by Rick Bender (@RickBender12)
Phil Berton hadn’t imagined standing in the end zone with a football for a long time.
Now, most offensive linemen dream about getting that one opportunity to score a touchdown. Perhaps in a crucial moment late in a game, a pass is deflected right into his arms. Chaos ensues as teammates scramble to clear a path for the lineman, screaming at him as they do to help him understand just what is happening. He churns his legs and stumbles forward, somehow finding his way across the goal line …
Sorry, this was not one of those moments. Instead, the 6-foot-5, 285-pound Berton was expected to throw the ball.
And who doesn’t want to be the quarterback that connects on a long pass downfield to lift your team to victory? Final seconds ticking off the clock, scrambling to avoid the rush, finding just a sliver of daylight leading to a receiver well down the field, unleashing a tremendous heave that threads the needle …
OK, this wasn’t one of those moments either.
Only three people stood on Blackman Field — Berton, Buddy Teevens (the Robert L. Blackman Head Football Coach) and offensive coordinator Kevin Daft. Teevens tossed a ball to Berton, just a simple underhand flip, and asked, “Think you can throw it to the other end zone?”
The query was certainly preposterous, particularly for someone who hadn’t even thrown a football — well, nothing more than a shotgun snap — in over five years. But for the son of Hayden “Sidd” Finch, nothing is preposterous when it comes to hurling objects.
Like his father, Berton was always a curious lad. The footlocker that remained untouched in the attic called out to him ever since he had read Treasure Island, leaving him dreaming of untold riches in the family’s own treasure chest. And although Joe Berton had told his two sons that the trunk would be revealed to them once they were older, Phil decided on his own that 10 years old was old enough, sneaking into the rafters of the house and cracking open the case.
His first reaction was disappointment; there weren’t any gems or gold coins gleaming from within. What he did find were items of baseball memorabilia, which were nearly as valuable to a sports-obsessed boy — baseballs, a Mets jersey and cap, plus newspaper and magazine clippings from all over the country.
One magazine in particular drew Phil’s attention: a copy of Sports Illustrated from more than 20 years prior. He started to thumb through the dog-eared publication with earnest fascination, reading about one of the old Cubs stars (Shawon Dunston), the Edmonton Oilers and even the Alaskan Iditarod. But it was the report of a pitching phenom that really intrigued him. He was nearly finished reading the story when a familiar face graced the page, that of his father sitting atop a camel!
Flabbergasted, he tried to make sense of the placement of the photo. It gradually dawned on him that his father was the pitcher in the story, which left many questions running through his mind. But if he asked his father, his disobedience would be revealed. As usual with Phil, though, curiosity led him to his decision on how to handle this surprising revelation.
He only knew of his father as a teacher at the junior high where he taught woodworking, fine art and applied arts. Obviously, Joe had plenty of patience, so when approached by his younger son about his past, there was no anger in his expression.
Joe had planned on revealing his past to his two sons when they had both finished high school, but with his secret exposed, his timetable would simply have to be moved up. He told them about his time in Tibet, learning the “art of the pitch,” the intense spotlight fame brought and his decision to retire from baseball.
What they wouldn’t find in a magazine article was what led to Joe dropping out of the public eye altogether. A Christmas tree trimming party, less than a year after being introduced to the sporting world, led Sidd Finch to the love of his life. Hoping to have a conversation free of the usual questions about his throwing ability, Sidd introduced himself as Joe Berton to Gloria, whose hair reminded him of the famous French stage actress, Sarah Bernhardt.
It took only a few dates before the ruse was revealed, thanks to fans hollering his name at him as the couple walked down the street. His explanation was met with understanding and a laugh, and he talked of his desire to escape the attention. So Sidd formally changed his name, and soon after the couple moved to the Chicago suburb of Oak Park, which was an idyllic place for them to settle down — away from the whirlwind fame he found in New York, yet still in a metropolitan area where he could enjoy the cultural endeavors of city life while mostly retaining his anonymity.
The two shared a love of art, inspiring him to pick up his old hobby of painting miniature soldiers. After participating in exhibitions both stateside and abroad in Europe, he secured his teaching post at Hawthorne (now Percy Julian) Junior High in Oak Park, Illinois.
After exchanging wedding vows with Gloria in 1990, the couple had their first son, Alex, a few years later. Phil came along following a few more years, and Joe was determined for his sons to become their own men and not live in his shadow. Any photographs, articles, memorabilia of any kind that linked Joe to Sidd Finch were carefully tucked away. Until young Phil let curiosity get the better of him …
Buddy Teevens is always looking for an edge. Sometimes it is through technology, like the Mobile Virtual Player (MVP), a robotic tackling dummy that was developed at the Dartmouth Thayer School of Engineering, partly due to the never-ending well of ideas that percolate from his brain.
Other times it is through personnel, such as his coaching staff. While working at the Manning Passing Academy as he has for over two decades, Teevens was impressed by the women serving as coaches for the first-ever MPA women’s football clinic. Impressed enough that he gave a pair of women an opportunity to intern for two weeks during the preseason — not just to help them gain insight into the workings of a collegiate team and provide input on all aspects of the operation, but to help the game of football grow and spread the gospel of safety for the players.
This past spring, however, Teevens was looking for an edge at quarterback. His two-year starter at the position, Jack Heneghan, was graduating and went on to sign a free-agent contract with the San Francisco 49ers.
Sure, he had his Wildcat QB, Jared Gerbino, returning after providing glimpses of what havoc he could wreak on opposing defenses. Just ask Princeton as the Tiger defense was carved up by Gerbino for 202 yards and four touchdowns in the season finale, carrying Dartmouth to a wild 54-44 victory. Teevens also had capable backups in rising junior Jake Pallotta and sophomore Derek Kyler, both anxiously waiting to prove themselves during spring practice after limited to no action in the fall.
But none of them had seized control of the position, and as the dozen practices allotted to Ivy League schools dwindled, Teevens decided to check in with his rising senior. Teevens knew of Berton’s lineage (Teevens immediately recognized Joe as Sidd Finch when visiting the family on a recruiting trip) and couldn’t help but be intrigued by it. Could it be possible that he inherited any of his father’s throwing ability?
“The only passing that Phil did, to my knowledge, was through his legs when he filled in at center for a few games during his sophomore year,” Teevens said. “I don’t even think I had seen him casually toss a football.”
Teevens wasn’t the only one. A quick survey of Berton’s senior teammates was unanimous in that none had ever seen him throw a football. Some went so far as to say they couldn’t imagine it would be much to look at.
And they weren’t mistaken (about seeing him throw a ball). Berton went out of his way to not throw a football, just to avoid that conversation. Granted, most of his teammates had no idea who Sidd Finch was, having been born a decade after his father’s fame came and went. Still, he didn’t want to risk one of them knowing their Sports Illustrated history and start questioning him about his arm.
Teevens casually approached Berton in his usual upbeat manner, and tried to sneak his question into the conversation to seem off-the-cuff. “Hey Phil, you throw the football around much?”
Phil held Teevens’ eye for a moment, wondering if this was more than a simple question. Teevens continued, “I was wondering if you might have a little bit of your father’s magic in your arm. You know we aren’t settled on a quarterback, and, well, if you do have some of that magic, I was hoping you might show us what you can do.”
The “magic” Teevens was hoping for wasn’t exactly inherited. It wasn’t something a person did as a crash course or on a weekend retreat. Finch spent many months in Tibet meditating and mastering the perfect pitch.
But once Phil knew of his father’s ability, he was determined to master it as well. He didn’t have to coax his father much into teaching him, for he possessed the calm disposition and central focus needed — even at his young age — that would serve him well.
Joe did have a few rules for his son: The lessons would be completely private, he was not to tell anyone what he was doing, and should he be able to master the art of the pitch, he was not to use it until he was an adult, for only then could he fully appreciate the temptations of greed, hatred and delusion that would come with his ability. It was a dilemma he had faced when deciding his own baseball fate.
The adventures of childhood, however, meant it would take him a bit longer to acquire the gift. Attending school, playing sports and cultivating friendships all took up much of his time. But when he was able to spend the time with his father, he put all of his energy and focus into the task at hand.
A funny thing happened on the way to Phil throwing the perfect pitch — his interest in baseball waned as his passion for football soared. Baseball was an individual sport masquerading as a team sport in his mind. For any action to happen on the field, the game always came down to a one-on-one matchup between pitcher and batter, placing all eyes on those two players.
Football was a true team sport. Nothing could be gained without the cohesive collaborative work of every member of the team on the field. Phil found the teamwork and camaraderie that came with it to be soothing to his soul.
When Phil finally perfected his throwing motion the summer before his junior year of high school, he took pride in doing so and gave the game up, not unlike his father. And no one outside of his family even knew he could throw a ball with the same speed and accuracy as the great Sidd Finch.
Putting all of his efforts into football (though he also starred in lacrosse) raised Phil’s profile as he filled out his lanky Finch frame and became a standout on the offensive line. He had opportunities to play college football at several FCS universities, attracting the attention of nearly every Ivy League school. He knew that his father had studied briefly at Harvard, but didn’t enjoy his time there and left suddenly. After visiting the school, he understood why. And while the mountains of the Upper Valley of New Hampshire will never be confused with those of Tibet, like the Himalayas, they reached out to his pastoral nature.
During his recruitment, Teevens happened to mention to the long-time Big Green baseball head coach, Bob Whalen, that he was bringing the son of Sidd Finch to his team.
“You can’t simply drop that name and not expect me to want to meet with the kid,” Whalen said. “I had my own brush with the legend about a dozen years ago when ESPN used one of my pitchers, Josh Faiola, to portray Sidd Finch in a documentary. I asked Buddy if it would be OK to speak with Phil when he arrived on campus, and he was happy to send him my way.
“He was very soft-spoken and polite, but after some casual conversation, he cut to the chase. He simply said, ‘My passion lies with football. I appreciate your interest in me not only as an athlete but as a person. But I am here to help the football team win a championship, and I don’t think it would be fair to you or your team and the football team to split my focus.’ I thanked him for his candor and wished him well. I didn’t even get to ask him if he pitched.”
Dartmouth football is a program with a rich history. Dating back to 1881, the team has claimed the 1925 national championship, declined an invitation to the Rose Bowl in 1937 (starting the Ivy League tradition of not playing in the postseason), won the famous Fifth-Down Game against Cornell in 1940, earned the Lambert Trophy as the East’s best team in 1970 and has won the Ivy League title 18 times, tied for the most by any school in the Ancient Eight. And with just three more victories, the Big Green will become the sixth FCS program to win 700 games.
When Berton arrived on campus as a freshman in the fall of 2015, however, the Big Green were in a drought having last won a conference crown in 1996. The team had suffered the ignominy of its only winless season in 2008 and posted just one winning record in league play from 1998-2010.
The tide started to turn in 2011 as Dartmouth finished in a four-way tie for second, and the resurgence continued with a 4-3 mark the next year, followed up by 5-2 in 2013 and nudged even higher at 6-1 a year later. But the championship eluded them as Harvard ran through the league undefeated.
Berton desperately wanted to help take Dartmouth over that last hurdle and add a championship trophy to the mantel. And the Green did just that in his rookie campaign, losing just one game all season (by a single point at Harvard in a fiercely fought battle), yet still ending the year in a three-way tie with the Crimson and Penn as the three schools shared the title.
Dartmouth stumbled in league action in 2016 as Phil saw his first varsity action. In his junior season, the Big Green made a quick rebound, tying for second place. They finished a mere game behind Yale, a team Dartmouth beat in its homecoming game after falling behind by 21 points, the largest deficit ever overcome by a Big Green team in a victory.
Even though he was a part of a championship team as a freshman, he didn’t get to play a single down that season. Sure, his work on the scout team provided a valuable service to the team, but he still desired to contribute to a title on the field. He had one more shot at bringing the trophy to Hanover, and he would do just about anything to realize that goal.
If there is one thing that has characterized Phil Berton’s football career at Dartmouth, it is that he has been willing to do whatever the team needs. Provide depth on the line. Take over starting center duties for the last three games of his sophomore season with less than a week of preparation. Change jerseys in the middle of a game and line up at tight end (as he did last year), leaving spectators and media alike wondering who was wearing number 91 on offense. Offensive line coach Keith Clark called Berton “the Swiss Army knife of the offensive line.”
One reason Phil was willing to do all of these tasks was because he could generally remain anonymous. Out of the spotlight. But now his head coach was asking him to do something for the good of the team that could potentially put him smack dab in the biggest spotlight reserved for any position in American sports — quarterback.
In Phil’s head, the team won out and he agreed to — as he put it — “demonstrate the art of the pass.” But he would allow only a few select people to be there for the evaluation — Teevens, offensive coordinator and quarterbacks coach Kevin Daft, and a trio of receivers to take turns catching his throws. He was still unsure about revealing his secret ability.
After one of the final spring practices wrapped up, the group lingered at Blackman Field, the team’s practice facility tucked behind Burnham Field, home of the Big Green soccer teams, and nestled between Scully-Fahey Field (lacrosse) and Dartmouth Softball Park, shielding Phil from unwanted eyes.
Teevens, the 1978 Ivy League Player of the Year as the Dartmouth quarterback, asked to toss the ball with Phil before involving the receivers, just to get a look at how the ball came out of his hand. But Phil waved his coach off, surprising Teevens a bit, but soon he was thankful for that gesture.
Drew Estrada, an impishly quick receiver coming off a breakout sophomore season in which he ranked second on the team in receptions and yardage, was the first target.
“I was planning on running a few 10-yard slants to get him warmed up, but the first one came so fast I could barely see it. Next thing I knew I was picking myself up off the ground — he hit me right in the chest and knocked me clean off my feet! Once I caught my breath, I told him that was enough warming up.”
Up next was long and lanky Drew Hunnicutt, a sure-handed receiver who missed most of the second half of the 2017 campaign after catching three touchdowns in the first five contests. One of those scores included the ninth-longest pass in Big Green history — 78 yards on the very first play at Sacred Heart.
Hunnicutt ran a 20-yard route and had a similar encounter with the ground as Estrada did. So he carved out a 30-yard route … 40 … 50. Every pass was right on the money, but the velocity proved to be too much to corral the throw. Finally at 60 yards Hunnicutt was able to secure the ball, or in all honesty, the ball secured him.
Daft then set up the receivers down the length of the field, separated by 30-35 yards apiece, with Phil standing in one end zone and Dylan Mellor — a senior whose very first catch as a rookie went 27 yards for a touchdown in a season-opening win at Georgetown in 2015 — in the other.
Phil was non-plussed by the distance and effortlessly threw a spiral on the money to Mellor. A spiral that traveled just over 100 yards in the air. Like a fire brigade passing buckets of water down the line, the receivers managed to cover that same span in three throws so Phil could prove the throw was no fluke. Again the only movement Mellor needed to catch the pass was lifting his arms as the ball arrived chest-high on the very spot he stood.
Hunnicutt watched the passes sail over his head from his spot on the chain gang with his mouth agape. “He has this elaborate windup, but then he just casually tosses the ball and it absolutely flies! Not only can he throw it from one end zone to the other, but he was right on the money every time. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
After about half a dozen of these throws that might as well have been shot from a cannon, Mellor (pictured right) signaled he had had enough. A quick trip to the training room confirmed what he suspected — a bone bruise in his hand.
One of Teevens’ calling cards is player safety. He instituted practices without tackling teammates — ever — years ago, and even tells his recruits and their parents that their son will never be tackled by another Big Green player while at Dartmouth. But he never dreamed he would have a problem in keeping his players safe from passes thrown with such force they could knock the receiver to the ground.
And while that was one problem, both Teevens and Daft noted another issue with the tosses — how long it took Phil to actually release the football.
When Sidd Finch perfected the art of the pitch, it came with an elaborate windup on the mound. Even though throwing a baseball and tossing a football utilize different mechanics to hurtle the ball over a distance, Phil was able to modify — or more accurately, translate — the motion for throwing a football. But it still came with the (by quarterback standards) excruciatingly long windup before the ball left his hand. Baseball pitchers don’t have to worry about the opposing team charging the mound during the pitch, only after a ball arrives too close to the batter, or within the same space. But time is of the essence for a quarterback, who needs to let it fly before the defense converges on him.
“Once he gets through the contortions of his windup, Phil seems to put little to no effort into the actual throw,” Daft noted. “Buddy and I both figured that we could cut back on the extra motion without compromising his throws.”
That work would have to wait until the fall with spring practices concluding. When Joe dropped Phil off at Dartmouth to report to preseason camp in mid-August, Teevens and Daft invited him to stick around and help them speed up Phil’s throwing motion.
“Joe took Phil out to the field and had him take off one shoe and turn his helmet around backwards before going through some meditation exercises. Then Joe joined him in a Dartmouth baseball jersey and hat, with just his right shoe on, and the two looked like synchronized swimmers performing their motion. It was beautiful, but not what we needed.
“I told Joe that motion takes too long to throw a football in a game, and he calmly said that there was no compromising the delivery,” Teevens said. “Yes, Phil was able to take what he learned and apply it to throwing a football, even figure out how to wear both shoes, though he lost some velocity because of it. But there simply were no shortcuts in this discipline. Then he thanked us for a walk down memory lane, I believe is how he put it, and left the field.”
Teevens and Daft (pictured left) weren’t going to give up so easily. But they soon found out it was true. Every element of the pass suffered any time they altered any part of his delivery: accuracy, velocity and distance. And not merely by a few inches here or a few yards there. None of the receivers could even get a finger on the ball as far off target as the heaves were. The truncated motion sapped every bit of what made Phil’s passes special.
For an entire week, the two coaches and Phil would stay at the field until everyone had cleared out, and they would go back to work. But try as they might, they could not pick up the pace of his motion and still maintain any of the awe-inspiring aspects of his throws.
Daft did not get a single good night of sleep during that week with his brain constantly attempting to tackle the problem, even in his subconscious. “Here we have one of the biggest arms — rivaled only by his father — in human history, and we simply could not harness it. I’ve never been so frustrated.”
Teevens decided to abandon the project, instead focusing his energy on the viable quarterbacks in camp, which now included Jake Allen, a transfer from the University of Florida. When the preseason moved into the second week, he stopped Phil, ball in hand, at the near end zone when he arrived for a practice. He then informed Phil that he would be starting at right tackle on the offensive line instead of taking snaps as the QB, the disappointment was short-lived as relief washed over him. Phil had not held back in his attempt to become the quarterback, but he knew the spotlight was not for him.
“If that is what needs to be, it shall be,” he said, then took two steps toward the field before stopping and turning back to his coach. “I do have one request. I know our first throwing session was recorded …”
Teevens was taken aback. An overzealous member of his video team had taken it upon himself to sneak into the stands of nearby Burnham Field to surreptitiously confirm the rumor about Phil. Buddy had confiscated the video but had not mentioned it, believing Phil would disapprove.
“You may do with it as you like, but I would very much like to have a copy of it. It will likely just end up in a trunk in my attic, but perhaps one day I will want to show it to my family.”
Perhaps he will have a curious child that will watch the footage in wonder, learn from his father and figure out a way to play quarterback for Dartmouth. Or even pitch. Following that fleeting thought, Phil dropped the football at his feet there in the end zone, happy to leave it behind, and trotted off to join his fellow offensive linemen in prepping for practice.
Sitting in his office overlooking Memorial Field with the season opener barely a week away, Teevens is teeming with energy in anticipation of the season opener against Georgetown. Various formations, personnel and trick plays bounce around inside his brain.
He tries to keep the thoughts pertaining to his quarterbacks on his quarterbacks and not on Phil’s right arm. He stands up from his desk, peering at the West Stands as if an answer would come from the ghosts of the Dartmouth veteran soldiers honored within the stadium. “Was there something else we could have done? Should I have spent more time with him? If I had approached him earlier in his career, would we figure it out?”
Teevens lets those last words linger in the air before shaking his head and turning back to the room. His brain has kicked back into full gear as a smile briefly settles on his face.
“If nothing else, I just might have the best Hail Mary passer the game has ever seen. All we have to do is give him enough time to let it fly.”
To read the original story about Sidd Finch and see photos of Joe Berton as Sidd, visit the Sports Illustrated archives.