Well, my main man Matt (aka the “BET THE MORTGAGE” kid) is about to embark on a sports trip of epic proportions this week. As many of you may recall, Matt is an absolute sports fanatic. He lives it. Breathes it. Digests it. Each and every day. Matt loves all sports but football is his pure passion…unless you count the Celtics and Red Sox.
After some intense research, Matt mapped out a road trip that reads like a tall fairy tale. Matt investigated if there was a possible way to attend (3) NFL games during the same game weekend…within driving distance. Are you kidding me? Impossible, right? Well, he figured it out and on Wednesday, he and his Dad hit the road to make it happen.
Thursday
The first leg.
Just a short 556 mile voyage from Boston to Pittsburgh, PA to catch the dreadful New England Patriots play the sneaky Steelers on Thursday night football. No big deal. Quick 9 hour cabin cruise to the 3 Rivers in Pennsylvania. Let’s (NOT) Go Pats!
Sunday
Leg number 2.
After enjoying the Steel City, Matt and Crew will make their way to Baltimore, MD to get a view of the Ravens versus those pesky Los Angelos Rams on Sunday afternoon. A quick 250 mile, 4 hour trek for some Crabcakes and football – that’s what Maryland does!
Off to the Big Apple. Only a 200 mile and 3 hour trip north. Pfft…like a speedy jaunt to the grocery store after this week. The New York Football Giants versus the frozen-tundra-behemoth Green Bay Packers. Why not close it out with a bang watching two of the NFL’s oldest and most storied franchises. Well played, Matt.
Wheels up back to Boston right after the final whistle in Rutherford, NJ. Home by dawn. Matt is about to live like a rock star for a few. Kid needs a NIL contract and some Adderall!
Have a blast, my boy, and don’t be shy to ask Uncle Frank if he can maybe jump in on this epic gridiron journey!
P.S. Matt will divulge his football picks throughout the trip! #betthemortgage
As I have noted in previous REAL MEN columns, I only feel the inspiration to write them when I recognize the subject has made an indelible mark on me. A person – in this case – PERSONS that made an impact on my life in some way, shape or form. Most of the men I have chosen are my elders. Dear friends and family that have all guided me through my almost 50 years on this big, spinning, blue ball. However, this chapter is being dedicated to a large brood of kind, soulful, hysterical and 100% crazy men that I have been around for a very long time.
Hello Slatterys!
Yes, welcome to the Crazy Train indeed, folks.
Born, bred and proud Lowellians, the five Slattery Brothers are an army of awesome. With no disrespect to their solo sister, Kelly, this series is about men, but I am confident she could measure up to her kin in many, many ways (Apologies, Kelly. If I ever develop a ‘REAL WOMEN’ spin off, you will make the cut. God Bless you for tending to these screwballs for more than half of a century)
And now on to the boys and their individual accolades from this man’s perch.
Actually, let me back up for as second.
The Slatterys are a larger than life (literally and figuratively) Clan that have been causing mischief and mayhem around the Mill City for a long, long time. Educators, corrections officers, civil servants and (arguably the greatest) bartenders a plenty, these fellas do not f&$k around. Each and all have very storied and, somewhat epic, athletic histories taking them from the gridiron of Cawley Stadium to college stadiums across New England and beyond. A gifted brood of jocks that each appear to be a little better than the one in line in front of them. And while all of that is impressive and widely known, these cats are simply great dudes. Fun, fiery, loyal and wild. The epitome of a classic 20th century Irish American family.
In birth order, each hold a special spot with me for incredibly different reasons. (Jesus, I hope I don’t piss any of these monsters off. Here goes!)
Ted “Bubba” Slattery
Became friends with Teddy at a later age and have always been honored to call him that. It’s almost ironic he bears the name Teddy – because he truly is a Teddy Bear of a human. (Of course, I don’t recall knowing or owning a Teddy Bear that would rip your head off if you crossed him or his family. I digress.) Ted is actually a gentle, considerate, kind and awesome guy. The first guy to offer a handshake, a hug, or ice cold beverage. Most of the time I have spent with Teddy has been on a golf course or in a saloon. While we both suck at golf, we make up for it in the barroom. Our sessions are always fun and packed with laugher. We all could use a guy like Bubba in our corner.
Paul “Pipes” Slattery
Oh boy. Where do I begin with this 6’5, 250 pound mass of coolness? The Pipa is an absolute legend and a gift to us all. A hilarious, story-telling, drink-slinging gentleman of historic fame, Pipes, for lack of a better term, is just freaking fantastic. One of those people that you light up when you see because you know you are on the receiving end of an amazing story, joke or (likely exaggerated) tale. Paul was the pourer of my very first (illegal) alcoholic beverage. The now-defunct “KEG” pub, tucked over in Lowell’s Centralville section, was where one squeaky-voiced Frankie McCabe Jr. ordered his first beer at the tender age of SIXTEEN in 1991! Yes, really. Tagging along with some older cousins and buddies, I was a wreck. Paul asked for my identification. My stomach dropped on the spot but then he quickly followed with, “I’m “f%cking with you buddy, what do you need?”. The best. A single-handicap golfer, Pipes still remains the man around these city streets.
P.S. – Ask him to croon Springsteen’s Thunder Road if you bump in to him.
Kevin “Coach” Slattery
Kevin was on my high school football team’s coaching staff. While he was busy directly coaching the “biggins” and not us soft, little, delicate guys, he always made a point to know all of his players. Truly an intimidating figure, Kevin taught me a healthy amount of fear and respect for my superiors – which is highly lacking (and needed) in today’s world. Just prior to my senior season, Kevin decided to put a temporary hold on his coaching career; and that stung. I recall my Dad pulling him aside and virtually begging him to stay just one more year until I moved on and continue providing me direction. He was a powerful influence on a whole gaggle of punk teenage boys. A builder and leader of men, Kevin is a role model and a Real Man if you ever met one. Thanks Coach. You made a valued and important imprint on me.
James “Don’t you dare call me Jimmy” Slattery
Nope. No stories. No banter. Nuh uh. Not doing it. Ain’t no way on Turkey Day. Guy scares the shit out of 99.9% of the population (the only 0.1 % that are not scared are his brothers – maybe). Have a good day, sir. Sorry to trouble you. Carry on. God Bless.
“Administrator” David Slattery
Baby of the Slattery Clan. Arguably the craziest. Arguably the toughest. Arguably the sweetest. . Positively one of the best. David is closest in age to me and I consider him a dear friend. There are 10,000 David Slatts stories that I won’t bother to reference; except for one. At a very low point of my professional life, when I really needed a break, David was my guy. At a career-crossroads for yours truly, DS stepped up and offered me daylight to get me back on my feet. It turned out to be, perhaps, the most meaningful part of my working life and I owe that to him. And speaking of education, a University of Rhode Island football (and Lowell break dancing) legend, Dave will get the pleasure of my company at those Rhodie tailgate parties as my middle child is about to become a Ram for the next four years. Can’t wait, buddy!
And there it is. Hope I didn’t upset any of you big boys with these words, but if I did, I want you to know Shaun McCarty held a gun to my head and made me type this.
In my typical sarcastic fashion, I once wrote a column titled, ‘Running is Stupid’. This self-deprecating piece was intended to offer some humor and levity to those dedicated marathoners and day in/day out joggers in our society. I wrote it just over a year ago.
Well, what a difference a year makes, huh?
On Monday, Patriot’s Day in Boston, one of the great traditions in sport took place for the 117th time; The Boston Marathon. But the marathon and the sport of running, in general, will never be the same after what the world witnessed.
At approximately 2:50PM, almost simultaneously, two bomb devices exploded on Boylston Street in Boston’s Back Bay, just steps from that historic finish line that so many thousands of runners dream of crossing after grueling months and, sometimes, years of training.
Here are the facts to date…
3 people are dead….including an 8 year old boy.
Hundreds of people are injured.
The city of Boston, and perhaps the nation, is back on high alert.
Winner’s tape is now police tape. That famous finish line is now a crime scene.
The media has provided around the clock coverage. Every leader, official and law officer has weighed in. President Obama has pledged the full force and backing of the White House.
Every person of power and authority is doing all they can to find answers to this senseless act or terror and violence. Those answers will surely come, hopefully sooner than later.
In the wake of the incredible sadness and confusion, we all want answers. Many want justice. Many want vengeance. All of us want peace.
I am in no position to provide any solution or even solace in the midst of this overpowering tragedy, but I can now say with total and utter clarity; running is certainly NOT stupid.
Running is perhaps the purest of all sports. A sport that can be experienced and loved by children at the youngest of ages to our elders in society that refuse to slow down because of a number(just ask 78-year-old marathoner Bill Iffrig who was knocked to the ground by the blast just steps before completing the race). Running and marathoning are as old as mythological Gods and embody the human spirit. A sport of will, determination and self-discipline. A sport that will now forever be tarnished due to the acts of a few.
However, running proved to be the savior in this whole horrific tale. Running, not by just those soulful and dedicated marathoners but also by the fearless first responders, courageous volunteers and innocent bystanders.
With the face of evil in plain sight of literally thousands of joyful participants and spectators, running is what help save lives and rescue our fellow human beings.
As we all witnessed this terror unfold on television we were also seeing bravery, courage and compassion that only times of true emergency and crises are revealed in people’s character. While our beloved police, fire and emergency service professionals leapt to action immediately, as they always do, so did the untrained, the unprepared and, in this case, the exhausted. Thousands of onlookers, confused and scared, almost instantly rose to this unimaginable occasion. Despite the bloodshed and loss of life happening right in front of their eyes during the world’s most famous race, people continued to run.
They ran to help the injured.
They ran to help a child.
They ran to donate blood.
They ran to lend a helping hand even in, perhaps, the darkest and most frightening moments of their lives.
People were running for life. Running to save their own. Running to save others.
Sir Roger Bannister, the first runner to run a sub-4 minute mile, once stated:
“We run, not because we think it is doing us good, but because we enjoy it and cannot help ourselves…The more restricted our society and work become, the more necessary it will be to find some outlet for this craving for freedom. No one can say, ‘You must not run faster than this, or jump higher than that.’ The human spirit is indomitable.”
It is certainly hard to disagree with that last part.
Approaching the 2nd anniversary since my father’s passing, I think about him. A whole lot. Things he taught me. Stunts he pulled. Funny times. Trying times. Life lessons. And then I got to thinking about one of his biases. His inexplicable love and weakness for a particular species on this earth. No, not puppies. Nope, not kittens. Not even babies. I am talking about RED HEADS.
Frank – a lifelong ginger himself (until the Grays won the final war against the Reds in a Battle of Hair-trition) always believed Carrot Tops were a very special, select and elitist club roaming this earth.
Data tells us that only 1-2% of humans on the planet are red heads so maybe Big Frank had a point? As a younger and, uh hem, heavier man, he was dubbed “Fat Red” so I guess he had to embrace those auburn locks on that giant sun damaged skull of his. I mean, not a terrible club to be in with Lucille Ball, Conan O’Brien, Ed Sheeran, Nicole Kidman and Prince Harry to name a few.
But, this is not a study of the good and fine red-coiffed roamers of the world; this is about people and it’s time a couple of the great gingers get their due and proper; at least from this had-red-hair-as-a-baby-but-outgrew-it guy’s perspective.
And while I have a lot of great gingers in my life, I wanted to recognize two Real Men Reds; Sean Rourke and Brian Hoey.
Sean
My Dad’s Godson and like blood to our family, is the definition of the fiery red head, much like Pops. Sean, now 50 years old, has been around my family since the day he was born. Our parents were the best of high school friends and we grew up with their brood in Lowell our whole lives. The eldest of the 4 Rourkes, Sean had a very special bond with Big Frank. Taken under his wing as a teenager, he became my Dad’s protégé at the funeral home as a wee teenager. Sean learned about all of the dark and difficult ins-and-outs of the death trade and, if I may say so myself, became a Jedi at managing a terribly emotional and eerie world. Following in Frank’s footsteps, Sean, once the Student became the Master when he took control of the Fay McCabe Funeral Home several years back. Consummate professional and kind hearted soul with each and every family he serves during their saddest of hours, Sean is a credit to this trying and misunderstood business. On occasion I volunteer my services to Sean when a loved one of mine passes. Always so very proud to still see my family name on the door (and Sean could have easily and understandably modified that at his discretion), funeral attendees presume Sean is Frank’s son. I can’t imagine why anyone could think such?
Father to 5 beautiful kids and husband to non-red head, Erin, Sean is the best. And while always very capable of a raging “Ginger Snap” when things aren’t exactly going his way, this red has a heart of gold and I consider him a brother.
And now to Mr. Hoey.
Brian
Another red-head-pledge to the society of Real Men, Brian possesses the quality that neither Sean nor Frank did; patience. Brian, another son of Lowell, is the polar opposite of the atypical fiery ginger. Brian is cool, calm and collected (at least has always been from my vantage point).
Brian is the red-headed-rock-of-sense-type of guy you need around you when you are about to make a bad decision.
Brian is the guy on the other end of the phone when you are stranded in an Arkansas lock up and you need bail and a ride.
Brian is the one of the most reliable of the reds and you want him in your (Redd) Foxxhole (whew that was a tricky simile).
Akin to all the men I have scribbled about in this series of tales, I don’t remember a time when Brian was not around my world. Like Sean, Brian and his “older brother” Fat Red Frank Senior always had something happening together. Frank was constantly looking for a set of hands to help out in some capacity. Brian runs a successful landscaping business and was on speed dial with Dad whenever he needed everything looking just right around the grounds of the Moore Street funeral parlor and beyond. But, Brian did a whole lot more than that.
(Brian also served under another Real Man, Mr. David Nangle, for many years and I am confident Dave would tell you Brian was probably his greatest asset as well.)
An almost extinct quality in today’s day and age, NO ONE could say a foul word about Brian. (I can think about 9 horrid things about myself right nowoff the top of my head) Father to 2 great, young men and married to arguably the only person nicer than him, his longtime spouse, Denise, Brian has done it all right.
(By the way- Brian has a red head brother dubbed Duffa, that is equally awesome but just slightly – and by slightly, I mean wildly more – crazy than he is.)
And so, here is to you magnificent Irish Reds, I salute you.
In the past few months, I have been receiving a lot of mail, email and social media reminders of my 25th reunion from college. As with any reunion type event, it reminds us how time flies (and that you are getting old!). After digesting that fact, I was reminded of an important day that would ultimately play a part in choosing to attend my Alma Mater, the College of the Holy Cross.
In the summer of 1992, about to enter my senior year at Lowell High School (do you believe that place is still standing…could probably use a fresh coat of paint or maybe even a BULLDOZER! Sorry, tangent.) I was invited to visit with the football program at HC. Very exciting invite that I happily accepted.
However, in the days leading up to the scheduled visit, my sister got sick. Really sick. Courtney had a long fought battle with major G.I. problems since she was a young child and she took a bad turn at age 15. She would be hospitalized in Boston for nearly one month that summer. My parents, not surprisingly, refused to leave her side for any extended period of time; except to be sure I didn’t burn the house down in their absence, of course. This was fine by me and I managed just fine. (I’d like to tell you it was like Risky Business….and it was. Well, except for the parties, beautiful women, sex, drugs, and wild fun. Other than that, exactly the same. I did dance around in my underwear once…alone. I digress)
But as the days turned to weeks at Children’s Hospital for Courtney, my big day out on Worcester was quickly approaching. And so Dad and Mom had to make the decision to how to manage. This was a parent/student invite. I could not go alone and I certainly could not decline this opportunity. So, we decided to enlist the help of an old friend.
Enter Brian “Beaker” Barry
Brian was yet another close confidant and council to my Dad. Golf buddies, neighbors, occasional business partners, they were quite the odd couple. Conservative Attorney Barry coupled with Often-Off-The-Rails Frank made for a head scratching friendship; but one that seemed to always work.
Brian eagerly agreed to lend a hand to our family and chaperone me out to the The Cross. Leaving behind his own large brood of young children on a Sunday, Brian stepped up. I was quite nervous that day – and a bit unsure if this was a even a good idea. Brian could sense my jumpiness as soon as I got into his little lawyer-mobile Volvo. He made light commentary (and terrible jokes) the whole ride down. I remember it really did help me and the nerves. Brian delivered what was needed. Basically, to serve as the parent that could not be there to help navigate me through this interview of sorts.
Long story short, it was a very successful trip.
Flash forward a few months.
After visiting many more schools and weighing many confusing options I knew I wanted to be a Crusader and could not have been more proud to receive that letter of acceptance. And it was a great ride I have always cherished.
May 1997, Brian and I celebrated “our” victory the day after I graduated.
In hindsight, looking back almost 30 years since that visit to Mount St. James, Brian’s support on that day was so critical. It was the first step in making arguably the largest decision in my young life. We still joke about it whenever we bump in to each other.
“Remember that day I got you in to college, Frankie?“, Brian will rib me.
Sure do, buddy.
Outside of his quirky wit, Columbo-like interrogations if he wants the scoop on some sordid subject, Brian is just a great guy and family man. Proud husband to Katie, father to five superstar kids, grandfather to a whole gaggle that’s still growing in size, Brian continues his life well lived over on Clark Road. Pretty damn good golfer, too.
Thanks for that day and for the many years of true friendship.
REAL MAN.
(P.S. Beak was also the co-conspirator of the infamous “Dr. Pleasure 40th Birthday Caper“, but I’ll save that for another chapter.)
Ironic title given the nature of the series, I know.
The subject of this chapter is about a very special and unique collection of REAL MEN; the collection of students I have had the privilege to teach the past couple of years.
“The Boys” is the term I always affectionately used referring to this cluster of exceptional young men that I spent all of my professional time with during my brief, but incredibly meaningful chapter, of my professional life at Lowell High School.
After nearly twenty years in the private sector of the business world, I was at a crossroads in my career. Uncertain of exactly what I wanted to do next, I was afforded the opportunity to teach in the Life Skills program within the Special Education department at my alma mater. With a teenage son impacted by autism, I understand this population quite well, but by no means as an educator. Nonetheless, the fine folks on Father Morrisette Boulevard took a chance on me and I am eternally grateful for that confidence.
And the next thing you know, I was off. All of a sudden, I was a “teacher”. I was surrounded by a wonderful and supportive team guiding me through my early days and in the relative short term, I found my groove in the classroom.
What I quickly learned was what an amazing, kind, considerate and diverse cohort of young men (yes, my crew was comprised of all boys for the majority of the school day) I had the privilege to spend my work day with each day.
Ages 16-21, I was responsible to help prepare these “boys” for the next steps in their lives. While most of these students are not equipped with the tools for a college career, they are certainly capable individuals with so much to offer the world.
“The Boys” and I covered a lot of ground during our days at school. From the basic lessons of daily living, to self-care and health to pre-vocational and career preparedness.
We were the “Job Gang” of Lowell High School.
We delivered the mail around the campus.
We cleaned up cluttered classrooms and offices.
We cooked and delivered meals when needed (including a Thanksgiving dinner and St. Patrick’s Day feast for all comers).
These individuals are forever enthusiastic and eager to impress and please their teachers and peers alike.
You will never walk by The Boys without being on the receiving end of a genuine smile, a hard high five (or a fist bump in Covid Culture) and a very energetic “Hello“.
While each labeled with a “disability” I can confidently proclaim that these gentlemen bring so very much to the proverbial table each and every day.
They love coming to school.
They love to learn.
They love to be a part of this nearly 200 year old institution.
These “Boys” make Lowell High School, our community and the world-at-large a better place.
They are a gift; certainly have been to my life.
Although I am moving on to a new chapter of my professional journey, I can’t imagine a more meaningful time.
I was blessed to teach, and LEARN from, them.
Thank youfor everything, fellas! You’re truly the best.
Can I Be Frank & Crew? 