April 2012
From another early email 

My one memory of that stinking field house was doing those repetitive drills. Always seemed cold, dark, and damp in there and there was a line drill we had to do.  One-on-one battles, O line vs D line and the D line had to be down in a 4-point stance, "rooting them out". Right, Jimmy (Winterton) ?

Now I was not in a good mood. Hated that place and hated having to get down in the 4-point even more. I always wanted to be standing up. So every time my turn came up, I did my best to grind whomever into that cold, stinking dirt.

By luck, or more likely by Coach D's twisted design, the final match happened to pit myself against one Frank Connell. Frank was much more schooled at this down-on-the-ground shit than I, and probably a lot tougher (Editor's note: No. Not likely.), but I was still in my foul mood.

As I recall we banged heads and slammed each other good for what seemed like an eternity. No whistle, no quarter, no advantage, no quit in either of us. We kept going at it and eventually started rolling around and throwing punches. Someone jumped in and pulled us apart. D just stood there with a smirk on his face and said, "Well Hell, boys. The dance classes are down the hall."

And that was the end of that.

John Owens, #86

Class of 1972

Jamestown, NY