I never met Art Donovan, but I’ve felt a special connection to the Hall of Fame football player for more than a decade now.
On the surface, of course, we have little in common. He was 45 years older than me, half a foot taller, and nearly thrice my weight. He sported a brush cut, made his living in the trenches of the professional gridiron, and, along with Dorothy Donovan, his wife of 57 years, owned and managed a country club that specialized in hosting weddings.
I have curly tresses, work in the tweedy halls of academia, and am a lifelong bachelor. I mean, we’re both white guys, but other than that, we really don’t seem to have much in common.
Except for this: my life path has closely mirrored Donovan’s in its twisting geography. We were both born and raised in The Bronx, and wound our way through a couple of college towns before touching down in Baltimore.
Son of boxing referee Arthur Donovan, Sr., who worked the ring in some 150 title fights, including 19 with Joe Louis, Junior left home to serve in the U.S. Marines during World War II. Afterwards, he managed to land a football scholarship at Boston College.
He first arrived in Baltimore as a 26 year old rookie defensive lineman for the Colts, and soon emerged as a dominant player.
“I came down from New York in 1950. Nobody knew who I was,” he later reminisced. He spent most of his professional career in Charm City, and after retiring, he made it his permanent home, returning the bountiful affection this city showered upon him.
Always known for his earthy ebullience, he seemed like a character from a Damon Runyon story, never losing his thick Bronx Ir
Offering up a trove of engaging stories, Donovan was a regular on the talk show circuit, frequently chatting with the likes of Johnny Carson and David Letterman. He collected his many tales of stunning machismo and lovable buffoonery into the bestselling 1987 memoir Fatso: Football When Men were Really Men.
But aside from national fame as an avuncular funnyman and jocular ex-jock, Donovan was the stuff of legend here in Baltimore. He remains aruguably the most beloved old Colt behind only Quarterback Johnny Unitas. Prominently featured for many years on local radio and television, his pudgy, smiling face was iconic.
I can’t imagine that anyone in this town has had more sandwiches named after him.
Among his many comic pearls of wisdom, Donovan once noted that, “the best way to die is to sit under a tree, eat lots of bologna and salami, drink a case of beer, and blow up.”
Well, maybe second best. Donovan got to go in the best of all possible ways. The father of five passed away at the merry old age of 88, surrounded by loved ones.
In 1968, Donovan became the first Baltimore Colt ever inducted into the Professional Football Hall of Fame. During his acceptance speech, the hulking war vet and former lineman shared his personal warmth and humility
during his acceptance speech. Remembering his mother, he said “I know a lady up in heaven that is very proud of the way you people in Baltimore have treated a boy from the Bronx. Thank you.”
As another Bronx-Baltimore transplant, I raise a glass to the man who played Santa Clause at team functions and who brought a smile to the face of everyone except opposing players.
To a life well lived.