High school football was a wonderful experience. I went out for the team in my sophomore year and because a number of seniors had graduated the previous year, I became part of the starting eleven of young inexperienced players. I was a scrappy lineman, who loved the crash and bash of blocking and defensive mayhem. I was a guard, next to me was Jim Hellauer at tackle. We were known simply as “Jim and Jim.” On the opposite side of the line was Tom Catalano and Bob Malstrom. They had the envious title of “Cat and Mouse.” Our all-boy, Connecticut, private prep school of one thousand students had a schedule playing several huge New York parochial schools. We only won one game that year but became hardened battle-toughened veterans. Our sprit de corps rather than weakened by defeat, soared in resolve. We sucked up our injuries and challenged each other to always give 110%. To borrow from Woody Hayes, we never lost a game, we just ran out of time.

Our team kept meeting during the off season, practicing and working out. If a teammate was found breaking training rules—smoking or drinking—he had the rest of the team to answer to. In our junior year we lost only one game.

Senior year was amazing. The first stringers didn’t play much in the second half after getting ahead by four or five touchdowns. We were named Connecticut State Champs by the Connecticut sports writers. Football Scholarships to Boston College, Holy Cross, and Ivy League Universities were offered.

Jeff Donahue, a halfback and I were recruited by the University of Pennsylvania. My dad was thrilled I was enrolled in the Warton Scholl of Business. However, I was more interested in football, playing on the freshman team against schools like Navy, Yale, Harvard, and Rutgers. Even more exciting was the fun of fraternities, beer parties, and co-eds. You might notice I didn’t mention studying. I like to claim Penn didn’t meet my academic standards and as a result my Ivy League career was abruptly terminated in the middle of my second semester. Okay loser, what do you do now?

Fortunately, my dad’s alma mater, North Central College, was willing to add a scrappy young lineman to its football program and extended an invitation. Years later, I discovered it was my dad’s brother, also a NCC grad who sang my praises to the football coach, probably exaggerating my prowess a tad.

Although I wouldn’t be playing that year due to the transfer, I was invited to suit up and join the team for a scrimmage. I was introduced to the squad as an Ivy League standout. The team was practicing punting and I was put on the defensive line. The ball was centered, I gave the offensive lineman a faking head move, crashed through the line, and blocked the punt. Wow, good job new guy.

The punt was tried again. I again did my head fake, penetrated the line, and again blocked the punt. Instead of praise from the coach he just raised hell with the offensive team. One more attempt. This time after the ball was centered and I broke through the line, on my way toward the kicker, a player not even in the scrimmage, ran from the sideline and gave me a round-house punch to my solar plexus that laid me out gasping for breath. And the coach didn’t say a word. “Hey, what’s the deal?”

The puncher later became a good friend. I played three years on that team. One of the skills I brought with me from Penn was learning how to use the forearm shiver. On defense we had been taught to slam the offensive lineman in the chest with your forearm to stagger his forward charge. I was good at it and used to practice on walls and doors. Sometimes in a scrimmage, I would miss the chest and catch the sharp edge of a helmet. My forearm was a mass of scabs from wrist to elbow. I loved it however because in a game those scabs would get immediately knocked off and within three of four plays my offensive opponent’s jersey would be tattooed with blood. I always rolled up the sleeves of my jersey just to be sure that happened.

Stark # 67

My roommate, Jim Hickman, was a defensive end. Jim had his nose broken a number of times in high school games and being the kind roommate I was, never stopped making fun of Jim’s large bent proboscis. During one of our games, my head took a big slam that sent my helmet sailing across the field. As I stumbled back to the huddle dazed, Jim started pointing and laughing. My nose was laid flat against the side of my face. The refs called a timeout and I was sent to the sideline. There our team doctor placed both hands on either side of my flat nose, gave a yank, and returned my snout to its proper alignment. The treatment dropped me to my knees in pain, but my nose has been straight ever since.

We won our conference in my junior year.

I was a walk-on the first year I played, and no scholarship was forthcoming. Prior to my junior year, I got a letter from a University of Connecticut’s football coach singing the praises of UConn’s aggressive new football program (the early ‘60s were not good years for UConn football) and hinted at a football scholarship. UConn had recruited two of my fellow Prep teammates and the coach no doubt got my name from them. I went to my NCC coach to tell him about the offer and ended up with a scholarship at NCC for my final two years.

I value my football years. I received no concussions or serious injuries. Even more than that, the lessons of teamwork and the valve of physical fitness are things I’ve benefitted from over the years. And I still have all my teeth.