smo1a
Pretty much a regular
My dad passed away 3 years ago. He was a ND alum and I spent my life being taught the love for Notre Dame. I know he is smiling up in Heaven right now, just wising this was something I could share with him.
For whatever sentimental reason, I thought I'd share the eulogy I wrote for his funeral...he was a good man....
------------------
Joseph Patrick was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania on May 3, 1932.</SPAN>
At the age of 5 he moved with his father to Detroit, Michigan where Dad was raised until he graduated High School. Dad was a fairly gifted athlete excelling in track, baseball, and football. He lettered in all three sports during his years at St. Charles Catholic High School. Dad’s childhood dream was to go to the University of Notre Dame. Even though he was accepted to the University of Michigan, his heart was set on Notre Dame and he would do what it took to gain acceptance there. </SPAN>
Unfortunately his dream of attending Notre Dame would be put on hold for an extra year after high school because the University felt he needed an extra year to refine his maturity and demeanor. As you will see, sports would be a recurring theme in Pat’s life. His love of sports sometimes got him in a bit of trouble. During his senior year, with his football team having an opportunity for the Catholic high School Championship, one of their best players had been ruled academically ineligible because of his grades. With this unfortunate news, Patrick O’Malley, pragmatic and even keeled as anyone could be, decided the only solution would be to organize a student revolt against the school. Well…apparently things got a bit out of hand. Leading a student exodus from the class room, a priest had stood in Dad’s way and demanded that he return to his class. When the priest refused to move away from the door to let Pat and his fellow students leave, he shoved the Priest out of the way, knocking him through the door.</SPAN>
Because of this – and most certainly some other shenanigans, Dad’s detour to South Bend led him to Rhode Island for a year of, lets say just say “social seasoning” at Port Smith Priory Prep School. It was there that he got to play another sport he loved, and that was hockey. For those of you that knew Pat, one physical feature that would be hard to not notice would be a nose that pointed toward the west. Well, back in the early fifties, football players were leatherheads and didn’t benefit from modern technology like the invention of the face mask. And, since Dad was not a gifted skater, his hockey career was spent as a goalie. Similar to football, goalies didn’t even wear helmets. I guess dad had a penchant for stopping the puck no matter what, and that included using his face if necessary. </SPAN>
You had to be tough to play football, and dad was a competitor. If getting a competitive edge meant trash talking or trying to intimidate your competition, Dad was game. Unfortunately he didn’t always choose his battles wisely. While pretty tall at 6 foot 2 inches, Dad only weighed about 160 pounds. As a tight end, he often got to block defensive tackles. Well, one game dad’s task was to block a defensive tackle named Eugene Lipscomb, later to be known as All Pro Baltimore Colts defensive tackle “Big Daddy” Lipscomb. Outweighed by well over a hundred pounds, dad took it upon himself to, well…putting it mildly trash talk this hulking beast of a man. Calling him everything in the book and nothing that would be appropriate in the Lords House, Big daddy took offense to this little guy Pat. After the ball was snapped, Dad was immediately leveled to the ground, covered in blood, and given the gift of a crooked nose. I think it is safe to say from that point forward, any aspirations of playing football at a high level were probably dashed.</SPAN>
Even though there was no personal glory for him on the football field at Notre Dame, his love and passion for that school was obvious for everyone that knew Pat. To say that Notre Dame was his passion would be a gross understatement.</SPAN>
Upon graduating in 1955 with a degree in Business Administration and as a second Lieutenant through the ROTC program, Pat was to report for active duty with the US army shortly after graduation. Before heading off to Fort Benning Georgia, dad decided to visit his father who had retired from the Chrysler Corporation to live in the warm weather of Miami Beach, Florida. Pat’s father had a lady friend that decided to arrange a blind date for Pat with the daughter of one of her good friends. So the day before heading off for six months of active duty, Pat met a striking young blonde named Terry. I am not exactly sure what happened during that one date, but apparently dad was smitten and in love. Terry shared Pat’s love of sports as well and she too was a fan of Notre Dame. Pat had found his soul mate! </SPAN>
Today we usually see love slowly blossom with many courtships lasting several years before a commitment to marriage. After one date with Terry, Pat was so in love he vowed to call or write Terry every day while at Fort Benning. He kept his promise. In days when there were no cell phones or calling cards, Pat asked Terry’s mother if he could call her collect and send a check every month to cover the cost of the long distance calls. She allowed this and it would be safe to say that much of Dad’s service pay went toward Terry’s parents phone bill. Via a long distance relationship with daily phone conversations and letters, Terry and Pat vowed to get married upon his return to Miami. I thought I would share a little of one the many letters that Dad wrote to my mom….</SPAN>
Dearerst Terry,</SPAN>
This morning I received your letter and it was wonderful hearing from you. In answer to your question: I’ll be content to spend my life and the whole of eternity with you. You are my all, and all that I would ever ask and hope for.</SPAN>
Ok, I'm going to skip this next part which was Pat informing Terry about the local minor league baseball teams latest game. It's kind of funny that in all of these letters my mom has saved, every one of them had one of these updates. DID I mention their shared love of sports?? So….back to the letter….</SPAN>
Well, darling Terry, another day finished and yet another day closer to you. I love you very much. Honey, I don’t mind telling you I wish I could shout it for all the world to hear. It won’t be long till we are man and wife. Terry, I love you very much. My life is dedicated now and forever to you. You’re the girl I love – I am very proud of you. </SPAN>
Well Terry - until tomorrow – dearest Terry - I love you!</SPAN>
With all my love,</SPAN>
Yours Pat</SPAN>
Now…imagine receiving a letter like this in the mail every day for six months. After 52 years of marriage, my father loved my mother every day through good times and bad – through all of his eternity.</SPAN>
When Dad returned to Miami after active duty, he and Terry married in February of 1957. Dad began a long career in sales, primarily with the Campbell Soup Company. One year into their marriage, mom and Dad had their first child in 1958. It was then that my oldest sister Lynne was born. Dubbed by Dad as “The Mouth of the South,” she kept my parents on their toes on a regular basis until my sister Mary was born 8 years later. Thinking that they would have a small family with two girls, a grand surprise came their way when I was born in 1969, eleven years after Lynne. Even more surprising than having another child was that Dad finally had a son. </SPAN>
I think one my favorite early childhood memories of dad often occurred at the breakfast table. I loved fried eggs. Specifically, fried over medium. I wanted those eggs to get runny, with yolk all over my plate so I could sop it up with my biscuits. As I, and I think the rest of the family would do the same thing, Dad would have an uncomfortable look of disgust…..The man hated eggs. The thought of eggs made him sick. In fact, the pure knowledge that chickens were laying eggs somewhere in the world may have even made him slightly nauseous. Wondering why he didn’t like eggs? That is when I got what may be one of the few stories I heard of his days in the service…</SPAN>
Dad was instructed to clean the grease pit in the infantry kitchen. With nasty old grease covering his arms up to his elbows, the kitchen chef asked him to pour a can of evaporated milk into a vat of scrambles eggs he was preparing to cook. As Dad poured the milk, the can slipped from his greasy hands into the eggs. Asking the chef what to do, he told him to fish around in the eggs with that grease covered arm and dig out the can. After doing so, he then watched the chef proceed cook and serve the eggs as if nothing had ever happened. Repulsed by this, Dad swore off eggs for the rest of his life!</SPAN>
I can thank my father for passing on to me his love and passion for sports. Unfortunately, I’m not so sure my wife is quite so thankful. Dad taught me how to catch a football – “soft hands Sean! Ya gotta have soft hands,” he would always tell me. He taught me how to play baseball. In fact, he was my coach in elementary school and junior high. I think it would be safe to say that that was some of the most enjoyable moments of his life. He absolutely loved coaching me and my friends. He taught me all the finer points to the game and all the strategy. Granted, you need an interested student to teach, but I ate it all up and absolutely loved the game. Unfortunately, I really wasn’t much of a hitter. Dad had no problems batting me ninth in the order, he was just happy that I played and tried my best. Year after year, the game got harder for me. Pretty much once the kids learned how to throw a curve ball, my interest in playing waned with each time I was plunked by a pitch that didn’t break. The last year I played competitively, I literally had a ZERO average going into one of the last games of the season. That’s right, zero. For those that know baseball averages, thats dot 0 0 0! Well… dad never gave up on me. Not sure why…but he didn’t. So…it’s the end of the season and here I am at the plate, and REALLY starting to hate the constant failures. Here comes a pitch, and wala, I hit it to right field. That baby was dropping in for a nice base hit. Man it was beautiful. If I could have seen dad’s face at that moment, I know he had a big smile and a sense of relief that I finally got a base hit. So here I am running half speed to first and soaking in the moment. Now why the right fielder didn’t throw to the cutoff man at second I’ll never know why. I suppose he was oblivious to the fact this kid had gone an entire season without a hit because he decided to throw to first. OUT! Yep, there I was taking the typical “base hit” trot to first and I got thrown out. Sadly, then I got to see Dad’s face and it wasn’t the smile I had envisioned after hitting that ball, it was one of his patented frowns we all have seen at some point from dad. Fearing the worst as I sulked back to the bench, it turned into a funny moment as I was razzed by my teammates and then by dad. Having played sports with other kids dad’s as the coach, I must say that Dad never played me as a favorite and never treated me any different that any of the other kids. You can often see that kid whose dad is the coach and has that extra pressure of playing for dad. I am thankful I never had that worry.</SPAN>
Did I mention that Pat loved sports?? Well, he was somewhat of an idiot savant when it came to sports statistics. He was obsessed with stats from all the major sports. Every year he would buy the sports almanacs. These books were about 8 inches thick and had more otherwise useless information than you could shake a stick at. But every year dad would buy the new additions and do his research. He managed to turn this information into a hobby - handicapping and sometimes wagering on sports. Now Dad wasn’t a big time gambler by any stretch, but it was one of his hobbies of choice. </SPAN>
As a young child, I knew more about point spreads, money lines, totals, and run lines than any 12 year old should ever know. However indirectly he taught me about gambling on sports – and as wrong as this sounds – he got a chuckle when he found out that I was running bracket pools and taking wagers from the kids at school as a 6[SUP]th</SPAN>[/SUP] grader during the NCAA tournament. I think he joked about this with his fiends at the coffee shop on a regular basis.</SPAN>
I, like many people had a strained relationship with my father as I went though my maturation process during my high school years. No matter what struggles there were between my dad and I as I started my own shenanigans during high school, there was always a mutual love of sports that we could talk about. It was a common ground that would ultimately bring us together during any tough situation life presented. </SPAN>
As I have grown older…settled down, married and had my own children, I have a greater appreciation for my father and how I was raised. I know that he loved his family dearly and has always had our best interests at heart. He was a good husband, a good father, and my friend. I will miss you Dad…rest in peace. </SPAN>
For whatever sentimental reason, I thought I'd share the eulogy I wrote for his funeral...he was a good man....
------------------
Joseph Patrick was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania on May 3, 1932.</SPAN>
At the age of 5 he moved with his father to Detroit, Michigan where Dad was raised until he graduated High School. Dad was a fairly gifted athlete excelling in track, baseball, and football. He lettered in all three sports during his years at St. Charles Catholic High School. Dad’s childhood dream was to go to the University of Notre Dame. Even though he was accepted to the University of Michigan, his heart was set on Notre Dame and he would do what it took to gain acceptance there. </SPAN>
Unfortunately his dream of attending Notre Dame would be put on hold for an extra year after high school because the University felt he needed an extra year to refine his maturity and demeanor. As you will see, sports would be a recurring theme in Pat’s life. His love of sports sometimes got him in a bit of trouble. During his senior year, with his football team having an opportunity for the Catholic high School Championship, one of their best players had been ruled academically ineligible because of his grades. With this unfortunate news, Patrick O’Malley, pragmatic and even keeled as anyone could be, decided the only solution would be to organize a student revolt against the school. Well…apparently things got a bit out of hand. Leading a student exodus from the class room, a priest had stood in Dad’s way and demanded that he return to his class. When the priest refused to move away from the door to let Pat and his fellow students leave, he shoved the Priest out of the way, knocking him through the door.</SPAN>
Because of this – and most certainly some other shenanigans, Dad’s detour to South Bend led him to Rhode Island for a year of, lets say just say “social seasoning” at Port Smith Priory Prep School. It was there that he got to play another sport he loved, and that was hockey. For those of you that knew Pat, one physical feature that would be hard to not notice would be a nose that pointed toward the west. Well, back in the early fifties, football players were leatherheads and didn’t benefit from modern technology like the invention of the face mask. And, since Dad was not a gifted skater, his hockey career was spent as a goalie. Similar to football, goalies didn’t even wear helmets. I guess dad had a penchant for stopping the puck no matter what, and that included using his face if necessary. </SPAN>
You had to be tough to play football, and dad was a competitor. If getting a competitive edge meant trash talking or trying to intimidate your competition, Dad was game. Unfortunately he didn’t always choose his battles wisely. While pretty tall at 6 foot 2 inches, Dad only weighed about 160 pounds. As a tight end, he often got to block defensive tackles. Well, one game dad’s task was to block a defensive tackle named Eugene Lipscomb, later to be known as All Pro Baltimore Colts defensive tackle “Big Daddy” Lipscomb. Outweighed by well over a hundred pounds, dad took it upon himself to, well…putting it mildly trash talk this hulking beast of a man. Calling him everything in the book and nothing that would be appropriate in the Lords House, Big daddy took offense to this little guy Pat. After the ball was snapped, Dad was immediately leveled to the ground, covered in blood, and given the gift of a crooked nose. I think it is safe to say from that point forward, any aspirations of playing football at a high level were probably dashed.</SPAN>
Even though there was no personal glory for him on the football field at Notre Dame, his love and passion for that school was obvious for everyone that knew Pat. To say that Notre Dame was his passion would be a gross understatement.</SPAN>
Upon graduating in 1955 with a degree in Business Administration and as a second Lieutenant through the ROTC program, Pat was to report for active duty with the US army shortly after graduation. Before heading off to Fort Benning Georgia, dad decided to visit his father who had retired from the Chrysler Corporation to live in the warm weather of Miami Beach, Florida. Pat’s father had a lady friend that decided to arrange a blind date for Pat with the daughter of one of her good friends. So the day before heading off for six months of active duty, Pat met a striking young blonde named Terry. I am not exactly sure what happened during that one date, but apparently dad was smitten and in love. Terry shared Pat’s love of sports as well and she too was a fan of Notre Dame. Pat had found his soul mate! </SPAN>
Today we usually see love slowly blossom with many courtships lasting several years before a commitment to marriage. After one date with Terry, Pat was so in love he vowed to call or write Terry every day while at Fort Benning. He kept his promise. In days when there were no cell phones or calling cards, Pat asked Terry’s mother if he could call her collect and send a check every month to cover the cost of the long distance calls. She allowed this and it would be safe to say that much of Dad’s service pay went toward Terry’s parents phone bill. Via a long distance relationship with daily phone conversations and letters, Terry and Pat vowed to get married upon his return to Miami. I thought I would share a little of one the many letters that Dad wrote to my mom….</SPAN>
Dearerst Terry,</SPAN>
This morning I received your letter and it was wonderful hearing from you. In answer to your question: I’ll be content to spend my life and the whole of eternity with you. You are my all, and all that I would ever ask and hope for.</SPAN>
Ok, I'm going to skip this next part which was Pat informing Terry about the local minor league baseball teams latest game. It's kind of funny that in all of these letters my mom has saved, every one of them had one of these updates. DID I mention their shared love of sports?? So….back to the letter….</SPAN>
Well, darling Terry, another day finished and yet another day closer to you. I love you very much. Honey, I don’t mind telling you I wish I could shout it for all the world to hear. It won’t be long till we are man and wife. Terry, I love you very much. My life is dedicated now and forever to you. You’re the girl I love – I am very proud of you. </SPAN>
Well Terry - until tomorrow – dearest Terry - I love you!</SPAN>
With all my love,</SPAN>
Yours Pat</SPAN>
Now…imagine receiving a letter like this in the mail every day for six months. After 52 years of marriage, my father loved my mother every day through good times and bad – through all of his eternity.</SPAN>
When Dad returned to Miami after active duty, he and Terry married in February of 1957. Dad began a long career in sales, primarily with the Campbell Soup Company. One year into their marriage, mom and Dad had their first child in 1958. It was then that my oldest sister Lynne was born. Dubbed by Dad as “The Mouth of the South,” she kept my parents on their toes on a regular basis until my sister Mary was born 8 years later. Thinking that they would have a small family with two girls, a grand surprise came their way when I was born in 1969, eleven years after Lynne. Even more surprising than having another child was that Dad finally had a son. </SPAN>
I think one my favorite early childhood memories of dad often occurred at the breakfast table. I loved fried eggs. Specifically, fried over medium. I wanted those eggs to get runny, with yolk all over my plate so I could sop it up with my biscuits. As I, and I think the rest of the family would do the same thing, Dad would have an uncomfortable look of disgust…..The man hated eggs. The thought of eggs made him sick. In fact, the pure knowledge that chickens were laying eggs somewhere in the world may have even made him slightly nauseous. Wondering why he didn’t like eggs? That is when I got what may be one of the few stories I heard of his days in the service…</SPAN>
Dad was instructed to clean the grease pit in the infantry kitchen. With nasty old grease covering his arms up to his elbows, the kitchen chef asked him to pour a can of evaporated milk into a vat of scrambles eggs he was preparing to cook. As Dad poured the milk, the can slipped from his greasy hands into the eggs. Asking the chef what to do, he told him to fish around in the eggs with that grease covered arm and dig out the can. After doing so, he then watched the chef proceed cook and serve the eggs as if nothing had ever happened. Repulsed by this, Dad swore off eggs for the rest of his life!</SPAN>
I can thank my father for passing on to me his love and passion for sports. Unfortunately, I’m not so sure my wife is quite so thankful. Dad taught me how to catch a football – “soft hands Sean! Ya gotta have soft hands,” he would always tell me. He taught me how to play baseball. In fact, he was my coach in elementary school and junior high. I think it would be safe to say that that was some of the most enjoyable moments of his life. He absolutely loved coaching me and my friends. He taught me all the finer points to the game and all the strategy. Granted, you need an interested student to teach, but I ate it all up and absolutely loved the game. Unfortunately, I really wasn’t much of a hitter. Dad had no problems batting me ninth in the order, he was just happy that I played and tried my best. Year after year, the game got harder for me. Pretty much once the kids learned how to throw a curve ball, my interest in playing waned with each time I was plunked by a pitch that didn’t break. The last year I played competitively, I literally had a ZERO average going into one of the last games of the season. That’s right, zero. For those that know baseball averages, thats dot 0 0 0! Well… dad never gave up on me. Not sure why…but he didn’t. So…it’s the end of the season and here I am at the plate, and REALLY starting to hate the constant failures. Here comes a pitch, and wala, I hit it to right field. That baby was dropping in for a nice base hit. Man it was beautiful. If I could have seen dad’s face at that moment, I know he had a big smile and a sense of relief that I finally got a base hit. So here I am running half speed to first and soaking in the moment. Now why the right fielder didn’t throw to the cutoff man at second I’ll never know why. I suppose he was oblivious to the fact this kid had gone an entire season without a hit because he decided to throw to first. OUT! Yep, there I was taking the typical “base hit” trot to first and I got thrown out. Sadly, then I got to see Dad’s face and it wasn’t the smile I had envisioned after hitting that ball, it was one of his patented frowns we all have seen at some point from dad. Fearing the worst as I sulked back to the bench, it turned into a funny moment as I was razzed by my teammates and then by dad. Having played sports with other kids dad’s as the coach, I must say that Dad never played me as a favorite and never treated me any different that any of the other kids. You can often see that kid whose dad is the coach and has that extra pressure of playing for dad. I am thankful I never had that worry.</SPAN>
Did I mention that Pat loved sports?? Well, he was somewhat of an idiot savant when it came to sports statistics. He was obsessed with stats from all the major sports. Every year he would buy the sports almanacs. These books were about 8 inches thick and had more otherwise useless information than you could shake a stick at. But every year dad would buy the new additions and do his research. He managed to turn this information into a hobby - handicapping and sometimes wagering on sports. Now Dad wasn’t a big time gambler by any stretch, but it was one of his hobbies of choice. </SPAN>
As a young child, I knew more about point spreads, money lines, totals, and run lines than any 12 year old should ever know. However indirectly he taught me about gambling on sports – and as wrong as this sounds – he got a chuckle when he found out that I was running bracket pools and taking wagers from the kids at school as a 6[SUP]th</SPAN>[/SUP] grader during the NCAA tournament. I think he joked about this with his fiends at the coffee shop on a regular basis.</SPAN>
I, like many people had a strained relationship with my father as I went though my maturation process during my high school years. No matter what struggles there were between my dad and I as I started my own shenanigans during high school, there was always a mutual love of sports that we could talk about. It was a common ground that would ultimately bring us together during any tough situation life presented. </SPAN>
As I have grown older…settled down, married and had my own children, I have a greater appreciation for my father and how I was raised. I know that he loved his family dearly and has always had our best interests at heart. He was a good husband, a good father, and my friend. I will miss you Dad…rest in peace. </SPAN>
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