The Golden Gladiator: The True Story of the Oldest American Football Player's Return to the Gridiron... and Glory

By Michael Lynch

The Golden Gladiator. . . .

Myth? Urban legend? Hero? Antihero?

Myth or urban legend? Not at all. T

• Language: English
• Publisher: Golden Gladiator, LLC
• Release date: May 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985089110

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Copyright © 2022 Michael Lynch

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by The Golden Gladiator.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise — without prior written permission from the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

For information about this title or to order other books and/or electronic media, contact the author at thegoldengladiator.com.

Identifiers:

ISBN: 979-8-9850891-0-3 (paperback)

ISBN: 979-8-9850891-1-0 (epub)

ISBN: 979-8-9850891-2-7 (hardcover)

ISBN: 979-8-9850891-3-4 (audiobook)

Book cover images by Kelsie Moore

Front cover: From right to left, Michael Lynch engaging with Miami Bulls Zedrick Gardner, #3; Kevin Robinson, #28; Daryl Jaghai, #45

Back cover: From left to right, Michael Lynch with Bernard Summers and Adley TK Vitoli

Cover design by Michael Lynch of thegoldengladiator.com and Erika Alyana of [e-mail]

Digital books produced by Booknook.biz.

To All American Veterans

People sleep peacefully in their beds at night because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.

— attributed to George Orwell

This book is dedicated to all military personnel, past, present, and future, from every branch of service. These are the brave men and women who have sacrificed so much to keep this nation safe and free. I would also like to recognize the unyielding support and love the family members of these servicemen and servicewomen provide to our military personnel. I would especially like to acknowledge the supreme sacrifice of Gold Star families and what they have had to endure. It is my honor to live in a country defended by our military. America will always be the home of the free, because it is the land of the brave. They have always been and always will be the best of the best and the bravest of the brave.

There’s a lot of blood, sweat, and guts between dreams and success.

— Paul Bear Bryant

CONTENTS

Preface

Acknowledgments

Introduction

C H A P T E R   1.     Legends in Our Own Minds

C H A P T E R   2.     The Epiphany

C H A P T E R   3.     The Lion (Sweet) Heart

C H A P T E R   4.     Blind Faith

C H A P T E R   5.     Just Like the Movies

C H A P T E R   6.     Heads Will Roll

C H A P T E R   7.     Gonna Fly Now

C H A P T E R   8.     A Fool’s Errand

C H A P T E R   9.     Filling Joe’s Shoes

C H A P T E R   10.   Hallowed Ground

C H A P T E R   11.   Heartache

C H A P T E R   12.   Mr. Mojo Risin’

C H A P T E R   13.   King Crimson

C H A P T E R   14.   Crossing the Rubicon

C H A P T E R   15.   Morituri Te Salutamus

C H A P T E R   16.   Breaking Rocks in the Hot Sun

C H A P T E R   17.   Pecan Pie Time

C H A P T E R   18.   The Time Machine Has Landed

C H A P T E R   19.   Every Saint Has a Past and Every Sinner a Future

C H A P T E R   20.   It’s in Our Blood

C H A P T E R   21.   The Band Played Dixie

C H A P T E R   22.   Botched and Bungled

C H A P T E R   23.   Bradenton Gladiators

C H A P T E R   24.   All the Young Dudes

C H A P T E R   25.   Follow Me

C H A P T E R   26.   The Overlords

C H A P T E R   27.   Archrivals

C H A P T E R   28.   Back to the Gridiron

C H A P T E R   29.   Game Captain

C H A P T E R   30.   Honorable Mention

C H A P T E R   31.   Go Tell the Spartans

C H A P T E R   32.   In Glory There Is Immortality

C H A P T E R   33.   Painting a Masterpiece

C H A P T E R   34.   A Noble Duty

C H A P T E R   35.   The Tethered Goat

C H A P T E R   36.   I Weep for Adonais . . .

C H A P T E R   37.   Golden Gods

Epilogue

For Further Reading

About the Author

PREFACE

I went to the crossroad, fell down on my knees,

I went to the crossroad, fell down on my knees,

Asked the Lord above, Have mercy, now, save poor Bob if you please. . . .

— Robert Johnson, Cross Road Blues

One night in 2016, during pregame warm-ups at an away game in Miami, with the risin’ sun goin’ down, an opposing coach approached me to say hello. As we shook hands he asked me a question. I smiled at him and replied:

No sir! I promise, with my hand over my heart, I have never met the devil at any crossroads.

— Michael Lynch, the Golden Gladiator

Let me start off by assuring anyone who opens up this book that I have never been to Clarksdale, Mississippi. However, one of these days I would love to go, and I will, because I have always been enchanted by the stories and the unique heritage of the South, and have been since I was a little boy. So, needless to say, I have never been to a particular crossroads in that town at the intersection of Highway 61 and 49 in the dead of night to rendezvous or consort with any infernal beings of dubious character pertaining to my blissful journey back to the gridiron.

In fact, in my case there were no deals cut at any crossroads anywhere with anyone. I will leave that alluring Southern myth of meeting up with a deal-making devil at a crossroads to one of the great Delta bluesmen and one of the legends of the Deep South and our past, Robert Johnson.

Also, contrary to an article written about me in the Daytona Beach News-Journal, 68-Year-Old Michael Lynch Playing Semi-Pro, Championship Football, I have not found Ponce de Leon’s fountain of youth. The real fountain of youth can be summed up in one phrase: It’s all in the mind. Always remember, you never have to be the strongest, the fastest, or the biggest. However, you have to believe in yourself and you can never let fear enter your heart in your relentless pursuit of fulfilling your dreams. Live your life and live each precious day as if it was your last. And live it like a hero.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Now, with all of that being said, I wrote this book about my—let me, with all due respect to Homer and his epics, call it my Iliad and Odyssey of a football journey. However, there are so many individuals that had so much to do with this story that without them . . . there never would have been even a whisper of a narrative. To name them all will be impossible, because each and every teammate, opponent, and coach over that half a century of time is part of all this.

First, I want to mention my girlfriend Nancie Kalin during that wonderful time. All she ever told me to do was follow my heart and she was my greatest source of support and love throughout the four years I played. My fond memories of her during that time, and now, will never dull nor fade away.

If it wasn’t for Calvin Williams and his dear wife Betsy none of this would have been possible. As the owner of the Sarasota Millionaires, Calvin was kind enough to treat me like a dear friend from the first day we met. Then he took a leap of faith in allowing a sixty-four-year-old man to try out for his beloved Millionaires . . . and the rest is history.

The support, encouragement, and love that I received from Coach Ernest Givins, Coach Thad Starling, Coach Ricky James, and Coach James Felton was immeasurable. I will never forget Miss Shirley, Coach Thad’s wife, who always greeted me with a big smile. Coach Givins and Coach Thad deserve special recognition, because they were always there for me and encouraged me unceasingly. I will never forget their unyielding support.

Special thanks are due to the owners of the Southwest Florida Gladiators, Derek and Rose Greenwood. They took over the Bradenton Gladiators in 2015 and changed the name to the Southwest Florida Gladiators. They are kind, generous, efficient, and also relentless in their pursuit of putting the best football team they can on the field. My relationship started with them in 2015 after Calvin Williams became commissioner of the Florida Football Alliance and shut down the Millionaires. After that a group of Millionaires headed twelve miles up Highway 41 to join the Southwest Florida Gladiators.

I contacted the Greenwoods to ask them if I could come up to play for them and they greeted me and the rest of my teammates from the Millionaires with open arms. No one would ever have thought that we would have the success on the gridiron the Gladiators have had since 2015. However, so many stars aligned, on the field and in the skies above, that now the Southwest Florida Gladiators are considered one of the best semipro teams in America—if not the best. Coaches Hill, Benton, Hinz, Killins, Pinckney, Lee, Brown, Kirby, Mehr, and Estremera will always be remembered by me for kindness and support.

Last but not least is Head Coach Gerald Perry. I played against him in 2014, with him in 2015, and was coached by him in 2018. When he played he anchored our ferocious line on the Gladiators. When he was named the head coach of the Gladiators in 2017 that was the catalyst for me returning in 2018. We have formed a special bond over those years and I am so grateful for the honor of being able to call him a friend.

My teammates, now my friends, on both the Millionaires and Gladiators will always have a special place in my heart. During a time when it seems as if the world is spinning off its axis with nonstop bitterness and acrimony, the kindness, support, friendship, fellowship, and love that I found on those practice fields and gridirons with my teammates was nothing short of magical. I cannot express eloquently enough what they all mean to me, though in this book I try to. I hope that they will always know I owe them all a debt of gratitude that I will never be able to repay.

Also, to all of the opponents I faced off against for those four years: my favorite part of all of those games was when all the clashing and thunder had subsided and no matter who won or lost we would all meet at midfield and exchange handshakes and hugs. I always tried to convey, sincerely and genuinely, how much it meant to me to have the honor of being able to share that experience with you all. It was always my favorite part of each and every game and it was my privilege.

To the Florida Football Alliance, their officers, and the fine individuals who have worked with them for the four years I competed: I want to take this time to thank you for always being so kind and supportive and I will always remember your professionalism and the great work you all did.

To my brothers Tim, Dennis, and Kevin, and my sister Patti, and of course my dear mother and father, and all of my aunts and uncles, thank you all for collectively making my childhood a wonderland of love and happiness. If I ever could have one wish it would be that all children go to bed at night with a smile on their faces and wake up happy every morning, just like I did and still do.

To friends and teammates from the sandlots of Bay Shore back in the late 50s, through those glory days at Bay Shore High School, East Carolina, and the Long Island Eagles: without all of you there never would have been a story to tell.

Now pertaining to the wonderful people who assisted me in getting this book completed and published, thanks are also in order. I’d like to mention my editor Sarah Novak, who knows that writing a book is a daunting undertaking, and self-publishing makes it even that more daunting. What I did was write a long linear story of my life with football, obviously, being the theme of the narrative. She edited and gave me back a manuscript I am very proud of. She was always there to listen and work hard, and delivered a book to me that nailed the narrative and conveyed the story. I will be forever grateful for her artistic editing.

I would also like to thank Joel and Laura Pitney and their crew at Launch My Book for their work on the formatting of the book and the cover, and for a beautiful website. Also, thanks to Jessica Hill, Sarah More, and Erika Alyana. Last, but not least, thank you to Ron Toelke of Toelke Associates for his assistance on the project.

Finally, I would also like to thank Beth Houghtaling, the senior head custodian at Pine View School, in Osprey, Florida, for keeping the lights on for me down at the track and field so that an old, lone, solitary baller could suffer deep into the steamy Florida nights as he honed his skills.

In the end, the only thing that will matter to me is when my name is mentioned to any of my teammates or opponents they will say, Not only was he my teammate . . . or Not only did I play against him . . . but he was also my friend.

I will never fully comprehend how I got to this magical place. I always felt that I was dreaming whenever I was with my teammates at practice, in meetings, or at games. In the end that’s what it was. I just happened to have the good fortune of living that dream.

One last acknowledgment and perhaps the most important to me. I was a challenged reader as a child. This was not because of any childhood disorder or lack of acuity. It was because I could not have cared less. My thoughts on school could be summed up as What’s the use? Reading did not excite me and my grades reflected my lack of reading skills.

My freshman year in high school I was put in a class called Developmental Reading, taught by a Mrs. Dowl. Let me try and paint a picture of that class for you. It was a cross between the classes in the movies To Sir, with Love and Blackboard Jungle. Most of this colorful cadre of wayward youth exhibited innocent/not so innocent antisocial behavior and presented major disciplinary problems. There were no females. Most of the twenty-five boys were, to say the least, bouncing off the walls during most of the class. It would have been difficult for a male teacher to control that bunch of alpha-delinquents, let alone a soft-spoken elderly lady like the sweet Mrs. Dowl. She did her best, but every few weeks another one of my classmates would be banned from the class. I think two of them headed off to reform school. Others were expelled from school for days on end.

I would like to add that even though school was not the highlight of my day—that is, the academic aspect of it—I was never disrespectful to any teacher, ever. It was always Yes, ma’am and No, ma’am.

So, all we did the entire year was try to get through one book: Les Miserables. I know it is considered one of the greatest novels of the 19th century. But why Mrs. Dowl picked this one for that merry band of pranksters is beyond me. Remember, the course was Developmental Reading. So for all of us, trying to read that book was like trying to read the Rosetta Stone. I think she should have picked one or two of these books: Gone with the Wind, Margaret Mitchell’s epic tale of the Civil War and one of the most popular books in American fiction. Or maybe even a better one, To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee, a story of innocence destroyed by evil. Not that we would have known it at the time, but Alabama-born and -raised Harper Lee was living three miles from us right across the Great South Bay from Bay Shore, in the Fire Island town of Saltaire.

By time the year had ended the six or seven of us left in the class knew all about Jean Valjean, Cosette, and Inspector Javert, but really . . . none of us cared. However, at that time I was starting to apply myself to be a better reader. I will never forget Mrs. Dowl always encouraging me to read, because of her love of learning and knowledge. Thank you, Mrs. Dowl, from the bottom of my heart, for keeping after me to read a little better each and every day.

INTRODUCTION

As I walked toward the entrance of the mall in Sarasota, Florida, on a sultry night in June 2019, a man and his wife converged with me at the entrance door. We made eye contact and I held the door open for them as they walked in. He thanked me profusely and as he did I noticed how athletic he looked in his Notre Dame T-shirt and casual shorts.

We walked toward the same store and I thought to myself that I would have some fun with him if our paths crossed again inside. Inasmuch as one of my favorite college football teams is . . . any team that plays Notre Dame. We circled the same section in the men’s store as I thought to myself, If he starts telling me how good Notre Dame is I’m just going pop his balloon by telling him about the ‘Hollywood Myth’ of Knute Rockne and George Gipp and that will just be the start. I was a quasi–Notre Dame fan at one time, but I lost my affinity for them on an autumn Saturday in November 1966, when they sat on the football late in an epic Game of the Century, tied at 10-10 against Michigan State. The more I looked at the man, I thought to myself, he may have actually played some football for the Irish.

Within five minutes we did cross paths, and as we did he commented on the championship football ring I was wearing. I told him there was a great story connected to the ring and then asked him if he had ever played football. He told me that he had played at Rutgers. I was completely disarmed and we introduced ourselves to each other. His name was Ted Blackwell.

I told him my brother and I went to a Rutgers football game back in 1980, in the old Meadowlands, when they played my favorite college team, Alabama. He looked at me with a calm serenity and smiled. He told me that he was the running back and captain of that Rutgers team. You could have knocked me over with a feather.

I told him I had a picture of the Alabama team taking the field that day hanging in my office. I also told him that Rutgers played a great game and that Alabama was lucky to get out of there with a hard-fought 17-14 victory. Alabama had gone into that game the number-one team in the nation. After the game Coach Bryant went into the Rutgers locker room and told the proud players, We won the game, but y’all beat us.

Ted told me that Joe Namath and he had talked a few days after the game, because he had spent many a summer at Joe’s football camp. I pulled out my iPhone and showed him a picture of Joe and my brother Kevin talking at the Jets’ summer camp at Hofstra University in 1970, the year after the Jets had won the Super Bowl. Kevin worked and lived at Hofstra with the Jets during the summers of 1970–71. Ted and I exchanged business cards and continued to talk about the game back in 1980.

About two years later I was going through some old photos and came across a pristine copy of the football program from the Rutgers vs. Alabama game. Sure enough, there was Ted in all his glory, the game captain and running back for the Scarlet Knights. It was great leafing through the program from that game and remembering that glorious day of college football.

We met a month later for some coffee and breakfast, and after some small talk I pulled out the program and told him it was his. He refused it at first, but I insisted by telling him I was only keeping it for him for all of those years. He was genuinely moved by my gesture.

Playing football has given me so many memories and moments like the one Ted and I shared. If you played the game of football, you’re my stepbrother. If I played against you, you’re my blood brother. If I played with you, you’re my brother.

We few, we happy few . . . a band of brothers.

Another football memory goes back a few decades. On Thanksgiving eve 1992, I stopped by my brother’s restaurant in New York City. Dakota had just opened up that past September and it was a very popular watering hole for politicians, models, Wall Street types, and professional athletes. That night as I enjoyed a drink with a few friends I looked over at one of my brother’s partners and I realized he was talking to someone I had admired since I was in college. His name was Bob Chandler and he was a former All-American wide receiver at Southern Cal. He was the MVP of the 1970 Rose Bowl and had played in the NFL for twelve years. He won a Super Bowl ring while playing with the Oakland Raiders in 1981. He was not only a very good football player, but also a wonderful man.

I walked over to them and introduced myself to Bob and told him that I had admired how he had played the game. We connected immediately after I told him that I had caught a couple of passes myself back in the day. He could have passed for one of my brothers. He blushed when I told him I had seen his centerfold in Playgirl magazine years before. I told him not to worry—I hadn’t bought the magazine, my girlfriend at the time had. We had some laughs over that one. We talked for about an hour and exchanged phone numbers. I left him a message on his phone about two weeks later and he returned my call about a week later. Three weeks later I ran into him again at Dakota, and he came over and we reconnected and promised each other we would connect, again.

We never did, as I got busier with work and life and I know he did too, flying back and forth from Southern California where he lived with his wife Marilyn and three children. He was doing some TV work and I am sure he was destined for great things on the air. He was good looking, articulate, athletic, and he had it all.

One day in January 1995 I was reading a newspaper and something caught my eye. Bob Chandler had passed away on January 27. I could not believe it. I keep reading that article and tried to find out more about his passing. The paper said he had died of lung cancer. That did not make any sense to me, but cancer is a grim opponent.

Years later I purchased a book that Bob had written with Norm Chandler Fox, Violent Sundays. Shockingly, in that book he mentions that the Buffalo Bills training camp was at Niagara University, which he then did not know was right on top of Love Canal, an environmental disaster dump. For years, the Hooker Chemical Company had dumped tons of toxic chemicals into Love Canal. This is a direct quote from him from the book: I don’t even want to think about all the water I drank and showered in that may have been contaminated. It was eerie reading his premonition.

Some time later I would find out he was one of the Southern Cal captains who walked out to midfield to meet the captains from the Alabama Crimson Tide in Legion Field, Birmingham, Alabama, on September 12, 1970. It was the game that would change football in the South forever. I will talk about that game later in this book.

Even though I did not know Bob for long he seemed to be just a great guy. I had such a high regard and such deep respect for him. Years later, thinking about him, I got four cardinal Southern Cal game jerseys with Bob’s number 10 in gold on them. I sent one each to my brothers Tim, Denny, and Kevin with a letter about brotherhood, football, life, and love.

We will catch up one of these days, Bob. Promise. Your friend, Michael.

The five Lynch children, October 1961. From left to right, standing: Dennis, Michael, Timmy, Patti holding football, and Kevin holding helmet. (Michael Lynch Sr.)

C H A P T E R   1

LEGENDS IN OUR OWN MINDS

There we stood, the five Lynch children, four boys and one girl, in front of our house at 1032 Manor Lane, Bay Shore, New York, waiting to get our picture taken for the family Christmas card. It was October 1961, and I was twelve years old.

All of the Lynch boys were born in St. Vincent’s Hospital, in Greenwich Village, New York City. At that time we lived on West 17th Street in Chelsea. We moved out to Bay Shore in 1955 and that is where Patti was born.

By 1961, football had already become my favorite sport, even though I had never played in an organized football game. I had played in the sandlots for years, but there weren’t any youth football leagues where I lived. There was just something about putting on a football uniform that seemed to transform me into a little superhero. The pads, the helmet, the colorful jerseys. . . . I just loved the game.

My brothers and I were resplendent in the red and blue football jerseys we had gotten for Christmas the year before. We all wore the same light brown pants and shiny navy blue helmets with a white stripe down the middle. Except for Kevin, who had his favorite yellow helmet with the decals from a model airplane on it. My little sister Patti wore a pretty dress, but she got right into the spirit of it all by hugging a football.

By this time, sports was a way of life in the Lynch family, with baseballs, footballs, and basketballs omnipresent in our small house. My older brother, Tim, was named after my father’s younger brother, Timothy Robert Lynch, who was killed in the Battle of the Bulge at 19. He graduated as the valedictorian of his class in 1943 from La Salle Academy in New York City. My uncle was attached to the 95th Infantry Division, 378th Infantry Regiment, Company K, 2nd Platoon. He was one of the Iron Men of Metz, the nickname that the 95th, the Victory Division, earned for their bravery, courage, and distinction during the Battle of Metz in 1944.

After the battle, during the first three weeks of December, his company in the town of Ensdorf took out dozens of German machine-gun nests and pillboxes. They fought door to door through the town, with daily gains measured in houses taken. They faced heavy machine-gun and mortar fire from the relentless counterattacks of German soldiers, who knew this would be their . . . last stand. Then, on December 20, as door-to-door fighting continued, a soldier was shot in the street in front of my uncle by a German sniper. When my uncle went into the street to help him, he was shot too, probably by the same sniper. They were both wounded very badly and were taken to a church and tended to by several nuns. That night, the town was shelled by Allied artillery, and in the aftermath of the fighting the two men’s bodies were never found.

His name is permanently inscribed on the Tablets of the Missing at Lorraine American Cemetery and Memorial, St. Avold, France. He was awarded the Bronze Star, with an Oak Leaf Cluster, for his bravery, and a Purple Heart.

Tim got us all into athletics, always telling us about the Yankees, the Giants, and the great college football teams of that era, like Army and Notre Dame. He would also tell us about the celebrated teams of the Deep South and Southwest like LSU, Mississippi, Alabama, Texas, Oklahoma, and Arkansas. He would always be the one to organize the neighborhood stickball and wiffle ball games on Manor Lane in front of our house. He even painted a home plate and foul lines in the street. Tim set up track meets for us too. One loop around our block was exactly a half mile, and we ran the sprints right in front of our house.

During the fall and winter, it was football. The distance between each telephone pole on our street was exactly fifty yards, so our football field was fifty yards long with the curbs being the sidelines. All day long on weekends and deep into autumn and winter nights, we would hone our pass catching and throwing skills right in front of our house.

Kevin, five years younger than I am, turned out to be the best natural athlete in the family. He was the quarterback for the football team and was captain of the basketball team at Bay Shore High School his senior year.

If there was a kid who was relentless about wanting to play quarterback, it was my younger brother Denny. And he turned out to be a good one. Everyone called him Dennis, but I called him Denny after Denny McLain, the All-Star pitcher of the Detroit Tigers. Denny Lynch just sounded like an athlete.

For four years he was the best quarterback on his Bay Shore High School team, from his freshman year to his senior year. Unfortunately, the varsity coach’s son was also a quarterback in his class. Craig Erickson was a great athlete, but he was the second-best quarterback on the team. But he started. Denny was the better quarterback. All of the assistant coaches and players knew it. However, during their senior year and the football season of 1968, a funny thing happened on their way to winning a conference championship.

In their first game against Riverhead, with Bay Shore losing late in the game, they sent Denny in for one play. He coolly took the snap, dropped back, and with one flick of his wrist he dropped a perfect spiral right into the hands of his streaking receiver, who never broke stride and scored the winning touchdown. The headline in the paper that Sunday was ‘Alley Oop Left’ By 1-Play Lynch Lifts Bay Shore.

He did not start the second game and they lost; he didn’t even get into the game. He did not start the third game and, as the game started to slip away, he got in late in the game and settled down a now reeling but proud Bay Shore varsity. All the assistant coaches and players knew that a change had to be made by the next game—or else. That Monday Denny was told he was the starting quarterback. The 6’2" 225-pound Craig Erickson would move to running back and he would become an absolute wrecking ball.

Bay Shore won all the remaining games with Denny at quarterback and Craig at running back. They would meet a tough Half Hollow Hills High School in the conference championship. Half Hollow Hills had a quarterback and a great athlete in Doug Schreiber. He would go on to be named the Outstanding College Lacrosse Player of 1973, while playing attack at the University of Maryland. He would be a first team All-American in 1972-73, and would also be inducted into the National Lacrosse Hall of Fame.

I would play against him in lacrosse in 1971 and 1972 when East Carolina played Maryland in their first two season of varsity lacrosse at the university. Both were long days for all of us wearing the Skull and Bones on our uniforms, as Maryland beat us bad in those two games. Maryland would finish number two in the country in 1972, losing to Cornell in the inaugural national championship game.

Unfortunately for Half Hollow Hills that day, Denny would quarterback flawlessly and throw two touchdown passes, one for 26 yards and the other for 44 yards. Craig Erickson would share the offensive honors with Denny that day, by picking up 166 yards in 20 carries as the Marauders crushed Half Hollow, 32-18. Craig and Denny would both be named Honorable Mention All Suffolk County. Denny would now be considered the second-best quarterback in all of Suffolk County with its fifty high schools, not the second-best quarterback on his team. Denny had come a long way in four years of high school football.

Denny and I would play football in college together, and Denny, Kevin, and I also played semipro football together with the Long Island Eagles in the mid-70s. In the six years Denny and I played together, I caught over three hundred and eighty-five passes for over fifty touchdowns. Notice my hand on his shoulder in the photo; that was a familiar occurrence during our playing days. I was always trying to get his attention in the huddle telling him I was open, and he’d be about to smirk and tell me, I know . . . you’re always open.

Patti did not escape the family culture of athleticism. She played three varsity girls’ sports at Bay Shore High School and went on to coach varsity girls’ softball at Bellport High School in the early 1980s. Her son Michael would go on to play on Duke’s national championship lacrosse team in 2010.

You might expect that our parents were athletes who promoted all this activity, but that wasn’t the case. Mom was born Ruby Leigh Johnson, and she grew up in the golden-leaf tobacco growing town of Rocky Mount, North Carolina, the sixth of eight children. I loved the humility and wonderful simplicity of her family. Mom, a slender, doe-eyed beauty with auburn hair, was loving and compassionate and left an impression on everyone. She loved fussing over us, and she loved our father, children, the warmth of the summer sun, and the South. When she was with you, you felt that there was no one else on God’s earth that she would rather have been with. She had no time for sports as a child growing up in the Depression in the rural South. Instead, she was always doing whatever a young girl can do to help her family get through the worst of times. Mom never missed a game and many a time she would just stop by and watch football practice.

One great family story is about a North Carolina neighbor back in the day. Mom was born in Smithfield, but her family lived in the small town of Four Oaks right down the road before they all moved to Rocky Mount. And right down the road from Smithfield is a little place called Grabtown, where the iconic Hollywood movie goddess Ava Gardner was born in 1922. The story was that our Uncle Brantley, who was Hollywood good-looking, double-dated with Ava Gardner. There is a lovely museum in Smithfield in honor of Ava Gardner, which I have been to. Driving to and from Florida in the last twenty years, north and south on I-95, I have passed Four Oaks and Smithfield at least forty times. And I will swear that nothing has changed along that stretch of highway in a hundred years.

For my dad, Michael Thomas Lynch, whom I was named after, sports were just not an option for him as a child. He was the fourth oldest of