A storm blew through Boston on the summer night in 1989 when The Who played Sullivan Stadium.
The heavens opened, thunder clapped, lightning struck. An apocalyptic vibe. So many in the venue rushed towards the gates seeking shelter that a crush developed, thousands shoehorned into a tight space and disaster looked likely.
At that point, Brian O’Donovan clambered up onto the roof, not bothered by the height, the lack of a raincoat, or the threat of being smote from the heavens. Walkie-talkie in hand, he took a quick inventory of the situation and then calmly talked the security detail through where best to divert fans. Tragedy averted.
That kind of moxie under pressure explains why O’Donovan went from working casually at a music festival for the New England Patriots to becoming stadium manager and, eventually, vice-president of the NFL team. Within a few years and with no real knowledge of the sport. Just a West Cork man’s eye for the main chance.
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Two years out of UCC, he fetched up in Southie in 1980 with an acoustic guitar under his oxter, seeking adventure. He got that and plenty more. Intending to hang around a fortnight, he stayed the rest of his life. Not the first or last Irishman to put down accidental roots, very few made anything like his impact.
“Brian was universally respected by all who knew him and had a warmth, intelligence, and joy for life that left an indelible mark on those around him,” said Robert Kraft, owner of the New England Patriots, following O’Donovan’s death from brain cancer last week.
“Brian’s legacy is woven into the fabric of Boston and the city’s distinct Irish-American culture, and his influence will be felt for years to come, especially by those who had the pleasure of knowing him.”
It was a measure of his wide-ranging contribution to Beantown life that nearly every major musical institution in New England paid generous tribute upon his passing. In the weeks before his death, this impresario, who once brought Guns N’ Roses, U2, David Bowie, the Rolling Stones, and the Grateful Dead to fill a cavernous gridiron stadium, was still running hugely popular music nights in the backroom of The Burren in Somerville, Massachusetts. The size of the hall scarcely mattered as long as he was still doing what he loved. At 66, even when battling terminal illness.
When Kraft purchased Sullivan Stadium and renamed it Foxboro, he asked O’Donovan: “What are we going to do about soccer?”
Within two years, he delivered the US Cup involving Ireland, Italy, Portugal, and the host nation. A handy dress rehearsal for Diego Maradona’s Argentinian travelling circus swinging through town during the 1994 World Cup.
Purchasing a Major League Soccer franchise for its inaugural 1996 season, Kraft appointed the bearded Corkman as general manager and chief operating officer of the New England Revolution. Building a professional club from scratch was a big ask when some prospective signings turned down contracts because they were earning better salaries in semi-pro leagues.
O’Donovan interviewed Ossie Ardiles and Frank Stapleton for the head coaching job, ultimately employing his compatriot for what turned into a bruising debut season. Crowds came but some players bristled at the Dubliner’s punishing training regime while others wondered if Stapleton, then 39 but in good nick, might have been more of an asset on the field leading the line than in the dugout.
Teething problems were compounded by the showbiz pretensions of the hirsute Alexi Lalas. Then the country’s most famous player, his idea of big match preparation included playing an acoustic gig of his own compositions at the Hard Rock Café.
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Lalas and Stapleton feuded, in public and private, and the genial O’Donovan tried to keep an uneasy peace. He outlasted the pair of them, establishing the fledgling outfit on a sound footing before departing in 2001 to go full-time with music, his first love.
As an impressionable teen in Clonakilty, where his father had a butcher’s shop on Ashe Street, he once happened into a tent at an outdoor festival and witnessed Planxty near the peak of their seductive powers. Long hair, jeans, and beards. Subversive tunes. Dark arts. Andy Irvine reminded him of a Che Guevera poster come to life, and he thought Donal Lunny was weaving some magic spell with the bouzouki. Life was never the same afterwards.
His first months in Boston, O’Donovan supported himself playing in pubs, later in a duo with Lindsay Henes, a pianist he encountered at a live session in Brookline’s Village Coach House. Engaged three days after they met, the couple were married 42 years, and had four children, with Aoife, the eldest, becoming a Grammy-nominated folk singer-songwriter of international renown.
Her father achieved a measure of celebrity too through decades hosting A Celtic Sojourn, a comfort blanket of a weekly music show on GBH Radio. Think John Creedon with a more traditional air. A live Christmas edition, involving Yuletide songs and stories from the Ireland of yore, sold out theatres every year and became a holiday staple for Hibernophiles in the region.
“I loved my time in professional sport, but it didn’t excite my passion,” said O’Donovan. “If somebody was to say, ‘what were you put here to do?’ I would not say it was to promote or manage professional sport. I’d say it’s to share my passion for the arts, especially music.”
He did what he was put here to do.
