I played college ball for Frank. I loved him and I hated him. He was that kind of man. His south Boston accent offended the New Yorker in me. He pushed, he yelled, he taunted he told you he hated you, he told you how bad you were. But he could also reach into you and make you better. He also had a kind side. And let me tell you, once somebody screamed at you like Frank, laid out all you faults at 80 decibels, when his words were kind they really got through.
At first I always played against him. And even then he made you better. It was no secret that his teams always had the best players. Future big leagues from my generation - Kenny Phelps, Floyd Bannister played for him. And when my crappy little South End teams played his I played my ass off trying to beat him - and did at times. And I always wondered - If he had the best guys, why didn't he ever come after me?
When he was hired at SU he did. He came and got me and I played for him for three years. Three years of having him scream at me, three years of him second guessing ever pitch I called. Three years of having him in my face after a strike out, a passed ball. We argued, we fought, he sent me out there every day. Every summer I had to beg for my scholarship back because inevitably by the end of each season he would tell me he was done with me. And every year I had eligibility, he brought me back.
Years later, when I would take a week off work to work his baseball camps with him he would always introduce me as the best catcher who ever played for him, and I would melt. Coming from him, well that said it all.
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