Zero Catches for Zero Yards: Life After Athletics, Playing for Something Larger than Yourself

A couple weeks ago, at my birthday dinner, I sat next to Jay Drain. It’s wild to think that I first spoke to Jay in 2016 as he was on his networking grind. He eventually accepted a job on Wall Street, but before that he was dominating the track at Amherst.

Jay was also the first person I texted in March 2018 when I first learned of Andrew Dorogi’s death. Ironically, it was weeks later that Jay was the student speaker at the Senior Student Athletic Banquet and I was the alumni speaker. We didn’t know that our bond would develop into what it has become, yet it will always also inextricably be linked to Andrew Dorogi—a good friend that I never got to meet in the flesh. 

The below is my nod to ensure that Dorogi’s legacy and lasting impact lives on. It also opened the door for me to learn more about his family. When I recently asked John and Jonetta for their permission to share, they responded: “We would love to have you share this speech! True to your words, carrying the ball came naturally to Andrew. His enthusiasm for life and compassion for all the people he met throughout his life was contagious. On the field, Andrew constantly encouraged, supported, and congratulated his teammates, no matter their year or position. In life, Andrew brought joy and boundless energy into all of his interactions and loved nothing more than to make people smile. His bright smile was mirrored by all in his presence. He was a team player, always looking out for those who didn’t seem to have someone looking out for them. He never failed or feared to carry that “ball” and carried it with humility and conviction. For that, we are eternally grateful and endlessly proud. In this way, our entire family and his many closest friends and teammates -also considered family - strive to act in his image and carry forward that same love and laughter he shared.”

Zero Catches for Zero Yards: Life After Athletics, Playing for Something Larger than Yourself

Sean Legister ‘11, delivered on Apr 30th, 2018 at the Senior Student Athletic Banquet, Amherst College

Life as a Mammoth. You are one of the few classes that has experience as a both a Mammoth and a Lord... Scratch that, too soon? Have you been looking forward to this banquet, as a celebration of your athletic career, or dreading it, as the end of your athletic career? Anticipation and dread. Those are the mixed emotions I want to consider. Tonight, I want to talk about life after athletics, the separation you will soon feel from your team, your sport, and even your long-held identity as an athlete. I want to tell you about my experience of not playing football, literally and metaphorically, because the experience of not playing your sport is your future, as it has been for me for the last seven years. It won’t be as easy as, “I’ll see you at practice,” or “Let’s go to the trainer’s room.” You’ll never again lace up in your Purple and White. You’ll never again get to pile onto the bus with your teammates after a hard win or loss, knowing you’re headed back to campus to “relax” with all your other friends. But amid these losses, this separation, you will better understand your athletic experience through the lens of time. You will understand what endures and why it’s so valuable, long after you take off your jersey for the last time. For me, that clarity only came gradually as I had focused for far too long on my individual contribution.

While I was an athlete, I focused on the wrong things that ultimately steered me toward feelings of isolation. It took me a long time to gain that perspective. I should have focused on the ball. Let me explain. I love Amherst…but not in the overly romanticized type love, or that ‘I’ve been dating him/her since I was in high school’ love, but more in the through thick and thin, ultimate respect type of love. I didn’t know I wanted to go to Amherst. My family didn’t know what Amherst was until I was a sophomore in high school and a woman I had a crush on told me she was going here. But now I have a purple “A” on my door at home. I have a purple “A” emblazoned on my computer. I love telling people I graduated from Amherst where I played two varsity sports and double majored in English and Black Studies. 

Despite my enduring love for this place, I often tell people that if I could do it over, I would’ve gone to a different school. I felt an enormous conflict, one that endured and was unresolved for a long time—the conflict of loving Amherst while simultaneously feeling isolated. I struggled throughout my time here with being a Black man—and sometimes the athletic experiences reinforced my feelings of isolation. I had played quarterback in high school. On my first recruiting trip to Amherst, I was talking to a Black defensive back on the team when he asked what position I played. I told him “quarterback”. He replied, “Not here you won’t, Amherst will never have a Black quarterback!” I smiled to myself, thinking he was overly cynical; that was his fate, not mine I thought. Two years later, I applied early to Amherst. A week before pre-season began, I received a package in the mail that read, “Wide outs, we expect a lot from you this year…” It would be easy to think that the cynical defensive back was right.

Given the newness of it all, I didn’t want to ruffle any feathers or make a name for myself by being the guy who demanded to play quarterback. I thought back to my 1x1 showcase with Coach Mills and Coach Stick, where while executing quarterback drills, I threw a couple balls right into the dirt. I took my chances with the odds and practiced with the wide receivers instead. I wanted to be part of the team.

I earned a spot as a wide receiver, but I was very close to getting cut my sophomore year. That was when I first felt the possibility of being isolated from my team. I don’t care what anyone tells you, if you get cut from a D-3 sports team, you’re not that good! Believe me, Coach Mills made it very clear to us early on that none of us recruits were as good as we thought we were. “There is no Division 4,” he said, memorably. But through grit, persistence, injuries, and especially luck, I earned playing time my sophomore year. I scored a touchdown in my first game against Hamilton, a 33-yard post. I started the second half of the season. As a junior, I played more than any other receiver on an undefeated, NESCAC Winning championship team. 

Then, my senior year, I was benched. The feelings of isolation reemerged. Having abandoned my identity as a quarterback even before I made the team, having nearly been cut, and now having been benched—I had more questions than I had answers about who I was, as well as about my athletic prowess.

The 2009 Williams game should have banished those feelings forever. I still remember every detail of it—before, during, and after the game. We were having our pre-game meal close to Williamstown when Andrew Reed, a sophomore wide receiver, got on the piano and started playing “Don’t Stop Believing,” by Journey. The team slowly gathered around him and everyone began singing together. There was a sublime feeling at that moment, one that I will always remember; but one that words will never do justice to. A group of men, from all corners of the country came together to sing, right before we played our beloved and violent game. We had the worst voices, yet it was the most unified song I have ever heard. It brought us closer and foreshadowed that even in times of doubt, we would stick together and leave victorious that day. I promise that you’ll never see anything like that in a stat sheet, but as you go out into the real world where people will try to define you, or tell you what winning looks like, I know that we won that day long before we stepped foot on the field.

We eventually beat Williams 26-21 in a great game! The team and the fans stormed the field and we had a raucous celebration stomping on the “W” and throwing our hands up in victory. After the champagne and banter about how much partying we were going to do, after the long embraces and calls from family congratulating me on a job well done, and after the long bus ride home, I sat in my room and realized how lonely I felt. My arrogance almost ruined the day. 

I was so concerned with my individual performance that I did not truly enjoy this phenomenal feat. I focused on my own stats, far too easy to remember: Zero catches for zero yards. I had been thrown to once, a ball thrown slightly behind me, but one that I should have caught nonetheless. I thought about how much I did not feel like I was part of the game—the Williams’ game. I understand that football is a team sport and that overall, a win for the team should mean a win for me, but I still felt self-conscious, knowing that my insecurities and pride were getting the best of me. I was isolating myself. All my feelings of separation came from focusing on me, individually, rather than on the collective experience of my team. What I failed to realize at that moment was that it wasn’t about me. 

Similarly, what I realized last month is that this speech wouldn’t be about me either. That’s when I learned about Andrew Dorogi. When I first saw a picture of Andrew, I immediately recognized he wore #22, the same number I wore my senior year. I, of course, did not know Andrew personally. But I immediately felt linked to him as I have felt linked to other #22’s. As I learned more about him, about the kind of person he was, about his infectious joy, about his ability to bring people together (athlete or non-athlete), about his resilience—scoring a touchdown his senior year after getting cut from the team his junior year…I thought, “He sounds like a true #22.”

To me, #22 on the football team signifies the person who is often overlooked. The person who has natural charisma and leadership ability, but whose talent won’t lead the league in anything, but rather lead the team in something. #22 is about one’s attitude. It’s about grit, hustle, grind, stewardship, doing whatever it takes to put the team first. In some cases that means scoring touchdowns, but in most cases, it means making sure you put others first. It means recognizing and embracing the people who feel isolated and making them part of the team. It means taking people from feeling separated to being included. 

I chose to wear #22 because the men who wore it before me, Eric NeSmith and Vinny DiForte, were men that I admired. They were men who put the team first and suppressed their ego, not out of comfort but out of care for others. So, when I saw that Andrew wore #22, and I learned more about him, I started to get that tingling sensation, the indescribable nudge that we shared something. While this talk was originally meant to be solely my story, Andrew’s knack for brightening a room, for putting a smile on someone’s face, or for always making the other person feel valued help illuminate skills that overcome the isolation I once felt. Those skills—that love, really—creates a sense of belonging and common purpose, regardless of race or athletic prowess. After he got cut his junior year, it would have been easy for Andrew to separate himself from the football team, but he didn’t. He remained an athlete, encouraging his team, supporting his friends both on and off the field, while working tirelessly to earn back a spot his senior year. The more I learned about him the more I realized that he could have taught me something back in my senior year.

As I think back to that Williams game and my isolation, my stats—zero catches for zero yards— continue to resonate with me. There is an element of touching the ball, helping to carry the team that exists only in sports. The training, studying, discipline, and overcoming adversity are all a continual effort to defend, secure, pass, or forward the ball. And when you have that ball, even for a split second, you also carry the team. That’s the feeling that I missed—the feeling I so desperately wanted—at the 2009 Williams game. Looking back, I did carry the ball simply by being a member of the team, through the practices, games, bus rides, songs, sweat, and sacrifices, for four years. Just as the person who passed out towels did, or the injured running back did. I carried the ball without ever touching it in the Williams’ game.

As you all move forward not playing your sport, you must remain an athlete, but the key is assessing what the ball will be in your lives. What I didn’t know during the William’s game is that you can carry the ball as Andrew did—any time you are drawing together your team, your family, your workplace, or your community. That’s when you will feel like an athlete again—as a mother or a father, as the head of the department or the newest hire. That’s when you will know you’re carrying the ball.

One of my best friends from Amherst, Mass., was Bob Grant ‘55, a retired pastor, but also my full-time shepherd while I was here. He passed away in December, but March 22nd would have been his 85th birthday and his 58th wedding anniversary—March 22nd would’ve also been Andrew’s 22nd birthday. In an awe-inspiring email exchange during my senior year while I was struggling with the isolation that I have described Bob wrote, “Touchdowns count. Gaining yards count. Winning the game counts. But what matters at the heart of it all is the ball—anticipating it, seeing it, catching it, holding it, protecting it, carrying it, advancing it. And if you’re not the one to whom it is thrown, doing what is yours to help the one who is. Everything that happens on the field follows. So what is the equivalent of the ball? What is it that matters to you in life as the ball matters in a football game? I am not the one to answer that question for you. Nor is anyone else. I can only pose the question. For me, it’s what the verse, ‘Hold fast to that which is good,’ is all about.’”

He always said, “Hold fast to that which is good.” When I recall that expression, I often think of a football. You can think of the particular ball that you spent so many hours chasing, trying to catch, trying to carry for the team. But now, for you as for me, the ball is metaphorical, rather than literal. It is the coworker that you are going to lift up. It is the infant that you are going to hold in your arms. It is the person of a different race, gender, or sexuality that you are going to embrace. It is the grieving person that you are going to sit with, arms around his or her shoulders. 

That’s when you’re going to feel like an athlete once again. That’s when you’re going to be doing Andrew’s work once again. That’s when you are going to know the joy of catching the ball once again. 

I will always hold fast to my experience as an Amherst Football player. Class of ‘18, I urge you to figure out what the ball is, now, for you. And when you do, be an athlete, once again.

Thank you.