Hometown tribute to Jackie MacMullan

Here's to the one and only Jackie MacMullan, courtesy of her hometown paper:

By Joyce Pellino Crane
GateHouse News Service

Westford — She’s co-authored two books with Celtics great Larry Bird, written a widely-acclaimed account of Basketball Coach Geno Auriemma, and won prestigious journalism awards as a writer and columnist for the Boston Globe. Yet in Westford, Jackie MacMullan is known as Jackie Boyle, wife to Michael and mother to Aly and Doug.

She lives in an unpretentious home near the town center, coaches recreational sports teams, and serves as the secretary to Westford Youth Basketball Association.

She is so private on her home turf that only an inner circle of the town’s 22,000 residents is aware the tall blonde at high school graduations and local restaurants received the Curt Gowdy Media Award, last month, from the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame in Springfield. The recognition is one of the highest honors given each year to a sports journalist.

“She doesn’t go around saying who she is,” said Sue Hanly, president of Westford Youth Basketball. “She just lives her life…For us, she’s Doug and Aly’s mom and Mike’s wife. But then when you hear her on TV, I’m always taken aback a little bit, and think ‘wow, she’s impressive.’”

Even if MacMullan weren’t a household name from her appearances on ESPN’s Around the Horn, as a correspondent for cable and network television, and as a regular guest on WEEI-AM radio, she’d still turn heads. Standing 5-feet, 11-inches tall, she played Division 1 basketball for the Wildcats at the University of New Hampshire in Durham.

“She has quite the presence when she goes places,” said Hanly, whose son Conor, 14, plays basketball with MacMullan’s son.

Hanly recalled being at an away game with MacMullan who was coaching a boys’ Westford Youth Basketball team. The coach from the opposing team kept telling Jackie Boyle that she looked just like Jackie MacMullan. She didn’t set him straight.

“I really am Jackie Boyle in Westford,” said MacMullan. “I’m not Jackie MacMullan. For me that was important.”

Residents who recognize her have been respectful of her privacy, she said—so much so, that she expressed doubt to a local reporter that they know her real name. They do.

“When she’s around Westford, she makes a point of introducing herself as Jackie Boyle. She never tries to play the famous person part,” said long-time friend, Julie McKenna, whose daughter Beth met Aly in kindergarten at the Nabnasset Elementary School. “I think people recognize her all the time…everyone who know s her also knows that she’s Jackie MacMullan. She’s done a really good job of balancing the two. I think she’s done that so that things are normal for her kids. She wants them to be seen as who they are and not for who their mother is.”

She and Michael, a technology executive for New York Life, moved to town in 1989. Daughter, Aly, now a freshman at a New England-based college, was born two years later, and belonged to the first sixth-grade class to attend the newly-constructed Stony Brook Middle School in 2003. Son Doug was born in 1996 and is an eight-grader at Stony Brook.

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For the entire story, click HERE:

Congrats to Jackie MacMullan ...

Congrats is in order to my friend and colleague Jackie MacMullan who is being honored in an hour or so at the Basketball Hall of Fame.  Here's to Jackie and her fellow Curt Gowdy Media Award winner, Joe Tait, the play-by-play man of the Cleveland Cavaliers.

To honor them, I am passing along a column by Bob Ryan in today's Boston Globe:

Award shows that she has game

By Bob Ryan, Globe Columnist  |  August 12, 2010

Did you hear the one about the hockey-crazed girl who becomes a college basketball player and then a news intern at the Boston Globe, and later a basketball writer whose stature grows to such an extent that it is necessary, as Yogi Berra might say, to bestow upon her a prestigious award?

You’re about to.

They’re giving her the Curt Gowdy Award for distinguished basketball writing at the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame tonight, and everyone in the business knows she deserves it. Lacking a huge ego (but loaded with confidence, which is a much different matter), she finds it a bit hard to believe this is really happening.

“I just wanted to work for the Boston Globe,’’ explains Jackie MacMullan. “I didn’t dare dream more than that.’’

And she has — twice. Her stints at this newspaper were sandwiched around a five-year run at Sports Illustrated. She has likewise become a familiar television presence with the likes of ESPN and NESN. She has collaborated on books with Geno Auriemma and a couple of basketball players you might have heard of: Larry Bird and Magic Johnson. She has been on the nomination committee for the Gowdy Award for several years, and it was just a matter of time before she became a recipient herself.

Fred MacMullan was a sports guy and a newspaper junkie. He read the Globe and the Herald every day, and he would come home with the New York papers, as well. His main man was the late Ray Fitzgerald, as classy a gentleman and graceful a stylist as this sports department has ever had. Jackie was both athletic and smart. She played sports, she watched sports, and she read about sports.

“I read Ray Fitzgerald, Leigh Montville, Bob Ryan (aw, shucks), Peter Gammons and Fran Rosa,’’ she recalls. “I was a huge hockey fan.’’

Yup, hockey.

“I was a diehard hockey fan, even though I didn’t skate,’’ she says. “I played street hockey. Fred MacMullan was no fool. He bought me a street hockey net. That way I got to play.’’

Basketball?

“I didn’t play until my junior year in high school,’’ she explains.

It wasn’t just any high school. It was Westwood High School, where the females had terrorized the competition from approximately the beginning of recorded human history. You didn’t just sashay onto the floor for Kathy Delaney-Smith and say, “Here I am.’’

Jackie MacMullan, though a late bloomer, had something going for her. She was 5 feet 11 inches. And she was, as it turned out, pretty darn good.

Once she got into basketball, she really got into basketball. She was good enough to play at the University of New Hampshire. I would venture to say that not too many people I’ve run into in this business during the last 40 years were good enough to play college ball. (Bill Reynolds, the top-flight columnist for the Providence Journal, does come to mind.)

Gender is simply not an issue if you prove that you know the game. MacMullan is not much on talking about herself, but with a little prodding she offers this: “I do know the game. I could talk to someone once, and they’d see it.’’

Of course, there were the stupid locker room issues that have forever plagued female scribes. They’re sadly unavoidable. Red Auerbach, for example, immediately liked and respected MacMullan, but he made it clear he still didn’t want her in the Celtics locker room. After she convinced Red that it was not fair for her to operate at a competitive journalistic disadvantage, they hit upon a simple solution: bathrobes.

It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

“Near the end of his life, I would look for excuses to call him up,’’ she confesses. “I just loved listening to him talk.’’

She did more than write about basketball games. She very quickly established herself as a superior reporter and perhaps an unsurpassed interviewer. Ask any of her three Globe bosses over the years, and they will tell you that she was their go-to writer for the tough stories.

“She has an innate ability to draw people out,’’ marvels Vince Doria, who hired her, watched her grow as a journalist, then handed her the Celtics beat when there was a vacancy prior to the 1988-89 season.

Don’t let anyone kid you. Being a female in the sportswriting world is not easy. You are judged — or, worse, prejudged — in ways a male is not. You have to establish your sports credentials and you have to position yourself as someone who is just one of the crowd, when, well, you’re not. The trick is to make people feel you’re just one of the boys without sacrificing your basic femininity. It’s not easy, but Jackie has mastered the art. Any young lady seeking entry in our business need look no further than Jackie MacMullan for a role model, although thinking you’re actually going to be as good is another matter entirely.

“She assimilated herself very easily in what was, and is, a heavily male culture,’’ confirms Doria, “and she did it without making any kind of compromise.’’

She also has handled the trickiest balancing act of all, that of combining a fast-lane career with being a wife and mother of two. It doesn’t hurt when you have an understanding sports fan of a husband such as Mike Boyle. Those of us in this business with wives know how important it is when you don’t have a spouse whining, “You have to go where?’’

And so tonight we will gather in Springfield for the formal acknowledgement of something we already knew. Journalistically speaking, Jackie MacMullan can play.

Bob Ryan is a Globe columnist and host of Globe 10.0 on Boston.com. 

My Salute to Jackie MacMullan ... the very best.

When I left the NBA about a year ago, David Stern said, "Terry grew up with the NBA and the NBA grew up with Terry." I was truly awestruck by the quote and it really made me think. I did grow up with the NBA and I am very proud of that fact. I always will be.

And, not only did I grow up with the NBA, but I grew up with Jackie MacMullan.

For readers of this blog, it's no secret that I have a fondness for Boston and a great deal of respect for the Boston media. The TV guys, the photographers, the radio guys, the columnists and the writers. The Herald and the Patriot Ledger. The suburban papers and The Globe. Hell, now I even eat up the Bloggers.

Then, there's Jackie.

Right from the start, I had a special relationship with Jackie. It was a relationship born of mutual respect. Contemporaries. She knew the game. Loved it. I thought it was great that Jackie covered the NBA and the Celtics. She was among the small handful of women who covered our league and I always thought it was the coolest thing in the world. Bring us the people who love and respect the game, I always thought, and the truth will set us free... and get us some damn coverage!

Jackie was cool. Still is and always will be.

She decided to take a buy-out from my beloved hometown paper. And, while it made me so sad to hear that news, so sad to not see her column when we move north in the weeks or months to come, I knew the truth and said, "GOOD FOR YOU!" I was so happy for her and for her family.

Jackie's job had her on the road for a load of weekends, holidays and a bunch of night games. Even for home games, she would work late into the night and we all know it's tough on a family. Now, she is on her own time and can enjoy her family. That's the way it should be. That is the way it will be.

A little side story; When I was leaving the 2007 NBA Finals, knowing I had worked my last NBA game, I circled outside of Cleveland's Gund Arena (The Q, now), lit up a 'victory' cigar, walked by myself toward the hotel. As I came towards the intersection, just around the corner from the arena loading dock, who do you think was there?

Jackie and Ian Thomsen, the former Boston Globewriter, IHT columnist and now with Sports Illustrated. How fitting, I thought. It made that last night so special, just to walk back to the hotel with Ian and Jackie.

So, here's to Jackie, who will be filing from Yankees Stadium tonight. It will be her last official column for The Boston Globe.

Thanks Jackie.

Thanks for sharing the ride. From the the old Boston Garden, covering the '80s Celtics right up until the C's of today. My shoulder still hurts from the time you punched me so damn hard when you had to find out from Clare that we were having our first little girl.

Thanks for working so hard, for competing as a writer and a columnist. Thanks for looking out for the others, like Clare. Thanks for being tough and for knowing when not to be tough and showing us the right path to help pave the way for women in the locker rooms.

Thanks Jackie. Thanks for allowing me to grow up alongside of you, and with you, with Brian and the NBA. You have taught us a lot and I will look forward to many, many years of learning more through a rock solid friendship that started at the Boston Garden and grew from professional respect.

TL

Here's a good one from Jackie, written a day or so after Red's death;

Tough man had a tender side

By Jackie MacMullan, Globe Columnist | October 29, 2006

The first time I met Red Auerbach, I was 22 years old, and I was terrified.

It was January 1983, and I had been working at the Globe as a full-time writer exactly two months. My assignment was the Boston College-St. John's basketball game, which seemed manageable enough until five minutes before tipoff, when this silver-haired gentleman in a blue blazer plopped himself down next to me and lit up a cigar.

Of course. What else would he do?

No one dared to instruct Arnold "Red" Auerbach to extinguish it. We were in Boston Garden -- the house Red built -- and he did whatever he wanted when he roamed that creaky old arena with the hallowed banners hanging from its rafters.

I wanted so desperately to impress him, but I couldn't think of a single intelligent thing to say. Instead, I diligently took notes while Boston College and its waterbug point guard, Michael Adams, wreaked havoc on the heavily favored St. John's team. Red didn't say much to me, other than offering to buy me an ice cream midway through the first half.

At the intermission, as the cheerleaders sprinted to center court to began their spirited, peppy routine, the greatest coach in basketball history gestured toward the parquet -- his parquet -- and asked, "So . . . what do you think?"

It was the moment I had been waiting for. I immediately explained how I thought BC's full-court press was particularly effective, and if St. John's didn't begin to respect the Eagles' perimeter shooter soon, maybe BC could pull off the upset.

"No, no," Auerbach interrupted." I meant the girls. Aren't you the cheerleading coach?"

Well, no. I wasn't. Red would learn that soon enough. Over nearly 24 years, our paths would cross on a regular basis. I was a young reporter trying to capture the Celtics' mystique, and he was the man who invented it. In the beginning, he vociferously objected to everything about me, particularly when I entered his team's locker room.

"You don't belong in there," he'd bark.

"What if you were trying to decide whether to draft a player, and everyone got to talk to him but you?" I'd retort. "Would that be fair?"

"It would never happen!" he'd bellow. "I would already know more about the kid than everyone else anyway!"

This, of course, was true. Back when Auerbach's staff consisted of himself, and, well, himself, he relied on a Rolodex full of numbers for nearly every prominent college coach in the country to glean his scouting reports. He was always one step ahead of the competition. And, when he'd fleece his fellow NBA executives, he did so without a trace of humility.

"If you do something great, kid, then don't apologize to anyone," he told me. "If you're a winner, then act like one."

He called me "kid" right up until yesterday, the day he died of a heart attack. He had battled respiratory problems in recent years, and I suppose none of us should have been shocked that an 89-year-old man's time finally had come.

Still, the news took my breath away. Forgive me. Red was so stubborn, I assumed he would live forever.

Or maybe I just hoped that was true.

I know how people felt about him outside of Boston. They felt he was arrogant, superior. They hated the fact he lit up that cigar in the waning moments of a sure victory. It was showboating, they said, a galling lack of sportsmanship. The book on Red outside of our city was he was a graceless winner and sore loser.

Maybe so. I asked him about it once. He smiled, took a puff, and blew it in my face.

Our relationship was a work in progress, but over time, I grew to love Red Auerbach. We developed a quirky sort of professional friendship that included spirited debates on women's issues, on the merits of different eras, on the best blacktop playgrounds in the country. He grew to appreciate my love of the game, and became one of my most trusted sources.

In the early '90s, he fell ill and almost died. Naturally, the Celtics insulated him, so the public (and most of us in the media) didn't completely grasp how close he came to leaving us. I didn't realize it myself until I went to see him in Washington after he had recovered. I was asking him how Reggie Lewis's shocking death affected him, and, after taking a long draw of his cigar, he admitted he was so sick during that time, he had little or no idea what had happened to the young star.

It was a beautiful spring day in Washington, and he asked me when my flight was leaving. I told him I had some time. We hopped into his Saab convertible (really now, how many senior citizens do you know drive a Saab convertible?), and he took me to the Smithsonian. There was a great Duke Ellington exhibit, he explained, and he felt I should see it before I left.

Who knew? Red loved Chinese food, and owned an eclectic collection of letter openers ("Go to the back of the store," he always insisted. "The best stuff is always in the back."), but until that day, I didn't realize he was tuned into Sir Duke as well.

As we pulled up to the entrance, he parked his car in the little cul de sac in front of the building. A uniformed guard immediately approached us and said, "I'm sorry, sir. There's no parking here."

Red got out of the car, patted him on the shoulder, and said, "That's OK, son."

Then he walked inside. One hour later, we returned to the cul de sac, where his car remained, untouched.

You know most of the facts concerning Red. You know about the championships, his willingness to hire the first African-American coach, his unparalleled tenure as a cunning and ruthless general manager.

I wish he showed his softer side more. It was there, particularly when discussing the two daughters who made him so proud, or his wife, Dorothy, whom he missed terribly after she died in 2000, or when he called to console a young reporter who had experienced her own devastating personal loss, not six months after he had blown smoke in her face.

In recent years, the trip to Boston was increasingly difficult for Red. He walked with a cane, which he hated ("Ask me about it and I'll hit you with it," he groused). He couldn't quite keep up with the team as he once did.

Two years ago, I stood with him in the hallway of the FleetCenter outside the locker room, when one of the young players (who shall remain nameless to save him the embarrassment) came up to the Celtics patriarch.

"Coach Auerbach," he said. "I just want to shake your hand. It is such an honor to meet you."

As the player walked away, Red turned to me and said, "Who the hell was that?"

In his final years, he spent most afternoons at his club in Maryland, where he played cards and held court. He still attended games at his beloved George Washington and took in some of the Atlantic Coast Conference tournament last spring.

"If you come down, we'll go together," he told me.

"I should do that," I said.

I didn't. I got busy with my life and my work and my kids. It sounded good at the time, but I couldn't get there.

I talked to Red for the last time about three weeks ago. I had written a story on Doc Rivers and his attempts to balance his job with commuting to Orlando where his family lives. Red had done a similar juggling act when he was coaching the Celtics in Boston, and his family remained in D.C.

"I don't blame Doc," Red told me. "At the end of the day, your family is the only thing that matters."

He told me he was flying up for the season opener, which is Wednesday.

"Are you coming?" he said. "I'll see you there."

I wish.

Jackie MacMullan is a Globe columnist.

Survival...

Jackie MacMullan of the Boston Globe wrote this about a year ago. I came across it today and make note that Matt Curtis was named captain of Clare's Crimson for 2008. Here is his story, an inspiration to us all:

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Improbable rise
Against great personal odds, Curtis becomes Harvard success story
By Jackie MacMullan, Boston Globe Staff
November 17, 2006

He approaches each morning the same way: gratefully.

Matt Curtis wakes up with mounds of homework piled on his dormitory desk. Often, he's battered from Saturday's football game, nursing sore muscles, bruised bones, and pounding headaches from hurtling himself at running backs, tight ends, or sneaky quarterbacks intent on bypassing Harvard's defensive line.

He has no money. His father is gone, dead from cancer, and he hasn't seen his mom , who has struggled with addiction most of her life, in years. He has lived in public housing, stood in line at the Salvation Army for breakfast, spent too much of his childhood with his fate hinging on the decisions of strangers from the Department of Social Services. Last summer, when he landed an internship with a law firm, he had to borrow a suit coat and a tie for the interview.

"But every morning I wake up, I feel like I have won the lottery," he said.

His Crimson teammates can't begin to understand where he has come from. That's why Curtis never told most of them about the odyssey that brought him here to Cambridge, just 13 miles from his hometown of Lynn, where he rarely had time to strive for excellence, because he was too busy fighting to survive.

When told the Globe intended to write an article about her brother, Michelle Campbell began to laugh softly.

"One article? You need a miniseries to tell Matthew's story," she said.

It is not a tale of a privileged young man with an impeccable pedigree who joined his rightful place in the elite inner circle of the Ivy League.

This is the journey of a young boy who grew up in a family ravaged by drug and alcohol abuse, who too often woke up with a dull, persistent ache in his stomach because there was nothing on the table for dinner the night before, because breakfast meant coaxing crumbs of Rice Krispies from the bottom of a nearly empty cereal box into a bowl, then filling it with water because there was no milk.

"We didn't have a lot of food," he said. "We had no heat, no soap, no toilet paper. My mom used to boil water and pour it into the bathtub so I could wash up.

"It takes away your innocence when you grow up that way. But you learn not to complain, because it doesn't do any good."

There were four children. Michelle came first, then Mike Jr., then Amanda, then Matthew, the baby. They were a football family; always had been. Matt's maternal grandfather starred at Lynn English. His father, his brother, and he were all defensive linemen. Mike Curtis Sr. was a hometown hero. He was so talented, his son says, he received a full scholarship to Washington State.

"But it didn't work out," Matt said. "He couldn't take advantage of it. He let drugs and alcohol mess it up for him."

Mike Sr. battled his abuse for 37 years. His older children suffered terribly, but when Matthew turned 2, his father finally vowed to stay sober. His youngest son was only a toddler when he divorced his wife, Cindy, Matthew's mother, who was not as successful in conquering her demons.

His father stayed in town, but the children went to live with their mother. Michelle, already a teenager, soon moved out, starting a life and a family of her own. Mike followed four years later and lived with his older sister while he put himself through college.

Matt and Amanda remained with their mother, who struggled to keep afloat with scant income and a drug habit that siphoned any public assistance they received. The DSS would come occasionally to check on the family. Matt found it odd that on the days they arrived the cupboards would be full, but as soon as they were gone, the food supply would dry up again.

He remembers standing in line with his mother at the Salvation Army, picking up canned goods and government-issued cereal boxes, wondering how many days they could make it last.

His father came to get him on weekends. Mike Sr. played basketball with Matt, instructing him never to bring the ball down when he snared a rebound. He took him out to breakfast, took him to the movies.

"I saw the disparity in the way my mother and I were living, and the way my father was living, and I got angry," Curtis said. "I would say to my dad, 'Why are you letting me live like this? Why won't you come get me?' "

His siblings helped as much as they could. Michelle was married, had a child, and Mike was paying his own way through school. They had limited financial means, but they took Amanda and Matt when they could, and were often horrified at what they found when they picked them up.

"The situation worried me tremendously," Michelle said. "I would go to my father's house, and scream at him, 'You have to do something!' At that point, I had already taken in Mike. Later, I took in Amanda, then Matt. I saw each one of them off to college. But there was only so much I could do monetarily. It broke my heart."

Forced to cope
School was a welcome escape. Matt was intelligent, and teachers warmed to him. He was attentive, appreciative. Some of his friends were sullen, difficult in class. He resented those kids sometimes. Why were they so unhappy? Their parents were together. They had a house. They sat down together for dinner almost every night. What else did they want?

"Most kids hated school," Curtis said. "I loved it. It was warm, they had heat, and they fed me."

When Curtis was in the second grade, his father relented and assumed full custody of Matt and Amanda. By then, Mike Sr. had remarried. The tension in the house was often unbearable. While Mike Sr. freely admitted his mistakes, his brand of tough love was disheartening to a son who yearned for security, who needed to be hugged, loved, and reassured.

Didn't his dad care? The boy did not know his father, a city worker for the Lynn DPW, went around town boasting how exceptionally intelligent and athletic his youngest had turned out to be.

"We argued a lot," Matt said. "And every time we had an argument, it would always come back to how he wouldn't take care of me before. I just couldn't get past that."

Curtis couldn't get along with his father or his stepmother. In sixth grade, he was sent back to live with his mother, back to public housing and a life of uncertainty. He begged his mother to break her drug habit. She tried, because she loved him, but she couldn't stay clean.

"I love my mother more than anything," Matt said. "What she has is a sickness, an illness. I can't change that, even though I want to.

"So I've learned from it. I've seen how drugs and alcohol destroy everything that is important to you. I know I need to live my life a different way."

When Curtis was in eighth grade, he suffered a seizure and was taken to the hospital. It took hours to locate his mother, and when she arrived, she was in no condition to care for her son. A concerned nurse called DSS, and Matt was placed back with his father.

It was better this time. Mike Jr. came by every morning at 5:30, and Mike Sr. and his two sons went to the high school to play basketball before school. His father noted how hard Matt was working, how quickly he was growing.

"It wasn't the best," Curtis acknowledged. "We still butted heads. But I didn't have to worry about food or hot water."

His father took him for an interview at his alma mater, Lynn English. The principal, Andy Fila, had coached Mike Sr. in football back in the 1960s. He was impressed with the young Curtis boy, who was polite, humble, and respectful. Matt told him he hoped to play football and basketball -- and make the honor roll.

"I heard Matt was pretty good at football," Fila said. "But the first time I really noticed him was when they played Marblehead in his freshman season.

"I was standing on the sidelines, and this kid was running back a kickoff. All of a sudden I heard this sound. It was the noise of two players hitting each other. It was Matt, knocking the kid down.

"He just kept plugging. Off the field, and on the field. There was the way he worked, and then there was everyone else. He stood apart."

Faith never wavered
Curtis went to a summer football camp. The Harvard coaches noted his obvious skills, but also were impressed by his energy and enthusiasm.

"We fell in love with Matt right away," said coach Tim Murphy. "And when someone tipped us off to his story, we loved him even more. He was so optimistic, so positive. I told my coaches, 'We have got to get this kid.' "

Matt told his father Harvard was interested. Could that be possible? It never occurred to him he would ever be good enough or smart enough to fit in there.

One morning, during their early morning basketball workout, Matt noticed his father grimacing. "I've got a pain in my side," he told his boys.

The pain lingered, then intensified. By the time Mike Sr. was diagnosed with kidney cancer, it was too late for treatment, too late for a transplant.

"I was standing outside the school one morning," Fila said. "Matt's dad came up to me. He said, 'I've got something to tell you. I've got cancer.' I said, 'You'll be all right. You'll pull through.' I guess he knew he wasn't going to. He never said it, but I knew what he was asking. I told him, 'Don't worry. We'll look after Matt.' "

His father's death was swift, yet agonizing. Matt watched the proud, strong man he had battled for most of his life suddenly become bedridden, too weak to care for himself.

"Before my father died, I couldn't forgive him for all he put us through," Matt said. "I had so much hate. But when he got sick, we had a lot of time to talk. We got a lot out. I accepted his apology. His death changed me. It changed everything."

Michelle and her husband, John, stepped in and offered to have Matt move to their home in Peabody and commute to Lynn English in his final year.

"I was really concerned about him at that point," Michelle said. "Matt had finally found some stability in his life. He had finally found a sense of, 'OK, I'm not going to be uprooted again,' and then my father died."

At the time of Mike Sr.'s death, Curtis was receiving letters from Harvard, Stanford, Syracuse, and Duke. But, in Lynn English's first preseason scrimmage his senior year, Matt broke his leg.

Through his tears he asked Michelle one simple question: Why?

"She handed me a bible," Curtis said. "I read the Book of Job."

Everything was taken from him. He had so much hardship, but he never lost faith.

"So I figured, God was looking out for Job. Maybe he's looking out for me, too. Maybe it was time to stop being ticked off at the world."

Earning his way
His goal became all consuming: to be accepted to Harvard. His grades were good, but his SAT scores were below what he needed to be accepted. He turned to Fila and his school's department heads for help. They set up a tutoring schedule for him, and reviewed his application. He took the small sum of money he received upon his father's death and signed up for SAT courses.

In the meantime, Murphy went to his admissions office. The coach's own father was an alcoholic. He recognized the pain creased through Matt's young face.

"I told admissions, 'This boy's intangibles are off the scale,' " Murphy said. "This was the kind of kid who deserved a chance."

Curtis made the honor roll. He raised his SAT scores nearly 300 points.

His brother Mike picked him up each morning before school to help strengthen his leg, to rebuild his athletic confidence.

"People say to me, 'You've done right by your little brother,' " Mike Jr. said. "What they don't realize is how much Matthew motivated me."

Curtis made it back for the end of the football season. In the Thanksgiving game, he took a few snaps at fullback, and ran one in for a touchdown.

He was accepted at Harvard. He went there with a clean slate, with a past he didn't have to share. Many of his teammates do not know about his life. All they know is this young lineman appears wise beyond his years.

"I don't drink," Matt said. "We have a long line of alcoholics in our family. It's in my blood. People can drink and be totally successful. Kids here on campus drink, and they are geniuses.

"But it's not for me. I'd hate to look back and say, 'I could have graduated from Harvard, but I decided to drink instead and threw it all away.' "

It's awkward sometimes. Some kids aren't comfortable unless everyone has a beer in their hand. But, he said, his teammates are incredibly supportive.

"I've never had an issue with peer pressure on the team," he said. "That's why I love these guys -- the coaches, too. I owe them so much."

Abundance of pride
It has not been a good year for Harvard football. Their program has been in the news for all the wrong reasons. This bothers Matt Curtis, and that's understandable. He represents everything that is right about his Crimson team.

"There isn't a day that goes by that Matt doesn't thank me for bringing him here," Murphy said. "I want to say, 'No, thank you.' Kids like him are the reason you coach."

When Curtis was a high school senior, he and his siblings sat down with their mother. They told her they loved her and would get her the help she needed, but until she broke her cycle of abuse, they could no longer be in contact with her.

It has been hard. Matt thinks about her all the time. And, when a student fell from a window at Harvard recently, Michelle received a frantic call from her mother making sure that student wasn't her Matthew.

In a perfect world, Matt's parents would be sitting in the stands today at the annual Harvard-Yale game, cheering for their gifted, accomplished son. That won't happen, but Matt's siblings, his brother-in-law, and his nieces will be there, because they always have been. Without them, he freely admits, he would be lost.

"If my mother happens to read this, I hope she knows her son is doing OK," he said. "I'm not angry anymore."

In a quiet moment before Matt's first college football game last fall, his big brother Mike told him he had made his family proud, for holding fast to dreams that so often seemed impossibly out of reach.

Matt Curtis thanked this brother, hugged him tightly, and strapped on his Crimson helmet.

"I'm done surviving," he said. "It's time for me to start living."

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Thanks to Jackie, one of the best writers to ever live. She tells the story, writes it, crafts it. Keeps it straight and simple.