Dempsey to demonstrate his knowledge slowly and cottage-party-appropriately. After all, why would Smitty think otherwise? They were in his living room, not out on the field. Regardless of their setting, however, Dempsey went full speed.

  “Currier, get this madman out of my house right now!” Smitty yelled, standing, coughing, and covered in soot.

  Dempsey’s live hit was no accident, of course. He was delivering a message to Smitty and all the other coaches: Make no mistake, I’m the new line coach here and, while I may be small, I know exactly what I’m doing.

  It was a message that didn’t go unnoticed.

  For football players at Don Bosco, the first taste of high school football was a two-hour drive away from the city, into the beautiful rolling hills of New Hampshire. Pulling into Camp Don Bosco, we were misled by its beautiful private lake and rustic cabins, which lined the perimeter of a large, open field. The quiet lulled us into believing we were just coming to have a little fun. Well, the next morning, we were all jolted awake by the realities of football.

  For first-year players, football camp was a real eye-opener. The only organized pre-high school football programs that most kids played in were for a Pop Warner or a middle school team, where the practices and coaching were less intense. Most athletes couldn’t imagine what was in store for them in high school football.

  Coaches had a week to get their players into shape and decide where to fit them on the roster. At times, players and their coaches had different opinions on what position they ought to play (though the coaches always won out, of course). For many, it was a new and intimidating experience having a coach scream in their face before having to run laps and additional sprints because someone else had screwed up. The day-to-day routine of football camp was not the glorified life one dreamed of while watching Sunday afternoon games from the comfort of a living room recliner, a Coke and a bag of chips in hand. Football camp practice was hard work and little fun. But, for those who survived, it would yield numerous rewards.

  At camp, our routine was straightforward and consistent. First, up at six in the mo
rning for a nearly four-mile run. It was always cool in the morning. I hated the feeling of the cold floor greeting my feet while leaving the comfort of my warm sleeping bag. During our early morning run, the smell of wet grass filled the air, the morning dew glistening like diamonds along the blades. The sound of the rooster crowing from the farm next to the camp penetrated my soul. The team ran in thirds. The first third of runners, always a small group, went all out and would disappear from sight after the first hill. The second group ran at a steady pace. This was my group; my goal was to finish the run and conserve my energy. The last third was made up of those who were out of shape. They ran sluggishly, wearing similar looks of dread. Why they didn’t prepare for camp was anyone’s guess, but one thing was for certain: For those kids, football camp was sheer hell.

  “What were you people thinking about over the summer? Move it!” Dempsey screamed. Each morning, Peter Masciola and Vinny O’Brien came in first and second respectively in the four-mile run. Both boys were in fantastic shape. Peter was short and stocky, a running back from Roslindale. Vinny, from Jamaica Plain, was a lineman, lean and lightweight. Both were competitive. (Both would become lawyers but, as always, Pete would finish a little ahead of Vinny, eventually becoming a Brigadier General with the Air Force.)

  Immediately upon our return, we went to the field for calisthenics, agility drills, and wind sprints. Not many of us knew what it was like to run full speed over and over. My lungs and leg muscles burned while my brain fought to adjust to what was taking place. “There is no walking on a football field! Ever! Kelly, come back here and do that again!”

  After ten minutes, I found myself in the back of the line gasping for air as players moved forward. In a matter of seconds, I was once again in front, lined up for another hundred-yard sprint. The whistles, it seemed, would never stop blowing.