BIG GAMES: October 7, 1967 Freshman Game at Alfred

How I Remember and Tell the Story:

It's the second half and I'm getting some playing time at end. Returning to the huddle after a passing play, I notice that our QB, Mike Driscoll, is on the ground and our lineman are gathering around. My heart leaps into my throat. Panic sets in. I say a silent non-denominational prayer for Butts and myself punctuated with expletives. You see, for some stupid reason, one of many with which I've been complicit over the years, I had tried out for QB (and end) and now, due to attrition only, I was the completely inexperienced back-up, and possibly mere seconds away from sure humiliation and possible destruction. Oh, the horror! Get up, Mike!

A couple of the fellas got Mike to his feet, but he'd been blasted and is groggy. Blood is running out of his mouth. I recall Duke starting to lead Butts off the field and remember drifting into the middle of the huddle with the idea of calling a 3rd-down dive play so that I might leave the field with some dignity.

Thankfully, Coach Pannagio was simpatico and fully cognizant of the probable outcome should I step up behind our center, Nick Scali, and take the snap. While I continued watching with diminishing hope as Duke lead a stumbling Mike off the field, I spot Pannagio who is yelling full throatedly in Duke's direction, "NOT CONNELL! NOT CONNELL!"

Duke spun Butts around, led him back to the huddle, and our half-conscious QB called and executed the last play of the series better than I could have possessing all of my (admittedly limited) faculties.

How I Described It in a Letter Home:

Sunday, October 8, 1967 (page 3)

(I came across this letter recently. As with everything else, it had been duly saved, cataloged, and posted by my father in one of the sixty or more family albums.)

"...I was scared within an inch of my life during the Alfred game. We have two quarterbacks on the team - Mike Driscoll and Phil Taylor - and me. Just before game time I was told that Phil was hurting and couldn't play and that I'd better be ready to fill in if Mike got hurt. Well, 'long about the second quarter I looked back from running a pass pattern to see Mike had gotten smeared by defensive linemen. When I got back to the huddle Mike was bleeding badly from the mouth and trying to leave the game for a few seconds. He thought better of it after glancing at me (I was probably white as a sheet.) and called our last play of the series. Then he left. Luckily, he was ready to play when we got the ball again."

It is my belief that, though I have a vivid imagination, the recollection is accurate. It fits neatly with other Panaggio-Connell commentary, an example of which I shall share in the future. My more tempered description of events in the letter allowed my parents a more positive view of their son, earned or not.

Frank Connell, #75

Class of 1972

Rochester, NY