There’s a point to this story, promise, so stay with me…
When I was in 7th and 8th grade, I was actually big for my age. Last time it was ever so: I was 5’7” then, and I am 5’7” now. (Actually, I had a check-up a few months ago and the official measurement came in at 5’6”…I’m shrinking. Really?!! Already?! &%%$$##@@!!!#@#!!!)
Anyway, I was relatively big then, and good at my two sports of choice: football and baseball. I was a little league all-star. Then came high school…
Didn’t grow a bit, and everyone else, and I mean everyone else, did. I went in thinking that my running back position on the freshman football team was secure, and suddenly Tony Maresco and John White showed up. “Java-Man” Maresco was already shaving heavy by our freshman year; he was built like a bowling ball, and had a muscled-up Neanderthal gait to him. We were positive he could slay the wooly mammoth were he ever confronted by one. He was extremely hard to wrap-up and tackle, and that season he played like a man among boys.
John White was…beautiful. He was a perfectly proportioned young man, tall and lithe, strong and graceful, balanced, fast and powerful. When he ran, or jumped, or picked up a pencil, he was the definition of athleticism.
Mike Perrelle was the third guy in the mix for our freshman backfield. He was a lock, a nonpareil in toughness, strength, and pure grit. He was our fullback, the blocker, the hard-nosed guy who would knock down opposing linebackers, open-up the holes for JW and Tony to scoot through and find daylight.
On the first day of practice, Mike dislocated his elbow. Season over for him; Crushing blow for our team.
Coach Curt Hoffman came over to me the next day at practice and said: “I want you to be our fullback.”
Fullback? Me? Little-sh*t? Knock down bigger guys for the running backs? But, but, I was a running back. An open field kind of guy, not a blocking-back-fullback at all …I thought about it for exactly two seconds and blurted: “No thanks. I’m a running back.” Thirteen years old and dumb as h*ll.
He literally sprang back from me, aghast. “NO?” he shouted. “NO THANKS!!? What the hell kind of ATTITUDE is that?” And he stormed off.
Big mistake. He never looked at me the same way after that…
Kenny Dahl was fingered next, and he promptly sprained his knee in that position against Peekskill (truth be told Kenny was about my size, and a natural running back too. Not really full-back material either. But, and this is a big BUT, he said “Yessir!” when asked to play the position. A harbinger of things to come…) When Kenny got hurt, Coach Hoffman fortuitously turned to the sideline and shouted “DaRos! Get you’re a** in there!!” And boom, the best fullback I ever saw was born right then and there. On the very next play Day-Row laid out Peekskill’s middle linebacker. Coach Hoffman yelled “Nice block, son!!” Then he looked squarely at me, banished for the rest of the season (life?) to the sideline, and said: “SEE?!! That’s how it’s done!!”
Ouch.
Fast forward to our Sophomore year, junior varsity time. Tony M. was pushed up to the Varsity team, where he had a marvelous season. John White’s father died that summer, tragically, and he moved away, down-county, Tuckahoe I think. JW tore it up down there.
With those two gone, and two brand new JV coaches (Coach Hoffman stayed with the Freshman squad) I had an opening again as a running back. While I didn’t gain any height, I did put on some weight (about five pounds—I was a strapping 125 pounder now. I think I had a muscle, somewhere). Things were looking up: I was maybe gonna run again.
And then came Tony Graci.
Suddenly, in 10th grade, all these Putnam Valley guys showed up at Panas. The P.V. school district didn’t have a high school back then. Lots of dudes appeared: Eddie Reilly, Scott Klarer, Frank Risse, Steve Cleary, Joe Filingeri, Tom Funicello, Donny Puhala, et.al... While most of them didn’t play football, Tony Graci did.
And Tony was very, very good.
Hockey was his main sport. Tony was a great hockey player, a local legend on the ice, and he played that sport at a very high level. I remember him telling us about an elite travel-team he was selected for that played against squads in Europe: Czechoslovakia, Romania, Bulgaria, far-away places like that. Back in 1976-7 that was a big deal, as those were Eastern Bloc countries. Not exactly on the basic travel itinerary of the average American. Unless you were someone who could skate like the wind, and shoot a puck like a bullet. And Tony Graci could do just that.
And there he was, so ready, and so able to make my JV football season a very long one…
The coaches ended up having us alternate on every play. He would start one game, and I the next, and we would run in the coaches’ play-calls from the sideline on each down. Frankly, I knew he was better than me at the position. Stronger, tougher, bigger. But I was taking what they were giving, and playing every other play was much better than riding the pine.
And, here’s the point to this long-winded reminiscence (I told you there was one):
I received the following text message on Monday of this week from a good friend, a truly good man who pays attention to things like this, things that really matter:
“Hey John hope you and yours had a happy thanksgiving! I spoke to Graci last week; he is not doing well. He is undergoing chemo which along with the illness keeps him mostly in bed. He said he enjoys hearing from old friends.”
Tony Graci lives in Newburgh, NY. I am not going to put his address out there for all and sundry, but for those of you, like my friend Billy Haviland, who pay attention to things like this, things that really matter, he should be easy enough to find. |
