Gene Connolly’s inner circle worried their plan had been fumbled Friday.
They knew WMUR’s 6 p.m. newscast had teased an upcoming story, scheduled for later that night. Something about a beloved teacher. Something about a tribute. Something about the man shown on the screen, moving down a Concord High hallway, back when Connolly, the school’s former principal, could still walk.
Connolly, who’s now immobile and speechless because of ALS, was watching, as he does every night, so family members, trying to hide the truth, told him he’d been chosen for the pre-game coin toss. Then they quickly shut the TV off and drove to Concord High’s season opening football game.
And there, high above Memorial Field, minutes before game time, a green tarp was pulled down, revealing the “Gene Connolly Press Box.” That’s where the former principal, diagnosed two years ago, had become a fixture on nights like this, working the microphone and the crowd as the public address announcer. He’s a permanent part of the city’s landscape, and now the press box bearing his name is, too.
“He had no idea,” Connolly’s daughter, Ally Davis, said. “It seemed like as soon as they took (the tarp) off, his face lit up.”
For the record, on Sept. 2, 2016, a shade before 7 p.m., Connolly’s Frank Sinatra-like blue eyes and smile added more light to an already well-lit field.
I asked Connolly if he knew anything beforehand, perhaps tipped off by the newscast. He shook his head side to side. Of course, he’d never let on that he figured it out, because even though he’s been dealt a bad hand, even though this neurodegenerative disease had forced him to retire 10 years earlier than he hoped, Connolly has never publicly allowed his illness to drain the energy from anyone else.
Betsy Peabody, a veteran counselor at Concord High, said it felt strange walking to school last Wednesday, the first day of the new school year, and the first day without Connolly as the school’s leader.
That part of the story is hard for anyone to believe. Connolly continued to work while his body began to fail. Connolly continued to inspire while his voice slipped away. Connolly continued to greet students out front, in the same exact spot he always had, day after day, even as he went from standing, to using a cane, to needing a walker, to sitting on a stool, to using a wheelchair.
“That leaves a profound impression on young people in considering deeply what it means to stay that committed to a community,” said Peabody, sitting in the packed stands before the pre-game ceremony. “To me, those are the highlights of what he contributed.
“Sure, we can point to educational things, and it’s not that those things don’t matter,” Peabody continued. “But the things that really matter, when those kids go to their 25th high school reunion, it’s going to be remembering when Mr. Connolly would be there every morning, not whether we had five merit scholars that year. It’s that human stuff.”
Humanity reached its peak Saturday when Connolly’s replacement in the press box, 34-year-old social studies teacher Chrigus Boezeman, recited his pre-game words like an old pro, without skipping a beat.
“Consider one of Gene’s core beliefs that shaped the school community,” Boezeman said. “The belief of greet everyone, acknowledge everyone, say hello to everyone, all of the time. In that spirit, take a moment to turn to someone you don’t know and welcome them to Memorial Field. Give them a high five, congratulate them on a wonderful night of football. Say hello to everyone all the time.”
Then, on cue, people turned to people and became one, if only for a moment. I even got a high five from Tidy the Duck, the school’s mascot.
“It couldn’t have been a warmer reception,” Boezeman told me later, during a break from his PA duties. “I couldn’t see all of it from here, but I could feel it.”
It’s been a two-year celebration of sorts during a time of great sadness. There have been fundraisers, awareness walks, a mural of Connolly’s face and a circular bench in the school’s main hallway, another stone bench outside, on the exact spot where Connolly greeted all those students all those years, “Connolly Tough” T-shirts printed, enough ice bucket challenges to keep the North Pole cold, and now the press box, pushed through city government by Concord School Board President Clint Cogswell.
“It’s just another beautiful gesture from the community,” said Gene’s 30-year-old son, Jim Connolly, an English teacher at Winnacunnet High School. “Anyone who knows my dad knows how much this place meant to him, and to have something like this dedicated to him, it’s something we’ll cherish forever. He would do all the games and he would look forward to it all week.”
His style was always one of humor. Connolly might credit a student in the bleachers with an interception or a tackle if he couldn’t make out the player’s number on the field. He’d announce visiting alumni, a recent wedding engagement, the birth of a child.
He attended track meets, field hockey games, soccer games, wrestling matches, dances, a ubiquitous figure who seemed oblivious to the numbers of hours he spent “working.”
He retired this summer, no longer able to handle the demands of the job after pushing himself to distant boundaries. Friday he sat in his wheelchair wearing his charcoal Concord High shirt and his shorts and his now-famous silver, braided ponytail, flanked by his son Jim and his brother-in-law visiting from the Bronx and coaches and teachers and friends.
Benjamin Roy presented Connolly with an autographed football before the game. Star linebacker George Tarwo asked if the team could join Connolly for a photo.
“I don’t know if we have time,” said head coach Eric Brown. “We can try. Let’s do it. Let’s make it happen.”
Following the photo and seconds before the opening kickoff, Tarwo leaned in for a brief, private moment with Connolly.
“He’s a good man, I take him like a father,” Tarwo said after the game. “A great role model for the kids. In the press box every Friday night, home or away, always.”
I asked Tarwo what he said to Connolly before the game. He paused, fighting back most of the tears.
“I said, ‘I love you, pops. Keep your head up.’ ”
(Ray Duckler can be reached at 369-3304 or rduckler@cmonitor.com or on Twitter @rayduckler.)