[Note: The author was inspired to write this by URI's remarkable 2025 football season and the promise that the upcoming season holds].
In 1984 and 1985, I was a defensive back on arguably the two best teams the University of Rhode Island has ever fielded. It was a program on the edge of a national title.
By 1986, I was a starting free safety when the bottom fell out: a 1-10 season that kicked off a decades-long slide URI football barely survived.
My name is Korry Stagnito, and I'm a 1987 URI graduate with a B.A. in Journalism. This is a family story. And it's chockful of coincidences.
Born in Easton, Pennsylvania, in late 1965, I was the third child in a Sicilian and Hungarian household. My early years were spent with family in Easton and across the bridge in Phillipsburg, New Jersey. My dad was a football star. My mom, Linda, was the homecoming queen who drove me to a thousand practices, watched all my games, and was my biggest fan.
In 1984 and 1985, I was a defensive back on arguably the two best teams the University of Rhode Island has ever fielded. It was a program on the edge of a national title.
By 1986, I was a starting free safety when the bottom fell out: a 1-10 season that kicked off a decades-long slide URI football barely survived.
My name is Korry Stagnito, and I'm a 1987 URI graduate with a B.A. in Journalism. This is a family story. And it's chockful of coincidences.
Born in Easton, Pennsylvania, in late 1965, I was the third child in a Sicilian and Hungarian household. My early years were spent with family in Easton and across the bridge in Phillipsburg, New Jersey. My dad was a football star. My mom, Linda, was the homecoming queen who drove me to a thousand practices, watched all my games, and was my biggest fan.
Easton is mainly known for three things: it was one of the first three cities to hear the Declaration of Independence read publicly on July 8, 1776 (the other two were Philadelphia and Trenton); it's home to former heavyweight boxing champion Larry Holmes; and it's a football town. The annual Easton–Phillipsburg Thanksgiving game is the oldest interstate rivalry in the United States, having been played 117 times since 1905.
That's the backdrop upon which I learned the fundamentals, tradition, and heritage of football beginning at the age of seven. A man's game, my dad called it.
Easton is also known for wrestling, and I did it at St. Anthony's Youth Club, where Larry Holmes also trained just before becoming the world champ. My first weight class was 65 pounds.
My dad moved our family to suburban Chicago for work in the late 1970s, and I was the second youngest student in the 1983 class at Lake Zurich High School. Wrestling at 105 pounds as a freshman and 126 as a sophomore, I constantly balanced cutting dangerous amounts of weight for wrestling while bulking up for football. In my senior year, I played both offensive and defensive back on a .500 team, standing about 5'9" and weighing 165 pounds. Honors didn't come my way, and no records were set. Clocked at 4.6 in the forty-yard dash on a bumpy grass field; I swear it had a slight upgrade.
By the end of the season, I had three passions, and two of them were football and New England. No recruiters at any level were calling: zero offers, no interest.
My dad badgered my high school coach into sending game tape to URI and most of the Yankee Conference. He was a gifted salesperson, and I suspect he did some selling on a call or two with Coach Griffin. God bless him for offering me what I assume would today be called a preferred walk-on spot. In other words, he remembered my name. Maybe. Probably not.
That's the backdrop upon which I learned the fundamentals, tradition, and heritage of football beginning at the age of seven. A man's game, my dad called it.
Easton is also known for wrestling, and I did it at St. Anthony's Youth Club, where Larry Holmes also trained just before becoming the world champ. My first weight class was 65 pounds.
My dad moved our family to suburban Chicago for work in the late 1970s, and I was the second youngest student in the 1983 class at Lake Zurich High School. Wrestling at 105 pounds as a freshman and 126 as a sophomore, I constantly balanced cutting dangerous amounts of weight for wrestling while bulking up for football. In my senior year, I played both offensive and defensive back on a .500 team, standing about 5'9" and weighing 165 pounds. Honors didn't come my way, and no records were set. Clocked at 4.6 in the forty-yard dash on a bumpy grass field; I swear it had a slight upgrade.
By the end of the season, I had three passions, and two of them were football and New England. No recruiters at any level were calling: zero offers, no interest.
My dad badgered my high school coach into sending game tape to URI and most of the Yankee Conference. He was a gifted salesperson, and I suspect he did some selling on a call or two with Coach Griffin. God bless him for offering me what I assume would today be called a preferred walk-on spot. In other words, he remembered my name. Maybe. Probably not.
So, I arrived in Kingston in August 1983, as Newport was hosting the America's Cup, with no clue how close the campus was to the ocean. A solid summer had gotten me to about 187 pounds, and my peak height of five-foot-nine-and-three-quarters.
The scholarship freshmen had already finished summer camp, and I was woefully behind. I was geared up with uniforms from the '70s (possibly older) with freakishly large shoulder pads. The Adidas cleats I was given had probably been worn by half a dozen kids before me and worn down to nubs, and my helmet was actually a downgrade from the one I had in high school. Worst of all, we were given pants made from some unidentifiable fabric: grayish blue, unbelievably heavy, and perfect for quickly spotting the walk-ons in their clown costumes. Not exactly Rudy, but not far from it.
Tryouts consisted of dozens of kids, mostly kickers and offensive and defensive backs, assembled into a couple of large groups. I remember running a forty, but I don't know my time and can't imagine it was very impressive. Something must have shown, though, because I found myself on the scout team as a 17-year-old, undersized free safety from Illinois, with limited defensive coaching. A better shot probably waited at Division II or III, but I wanted to try to bang with the big boys.
And bang, I could. That was a reckless era of football, and I played it that way: head down, helmet-to-helmet, maximum velocity. See some stars? Cool. Better to bust up a play than make a pick. Put somebody on the ground on every play, even if it's away from the action. My wrestling experience also made me a pretty good form tackler.
Unbeknownst to me, I entered a class steeped in talent. The 1983 team finished 6-4, and Tony Hill, out of Lynn, Massachusetts, became a force at free safety. Tony had it all: size, speed, great athleticism. He was so gifted that he had to choose between playing professional football and baseball. He chose the latter. The other DBs were just as talented.
The Tom Ehrhardt era began during my sophomore season in 1984. Back on the scout team, I practiced against a squad that would go 10-3 and reach the I-AA [now FCS] semifinals, losing to the eventual national champion, Montana State, my dad’s alma mater.
The offensive system that Coach Griffin created was innovative and prolific. The Boston Globe dubbed it the “Ehr Attack,” and it averaged over 60 passing attempts per game, which was a lot back then. Tom had pro-level size and arm strength and an amazing cast of receivers. When the Rams took the field in Keaney blue jerseys and gold pants, the fans were in for an exciting ride.
Some of the top talent in Division I-AA lined up across from me every day in practice, and I learned from them. Some went on to play in the NFL. Our practice pants were also gold, but an extra-small pair of white pants turned up, and I pulled them way up over my knees so I could move better. Sound familiar? I wish they allowed that in games.
I had a pretty good spring game my Sophomore year, including a monster hit behind the line of scrimmage on a halfback screen. The sound of the collision echoed loudly, and it brought a roar from the small crowd. I thought it might earn me a summer camp invitation, but the roster was loaded with defensive backs, and I can see why they didn't bring me up.
Junior year, 1985, brought the breakthrough: I was given the number 23 and moved into the varsity locker room. Third on the depth chart, I played special teams. We were upset by Brown University, a game I played in front of my parents and my younger brother, who was a freshman there. We went 10-3 again and lost in the quarterfinals to Furman, who finished as national runner-up.
By senior year, 1986, I'd finally earned a trip to summer camp, entering as the number one free safety on the depth chart. Training hard leading into the season wasn't the same as training smart: lots of jogging and sprinting on pavement. I developed stress fractures in both legs and missed most of camp.
My first start was at home against Brown. My parents were there. The week prior, a Brown receiver made an obscene number of catches and was featured in Sports Illustrated's "Faces in the Crowd." This was the guy I had to defend. Struck by the moment, I distinctly remember almost hyperventilating as the game began. It doesn't take a coaching genius to test the little guy who's gasping for air, and they did it almost immediately.
I undercut a deep route for an interception, right in front of Sports Illustrated, who caught me from behind a moment later. My coaching kicked in as I grabbed the ball high with my hands, not against my body. I can still feel the ball stinging my hands forty years later. We lost that game, but it gave me the confidence to feel like I belonged on that field.
In my second start, against the University of Massachusetts, the Providence Journal wrote that I "drilled" the UMass quarterback on a safety blitz to stop a fourth-and-goal from our four-yard line.
In another game, I gambled on a tackle and took a terrible angle right in front of my position coach. The disgust on his face is something I'll never forget. Oh, and I hurt my shoulder on that play and missed the rest of the game.
In my last game at Northeastern University, I was credited for a tackle that I didn’t make. Four decades later, my daughter graduated from that school, though by then, the football program had long since shuttered. I also played at UConn, where my oldest daughter graduated. Thankfully, we weren't scheduled against Penn State or Georgia, where my other daughters graduated.
We finished a very long season at 1-10. Instead of Keaney blue and gold, our uniforms suddenly felt like powder blue and yellow. Coach Griffin and his staff didn’t forget how to coach overnight; once-in-a-generation talent cycled out, and a new offense had to be devised.
Because I redshirted my freshman year, I had an extra year of eligibility. But when I cut my ankle tape for the last time, I knew it was time to start my life. That fateful decision led me to Boston, where I immediately met my amazing wife of 33 years and started our family of four daughters.
That was the beginning of a long, painful stretch for URI football.
Around 2011, URI President David Dooley invited Chicago-area alumni to a private dinner, and I accepted. Rumors were circulating that the university was considering shuttering the football program, and I made an impassioned plea to Dr. Dooley to stay the course. Whether it made a difference, I have no idea, but it probably didn't hurt.
A while later, they hired a new coach: a guy who'd played tight end at some school in Tennessee. Coming from Chicago, I felt like an outsider. Good luck connecting with a bunch of New England and Mid-Atlantic kids, I thought. I felt sorry for him.
The scholarship freshmen had already finished summer camp, and I was woefully behind. I was geared up with uniforms from the '70s (possibly older) with freakishly large shoulder pads. The Adidas cleats I was given had probably been worn by half a dozen kids before me and worn down to nubs, and my helmet was actually a downgrade from the one I had in high school. Worst of all, we were given pants made from some unidentifiable fabric: grayish blue, unbelievably heavy, and perfect for quickly spotting the walk-ons in their clown costumes. Not exactly Rudy, but not far from it.
Tryouts consisted of dozens of kids, mostly kickers and offensive and defensive backs, assembled into a couple of large groups. I remember running a forty, but I don't know my time and can't imagine it was very impressive. Something must have shown, though, because I found myself on the scout team as a 17-year-old, undersized free safety from Illinois, with limited defensive coaching. A better shot probably waited at Division II or III, but I wanted to try to bang with the big boys.
And bang, I could. That was a reckless era of football, and I played it that way: head down, helmet-to-helmet, maximum velocity. See some stars? Cool. Better to bust up a play than make a pick. Put somebody on the ground on every play, even if it's away from the action. My wrestling experience also made me a pretty good form tackler.
Unbeknownst to me, I entered a class steeped in talent. The 1983 team finished 6-4, and Tony Hill, out of Lynn, Massachusetts, became a force at free safety. Tony had it all: size, speed, great athleticism. He was so gifted that he had to choose between playing professional football and baseball. He chose the latter. The other DBs were just as talented.
The Tom Ehrhardt era began during my sophomore season in 1984. Back on the scout team, I practiced against a squad that would go 10-3 and reach the I-AA [now FCS] semifinals, losing to the eventual national champion, Montana State, my dad’s alma mater.
The offensive system that Coach Griffin created was innovative and prolific. The Boston Globe dubbed it the “Ehr Attack,” and it averaged over 60 passing attempts per game, which was a lot back then. Tom had pro-level size and arm strength and an amazing cast of receivers. When the Rams took the field in Keaney blue jerseys and gold pants, the fans were in for an exciting ride.
Some of the top talent in Division I-AA lined up across from me every day in practice, and I learned from them. Some went on to play in the NFL. Our practice pants were also gold, but an extra-small pair of white pants turned up, and I pulled them way up over my knees so I could move better. Sound familiar? I wish they allowed that in games.
I had a pretty good spring game my Sophomore year, including a monster hit behind the line of scrimmage on a halfback screen. The sound of the collision echoed loudly, and it brought a roar from the small crowd. I thought it might earn me a summer camp invitation, but the roster was loaded with defensive backs, and I can see why they didn't bring me up.
Junior year, 1985, brought the breakthrough: I was given the number 23 and moved into the varsity locker room. Third on the depth chart, I played special teams. We were upset by Brown University, a game I played in front of my parents and my younger brother, who was a freshman there. We went 10-3 again and lost in the quarterfinals to Furman, who finished as national runner-up.
By senior year, 1986, I'd finally earned a trip to summer camp, entering as the number one free safety on the depth chart. Training hard leading into the season wasn't the same as training smart: lots of jogging and sprinting on pavement. I developed stress fractures in both legs and missed most of camp.
My first start was at home against Brown. My parents were there. The week prior, a Brown receiver made an obscene number of catches and was featured in Sports Illustrated's "Faces in the Crowd." This was the guy I had to defend. Struck by the moment, I distinctly remember almost hyperventilating as the game began. It doesn't take a coaching genius to test the little guy who's gasping for air, and they did it almost immediately.
I undercut a deep route for an interception, right in front of Sports Illustrated, who caught me from behind a moment later. My coaching kicked in as I grabbed the ball high with my hands, not against my body. I can still feel the ball stinging my hands forty years later. We lost that game, but it gave me the confidence to feel like I belonged on that field.
In my second start, against the University of Massachusetts, the Providence Journal wrote that I "drilled" the UMass quarterback on a safety blitz to stop a fourth-and-goal from our four-yard line.
In another game, I gambled on a tackle and took a terrible angle right in front of my position coach. The disgust on his face is something I'll never forget. Oh, and I hurt my shoulder on that play and missed the rest of the game.
In my last game at Northeastern University, I was credited for a tackle that I didn’t make. Four decades later, my daughter graduated from that school, though by then, the football program had long since shuttered. I also played at UConn, where my oldest daughter graduated. Thankfully, we weren't scheduled against Penn State or Georgia, where my other daughters graduated.
We finished a very long season at 1-10. Instead of Keaney blue and gold, our uniforms suddenly felt like powder blue and yellow. Coach Griffin and his staff didn’t forget how to coach overnight; once-in-a-generation talent cycled out, and a new offense had to be devised.
Because I redshirted my freshman year, I had an extra year of eligibility. But when I cut my ankle tape for the last time, I knew it was time to start my life. That fateful decision led me to Boston, where I immediately met my amazing wife of 33 years and started our family of four daughters.
That was the beginning of a long, painful stretch for URI football.
Around 2011, URI President David Dooley invited Chicago-area alumni to a private dinner, and I accepted. Rumors were circulating that the university was considering shuttering the football program, and I made an impassioned plea to Dr. Dooley to stay the course. Whether it made a difference, I have no idea, but it probably didn't hurt.
A while later, they hired a new coach: a guy who'd played tight end at some school in Tennessee. Coming from Chicago, I felt like an outsider. Good luck connecting with a bunch of New England and Mid-Atlantic kids, I thought. I felt sorry for him.
My dad, Harry Stagnito, was a standout halfback in Easton, Pennsylvania, in the late 1950s: small but lightning fast. As much as he encouraged my aggressive play, he clearly preferred avoiding contact, and he racked up a lot of touchdowns doing it, according to the local papers. A couple of weeks after breaking his collarbone, he caught a 30-yard touchdown pass in a close 1957 Easton–Phillipsburg game, which Easton won. One of his coaches went on to become a position coach at Montana State University and offered him a full athletic scholarship.
My dad's career at MSU isn't something I know much about. Newspaper clips about his games are about all I've read, and he often talks about the time he fumbled an opening kickoff against Arizona State.
I guess that, like me, he wasn't a star. But when the whistle blew, we showed up. And despite our physical limitations, we walked away with the lifelong satisfaction of knowing that we gave it everything.
I guess that, like me, he wasn't a star. But when the whistle blew, we showed up. And despite our physical limitations, we walked away with the lifelong satisfaction of knowing that we gave it everything.
Which brings me to my message for the 2026 Rams.
To Coach Fleming, your staff, and the athletic department: What you have done with this program is nothing short of spectacular. We’re proud of your achievements.
To the players: You've joined the ranks of an exceedingly small fraternity of Division I college football players. You are, quite literally, the one percenter. And competing on a nationally ranked team is an even more exclusive club. When life gets hard, and it will, you will draw on this experience to persevere.
Along the way, you will remember everything: the big plays; the time an easy pick bounced off your facemask; discovering that team meetings would be your hardest class; when a former Pitt basketball transfer tried to hurdle over you in the open field in a spring game, his knee catching you on the side of the helmet and knocking you out momentarily before staggering to the wrong huddle; the "J"-shaped scar on your palm, a permanent reminder of a chinstrap buckle that sliced it open in a JV game; being a good teammate, and not so good; the phone calls home to your dad who talked you out of quitting because it was hard.
God willing, you'll be 60 someday, and you'll have the joy of talking FCS football with your dad in his mid-80s. You'll excitedly trade texts and emails and have calls about the FCS rankings and post-mortems about last week's games. You’ll muse about the possibility of a URI-Montana State matchup in the playoffs. If you're really fortunate, you'll be watching when Montana State beats the University of Montana on ESPN—your parents beside you—as they advance to ultimately win the 2025 national championship. And you'll watch in awe, acknowledging to each other there's no way you could have done what these kids do.
As sure as the class of 2026 is tired of hearing about the 80s era, I’m just as sick of the hype surrounding Montana State and the other western schools.
This is your time, Rams. Your chance to become the best team Rhody has ever produced, and quite possibly win a national championship.
Every player who came before you, on great teams and terrible (and sometimes both), is cheering for you.
Go write your own family story.
To Coach Fleming, your staff, and the athletic department: What you have done with this program is nothing short of spectacular. We’re proud of your achievements.
To the players: You've joined the ranks of an exceedingly small fraternity of Division I college football players. You are, quite literally, the one percenter. And competing on a nationally ranked team is an even more exclusive club. When life gets hard, and it will, you will draw on this experience to persevere.
Along the way, you will remember everything: the big plays; the time an easy pick bounced off your facemask; discovering that team meetings would be your hardest class; when a former Pitt basketball transfer tried to hurdle over you in the open field in a spring game, his knee catching you on the side of the helmet and knocking you out momentarily before staggering to the wrong huddle; the "J"-shaped scar on your palm, a permanent reminder of a chinstrap buckle that sliced it open in a JV game; being a good teammate, and not so good; the phone calls home to your dad who talked you out of quitting because it was hard.
God willing, you'll be 60 someday, and you'll have the joy of talking FCS football with your dad in his mid-80s. You'll excitedly trade texts and emails and have calls about the FCS rankings and post-mortems about last week's games. You’ll muse about the possibility of a URI-Montana State matchup in the playoffs. If you're really fortunate, you'll be watching when Montana State beats the University of Montana on ESPN—your parents beside you—as they advance to ultimately win the 2025 national championship. And you'll watch in awe, acknowledging to each other there's no way you could have done what these kids do.
As sure as the class of 2026 is tired of hearing about the 80s era, I’m just as sick of the hype surrounding Montana State and the other western schools.
This is your time, Rams. Your chance to become the best team Rhody has ever produced, and quite possibly win a national championship.
Every player who came before you, on great teams and terrible (and sometimes both), is cheering for you.
Go write your own family story.
