Richard Kenney, Jr. has earned an Honorable Mention in Streetlight‘s 2026 Essay/Memoir Contest
“He had a talent for remembering phone numbers and sports statistics.”
That was it . . . an obituary’s one-sentence summary of a kid’s life. A kid with a sweet shot and a bucket of promise. A kid trying to find the right touch to life.
He is a kid, though, only in my mind. I have not seen him in over forty years. The nine-year-old online obit that I recently stumbled upon said he died at age fifty-five, and that memorial donations could be made to Alcoholics Anonymous.
There should have been more. . . .
In the guest comments section, his ‘Aunt Marlene’ and ‘Uncle Hooper’ wrote, “The Great Dane—you had a troubled life but we still loved you.”
Someone else wrote, “He had a good sense of humor and loved his sports. I knew Dana from recovery, and he helped many people by being a power of example.”
***
It is February 1981, and Dana is bringing the ball up court. It is the annual staff-student basketball game at my school in Hanover, Massachusetts. Staff members aren’t fooling around and jump out to an 8-0 lead. Ron, the students’ coach and my colleague at Fatima Hall, calls for time.
From my seat a few rows behind the team bench and surrounded by a half-dozen or so vocal Fatima residents, it’s hard to see the team and hear what Ron is telling them. When Ron finishes, Dana emerges from the huddle with Larry Bird written all over his face. He quickly racks up three steals and drops in four down-town shots. It’s 8-8, and Dana’s not fooling around.
***
Fatima Hall was one of several residential houses on the sprawling suburban campus. It was home to twelve intellectually challenged teens and young men between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two. Ron and I, ten years their senior, were responsible for helping the residents with such things as daily living skills, travel training, and meal preparation. That’s what the written job description said.
What really happened was that we made sure they used soap while showering, refrained from free-for-all bus-ride melees in transit to the mall, and didn’t burn down the house while cooking spaghetti and meatballs on Thursdays. Fortunately, Dana was someone that the rest of the guys looked up to, the calming force, the one to put out fires.
The opportunities to grow his natural leadership skills during the two years with us helped quell his own personal fires of oppositional tendencies when told what to do. With space and choice, Dana thrived.
***
Down by five late in the third quarter, Dana’s teammate, Neil, rips the ball away from a staffer under the basket. With elbows flying, he is a wrecking ball on defense. At 6’3″ and a solid 180 pounds, no one invades his space – even his own teammates.
Neil rockets the ball to the other end of the court to Dana who easily lays it in to close the gap to three points. The staff members bring the ball up court, cautiously eyeing the bulldozer in the middle of the paint. Neil swats wildly at the ball and hip-checks the shooter who crashes to the floor.
The ref’s screeching whistle halts play. It’s Neil’s fourth foul and he throws down his headband in protest. There’s a commotion near the foul line and Ron charges onto the court to break it up. He calls time, gathers his players, and leads them to the sideline. Meanwhile, Neil leaves the building.
I’m about to go after him but before I can make a move, Dana flies out the door.
***
At Fatima Hall, Dana conducted his life much like he did on the basketball court. Despite the daily doses of chaos that often occurred among a dozen residents with varying degrees of behavioral issues, Dana found ways to loosen tension and tempers. His calming attitude was like a pinpoint pass that finds its way to the open player in heavy traffic. And everyone wanted in on his passes.
He knew how to use words and questions to involve everyone around him so that few felt left outside. He brought a steadiness to the house, a unique touch that made everyone felt they belonged.
One of those residents was Glenn.
Glenn came to the program with a “not good enough” complex. Easily frustrated and low on esteem, he was reluctant to let others into his world. He often retreated to places where he could be himself.
Or someone else. . . .
“All right now, Bird has it. . . . Bird gives it to McHale on the roll. . . . Over to Parish and back out to Bird. . . . 12 on the shot clock – it’s down to 8. . . . Bird fiddles and diddles. . . . Magic is in his shirt but Bird shoots a fadeaway. . . . It’s good! Larry Bird has done it again! This place is going bonkers!!”
Johnny Most? The gravelly voiced, play-by-play announcer of the Boston Celtics basketball team at Fatima Hall?
The raspy voice was coming from the smoking-room downstairs. Inside, and smokier than Boston Garden, more than half of the guys in the house were cheering on the newcomer who was mimicking Beantown’s most valuable, on-air sixth man. And leading the charge was Dana.
***
Neil is back on the court and bounce passes to Dana. Dana, with a fake shot, finds Glenn who shoots from the baseline. Swish!
The staffers quickly answer with an all-net hook from the foul line. Glenn inbounds to Dana who finds Fatima’s Dev, the fragilely-built, athletically disinclined participant who, just wanting to get rid of the ball, coughs it up to a mauling defender who takes it to the opposite hoop and dunks it.
Neil shoves Dev who stumbles into the bleachers and refuses to return to the court. Ron benches Neil and sends in two more Fatima reserves. One of them is Boyd and there are snickers from the crowd.
***
Boyd was a child trapped in the body of a 275 pound, twenty-year-old young man. He was content sucking his thumb or singing children’s songs. His favorite pastime, however, was smoking cigars. This he did in the smoking room as a reward for losing weight, a nifty behavior plan goal that worked—thanks to Ron and Dana.
While it was Ron’s idea to add Boyd to the team, it was Dana’s desire to work with Boyd to teach him “a few moves.” The two spent time in the gymnasium after school each day jogging and working on various shots. None, however, were successful except for an underhand-style free-throw à la basketball great Wilt Chamberlain. While Boyd didn’t consistently make the shots, he did make a few. And a few more from faraway—what he and Dana called “moonshots.”
***
The students trail by one point with fifteen seconds left to play in the game. Defiantly, staffers push the ball up court. The audience chants, “Dee-Fence – Dee-Fence,” when suddenly, an errant pass finds its way into the arms of Boyd. Shocked to have the pumpkin in his hands, Boyd shoots Dana a look as if to say, ‘What do I do now?’
The crowd is shouting, “Shoooot!” but Boyd is frozen at halfcourt, unable to hear his teammate. The clock is down to five seconds. Dana mimes the moonshot. The clock ticks away and Boyd heaves the ball high, as high as he’s ever thrown it.
Up it goes . . . into the rafters . . . and gets stuck between the steel beams. Everyone in the gymnasium looks to the heavens, mesmerized. Dana grins at Boyd who shrugs his shoulders.
Time runs out.
***
“He had a talent for remembering phone numbers and sports statistics.”
But there should have been more.
Dana was the go-to guy in 1981, at a place where his presence helped a few guys to play better games. He put up stats bigger than anyone knew.
As for phone numbers, I wish one of them had been mine.
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