REAL MEN: Kid Dynamite

Welcome back to REAL MEN!

It’s been a while since I have penned one of these tributes about a few of the great men I have had the pleasure to know in my life.  As you may recall…

What is REAL MEN?

I have only written REAL MEN columns when I really felt a spark and the undeniable affinity and affection for the subject at hand.  These gentlemen are Hall of Famers in my book and this one is certainly no exception.

Dean “Kid Dynamite” Emerson!

If you don’t know Dean, he is somewhat of a celebrity in these parts?  Dean is a diverse, dynamic, and, well, DYNAMITE guy.  The moniker “Kid Dynamite” was bestowed to him during high school years for his athletic prowess (I guess? Haha), but the name has become much much more.

The Dynamite Brand has become a bit of a juggernaut.  From sports gambling (COLLECTING!) and golf to fishing and pickleball!  (He also breeds, trains and races HOBBY horses!  Don’t ask. Story for another time.) Dean has spent more than a decade building this “thing” that has become wildly popular.  You can find that famous dynamite logo on hats, shirts, sweatshirts, golf bags, and beyond.  There are even some custom-made Dynamite Nike’s out there!  If you have not checked it out – please do so and buy some swag! LINK TO SITE

More important and meaningful is the man behind the brand; Good ‘Ol Deano.  Smiley, funny, huggable, squeezable, formally great-haired, Deano. And that is the heart of why I write these words.

Dean is truly one of the kindest, genuine, generous, and hilarious individuals I have had the pleasure to call a friend. I’ll start there.

Fifteen years ago I worked closely with him as we made a wholehearted attempt to build and grow the Wicked Irish brand.  We hustled T-shirts from Lowell to New York to Chicago to South Bend, Indiana (yes, Notre Dame!).  While we had some successes and victories, we passed it along to some more capable hands.  Those were great times and when I really got to know Dean.  And we had a ball every step of the way.

Notre Dame circa 2010! (that’s Dean on the left, so you know)

What I learned was what a man of character (and what A CHARACTER!) Dean is. 

Often seen with a big cigar in his chops or a golf club in hand, Dean is a dreamer and a believer.  Dean is an optimist and a glass-is-half-full type to the extreme.  He believes in hard work, commitment, and passion.  Passion is all facets of his life.  Passion for his family and friends, passion for causes, passion for life.  And Dean’s passion is what has made many of those dreams come true.

Did you know Dean has been a PROFESSIONAL golf Caddy for many years now?  He has walked alongside and carried the bag for the game’s elite.  He has walked the hallowed grounds of Augusta National at The Masters.  He has been in locker rooms with golf’s greatest. He has been the right-hand man in the front row as young, budding amateurs became Champions achieving their dreams.  You can’t tell me Dean’s energy and spirit didn’t inspire and lift them up in their biggest professional moments?  Not a coincidence.

Dean has made a once sketch-pad-logo into a legitimate and ‘cool’ lifestyle company.  The Dynamite Brand is here to stay and it is all fueled by Dean’s fervor and never-quit attitude.

I think the greatest part of it all is that EVERYONE roots for Dean and his success.  People are fans of Dean and wish him well at every turn of his journey. In a world filled with jealousy and envy, Dean has managed to be beyond that.  Why, you ask?  Humility.  Plain and simple.  Chapter and verse.

Like all of us, Dean has had difficult trials and tribulations in his life.  Some dark and dreary days when it was difficult for him to see the light at the end of that tunnel, but he certainly has.  Through grit, determination, discipline, and sacrifice.  Just celebrating his 21st year of sobriety, Dean’s story is one we can all relate to, get on board with, and stand behind.

Dean will likely be embarrassed about reading these words about himself, but they are all very true and very real.

DYNAMITE husband.  DYNAMITE father. DYNAMITE friend. DYNAMITE entrepreneur.

DYNAMITE HUMAN.

REAL MEN.

#collecting

Not-So-Super Bowl Memory: Chest Pain

Well, well, well…. here we are again!

The New England Patriots are back in the Super Bowl again, and it feels so good!  With just a few short years since the Brady/Belichick Dynasty, we have a new regime in Foxboro.  Welcome Coach Vrabel and Drake Maye – the new Pats Dynasty officially will commence on Sunday!  Good luck, boys!

But I am not looking to discuss this future phenomenon of a football organization.  I am not looking to review the 20 years of glory led by Tom “I have No Skin in the Game” Brady and Bill “Cradle Robbing” Belichick.  Nope, I am here today to review my least favorite Patriots Super Bowl; the 1996/7 Team that faced the Green Bay Packers in Super Bowl XXXI (that’s 31for you kids that will never learn or need Roman Numerals).

January 26, 1997, New Orleans, Louisiana

This Patriots team was commanded of legendary Bill Parcells and our Golden Boy Quarterback of the 1990s, Drew Bledsoe.  The Pats we clear underdogs and it showed from the get-go.  Brett Favre and Company were heavy favorites, but we were not going to let that stand in the way of us.

But the game was not the storyline of the day…

  You see, I was a senior in college during that Super Bowl run.  I was living in a triple-decker tenement in Worcester with seven (4 Patriots fans, a Phillie degenerate, 2 Long Island nerds, and a human bottle of maple syrup from Vermont) my best college bros.  It was a wonderful time to be alive!  Each and every Sunday of that season we hunkered down in that squirrel-infested shithole and watched every play of every game, into the playoffs and magically into the SBXXI! 

As the big game approached, we all agreed we needed to go big time with our game day party plan.  Go big or go home!  We had every type of cuisine on speed dial (because clearly none of us could cook anything!  I’m not sure we have an oven in the dwelling?).  As the sun rose that glorious morning, we were “pumped and jacked”, to quote former Patriots Head Coach/Hype-Man, Pete Carroll.

And this is where the story begins…

As we rolled through the morning, the excitement was palpable!  We were gonna have an epic watch party and do this thing right, despite the desperate realization we could not win this game.  Alas, it did not deter our spirits.

At approximately 1000 Hours Woosta Time, one of the Long Islanders – who was an Art Student – proposed what he thought was a great idea…

“Hey, why don’t you tough guy Patriots Fans paint your chests like you were at the game?!”

“F%$& you, you losah!” was our collective knee jerk reaction.

Wildly inappropriate verbal barbs (that are no longer acceptable in this sensitive, crybaby culture we live in) ensued.  Until finally we broke under the foolish peer pressure.  The next thing you know, four 21-year-old men allowed a fledging doodler to apply (what I later learned was a toxic brand) paint to our bare chests.  Real men of genius!  Approximately one hour later, we each brandished the New England Patriots logo across our pasty white torsos.  We were all in and, in a very childish way, proud of this “badge of honor”.

It was now 12:00PM and we needed to get some stuff done. And by “stuff” I meant buy a keg for the game.  And so, myself and my City of Brotherly love buddy headed out (after putting on a shirt – I wasn’t that much of an idiot.

This mission took not even an hour, and we returned with the magnificent vat of cold brew.  LFG!  By that time, my fellow chest branders had also put on some cover ups.  After all the game was still 5+ hours away.

The revelry began.  We tapped the keg and we were off to the races!  The beers were flowing like wine (Dumb and Dumber tribute there).  And as the clock to kickoff continued to wind down, I felt a massive sense of discomfort.  Around 3PM, this once-a-good-idea paint experiment was started to trouble my cheap Irish skin.  On the down low, I whispered to my co-chest cohort,

“Hey, is this paint bothering you guys?

Each very quickly replied with a definitive “No”. 

“Oh, OK.  It’s a little itchy, but I’ll muscle through.”

I could not bear the thought of the non-New Englanders making fun of me.

Time marched on.  The casual itchiness soon turned to downright discomfort.  But I would not break.  I ducked into the bathroom to take a peek.  Oh man…. this doesn’t look good. Red and irritated, I was not going to bend.

At last kickoff was here.  It was time for us to show off Pats Patriotism.

As I tore off my covering, my skin looked like I was in an outpatient program from the Shriner’s burn center.  It was not pretty.  As I looked to my compadres, the laughter began.  What I quickly realized was that they were ALL irritated by the poison paint.  They had removed during the time I was generously pick up our frothy libations!  I suffered for five and a half hours alone.  Like a sucker.

I raced to the shower and scraped that lacquer from my person as fast as you can say jack rabbit.  But the damage was done.  Disaster.  It took days of creams, ointments, lotions and potions to get back to normal.  Thanks a lot, friends.

Oh, and to make it all worse, Green Bay Packers 35, Patriots 21.

Needless to say, there will be no chest paint come this Sunday…. just my face.

GO PATS!!!