| Ăŕđîëüä Ęîííîëëč Harold Connolly | |
| Ďîĺçäęŕ çŕ Îëčěďčéńęčě Çîëîňîě The Journey for Olympic Gold ăëŕâű 18 | |
Chapter Eighteen
In
retrospect I believe that ours was a very traditional Catholic family. We
rarely
missed Mass, at least my mother, sister and I. Dad wasn't as regular to
churchgoer. We
didn't eat meat on Fridays, weekly confession and Communion were the norm,
and Mary
and I went to catechism class where we learned the sacraments, rituals,
and rote prayers
of
our religion. When Mary and I were preparing for our confirmation, I
thought
seriously about becoming an altar boy until my insecurities about my arm
and possibly
dropping something on the alter during the Mass made me put the thought
aside.
The guardian angel the nuns introduced me to in catechism class must have
developed husky biceps trying to keep hold of me during my high school
years. While
doing just enough schoolwork to maintain grades acceptable at home, I
began to focus
most of my time on weight training and finding ways to improve my sports
skills. Here I
differed greatly from my sister, who had never entertained any desire to
compete in
sports. Her goal was always making the top spot on the school’s honor roll
every report
card. She even abandoned her ballet lessons because they took too much
time from her
compulsion to be an all A student. I admired my sister and sometimes
envied her, but I
could not quell my drive to overcome my physical obstacle in the most
self-affirming and
publicly demonstrative way: through sports.
By
the fall of my high school sophomore year I had been working out with
weights for ten months, was ten pounds heavier at 160 pounds, and
considerably stronger.
Autumn at Ringer’s Playground meant pick up tag-football games. We punted
and
passed until enough guys showed up to play a game. Every so often the
older guys in the
park led by Yebba Babcock, who was the oldest and maybe the best athlete,
and Phil,
Steve's brother, would either challenge or accept the challenge of another
nearby
playground to a Saturday morning, winner take all game with cash on the
line from each
player. These games were always played with no pads, and were tackle, not
tag. If one
of
the teams failed to have at least 11 players, it would forfeit and pay.
This never
happened.
On
just such an occasion Steve and I met to go watch the game against the
“rich
guys” from the Cleveland Circle Playground. A big part of our interest in
the game was
our mutual hope that Phil would get his ass kicked. Of course we also knew
the other
players on the team and wanted to see them play. The Cleveland Circle team
showed up
ready to go, but the Ringer’s Playground gang was two players short. Phil
and the others
were really ticked off. They knew that two of their team, Kingy Russo and
Bibber Black,
drank so much the night before that they were probably crashed out in bed.
Phil looked
around frantically, seeing only junior high school boys, a handful of
girls, and three
senior citizens. Without any other options he was forced to cajole and
ultimately threaten
Steve and me into playing, after it was agreed we wouldn't have to come up
with any
cash. With that settled, the grueling, dusty game was on.
It
was up and down for two hours, but in the end we lost by one touchdown.
Because he had to fork over six bucks for himself, Steve and me, Phil was
pissed and
directed his fury, as usual, at Steve, who had played well overall. When
he smacked
Steve in the head, I piped in, “Why don't you pick on someone closer to
your own size?”
Both teams knew Phil was a hot head, and as soon as I said that, everyone
could
sense that someone was going to be hurt. "Okay, Wise Ass," he said and
came at me. He
probably expected me to run, as I had done more than a year before, but
this time I
surprised him by diving at him and tackling him around his knees as he
leaped at me.
Phil preferred jiu-jitsu to boxing, and I knew he would try to get me in a
hold or throw
me. His own forward momentum dropped him to the ground. Furious, he
scurried to
regain his feet, but I caught his right foot under my right armpit with my
right forearm
across the bottom of his ankle, and I leaned my weight backwards. I could
feel his ankle
crack.
The brevity and outcome of the skirmish shocked everyone. A couple of his
buddies rushed to Phil to help him to his feet. Despite his furious
ranting and swearing, it
was clear he was in excruciating pain and was unable to stand unassisted.
Phil had to be
helped to Yebba’s car and to St. Elizabeth’s Hospital; I quietly but
triumphantly
withdrew. Steve didn’t say a word, but my eyes caught his for a fleeting
second, and I
knew how he felt. For me, vengeance felt sweet. During the six weeks Phil
was in a
cast, he never came to the park, but from then on my status at Ringers had
dramatically
changed.
As
a sophomore, I went out for track, but I already knew that track athletes
were
not the top jocks at Brighton High. The best athletes tried out for the
school’s varsity
football squad. I was attracted to football, not because I had a passion
for the game, but
because it was the prestige sport—the one most important to the school and
the
screaming student body fans. More than anything else, I thought making our
football
team would win me acceptance as one of the boys. From February of my
sophomore
year, I ran every day and worked even more frantically with weights, in
hopes of
qualifying for the varsity football squad my junior year.
In
the summer before my junior year, I established a new personal record in
squatting by making a deep knee bend with all the high end plates on my
exercise barbell,
235 pounds, held across my back, behind my neck. Then I unloaded the
barbell, moved it
lower on the makeshift, 2”x 4” wooden rack I had constructed in the back
bedroom and
brought over our piano bench. I was eager to try for records in my other
lifts and quickly
worked my way up to a new, 175-pound bench press record. Next, after
removing
seventy pounds from the bar, I went for the pullover. Sitting on the bench
with the barbell
across my lap, I lay back and pushed the barbell with my two hands into a
straight-arm
position above my chest. Then with my elbows slightly bent, I lowered the
bar below my
head toward the floor. After repeating this pullover lift several times as
a warm up, I
loaded the bar to a 130 pounds, ten pounds more than I had ever done
before. I lay on my
back again, to repeat the same movement. I took a deep breath and lowered
the bar,
feeling the stretch in my shoulders and triceps. As I pulled upwards, I
felt something
give way. The weight banged to the floor. Surprised by the initial thought
that somehow
the bar had broken, I quickly sat up to look back, but the sudden movement
brought a
sharp flash of pain.
“Mom, hurry!” I called out. She came running and saw my face drained white
and my eyes filled with pain and guilt.
“Harold, is it your arm?”
“I
think so. Something snapped.”
“Can you move it?”
“I
don’t know.” I sat cradling my left arm against my body. I tried to
straighten it
and the same intense pain shocked me. I did not hear what my mother was
saying. Tears
rolled down my cheeks. At St. Elizabeth’s, the X-rays showed a clean
fracture of the
humerus.
My
mother was nearly hysterical. She, who hardly had the strength to carry a
bundle of groceries up from Barney’s market, which was just two doors down
the street,
moved all my weights to the cellar storeroom all by herself and declared
vehemently that
I
would not to be allowed to touch them again. My father tried to calm my
mother but
did not dare to override her decision. Cutie scolded me bitterly for my
foolishness.
Eight weeks later, after the cast was removed, a neurological examination
indicated that the radial nerve might have been caught in the callus
formed around the
healed break. After thirteen years of Mrs. Halseth’s pursuit to help me
learn to extend
my
fingers, they again dropped back into the semi-closed position. My left
arm had
atrophied so greatly that I was unable to use it; two inches had vanished
from my biceps
and forearm. My dream of playing football was lost.
Fortunately Dr. Stern, our family physician, intervened on my behalf.
“Let’s be
calm about the problem, Mrs. Connolly,” he told my mother. “Harold’s arm
is unusually
fragile, and it needs strong muscular support. I suspect it will turn out
really badly if you
don’t allow him to develop whatever he has left.” Thanks to Dr. Stern’s
approval, my
dad and I slowly began transferring the plates from the cellar back to the
bedroom.
At
first, all I could do was tie weights to my left hand to try and stretch
out some
of
the contracted stiffness in my left elbow, and every time I increased the
weight load,
my
throat tightened with anxiety. Notwithstanding, I trained with weights
four times a
week either alone, or with Steve, whose own significant progress and
encouragement
gave me extra incentive. Every few days I checked the measurements of my
arm, gaining
increased confidence from the slow return of its former muscular strength
and size. My
increasing overall strength and the rapid rehabilitation of my left arm
reduced the
inhibitions of caution, but I avoided heavy lifting in the pullover
exercise.
Thirteen months later, at the beginning of my senior year, I waited in a
long line
outside the nurse’s office where the doctor was screening the applicants
for the school
football team. Standing against the gray, stone, wall, I kept repeating to
myself the
carefully rehearsed speech designed to persuade the doctor to allow me to
play. Mr.
Burnham, a rotund, popular auto shop teacher and the line coach, yelled
out for the fourth
time for everybody to listen, “Only those whose names begin with A to J
will be
examined today. Please, form a single line against the wall. If you won’t
get in a single
line the doctor won’t see you. McDermott,
what are you doing here?” And still louder,
“If anybody’s name does not begin with the letters A through J, he should
not be here.
K’s through Z’s come tomorrow.” He leaned against the wall with a long
sigh.
In
the waiting line there was an excited hum of conversation, which Mr.
Burnham
insisted we keep down. I spoke to no one. My stomach was in my throat. I
noticed Mr.
Burnham walk over and start speaking with Ronny George, the tall, broad
shouldered,
mature looking transfer from out of state, about whom the school whispered
that he had
the quarterback position locked. I continued surveying the rest of the
waiting group,
trying to estimate my chances of making the team. Though many of the boys
in the
corridor had played on the previous year’s team and had experience over
me, I could
match them in size. I was as tall as their average and probably heavier
and more
muscular than most of them, but my left arm might prevent everything. All
I wanted was
the opportunity to try. I was certain I could work as hard as any other
guy on the team. I
would devise ways to make up for my limitations. I was not afraid to
tackle and to use
both arms. But the doctor! First I had to get by the physical.
Jack Burns, son of the former star of the New York Yankees and one of the
best
schoolboy baseball players in Boston, was called in. I burst into a clammy
perspiration.
My
turn would come next and with it the decision I had dreaded for the past
two years. I
expected they would catch me and reject my dream of playing football for
Brighton High,
but I had to try. After loosening the wrist buttons and collar of my long
sleeved shirt, I
stopped hearing the clamor in the corridor; and with anxiety gripping my
throat, I gazed
at
the closed green door. And then the nurse stuck her head out and called,
“Next,
please.” I entered. Hardly looking at me as she walked to a small table
and two chairs
across the room, the nurse said, "Take off your shirt and sit down." I
quickly complied
draping my shirt over my left arm. She took her place behind the table,
and I sat in the
chair at the side of the table answering her few questions about my health
history. She
rose, looked in my throat, and to my great sense of relief, quickly took
my blood pressure
on
my right arm. She then said routinely, “ Step over to the line for the
doctor. He’ll be
with you in a minute.”
Across the room the doctor, a corpulent man in shirt-sleeves and dark
suspenders
with a stethoscope dangling from his neck, stood bent over, looking down
and writing
something on a sheet of paper on his desk. Before the nurse went to get
the next
candidate, she came over to the doctor’s table and handed her assistant my
medical form
that she placed under those of Jackie Burns and the other boy ahead of me.
My eyes fixed
on
the doctor’s burly hands, shoulders, and the top of his graying baldhead.
The waiting
was excruciating. Though I was shirtless perspiration trickled down my
spine. When my
turn finally came, the doctor looked up at a husky fellow standing in a
relaxed position,
holding loosely his arms behind his back. My body shielded the anxious
grip with which
the fingers of my right hand held the wrist of my left. “Name?” asked the
doctor.
“Connolly,” said the nurse’s assistant as she handed him my form.
“Is that right?”
‘Yes,” I confirmed and cleared my throat. The doctor lightly pressed the
drum of
his stethoscope against my chest and listened.
“A
fine heart you have, young man. Clear as a bell. Have you ever had an
operation?”
“No,” I lied hoping he would not notice the long thin scar at the base of
my neck.
“A
hernia?”
“No.”
“All right. Who’s next?” He turned back to the nurse.
Was that all? How easy it went! Quickly I sprang towards my shirt, I had
laid
over a nearby chair, wrapped it over my left forearm, and began my
retreat. “Wait a
minute!” ordered the doctor. My heart sank. I grimaced. I was detected.
Then he said,
“Have you ever had any history of asthma? It wasn’t checked off here--”
standing with disbelief and confusion, my voice nearly crack as I
responded
instantly, “No, no, doctor,” and I was out the door.
Unfortunately my civics and government teacher and the head football coach
of
Brighton High, a small jaunty Irishman named Mr. Murphy, who always wore a
dark suit
and tie whether in the classroom or on the athletic field, had sharper
eyes. He sorted me
out the next afternoon as soon as he lined us up to try out for the tackle
position. He was
also the head track coach and knew me well.
“Connolly, what do you think you’re doing out here?”
“I’m trying out for football,” I responded defiantly.
“Did you see the doctor yesterday?”
“Yes, and he said I was okay.”
Mr. Murphy frowned in disapproval: “I don’t know, boy, what to say; the
football field is no rehabilitation center.” He did not send me home, but
I knew I had to
prove to him that day before he talked to the doctor that I was good
enough to play in the
Brighton High line. In full pads I ran every wind sprint, performed every
drill, and
executed every movement coach Burnham asked us to do, with every ounce of
energy I
possessed as coach Murphy watched. When they called for contact, I knocked
down
everyone in my path except the coaches. Coach Murphy must have seen
something
positive, because the next and each following practice day, I was not
called to the nurse’s
office. My anxiety, but not my resolve slowly abated.
Traditionally, at the beginning of the season Brighton High School and St.
Sebastian’s, a private, parochial high school, organized a practice game
in which no score
was kept and all the boys got to play, giving the coaches the opportunity
to appraise their
players in a game situation before cutting to their final teams. This was
perhaps my only
opportunity to counteract any reluctance Mr. Murphy might still have about
letting me
play. Our returning lettermen, who considered this match nothing more than
a pre-season
warm-up, clowned during the ride to St. Sebastian’s while I sat in the
shadows in the
back of the bus inciting myself into a frenzy of determination not to let
my dream of
playing football for my high school be taken from me.
This cannot be the last time I’ll put on football cleats, I repeated
silently to myself
while getting dressed in the locker room. From the palm of my left hand up
to an elbow
pad I wore, I carefully wrapped my wrist and arm in a protective ace
bandage. Then after
turning up the left sleeve of my jersey twice, I joined the last of my
teammates jogging to
the bench, for the long, drawn out, impatient waiting for Mr. Murphy’s cue
to send me
into the scrimmage. In the middle of the second half, as soon as he said
“Connolly,” I
threw myself headlong into the fray, driving, blocking, and tackling,
relentlessly
disregarding physical exhaustion. When ball carriers ran to my left, where
I knew I could
not catch hold of them with my hand, I viciously threw my whole body at
their legs to
trip them, venting my resentment and envy on those who had nothing
standing in their
way.
I
played to the final gun. When the game was over, despite being exhausted,
bruised, and having a throbbing right knee from a clipping I took late in
the scrimmage, I
knew I had given it my all. Still, as I slowly undressed I was flooded
with anxiety that I
would be one of the eight the coach was cutting from the team. Then Mr.
Murphy came
into the dressing room, and without any further reference to my arm,
called me over.
“Connolly, the St. Sebastian’s coaches thought you were the best lineman
in the
scrimmage. Keep up the good work, and you’ll see action in every game.” He
said it just
like that and left, leaving me to float home on a cloud of sublime
happiness. My father!
He
must be home! Dad must hear first - I was a varsity football player at
Brighton High.
I
was lucky. Dad was home and I hurried proudly to him to share my good
news.
I
knew he would be happy for me, and I needed him for an ally because I
sensed that my
mother, while not having discourage me from trying, was uneasy about my
playing
football and probably would rather I hadn't made the team. My sister, of
course, would be
supportive of my mother, whatever she wanted. Fortunately, my mother gave
all the
outward appearances of being happy for me, and my sister went along.
Joe Pagliarulo was our spark plug and the toughest player on our football
team.
He
was a short, squat, 175-pounder with a determined protruding chin and the
flat nose of
a
pugilist. He played the right guard position, and no one else was faster
off the ball from
a
three-point stance. His example more than anyone else’s encouraged me to
win the
tackle position next to him.
Kevin McMahon, who was just about as tough, played the other guard next to
his
closest friend, James Melia, at left tackle. They were co-captains of the
team and both
starters since their sophomore years. Tim Leahy and I alternated in the
other tackle
position, but I was determined to beat him out for the starting position.
Unfortunately, I missed the first two league games of the season
recovering from
the clipping my right knee sustained in our preseason scrimmage with St.
Sebastian's.
After two weeks of daily soaking the knee in the bathtub in the hottest
water I could
stand, I recovered sufficiently to play again. Two weeks on the sideline
bench warming,
two victories missed, Leary playing well, delivered another set back - now
I had to work
even harder in practice or I’d never play next to Pagliarulo.
Going into the fourth game of the season, we were undefeated and facing
South
Boston High School, our traditional rival, also undefeated and the
previous season's
District Champion. Although Tim was the team's starting right tackle, the
previous week
I
had had a very strong practice because my knee was suddenly much better.
Walking
from the bus to the stadium for the Southy game, coach Murphy took me
aside and said,
“Connolly, you're going into this game early because I want you to stop
Southy's tackle
from getting to Ronny and screwing up our passing game. He's their captain
and was allcity
last year. I'm counting on you to stop him from disrupting our offense.
You stop
him and we'll win this game. Can you do it?”
My
heart surged! The coach was counting on me in the biggest game of the
year.
“I
can do it! I'll take care of him, coach,” I responded.
Halfway through the third quarter we were leading seven to nothing on a
single
long pass from Ronny George to John Burns, our left end. It had been a
brutal defensive
game. Billy McDonough, Southy's captain, kept his team's spirits up
through his brilliant
play and dogged determination to win. Up to that point, I had held my own
with him
containing him effectively. I knew, however, he had noticed the limited
capacity of my
left arm because he was increasingly playing to that side in his efforts
to get at Ronny.
On
the next play instead of going to my left again, he faked in that
direction and broke
through to my right, slamming Ronny to the ground with a late hit. For a
moment we all
thought he had been knocked out of the game, because he was very slow
getting up.
While the penalty was being marked off, I thought for sure that coach
Murphy would pull
me
out. But he didn't.
We
were on their 35-yard line and I was certain McDonough would try to fake
me
out again. This time I anticipated his
move, and as he drove to my right, I brought my
right elbow up swiftly with all the force I could muster and drove it at
his head. We wore
leather helmets with straps across the chin, no facemasks. I felt my elbow
crash through
his teeth, then as if in slow motion, he buckled forward to his knees,
capsized to the
ground onto one shoulder into a puff of dust, and spat out his front teeth
and a gush of
blood. He was momentarily stunned but got back to his feet with the aid of
his
teammates.
With blood still flowing, staining the front of his white jersey, he came
after me
but was stopped by the referees. A stream of threats exploded from
McDonough and his
teammates as he was helped off the field. A 15-yard penalty was assessed
against us, but
I
wasn't ejected, and Coach Murphy left me in. Southy spent the rest of the
game doubleteaming
me
on offense and defense, which helped us keep them scoreless. After the
victory the police had to escort our team to our bus and out of the
parking lot to prevent a
riot.
Of
all the experiences I had in sports, what I did to Billy McDonough has
weighed more heavily on my conscience than anything else I can remember.
Caught up
in
the tribal fury of high school football, I disfigured a young man and was
praised by my
teammates and coach for my play. The next day at school even Maureen
Barton, one of
our team's prettiest cheerleaders, about whom I frequently fantasized,
congratulated me
on
my play. Hearing this from her made me flash crimson. Though I would have
died to
take her out, all I could bring myself to say was thanks and quickly
escape. But, at the
time her comment and the praise and attention of others created very
ambivalent feelings
of
pride and remorse within me over how I had played.
Without a doubt playing football fulfilled all my expectations, but there
was a
price for the cheering crowds, the smiling cheerleaders, and the spotlight
of recognition
from the other students in the halls between classes. The willing
acceptance of the overt
goal of demoralizing, disabling, and destroying the enemy, created a
callousness of
attitude toward inflicting serious pain and severe injury upon others,
rationalized, of
course, by placing yourself in the same jeopardy, all in the name of
victory. The
collective frenzy for winning superseded all else. At the time such
thoughts barely
flickered across my consciousness; I wanted to win more than anyone else.
But as the season drew to an end, and I couldn't shake the image of Billy
McDonough spending the rest of his life with a mouth half full of
dentures, it wasn't until
I
returned to the more introspective isolation of track and field that I
found some
reconciliation within myself. With the additional passage of time and
reoccurring
reflection on what I had done, my remorse never sufficiently abated. While
not
prohibiting them, I never encouraged any of my four sons to play tackle
football and they
didn't.
Brighton High School won the District Championships with only twenty-seven
points scored against us in eight games, and I started the last six. The
irony of it was,
however, that two weeks after we were awarded the District title, we had
to forfeit all our
games. McMahon and Melia, our co-captains were over the allowable age for
high
school sports competition and the title went to Southy.
While it was very disappointing, I learned from this experience that it
was not the
championship, the honors, or the adulations, but how much you got out of
yourself that
counted most. A few months later I had another taste athletic success,
this time off the
football field, when I did 500 sit-ups in our P.E. Fitness Test, far than
any other student in
the school. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t stand erect for the following
three days. My
senior year became the most exciting and encouraging time of my
adolescence. It
sparked in me the belief that I could overcome the avalanche of
frustrations and be an
athlete. It gave me confidence that I could cope with the normal world;
and, when at the
graduation exercises, I was awarded a plaque for “The Most Improved Boy in
Physical
Education,” for the first time in my life I experienced tears of joy. With
this first award I
had ever received came a pat on the back from Coach Murphy:
“You know, Harold, in the beginning I didn’t believe you could do it, but
you
came through. You taught me a few things.”
*
* * *
High school was over, and the only class I failed was Latin 2. Though a
year
behind me, my sister received an A in the same class, and an A in all her
other classes for
that matter. My modest high school athletic achievements and growing sense
of
confidence convinced me that I could be much better. Even though there
were no college
athletic recruiters looking at me, I thought one year on the track team at
Huntington Prep
School could change that. I felt then, maybe, I might be good enough to
merit at least a
partial athletic scholarship. Hard as I tried I couldn't convince my
mother to be
supportive of this plan. My high school English teacher, Ms. Lyons, had
told my mother
I
would make a fine teacher and that was all she had to hear. I was to take
the entrance
examination for Boston College and enroll the following fall.
The day of the examination I took the streetcar up to Boston College and
afterwards explored the campus. I was surprised to see the fences around
the athletic
field shrouded with green canvas, to prevent outsiders from viewing
football practices.
The clashing sounds of pads and helmets and the coaches' barking commands
drew me
closer. Through a rip in the canvas I saw the hand picked, clashing
mastodons that
reminded me, despite the mystique of the game, why my road to athletic
achievement lay
not on the gridiron. The spotlight of a high visibility sport was
compelling and it offered
wider, and perhaps faster, acceptance as an athlete, but what I really was
seeking was the
opportunity to show not just others, but primarily myself that I could
excel in sports. I
realized that regardless of its destination, the road before me was one I
must travel for the
most part by myself, through my own efforts.
I
decided to concentrate on the shot put and discus. At this point my only
coaching came from a book, Championship Technique in Track and Field,
written by
Dean Cromwell, the 70-year-old legendary coach of the University of
Southern
California and head coach of the 1948 U.S. Olympic Team. I found his book
in the
Allston Public library, and the little photographs of the shot-putters and
discus throwers
in
the upper right hand corners of his text, that moved when I flipped the
pages with my
thumb, were a revelation for learning better technique.
That September I paid the tuition for the first semester of my freshman
year at
Boston College. The first day of classes I went to coach Gilligan's office
to inquire about
trying out for the track team. Assistant coach Bill Gilligan, was a former
Brighton high
school football and track star. Greeting in me he said, “Harold, it's
great you’re at BC.
You can be a training partner with Jim Lowe, a shot putter I just brought
in from
Huntington Prep.”
Copyright © 1999-2002 Harold Connolly |
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