Coen Plays On Without No. 1 Fan

Oct. 19, 2006

AMHERST -- Liam Coen stood on the sideline, a portrait of serenity. His blond hair matted with sweat, his helmet to his hip, Coen soaked in the scene last Saturday: a sparkling autumn afternoon, a hint of crispness in the air, maples firing, almost 16,000 people in the stands, his father and grandfather among them.

His University of Massachusetts team was already up on William & Mary, 45-7, and Coen's work was done. It had been another day at the office, efficient and lethal. He had thrown the ball 17 times, completing 12, for 275 yards and a touchdown.

Coen had proved himself yet again a master of moving forward. Composed and quietly confident, he had dissected the Tribe defense. There was nothing he liked better than figuring out the geometry of the game -- looking at this stunt, that blitz, this package, and figuring out what to do. It was all about adaptation. Always, the question was: Given this, now what?

The analysis complete, Coen watched the fourth quarter play out, savoring every breath. The Tribe had the ball deep in their territory, third and 15. UMass linebacker Cesar Rosario, one of Coen's closest friends, stepped in front of a pass with nothing but green ahead of him, the sweetest defensive candy. His eyes were too big for his stomach, though, as he dropped the ball, then crumpled for a moment of anguish, lamenting what could have been. Coen couldn't resist, taking a few steps onto the field and swatting Rosario on the backside. He busted on him a little bit, but also told him, ``It's no big deal."

A field goal and a few minutes later, UMass had its second straight 48-7 victory. The Minutemen were 4-1 (suffering only a 1-point loss on the road to Division 1-A Navy). Coen was now No. 1 in the nation in Division 1-AA in passing efficiency. For a few moments afterward, he basked in the glow, sharing fists and fives with teammates, signing some autographs, squatting down to whisper something sweet to his 9-year-old cousin, Emily.

Then, of course, there was the phone call from his best friend, Tim Day. "Twelve of 17?" Day said, incredulously. ``That's not so good. What happened with those other five?" Coen laughed long and loud. Life was good.

But not perfect. Day was right. He, more than anyone, understood: Things could never be complete. That had been made abundantly clear nine months ago to the day when the darkness had become too much for Coen's mother, Beth. For so long, they had been inseparable, doting mother and only child. If all was well, she would be there, of course. She had always been there, until that Saturday in January -- the day the star quarterback could not forget in a thousand lifetimes.

In Rhode Island, the Coens are an institution. They stand for the things they believe in: family, education, football. In the smallest state, they have the biggest dreams.

They began with Liam's grandfather, Philip Coen, now 77, solid as a statue. In the underbelly of Newport during the Depression and World War II, Philip grew up amid the grit, not the glitz. Far from the Gatsby-like mansions, he lived down an alley in a small apartment, working a couple of jobs even as a kid, shoveling coal before school. Sometimes on summer days he would escape for a swim at Second Beach, pounding the water in front of the colorful sailboats and yachts, the sweep of the Atlantic, the sense of possibility. Even now, on summer days, you can see him out for a mile swim, dodging the jet skis, keeping his body taut, his mind alive.

Philip loved football, the way the game took your measure. He played before the days of facemasks, breaking his nose time after time, coming back for more. When Boston College offered him a full scholarship in the late '40s, he leaped at the chance. By his senior year, the lineman was the team's captain and MVP. Then it was back to Rhode Island for a lifetime of coaching and teaching, becoming a head of guidance, then a principal, then a superintendent of schools.

The football didn't fall very far from the tree with Philip's son, Tim, Liam's father. At Barrington High School, Tim was an all-state fullback and linebacker, a cannonball in pads. He turned down football scholarship offers to play baseball at Eckerd College -- a move he says he regretted right away. After graduation, he returned to Rhode Island to the game he loved. For 31 years now he has been teaching special education and coaching football, currently at Portsmouth High. In summers for years, he worked as the head lifeguard at Second Beach. That's what he was doing half a lifetime ago when he met the vibrant Beth Bowley, a college student with light brown hair and a smile he couldn't resist. Her playful spirit was palpable, the musical laughter, the love of art and photography. Beneath the vivaciousness was a sensitivity he admired, an ability to feel the pain of others. In years to come, she would become a much-loved history teacher at South Kingstown High, a confidante to generations of students, a leader of the school's gay-straight alliance, an Irish Catholic board member for the Rhode Island Holocaust Museum. They were married in 1982. Three years later, they had their only child. Blond-haired, blue-eyed Liam burst on the scene in November, making his dad happy by not arriving on a Saturday.

Always, Liam respected the game. His grandfather would take him to Second Beach to skip stones, to walk along the cliffs, but mostly to throw a football. ``We always had a ball, all the time playing catch," Liam said. Philip took Liam to many games at BC, a scene the youngster found mesmerizing.

At home with his father, he would watch game tape after game tape. ``I'd have to sit on the couch and throw the ball back and forth as he ran by all night long," Tim said. In 1992, Tim took the head coaching job at Salve Regina, a Division 3 college in Newport. Liam was ever present. During games, he was the ball boy. At practices, he would pester players to run routes.

``I didn't have much of my dad's time because he was always working," Liam said. ``When I did get to see him, I would take full advantage of it, play catch with all the coaches, talk to all the players. I really thought I was part of the team." From a young age, he sought the discipline. He saw what it took. ``It was," said Tim, ``all he ever wanted to do."

On the home front, it was clear that Liam's mom was calling the signals. Both father and son say she did the lion's share of the parenting, pouring herself into Liam's life. She left work for years, not wanting to miss a thing, day care out of the question. She soothed every wound, taught him to ride a bike, went for many a walk. In time, she got him out running 5-kilometer races with her. She pushed him hard in school, insisting on the extra mile. When there were problems with friends, or later with girls, Beth was the ear and the shoulder he would turn to again and again. ``She was awesome," Liam said, a smile blooming beneath his tightly drawn eyes. ``Me and my mom had a great bond."

``He was her world," said Tim. ``He was everything to her. She never missed anything he ever did."

When Liam went to school, Beth took the teaching job at South Kingstown High. In 1993, she took a day trip with colleagues for a workshop on Nantucket. In a bog, she was bitten by a tick, and almost immediately got the bull's-eye swelling in her neck.

She was ill for much of the summer, but the Lyme disease was undiagnosed, and when she returned to school, her energy returned. Tim recalls she often stayed up until 1 a.m. working on lesson plans, and sometimes awakened at 4 to run before school. Before long she was competing in marathons, pouring herself into her students and her son. She seemed to be the vision of vitality.

When Liam was ready for high school, the family moved from Warwick to North Providence. He enrolled at La Salle Academy. Tim left Salve Regina to coach his son. Football increasingly dominated their world.

Liam was a gangly youngster with big hands and big feet. He wasn't overly fast or strong. There were guys with better arms. But he had a presence, a composure, a push toward perfection. He began to draw the attention of college coaches. The Coens sat with Joe Paterno at Penn State. They were invited to tryouts at Syracuse and Maryland and Virginia. BC seemed very interested, and that for Liam represented the dream.

Then there was UMass, a 1-AA program, decidedly a second choice. The Coens loved then-coach Mark Whipple, an innovative offensive mind, who offered Liam a full ride and told him not to feel any pressure about it -- ``See what happens with the 1-As, and understand that we'll be here for you."

In the end, he was the next guy at all of the 1-A programs, losing out at BC when the Eagles offered the scholarship to Chris Crane. Tim Coen was angry, but Liam took it in stride, and signed with UMass, comfortable with the program and excited about Whipple. And then, just like that, Whipple left, accepting an offer to become quarterbacks coach with the Pittsburgh Steelers. The Minutemen quickly hired Don Brown away from Northeastern. Right after the press conference, Brown's first phone call was to Liam Coen. ``We want to have you here," Brown said from his car. ``We want you to make this your home." After a day of deliberation, Liam agreed.

Those high school years were tough on Beth. She was exhausted and experiencing an alarming amount of joint pain, and migraines that just wouldn't go away. She now had to drive 45 minutes each way to school, and her once buoyant spirit began to lag. She didn't seem to be thinking that clearly at times. Doctors thought perhaps it was chronic fatigue syndrome, and began to prescribe pain medications.

The empty nest that followed when Liam went to UMass in the fall of 2004 hit her with seismic force. ``She just wasn't herself," Liam recalled. ``That just kept going and going. She was just in so much pain."

Incomprehensible loss

The Coens struggled through Liam's freshman year, during which he redshirted, learning the system. He had a decent spring, then came back last fall as the backup to Tim Day, the senior starter.

Right from the start, the two had a bond. Day, too, was a competitive New England kid, having been raised in Manchester, N.H. Like Coen, he had a voracious appetite for the minutiae of the game. And like Coen, he also was a leader, full of positive energy. He had known pain in his life, having had a father who killed himself when Tim was 4, but he never carried it as a chip -- most people on the team didn't even know about it.

Day was coming off an excellent junior season, but he struggled in an opening win over Richmond. In Week 2, he had a disastrous time at Colgate, as the Minutemen committed seven turnovers just past halftime, and fell behind, 17-0. Nicked up, Day limped to the bench, and Brown decided to give Coen a chance. The redshirt freshman almost rallied UMass all the way back, throwing a pair of touchdown passes and leading a final drive into Colgate territory. Though it stalled in the 17-14 loss, a star had been born.

The friendship that deepened between the two was out of some coach's dream. Day told Coen straight up, ``I think I can do a better job than you -- but I accept the coach's decision." Rather than be bitter, Day worked hard with Coen to get him ready for the speed and brutality of the college game. Then Day morphed into a receiver, and became one of Coen's favorite targets. When Coen suffered a concussion against James Madison, Day came off the bench to rally the Minutemen to victory -- then stepped back again the following week as Coen reclaimed his starting job. Off the field, the players talked and talked.

Coen had a stellar freshman campaign. He completed 63.9 percent of his passes. His 137.48 passing efficiency was 22d in the nation, and third in UMass history. His father was beaming, his grandfather all aglow.

But off the field, the Coens were facing a devastating battle. Beth, finally diagnosed, was told the Lyme disease had progressed so far that she was not apt to get any real relief for 3-5 years. She was on OxyContin and Vicodin, which sometimes dimmed the pain but left her listless and disoriented. She was unable to work, to run, to do any art or photography. ``Everything she loved," said Tim Coen, "she couldn't do."

After the season, Beth's depression deepened. When the semester ended, Liam went home to a world that was spiraling away. There was tension between his parents, and Liam found himself avoiding his mom. ``She was severely, severely depressed," he recalled, his voice quieting. ``I couldn't talk to her sometimes. I felt so bad. I couldn't even deal with it."

Liam's dad, who had gained some weight, was struggling with diabetes. Shortly after the new year, his heart began to race, and he was admitted to Miriam Hospital with suspected congestive heart failure. Liam tried to hold things together the best he could.

On Friday night, Jan. 6, he was at a buddy's house when his mother called. For an hour and a half he sat in his car in the driveway talking to her, and he felt much better about things.

``It was the first time [in so long] we had had a calm conversation," Liam said. He told her that they could get through this, and suggested they go to family counseling. ``She said she felt terrible, and I kept trying to build her up. She kept asking me if I loved her. I said, `Of course, I do. What are you talking about?"

Liam returned home that night around 1 a.m., and went to sleep. In the morning, he left a note for his mother saying he was going to the hospital to see his dad, and that she could meet him there when she got up. Liam had bought his father a tiny television to watch the US Army All-American Game that day, a high school all-star contest. They waited for Beth, and waited some more. Liam called several times, then asked a neighbor to go check. The neighbor found her next to a bottle of Vicodin. She was 46 .

Numb, stunned, Liam worked to get his father discharged, and started calling relatives. He drove his dad home, and they didn't say a word the whole way. They arrived to a chaotic scene -- ``cop cars, all these people outside, just a total mess. That . . . that will go down as the most difficult day of my life."

Given this, now what? His first non-family call went to Day, who was driving on a highway in New Hampshire.

``What?" Day shouted, pulling over to the shoulder. ``I'm coming down right now."

Coen was stunned at the support from people at UMass. Right in the middle of winter break, squadrons of players descended to Rhode Island, as well as the entire coaching staff, and athletic director John McCutcheon. Coen leaned hard on the team.

``The support system here was the strongest," he said, ``the one I look to the most. It was really special. It was something I'll never forget."

At the funeral, overflowing with relatives and football players and students and teachers from South Kingstown High School, Tim Coen spoke his heart: ``I just want to thank Beth for bringing up such a wonderful son. I know that I was busy with a lot of things. I couldn't ask for a better son."

Back at school in the spring, Liam put together his best semester yet, earning a 3.4 grade-point average -- something he wishes his mother could see. In the spring game, he went 9 for 9, completing everything.

This fall, he hasn't been much off that mark. Going into today's game at Towson, he is completing 66.3 percent of his throws, and his gaudy 178.52 passing efficiency is unmatched at the 1-AA level. After every touchdown, Liam has been pointing up to Beth, and given the prolific offense, she is getting plenty of contact from her son.

Tim Day, now living in Florida, has been in contact with Liam regularly, checking in about his mental health, busting his chops about football. ``I've never seen anyone handle something as maturely as he did," Day said. ``It's amazing for me to see how strong he's been."
Brown, meanwhile, has been amazed at what he's seeing from his quarterback. ``I'm really proud of him," said Brown. ``Forget football -- I'm really proud of him as a man."

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University of Massachusets Athletics

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