My George Plimpton Season with the Knute Rockne of Brooklyn

This is the story of my season with Pudgie.

Despite little to no experience, I suited up for the best football coach you probably never heard of. Pudgie Walsh was the Knute Rockne of semi-pro. As coach of the Brooklyn Mariners for 60 years, he won 622 games, including four national championships. Personality-wise, Pudgie won the Super Bowl. He had an unforgettable rasp, described by one reporter as a cross between Bruce Springsteen and a Vienna choir boy, and his expletive inflection was as good as any Scorsese character.

Photo courtesy Instagram

Pudgie seemed destined for fame, but it didn’t quite come to pass.

Woody Allen cast Pudgie in Broadway Danny Rose, but he didn’t make the final cut. Boiler Room writer-director Ben Younger was hired to write his life story for the screen, but the project stalled. Ultimately, Pudgie remained in the shadows of semi-pro, deep in southern Brooklyn, a world away from DUMBO.

This is the story of my season with Pudgie.

A childhood friend, an All-American and a former Mariner quarterback, initially introduced me to Pudgie, and I pitched a profile to a well-known publication. Weeks later, they ran a lengthy Pudgie profile – with someone else’s byline.

I’d been intercepted.

If I wanted to cover Pudgie, I’d have to come up with a different angle. After All-American put in a word, a deal was struck: I’d be on the team… if I served as the team’s publicist.

Practice starts in late spring at Kings Bay Field in Sheepshead Bay, adjacent to a sewage facility. We practice once a week, albeit casually, with no contact whatsoever. No one’s getting paid, and injury isn’t an option. Pudgie, a former Navy dental technician, is the closest thing we have to a team physician. This season, the goal is the same as always: national championship or bust. However, the goal is more urgent than ever. Pudgie, a retired FDNY lieutenant, was recently dismissed as coach from the FDNY’s football team, which he founded. He wants to send the FDNY football a message.

Photo courtesy Maine Park Funeral Home

In the season’s opening game, somewhere in Pennsylvania, a national championship seems to be off the table. We’re down in the first half, and Pudgie is irate, stomping the sidelines, threatening to kick anyone in the balls if their helmet is on the ground. At halftime, Pudgie assembles us in the end zone behind the rugby goal posts for what he does best: a pep talk. By his own admission, Pudgie’s expertise isn’t Xs and Os. He’s an organizer and a motivator. Pudgie starts calm before exploding into Rockne – on steroids. I’m inspired and informed the special team’s coach that I’m ready.

The question is: Ready for what?

I suppose I could bring up the rear in an aggressive push tush. It has been a short lifetime since I snagged passes from an All-American, and most of my experience was relegated to my childhood bedroom. Dad would stop the action, threatening to call the police. Later, as I cowered under my bed, my parents bickered about not sending me to the expensive therapist. Even though I’m completely unqualified, I feel obligated to ask to enter the fray of this modern-day Roman Coliseum.

The special team’s coach orders me to remain out of harm’s way on the sidelines.

The very next week, under the Kings Bay lights, we’re up big with 17 seconds left in the first half, and the kick-off unit, otherwise known as the suicide squad, is down a man. I fight off my nerves and meekly raise my hand.

Surprisingly, the special teams coach inserts me into the game.

Our kicker is directed to kick the ball on the ground and run out the clock. I’ll be essentially a baseball player pretending to brawl as the protagonists scuffle. As I line up, Rambo, a muscular Mariner with a massive chip on his shoulder, looks directly at me, “Full speed!” he blares.

Suddenly, I forgot everything I knew.

My sole focus is to meet Rambo’s challenge. I’m Plimpton, a marshmallow of solid muscle! Surprisingly, the kicker ignores the play called and kicks the ball deep. I run as fast as I can, studying the ball as it disappears into the pitch-black Brooklyn night.

And then everything goes completely black.

The bump on my chin tells me otherwise. But I don’t mention it. My plan moving forward is to disappear and let this fiasco fade away. Unforgettably, Mike Tyson said, “Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face.” I’ve repeated those words countless times, but, in this instance, I somehow got them backwards. I got punched and now I’m devising a plan.

Photo courtesy of The Wave

As the team assembles in the end zone for Pudgie’s half-time address, I put the plan into effect, standing as far away as possible. The plan appears to be working. No one cares that Plimpton got knocked out on his first play. Yes, I got knocked out, but, more importantly, I got back up! Before Pudgie can summon his inner Rockne, Rambo smashes my plan to pieces. “How’s your brain, Plimpton!?” he cracks loudly. Everyone laughs, and I must force a smile.

In the second half, I keep my helmet on. No, of course, I’m not playing. I’m hiding in shame.

Enter Rambo, again.

I’ve had enough of him for one season, or any season for that matter. If I hadn’t been trying to prove my masculinity to him, I wouldn’t be emasculated. He asks about my football experience, or lack thereof. I tell him the truth, omitting the part about my parents and the expensive therapist. “You got more balls than half the guys on this team!” he snarls before walking away. These words are the equivalent of my Heisman. But I don’t believe them. After the game, at the Mariner Inn, a corner bar, where the team celebrates, I do a thorough inventory below the waist. Everything’s there!

However, I feel unworthy.

We wind up not needing the Studs. And even though I’m still completely shaken up from getting knocked out, I somehow muster the courage to ask the special team’s coach for another chance. But he immediately rebuffs me, which doesn’t devastate me. Pudgie gave him an earful after last week’s debacle. Yes, I embarrassed the Mariners. The Mariners lay out other teams, not the other way around.

As the Mariners proceed to steamroll their competition, I’m content to watch from the sidelines, comforting myself with hot chocolate from the Kings Bay concession stand. After yet another W somewhere in New Jersey, Pudgie gathers us in the end zone for a post-game pep talk. “I’m sixty-six years old!” Pudgie bellows. “I might drop dead in December, but before they put me under, I want them to put another ring on my finger!”

As we grind through the season, practice becomes even more abbreviated and less regimented. These guys have been playing their entire lives, so they’ve got it down. The offense goes over formations before calling it a night. Meanwhile, I hold the ball for the backup kicker. When the field is clear, I do sprints with Sean, who played football in Switzerland. In full pads, we go end zone to end zone, and I keep my head on a swivel. At one point, in hopes of vanquishing my phobia, I convince a teammate to run into me.

But it’s all for naught.

Pudgie Walsh (photo courtesy Find a Grave)

I’m firmly in the doghouse, relegated to practice, which is not practicing, and sending out press releases, which I later hear that Pudgie is quite pleased with. But that’s not enough for me.

At some point, I consider walking away – quitting. Sean talks me out of it, kind of. If I quit, he says that he’ll never talk to me again. We never spoke much in the first place; however, I appreciate the sentiment. As the Mariners continue to rack up victories, a showdown with perennial rival and powerhouse Marlboro seems inevitable.

However, there are still games to play against inferior opponents, and the Mariners become bored and start bickering amongst themselves. Pudgie even gets into it with his veteran offensive lineman, Pec, over play-calling. At some point, Jay, our talented quarterback, says that someone uttered a racial slur. Meanwhile, our kicker is cursed and almost exiled for muffing extra points. After a late-season victory, Pudgie attempts to play peacemaker. “I’m the one who should be frustrated,” he says, holding out his hands. “I don’t get to hit anyone!”

Late in the season, Pudgie takes a rare game off to attend a wedding. In the closing minutes of yet another Mariner victory, I see a potential opportunity. I approach the defensive coach, who’s standing in for Pudgie. “Is there a chance that I can get in the game?” I ask politely. “I’d really appreciate it.” As I wait for the coach’s response, I brace myself for rejection. My helmet’s not even on. Slowly, the coach turns his head toward the field and smiles. “Sure,” he says finally. “Go ahead.” Ready or not, it’s my time, and I run onto the field, where everything seems so much bigger. When I get to the huddle, West Virginia, a former Mountaineer recruit, welcomes me with surprise, as well as concern.

“You’re in?” he yells.

“I’m in!” I yell back.

“Don’t lock up!” West Virginia orders. “Don’t lock up!” He’s concerned that one of their sumo wrestler offensive linemen is going to body slam me to the turf.

And surprisingly, I find open space.

Bodies seem to collide in slow motion. Amidst the chaos, I get a clear shot at the quarterback, who’s preparing to throw. I’m just about there, but at the last moment, someone pushes me from behind, and I fall to the ground.

We’ve intercepted.

I run in the opposite direction, my head on a swivel, looking to take someone out. OK, I just want to get off the field in one piece, which I do.

As expected, we wind up in Massachusetts for a Sunday night playoff game against arch-rival Marlboro, who’ve had the Mariners’ number in recent years. Pudgie is restrained before the game. “Have fun out there,” he barks. “Keep your head in the game!” I notice a few players I haven’t seen all season. I conclude that these are Pudgie’s secret weapons: Super Studs. He’s not taking any chances. This is it!

At the half, we’re deadlocked 7‒7.

For half-time, we sit silently, shoulder to shoulder in a massive waste container, which serves as the visiting team’s locker room. Pudgie walks in the narrow path between us, not uttering a word. Ironically, with this silent pep talk, Pudgie’s at his most compelling. After a few moments, Pudgie finally unleashes words that are every bit as memorable as Mike Tyson’s. “They’re shittin’ all over themselves!” he bellows, punching his fist in the air. “In the second half, we’re gonna rub it all over their faces!”

Minutes after the game, the bus is back on the road. It’s a school night. Yodels are passed out. Pudgie pushes his gallows humor, joking about his medical condition, but no one’s laughing. A collection goes around to pay for the bus. We stop at Burger King and eat on the bus. Eventually, I drift off. Somewhere in Connecticut, the bus stops to drop people off, and someone offers me a ride, so I grab my stuff and take one last glance at Pudgie. His eyes are wet. He’s not crying. He’s just tired.

As I walk to my ride, I realize I’ve forgotten my cleats in the Marlboro waste container. Oh well, I wasn’t going to use them again anyway. There will be no more football for me. Let’s say it got punched out of my system. However, I got what I wanted: quality time with a legend. In a town dominated by professional sports, Pudgie Walsh made semi-pro matter.

Right before I get into my ride, Ed, the team’s equipment manager, a Vietnam vet, yells over to me. Perhaps I forgot something else.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“I’ll see you next year,” he says, smiling. “Right?”

______

Jon Hart is the author of  Man Versus Ball: One Ordinary Guy and His Extraordinary Sports Adventures. Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 2013, and “Unfortunately, I Was Available.” Gloucester, VA: Peace Frogs United, 2025.