Dennis O'Toole
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Mr. C

8/30/2012

34 Comments

 
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I’ll never forget the end of cross country practice one afternoon my sophomore year in high school.  I was 14.  It had to be early in the season because it was still warm and sunny.  My coach and I were walking out of Grant Park here in Chicago, (our home course), and I cracked some joke.  He laughed and put his arm around my shoulders. 

If you are lucky, you will meet someone when you’re young who you are afraid to disappoint and who you are eager to please.  In meeting Jim Connelly, who died yesterday, I was very lucky.  That moment 23 years ago is special to me because I felt I had gotten on the good side of a person I respected, admired, and genuinely liked.  I remember feeling very happy.  I was not his best runner, nor was I his best student, but the affection he showed in that small gesture proved that he appreciated me.  And it wasn’t just for whatever joke I had cracked a second earlier.  He appreciated me—my effort, commitment, and budding discipline.  That small, friendly gesture made me feel a foot taller.

Actually, in the four years that I ran for Mr. Connelly, I did grow a foot taller, so maybe there’s something to that statement.  I first met him in August of 1988, when I was all of 4’7”, but his reputation preceded him.  And man, what a reputation!  He was the kind of short man a short kid turns into a role model.

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Grant Park, 1990: my brother Paul, Matt Murray, and Mr. C
Mr. Connelly was ridiculously intimidating, especially for a guy about five-and-a-half feet tall, maybe 130 pounds.  He could bark like a drill instructor and rebuke you with a glance.  There were all sorts of pugilistic rumors about him, which I now pass on without fact-checking—that he won something called “Bengal Bouts” at Notre Dame, that he was an undefeated Golden Gloves champion, that he boxed in the army (where he was a champ, of course), that he once actually was a drill instructor.  Like, a real one…  It just occurred to me now, for the first time, that I was friends and teammates with his son and could have simply asked if any of that was true!  Eh, I probably made the right call.  The teenage mind prefers a legend.

In the hallways and in the classroom, Mr. Connelly handed out jugs for the slightest offense.  (Jug was St. Ignatius slang for “detention.”)  Untucked shirts, tardiness, talking in class (hypothetically; who would dare?)—all were met with either a quick jug or the order to “write a report.”  Once, a student approached his desk during a test to ask him a question, but had not asked for permission.  “You shouldn’t have left your desk,” he barked.  “Write a 500-word report.”  I remember wondering, About what? 

Since I got to know him at cross country practice before school even started, I was never afraid of him as a disciplinarian.  Sure, I was smart enough not to push it, but as one of his runners I had a chance to develop a rapport that most other students did not.  Plus, he was funny and liked a good laugh.  I first had him as a teacher during my sophomore year.  I remember making a joke in class early in the semester, and Mr. Connelly laughed.  The students in front of me glanced back in awe like I had just high-fived a grizzly.  So no, I was not afraid of Mr. Connelly.  In a way, I had it worse:  I was afraid of disappointing him.

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Grant Park's dreaded 'Hill.' Midpoint in a quarter-mile sprint. 5 sets of 4, son.
The key to Mr. Connelly’s disciplinary skill was not that he was strict—there are lots of strict teachers, and most of them are tedious jerks.  Mr. Connelly’s strictness took on the aura of command by treating his students and athletes like adults.  He expected us to act like adults because he respected us as adults.  And so, not meeting his expectations felt worse than the sting of any jug or punishment he could hand out.  (He actually wrote the words “I’m disappointed” on a paper I wrote on World War II—yet he still gave me a B for it!  The B was cold comfort.)  He addressed us distance runners as “Men!”  Always like that: quick, staccato, half-shouted in a gruff voice that suggested hidden consonants between M and N.  It was like an honorific.  I can still hear him shouting at us during brutal hill work outs, “Come on, men! Dig, dig!”  As told, we dug.

Mr. Connelly expected us to dig in class too.  I had him for American History and for Political Theory, and I can attest that his expectations were just as high there as in practice. 

In “The American Political Tradition,” Richard Hofstadter quotes a Democrat who called Abraham Lincoln “a Uriah Heep.”  I raised my hand and asked what a Uriah Heep was. 

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Grant Park, '90: me, Matt Blecha, Mr. C, Sonari Glinton
Mr. Connelly was appalled.  How could I not know who—that's who, not what—Uriah Heep was?  He asked the class to help me out.  No one else knew.  He shook his head in amazement at our ignorance.  “Find out” became our homework assignment.

Now, there is a certain amount of theater in good teaching.  Did Mr. Connelly really expect us 15 year-olds to pick up all the 19th century pop culture references in some complicated political analysis?  Probably not, but to act as if we should know every Dickens character was his way of showing us we are capable of knowing it.  It showed he respected us enough to assume we already did know it.  (A similar fate happened a few years later in Political Theory.  While going over the work of Thomas Hobbes or Hugo Grotius or some such eminence, I saw the word “ochlocracy.”  Not having learned my lesson yet, I raised my hand.  “Really, Mr. O’Toole, you don’t know?  Can anyone here illuminate things for Mr. O’Toole?  [Pause.]  What, none of you are familiar with the word ‘ochlocracy’?  Well…”  In college, I wrote a long paper for a 20th century Eastern European history course in which I dropped that ten-dollar word meaning “mob rule.”  My professor, a brilliant man who spoke German and Polish fluently underlined it and put a question mark in the margin.  In the comments at the end of the paper he wrote, “Well, at least you taught me a new word.”)

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Praying: "Grant us whatever amount of success you know is good for us."
There was another part of the Connelly legend, and the specifics of it were just as foggy to me in high school as his supposed boxing prowess:  his family.  He had a bunch of his own kids and adopted more.  He took in foster kids.   We never asked about it—at least, I didn’t—and Mr. Connelly only brought it up in passing.  But what we figured out was this:  a frugal man who wore old suits and drove a K car, opened his home, on a Catholic school teacher’s salary, to as many children as he could.  

According to a blog post by Ed Ernst, the current St. Ignatius cross country coach, the actual number was fifteen kids biological and adopted, plus thirty-two foster children.  So behind that supposed drill-instructor style was, we knew, a very, very good person.  In 1994 he won the Dei Gloriam award from St. Ignatius, the school’s highest honor, and in 2002 the Family Exemplar Award from Notre Dame.  (And while I am ticking off the honors, it turns out the boxing accolade was Outstanding Boxer of the 1956 Bengal Bouts.)

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Mr. C, my brother, me.
Whenever I saw Mr. Connelly after high school, I’d tell him about a recent run.  I’d tell him how far I ran, how fast, what my mile pace was these days...  (“Hey Mr. Connelly, I ran some hills last week!”)  It was kind of a joke, but I also wanted him to know that I still ran like he taught me.  That I still try to live like he taught me.  That, far from the class room and the cross country practice field, I am still trying to live my life according to the model he set for me and hundreds of other young men and women.  That I am still trying to earn that arm draped over my shoulders twenty-three Septembers ago.


34 Comments
SLombardo
8/30/2012 12:47:32 pm

Great piece, Dennis. I never knew the man. Not really. I never had him as a teacher or coach and I don't remember crossing his path at all at Ignatius. Wish I had.

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Matt Birt link
8/30/2012 12:50:02 pm

"The teenage mind prefers a legend."

Indeed. I know this because I sought one at GHS and came up empty-handed (perhaps due to the poverty of my own spirit).

I am saddened by the absence of such a figure in my own teenage years, and lifted by the presence of such in yours. My condolences for your loss. This is a lovely—and loving—tribute.

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docdus
8/30/2012 01:09:27 pm

Oh my! The hills or running 300m sprints at practice in the cold (10 sets of 4) or "plyometrics" or any other coaching decision he made for us.
We won the Chicago Catholic League Track & Field Championships because Mr. C. was our coach. None of us was fast enough to win a state championship on his own when I was on his teams. However, he put us in the position to win and win we did. The work ethic has stayed with me for decades since then. I'll start and leave it with that before I end up in nostalgic tears.

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Megan McDonough
8/30/2012 01:43:24 pm

I never had him as a teacher but he did give me my one & only JUG for sitting on the iron stairs outside his classroom. As an adopted woman myself I have incredible respect for his generosity & love he gave all of his children.

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D. O'Toole link
8/30/2012 02:11:42 pm

Very fine piece, Dennis. I am glad you had Mr. Connelly in your life. Your writing shows your respect and love for the man/teacher/coach. Deanne

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Eileen Harmon Junkins
8/30/2012 02:28:19 pm

Dennis,
Beautifully written.
A great tribute to a truly great man.

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Katie Haskins Becker
8/30/2012 02:33:54 pm

Beautifully said. I honestly don't think I said more than ten words to Mr. Connelly in the time that he taught me, yet he helped shape my future career path(s) in so many ways. First, as a high school history teacher- I spoke of him anecdotally on a weekly basis, teaching so many of my own students what he had taught me. Then later, when I made the decision to go to law school, already a mother of 4, it was his life and dedication to so many, that motivated me. It is a rare occurrence to come across someone who has moved you, inspired you, and left you a bit awe-struck, simply because they are just so GOOD. For me, Mr. Connelly was an example of someone who was so GOOD, they made you want to be a better you. Dennis- Thank you for your tribute, it made me both cry and smile.

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Todd Edwards
8/30/2012 02:46:04 pm

Great piece D. You were able to capture the spirit of the coach as mentor and inspiration to the teen boy. This piece is only made better by pictures of young Paul and Dennis. And the added bonus of your Mom signing her first name in the comment section.

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Sonari Glinton
8/30/2012 04:00:31 pm

Seriously Dennis...Mr. C. would be proud. Thank you.

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EPleska
8/30/2012 04:06:53 pm

I remember him from track practice, where we also did hills and remember ramps? I remember how a couple times after track meets he insisted he would give me a ride at least close to home, even though it was daylight and taking the L on a Saturday was no particular big deal. And living in Cicero I was not exactly close to Villa Park. But all the same, there I was in the backseat of his car sitting behind Terry while Mr. C drove. Also who can ever forget "What the devil is wrong with you?" from track practice. I think of that at least once a week.

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Mary T. Sheridan link
8/30/2012 04:38:44 pm

Wonderful and true, thank you for writing this.

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Kate Evert
8/30/2012 11:52:19 pm

You captured him perfectly. Thanks for the smiles and the tears.

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Norah O'Brien
8/31/2012 12:05:18 am

Eloquently written, Dennis.

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Jim Crago
8/31/2012 01:19:12 am

By far your best piece, Dennis. Great job on this. I also agree with Todd on the pictures of you and Paul putting it over the top.

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Sarah Jardine
8/31/2012 01:33:27 am

Nice piece, Dennis. I'm glad you wrote about his sense of humor. He was so hilariously dry... I was one of the few who dared to laugh out loud at his jokes in class... something he clearly appreciated. Great teacher, great man...

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Michael Alving
8/31/2012 01:53:30 am

Dennis, "Wow!" What a great eulogy. I'm going to ask my son Alec, a sophomore at St. Ignatius, to read this so he can understand what a positive impact an educator can have on peoples lives.

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Amy Nowak
8/31/2012 02:21:07 am

Thank you for writing this. A lovely piece about a great man.

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Erica Hawkinson '99
8/31/2012 02:35:37 am

I also had Mr. C for political theory and I have such great memories of his instruction and enthusiasm, that I still have my books from that class. What an honor for all of us to have had an instructor and mentor like him! You managed to encapsulate how such a disciplined yet warm man captured our young hearts and minds. I think of him whenever I hear this, "If ifs and buts were fruits and nuts, we'd all have a merry Christmas."

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Jim Murphy
8/31/2012 02:45:15 am

Well written, Dennis. Mr. Connelly taught us how to be successful in scholastics, in athletics, in life. Not many days go by that I don't recall one of his lessons.
I'll never forget when one of his students asked him why he wasn't wearing 50's-60's clothes on the designated day, his gravely voice retorted, "These ARE my 50's 60's clothes."

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Martin Gibbons
8/31/2012 07:33:04 am

Dennis, great piece. I had Mr. Connelly freshman year for History class. I was terrified of him and terrified of disappointing him. I was seated front row center with nowhere to hide. This was a good thing. It was just what I needed at the time - to be scared straight. It made me improve my study habits at home and my grades improved dramtically. I also learned to take good notes in class. Most of his exam questions came straight out of his lectures. You couldn't get by just reading the chapters in the text book. I'm so glad I had him Freshman year and later on. St. Ignatius prepared me for College but it was Mr. Connelly who prepared me for St. Ignatius. Here's my Mr. Connelly quote: " I don't come to your job and kick the broom out of your hand" in reply to some student who was upsetting the status quo of his classroom.

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Amy Gatto
8/31/2012 08:36:19 am

Thank you for sharing.

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Anne Murphy Brown
8/31/2012 01:22:50 pm

So sad about this news. Wonderful tribute - knowing him and his family made us all better people.

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Ed Ernst link
8/31/2012 03:07:23 pm

Dennis--
How great to read about Jim Connelly the teacher. Coaching really is the best part of my job, as, I suspect, it was Jim's. I know in retirement he continued to coach with his son Pete. But he was a teacher long before he was a coach. Thank you for capturing him as the teacher!

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Brian Nedved
8/31/2012 03:24:09 pm

Dennis, Great piece. A wonderful eulogy for a good man.

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P. Crannell
9/1/2012 12:47:35 am

Nice story piece Big D.

Pat

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Sam Christopher
9/1/2012 03:13:43 am

Beautifully written. Thanks Dennis.

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George Menninger
9/1/2012 04:22:47 am

You are bringing me to tears, thanks for your memories.

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Darryl Fortson, '80
9/1/2012 09:28:26 am

Gerald Palmer '81 was somewhat non-descript. He was nerdy (pocket-protector nerdy) at Iggy - a lighter-skinned black guy with a massive Afro and horn-rimmed glasses. I never imagined that one of the funniest things (if not the funniest thing) I would ever hear in my entire life would come out of his mouth.

We were on the Lake-Dan Ryan train headed home. I don't recall who else was with us. Gerald and I weren't friends, just acquiantances, but we often rode the train home together. Somehow, the conversation turned to Mr. Connelly.

Apparently, a guy whose last name was Williams in the Class of '81 (his first name escapes me) was talking or acting silly in his and Gerald's geometry class. I had Mr. Connelly for geometry myself, so I knew his ways. At the time Mr. Connelly caught him, he was at the board writing something and he happened to look back and see Williams' antics. It was then that he walked toward him and said non-chalantly, "Mr. Williams, time will pass...but will you?"

I don't know how funny that is to you, but at that time, it floored me. Gerald said it at the 69th Street L station and I rode to the 79th Street station on the floor of the train car, seizing with uncontrollabe laughter, tears spitting from my eyes, I staggered off the train, laughing still. I literally laughed non-stop for two straight hours. It was like a reverse post-traumatic stress episode envisioning this cold-blooded reposte over and over in my mind, hearing Mr. Connelly's droll and matter-of fact delivery, seeing Williams' embarrassed face, hearing the snickers of the others in the class, even though I was never there. I recall one week later having a flashback of the story while riding home alone with total strangers on the train, busting out laughing like a hebrephrenic schiz in a homeless shelter. Even now I am typing with tears on my hands that I wiped away laughing once again thirty-odd years hence. Guy Mason, Steve Bowman, Keith Allen - they all know the story because I have told it so many times over the years.

But I don't laugh much when I think of Mr. Connelly - I just love. He was the best teacher I ever had - nursery school, kindergarten, elementary, high school, college, med school - all of them. He was the best. He was disciplined, disciplining, and motivating. You had so much respect for the man it just naturally bubbled into love like the head of suds on a poured beer. He was a good man, a blessed man, and a blessing to me and many. We all have to go, but I am terribly that this week, he had to. God bless him...

Darryl L. Fortson, M.D., '80

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Nancy
9/2/2012 02:59:14 am

What a wonderful piece in honor of an extraordinary man. He was larger than life and always will be. Thank you for putting the spirit and impact of "the man, the myth, the legend" into words. May his legacy live on in all of us.

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John LaMantia
9/2/2012 11:03:30 am

Dennis, What a fine tribute. I was a few years behind you and you captured Mr. C in his essence as coach and teacher wonderfully.

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Edward Bourelly
9/4/2012 01:30:18 pm

Great piece!!! Coach was some kind of guy. I can still hear him say "Bourelly! Stop messing around!" What a great man. I wish I had told him that.

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Shawn Conley
9/5/2012 01:13:12 pm

Terrific piece on Coach Connelly, Dennis!!! As Pleska mentioned, I still remember Coach asking us what the devil is wrong with us. LOL I still don't know what the devil is wrong with me. But, I have learned not to quibble about it.

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Dougherty
9/6/2012 08:12:18 am

Dear Mr. O'Toole, you are a gifted writer and this is a beautifully expressed memoir on the gift of Jim Connelly. (also enjoyed the pictures -I can remember those images).

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Terry Connelly
9/8/2012 07:07:58 am

Dennis, thanks again for writing this. This piece is nothing short of amazing. Like others it made me laugh, cry, and remember why I love him so much. I like to think I know him pretty well and I believe you captured him as well as anyone can. I'm certain he is proud of you.

To eveyone else who reads this or who commented, thank you so very much for you thoughts, prayers, and words of comfort. Our family was blessed to have such a coach, teacher, brother, uncle, grandpa, and dad. Biology never defined his family and your support is testament to the greater family he left behind for us all.

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    About Dennis

    Dennis O'Toole is an all-set cobra jet creepin' through the nighttime.  He lives in Chicago. 

    If you need to reach me, dial:
    denotoole AT SYMBOL gmail DOT co LETTER M.  

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