Rite of Passage

Ever since I was a young boy, Thanksgiving Day has meant one thing -- high school football. Every "Turkey Day" my Dad, my brother, and I would get together our Revere Patriots paraphernalia and head out to watch our guys battle the Winthrop Vikings. My Pop Warner teammates would do the same and we'd sit apart from our parents and watch in amazement as our local heroes sported the "Revere Blue" with unparalleled courage. I mean these guys were almost professionals. Their names would be in the local paper prior to the game, they'd be on cable TV, they knew all of the cheerleaders, and every one of them was over 100 pounds. For two weeks these guys were the talk of the town. Then came the finale. Just before the National Anthem, each one of the starters would be called onto the field, one by one, in front of the capacity crowd. One of my teammates older brothers was always playing that day and we'd all crowd around him looking for some inside information about the game plan. It was a big honor to actually know some of the players, and one year my next door neighbor waved to me from the field while warming up. Needless to say, I was honored.
Although watching these gladiators was the highlight of the day, there was one dream that each of us shared in our hearts. The vision that someday, we ourselves would be legendary. We'd strap on that gear and enter the arena and the whole world would be cheering for us as our names were called out, one by one. As I looked into my Dad's eyes I could plainly see that he too longed for that day. You see my Dad never missed a game in my short career and knowing that he was in the stands cheering made me proud to do well.
Year after year, game after game, these feelings grew stronger as I did. Then came a magical day-- I became a senior in high school. Although I had played as a junior and even saw some time in the Thanksgiving Day game, this year was special. It was special because we hadn't posted a winning record in three years; this was my last season at Revere High, and possibly the last game of my career. I along with the guys I often dreamed with, was about to live my dream and bring some respect back to Revere High football.
In short, things didn't go as planned and our record stood at 2-7 before going into the big game. There is a two week lay-off before the Thanksgiving Day game and that's when all the hype begins. Articles in the paper, interviews on local cable TV, and alumni breakfasts for all ex-Patriots are common occurrences about this time of year. Another tradition although not football oriented, is the senior trip to New York City. This was the first year that the trip had come before the game, but four other players and I got permission from the coach to attend. For the first week we practiced with the team, learned our game plan, and strutted around school (as was customary for seniors before the big game). That Friday the five of us went to New York City and had a great weekend only to return to practice Monday without positions.
It was three days before the big game and when the starting line-ups were called out in practice, not one of us was mentioned. I looked at my friend, who was in the same boat as I, and whispered "He said we could go." After practice the five of us got together and came to the conclusion that the coach was trying to teach us a lesson and that by Tuesday, we'd all be out there.
Tuesday passed and Wednesday came. It was the day before the game and when the coach called for the first defense, I still wasn't on it. The whole practice I kept asking myself, "Is he really going to do this?" I imagine the rest of the team was wondering the same because there was an eerie silence to the practice. The juniors, who were replacing us, had looks of guilt and disbelief on their faces. To me they were guilty, especially the one standing in my position, the position I had dedicated myself to in the previous nine games. Who was he to take away my dream when his dream was still a year away? I knew though that he would have sacrificed the position to set things straight. Thanksgiving Day is for the seniors, that's just how it is. We were a close-knit team and it was tearing us all apart watching five good, loyal players being stripped of their pride. Practice ended and while I was walking off the field my brother (a junior on the team) walked up to me with tears in his eyes and said, "He won't do it, Den. He can't." I didn't even raise my head; I just kept walking.
I showered, dressed quickly and the next thing I knew I was in the coach's office. I walked right up to the 6'9" ex-Greenbay Packer and said with a lump in my throat, "Coach, I have to play tomorrow. You can't bench me." He then replied, "We'll see, Dennis. We'll see."
I had to figure out how I could shatter my Dad's dream, somehow less painfully than mine had been. Fortunately when I arrived home my brother had already explained the situation to my Dad. He gave me the old "it's only a game" speech, but we both knew otherwise.
Thanksgiving Day arrived, and I along with forty other gladiators strapped on our gear and entered the arena with 5,000 people cheering. The only bad thing was that they weren't cheering for me. As the starters were called over the loud speaker, one by one, my heart stopped in anticipation of a miracle.
I didn't hear my name. It was over. I thought, "He actually did it." The most important day of my life was ruined. I glanced up into the section where I sat as a young boy and noticed that the little guys were keeping up with the tradition. There among the future Patriots sat my little cousin, who used to think I was a superhero. I gave him a half-hearted wave and hoped that I didn't embarrass him. I guess I didn't. He smiled and his buddy gave him a high-five.
I did play that day. Halfway through the first quarter the coach put me in. It just wasn't the same though; we lost 31-6. In one day I lost some of my love for football. For months I would get sick to my stomach whenever I looked back on that awful day. In spite of it, I had a terrific senior year and as they say, "time heals all wounds."
The next season I arrived at the University of Lowell football camp and was the lightest player on record ever to suit up for the Chiefs. I did it to prove to my high school coach, my Dad, and most of all myself. Three years later when I was a junior, we made it to the championship game. Triumphantly, in front of about 10,000 fans and my Dad-- I heard a voice come over the loudspeaker to say, "Starting at left cornerback, number six, Dennis Rich!"

Childhood Experience

I come from a long line of animal lovers. Ever since I can remember, my father has been telling fantastic stories about pets that he has had. He and his six brothers have had more pets than Wild Kingdom. From guinea pigs to tarantulas, they've had them all. Although we as a family enjoy pets of all types, there is one standout that every true Rich admires. It is the dog. Not a week goes by without Dad telling a miraculous story of how his dog Duke took on three others, or of how Baron swam a half mile out into the Boston Harbor after him while he was fishing. I can hear him and my uncles now, "Duke would have torn Chan to shreds", or "Lucky was the best hunting dog ever, I don't care what you say." They actually argue over which poem is better, "Rags" or "Bum", both of which are required literature in my family. Certain uncles prefer certain breeds of dogs, but for the most part, any old breed will do. I am no exception to this rule.
When I turned eleven (up to this time I had seen at least six family dogs come and go), I received the greatest gift an eleven year old boy could wish for. Yes, a puppy, but not just any puppy. This was my own personal dog. He was a jet black mutt, the son of my family's Labrador Retriever, and he was as handsome as any pedigree show dog. His huge paws represented power and future size. So, branded with this stature, I gave him the only name that truly fit: Geronimo.


Geronimo and I were inseparable. I fed him, took care of him, house-trained him, and played with him. He also kept up his end of the bargain and was nothing but faithful and loyal to me. Every morning, rain or shine, he was right by my side accompanying me on my paper route. Some customers would actually leave tips for me and a dog biscuit for him. For a young guy he was very brave, and when older friends would play around and wrestle with me, he'd show his teeth and growl-- although he knew enough not to bite anyone. His one fear was of cars and he liked to hide under my legs whenever a noisy one passed by.
One spring day I stayed home from school because I was sick, and let Geronimo out by himself. This wasn't uncommon; he had been going out on his own and palling around with my family's dog ever since I had gotten him. But this day was different. I sat on the couch watching a t.v. show when there was a knock at the door. It was one of the neighbor's children. He was very young and didn't know any better when he told me that Geronimo was hit by a car and was asleep in the middle of the street. A cold chill went down my spine as I looked into the street at the ball of fur who lay there coldly with his eyes open and his back broken.
I think I was in shock because I didn't say anything. An older friend happened to walk by and saw what happened. I'm not sure what I would have done if he hadn't arrived. We wrapped Geronimo in a blanket and carried him into my yard. Amazingly, when my friend left I just went back into the house and continued watching my t.v. show as if nothing had happened. I was confused and angry with myself for being so cold-hearted but I didn't know what else to do.
Then, about two hours later, with some sort of strange coincidence my parents both arrived home at the same time from work. Suddenly, as I began to tell them the story, it hit me all at once. I couldn't even finish the story I was so choked up, and finally I just dragged them outside to see the dog. My mother kept saying, "It'll be alright, you can get another one soon." But I wouldn't hear of it. At the time I didn't ever want to see another dog again, never mind own one. By the time I regained my composure, my father and brother had already begun burying Geronimo. So I said a prayer and a goodbye to my best friend.
That whole day everyone in my house was quiet and to themselves. And I've come to realize that they weren't grieving for the dog as much as they were for me. Knowing that I was sad made them sad too. I had never seen that side of my father before, or my brother for that matter. My father always says to this day that I should be careful because if I were to die in an accident, I wouldn't suffer as much as the people who are left behind. As I think about Geronimo, I can understand what he means.
I think the reason that I didn't cry the minute I found him lying there is because I was too young and wasn't independent enough to handle it on my own. As soon as my parents arrived I had a feeling of comfort and safety and couldn't hold up the facade any longer. Geronimo lived a short life but left a big impression on me. I wasn't old enough to handle death on my own, but that six month old mutt was sure old enough to teach a young boy about the facts of life and death.