Oslin of B.C. remembers one pre-game pep-rally that inspired more than just the Eagle icemen. During the warm-up, a puck hit a female spectator on the side of her head, B.C. officials took the wounded fan into the training room to prepare for stitches and a trip to the hospital. From there, the victim could hear everything Kelley said to his boys in the adjoining locker room.
"Snooks was in there whooping it up as usual, telling everyone how this was the 'biggest game of the season' (as was every game for Kelley) and how they had to win it for the school." Oslin recalls. "And when he finally told them to get out on the ice, the woman sat up and said. 'Let me out of here, I have to see this game!'"
"You never saw a team as fired up as Boston College," Cleary says. "We always asked the B.C. players who they were supposed to win for this time. We swore Snooks sent himself inspiring telegrams and then read them aloud in the locker room."
Although Kelley dominated his sports as few coaches have, he never endorsed the Vince Lombardi win-at-all-costs philosophy. On his list of priorities, winning a hockey game always ranked below the concerns of the people playing in it.
Accomplishments like his 501 wins and the Lester Patrick Award are worth only passing reference in conversations: Kelley's joy are his former players, and particularly the slew of godchildren they've given him. He delights in the memory of having escorted one player's bride-to-be down the aisle when her father was unable to attend the wedding.
"I was mainly interested in the individuals," Kelley says. "I tried to think of them as people first then as athletes. When Kelley played his 500th game in 1972, all of Boston College celebrated with him. A 400-Ib cake was wheeled onto the ice and sliced up for the spectators, and B.C. President Father W. Seavey Joyce S.J. declared a holiday and closed the school on the following day.
Things haven't changed much since Kelley's retirement. He is in his office every day, and just as he hoped, people stop constantly to say hello.
"I buy two pounds of candy every morning for the kids, and by the end of the day, it's always gone," he says. "That door is always open, and the kids know they can always come in here for advice."
No job could be better suited to Kelley, who always has something to say about everything. In fact, the only thing he draws a blank on is how he got the nickname "Snooks."
"I don't really remember where it came from, but a long time ago it was probably the name of some Saturday morning cartoon character, a little buy who was always into some sort of mischief," he says. "And if you ask people who know me, some smart alec in sure to say I haven't changed a bit."