Tom Vartabedian
—
The gridiron wasn't the only place where Eugene Goodreault had records. Aside from football, he had more than he could handle right inside his Bradford home.
And he was willing to share all he had, even give them away if there was a taker. These records represented a part of him few people recognized.
I knew all about his prowess on the undefeated 1936 Haverhill High team, regarded as the greatest ever produced in this city. And I was all too familiar with his exploits at Boston College as a bona fide All-American end who led his team to a Sugar Bowl championship.
I was by his side in 2001 when Boston College retired his jersey, covering the event for The Haverhill Gazette that year. We both shed a tear over the emotion that engulfed Alumni Stadium that afternoon.
To say he was the greatest who ever played the game in Haverhill may be a bit presumptuous. Perhaps in his generation. There was also Donny White in the mid-50s who got a scholarship to Notre Dame, and in my lifetime, the Conway brothers — Pat and Danny — who enjoyed star-studded careers for the Hillies. Pat was a Goliath for the Harvard Crimson and Danny went on to BC and was later drafted by the Buffalo Bills.
But Gene Goodreault was certainly a man of many talents and emotions, as I was quick to discover.
I had attended a Merrimack Valley Symphony concert one Sunday afternoon and our paths crossed on the way out. He was as surprised to see me at such a venue as I was at seeing him.
"I didn't know you were into classical music," he said.
"Likewise," I told him. "Sure was a lovely Beethoven piece."
"He wrote that Pastoral Sixth Symphony while he was deaf," Goodreault said. "A very remarkable composer indeed."
While walking to our cars, he invited me to his home, saying he needed a favor done. If I were to be so kind as to visit him in Bradford, he would be truly obliged.
I totally forgot, until my phone rang one day at The Gazette.
"Hi, Tom. This is Eugene — Eugene Goodreault. If you have some free time, I hate to bother you. But maybe you can pay me a visit. I have a favor to ask."
What could it be? Did he need an errand done? Some research perhaps? That afternoon, I knocked on his door, somewhat befuddled by his request.
I followed him to an upstairs bedroom and he opened a closet door. There before me was a treasure trove of music in the form of records. He had them piled up in every corner — sets of records from mail order companies, most all of them unopened.
"I read in one of your columns that you still play records," he said. "Would you do me a big favor and take these off my hands? Like everyone else, I'm into CDs."
My curiosity was overwhelming. Had he purchased these through the mail and never played them?
"These companies keep sending me records and I've been returning them but they kept coming back," he explained. "Finally I said to heck with it and began storing them in my closet. As you can see, there's no room for my clothes."
I removed 30 of those album sets that afternoon and sneaked them into my home when my wife wasn't looking. She had badgered me to rid myself of a collection of a thousand vinyl discs, not add to the surplus.
In the weeks and months that followed, I visited with Eugene often and we would listen to light symphonies together. He had a lady friend who popped in often and we made it a listening trio. The man sure had a passion for good music.
He wasn't a bad card player either.
His success as the owner of a wool brokerage company was notable, not to mention his meritorious military career.
But mostly, Eugene was a man of few words whose actions spoke for themselves, especially when he showed up to see his son Joey quarterback the Hillies and then play for Harvard. Any mention of him in the newspaper coverage drew an immediate thank-you.
I think of our quiet days together listening to the greatest music ever played with one of the greatest players from Haverhill and I cannot let it pass.
His death on July 13 was like the Beethoven Pastoral we had heard that day — beautiful and heartbreaking.
Photographer and writer Tom Vartabedian is retired from The Haverhill Gazette. He contributes this regular column.
