They Began Chanting, "Kill Vinnie! Kill Vinnie!" as I Stood in the Huddle Behind the JV O-Line...

Looking back at my life, I remember being a quiet kid, shy most of the time, who loved friends and family and was very trusting to the point of being naive.

After moving from Massachusetts to Connecticut in the middle of eighth grade, I was forced to interact with kids who had been friends their entire lives, and doing that was definitely way out of my comfort zone. 

I spent several months sitting quietly in classrooms, appearing more distant than afraid, but the fear prevented me from opening up. After almost two months in self-induced seclusion, I was able to break out of my shell when during a weightlifting contest in gym class, I broke a school record. That gave me instant popularity and, with that, newly discovered confidence. I broke out from behind the silence and began establishing meaningful friendships.

Two short years later, we moved back to the same town in Massachusetts, a move that I wasn't comfortable with. I had grown so much as a person in Connecticut, and I wasn't ready to surrender it. They say, "You can never go home again," and in my experience, they were right…

I returned to Massachusetts a changed person, and most of my old friends had changed too. It was the early '70s when kids 13-15 were experimenting with alcohol and drugs, and while living in Connecticut, I remained clean, motivated only by the desire to become an athlete, fully understanding that alcohol and drugs would only hinder my goal. 

I continued eating healthy and working out in an effort to be the best athlete I could be. I never believed I was born with any athletic gifts, but that it was out of hard work and dedication that my athletic successes had resulted.

Before moving to Connecticut in December of '69, I was one of the captains of an undefeated Pop Warner football team. After a week-long bout of Bronchitis that prevented me from practicing, I was cleared to play in the South Shore Championship the night before the game. 

We beat Walpole, a heavy favorite, handedly. After the game, I was ecstatic about winning the championship and being part of a great team, knowing I'd be moving to Connecticut within a few short weeks. It was like a last hurrah for me with my childhood friends.

When they announced the game MVPs, one from each team, I wasn't really paying attention. In fact, our trainer had to jar me away from my celebration to tell me I had won the award. I was shocked. We had a great player on our team, probably one of the best Pop Warner football players ever, and I had every reason to believe he was the MVP… But for some reason, they chose me, and on the ride home in the team bus, he cold-shouldered me, and everyone else followed suit… 

When I returned from my two-year hiatus in Connecticut, I had forgotten all about it. Winning a team championship had always meant more to me than any individual award possibly could.

During the spring of our junior year in high school (1973), I approached him with the idea of working out together in the off-season. He was really fast, and I was working on it. I had become very strong, lifting weights routinely, and although he was not lacking in the strength category, I knew I could help him develop his natural strength and take it to another level. 

Fred Kaplan. Getty Images.

I'm pretty sure he was unaware that I had nothing but respect and admiration for him. The idea of working out together in the offseason was done to make us a better team. It was at a time when Larry Csonka and Jim Kiick were the best running backs duo in the NFL, and I told him we could be the high school version of them. He agreed, and we set a date for when we'd start training.

I was excited on the ride over to his house that afternoon. I had seen him shake off would-be tacklers and run for long touchdowns for many years. He was as much my hero as my friend and teammate…

We began by doing some stretching and calisthenics before we lined up on his dead-end street to do wind sprints. The street was paved but had a light coating of sand on it that hadn't been swept away after the long snowy winter, but it was the perfect length, about 100 yards. It was incredible to run with him. He was as fast as he was powerful. His thighs were thickly muscled, and it appeared as though there were rocks stuffed into his calves. I finished several steps behind him during each sprint, but that was okay with me. I knew he could help me improve my speed and motivate me to become a more complete football player.

After just a handful of 100-yard wind sprints, we headed downstairs into his unfinished basement to do some weight lifting. I wasn't trying to outdo him, that's not what this was about, we used the same weight and began doing some reps on the bench. After just a few sets, his interest seemed to wane, and that's when he suggested we head upstairs to watch old Pop Warner films. I was easy and agreed to cut the workout short and watch some old film…

I was surprised when he had the reel-to-reel already set up in the living room and the 1969 South Shore Championship game film loaded and ready to play. He pulled the shade, hit lights, and we began watching the black and white film on the free-standing screen he had set up. It was initially fun to see ourselves playing in that game in '69, but then something strange started happening. He was pointing out defensive plays I didn't make and calling out tackles I missed…

I might've been a little naive, but I completely understood what he was doing. I told him to stop the projector, and if he was still upset about not winning the MVP, he could follow me home, and I'd give him the trophy. He didn't answer. That was the first and last time we worked out together…

During our senior year, certain changes were made to our starters that disrupted the dynamic of our once-great football team. Our quarterback was moved to tight end, and I was moved from middle linebacker to defensive tackle. I lost my starting position at fullback, and the play selection featured a lot of him going off tackle right and off tackle left, and we became a very predictable offense. The defenses keyed on him, and his impact was greatly minimized.

We entered the last game of the season, Thanksgiving Day, 5-4, with a chance to win and finish with a respectable record. I was moved back to starting fullback for this game, and we ran the Wishbone offense out of the T-formation. On every play, our quarterback put the ball in my gut as I ran between the center and guard, and if, in his opinion, there was an open hole, I'd get it, if not, he continued down the line of scrimmage where he could hand off to another halfback, keep it, or pitch it to him trailing the play. I liked being back at fullback, and while practicing this formation, I knew we could successfully control the ball and move the chains. They couldn't key on him; if they did, there were other options.

During our last full-contact practice of the season, the coach took me off the starting defense so I could run the ball on the second-string offense (JV) and give the starting defense a big-bodied back to hit. I didn't like not practicing with the defense, but I had little choice in the matter. 

In the huddle, I took my spot in the back row, middle, facing the quarterback, our former starter and a good friend. Looking at him and listening to him call the plays was comforting, but seeing the junior varsity line in front of me was not. They looked scared…

The starting defense easily ran over the JV offensive line on the first play, and I was gang-tackled. I went back to the huddle and saw a nervous group of young boys who were visually shaken by the task of blocking the starters, most of whom were seniors. The next play, I was gang-tackled, again. That's when it began…

He was lined up at cornerback when he started chanting, "Kill Vinnie! Kill Vinnie!" The entire defense followed suit, and the chanting got progressively louder. I looked around at the blood-thirsty looks on the faces of kids I thought were my friends, and it was then that I saw the evil smile he was wearing under his helmet. This was his last chance at revenge…

I expected the coach to step in and put an end to it, but he didn't. On subsequent plays, I was gang tackled, and the coach blew late whistles, and because I refused to go down easy, I was taking cheap shots to the back, sides, knees, and by friends of mine I had known since kindergarten. It was a feeding frenzy and I was the chum, and after every play, he continued to lead the chant, "Kill Vinnie! Kill Vinnie!"

I knew the JV O-line couldn't slow down the starting defense, never mind block 'em. My adrenalin was pumping, and I looked into the quarterback's eyes and said, "Give me the fucking ball up the middle!"

As we walked up to the line of scrimmage, the chanting got louder and more spirited. When I got the ball, I had my eyes on the middle linebacker, the player I lost my position to. I lowered my head and shoulders and went low until we collided, that's when I exploded upwards, contacting his facemask with full force. I lifted him off his feet and set him on his ass, and ran up the middle like a wild man, untouched. On the way back to the huddle, I began taunting the defense with, "Who's next, motherfuckers?" The middle linebacker was still on the ground, dazed. That's when the coach immediately stepped in and called the practice…

I went to the locker room, got my belongings, and drove home in my muddy uniform…

The Thanksgiving game was going well. We were successful running out of the Wishbone. According to my friend's father, who kept my personal stats, I had ten carries for 55 yards. Some of my carries were credited to him because we wore similar numbers and were similar in size, and no one expected I'd be running the ball as much as I was.

I was moved back to middle linebacker, my natural position, to start the second half. At D-tackle, I was undersized, a down lineman, and that minimized my skills, including vision, instincts, and hands. I had at least a dozen unassisted tackles in the second half, including several sacks. I was in the backfield so quickly the opposing team's coach complained to the refs that I was offside, but they told him I wasn't, I was right on the snap count.

That day, I had the best game of my high school career, but we lost when what would've been a game-winning touchdown pass was called back when one of our offensive linemen jumped offside. 

My classmates and I joined the unfortunate fraternity of teams that lost their Thanksgiving game their senior year. No matter what, that's always fifty percent of the teams, just not how I wanted it to end…

Walking off the field alone, I was approached by my head coach who said, "I should've moved you to middle linebacker sooner…" to which I replied, "Like the first game of the fuckin' year, Coach…" I was fucking pissed!

That night there was a drinking party for the football team that I didn't attend. I drove around town alone in my car, drinking beer and reflecting on my high school football career, one that hadn't gone as planned. I cranked the eight-track, but all I heard was, "Kill Vinnie! Kill Vinnie!"

It was around 2:30 a.m. that I grew angrier and decided to take a ride through the coach's neighborhood. He had taken away my starting positions, allowed the chanting "Kill Vinnie! Kill Vinnie!", and put me in harm's way with his late whistles during the last full-contact practice… I saw his house and the small patch of front lawn he often bragged about. It was wet and soft. I was young and dumb and couldn't resist… 

I drove up on the lawn and idled there for a moment, reflecting. I revved my V8 motor to see if any lights went on inside his house. Then I revved it again and let the clutch fly. I tore up his entire front yard, mud and grass flew everywhere. When I stopped, I was still half on his front lawn, and half on the sidewalk, and I waited to see if he was coming out, hoping that he would. After a minute or two, I slowly bounced my tires over the curbing, looked back one more time, cranked up the tunes, and never looked back…

In the end, after graduation (1974), I put things in perspective. It was high school football, and that's all it was… 

Years later, after becoming a Master Plumber and opening my own business, I enjoyed doing plumbing and heating work for him and his dad at their homes, and we talked about a lot of things, but never about that championship game…

I'll always look at my former friends and teammates who chanted, "Kill Vinnie! Kill Vinnie!" differently, even after fifty years…

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