into that brief window of time somewhere between finding your hiding place and soiling yourself. This
was not abuse mind you: no, it was good old fashioned rage, sadly lacking in today’s world of domestic
fathers. He was an Irishman with an abundant supply of raispaid, torque, or what Cahill called warp
spasm. We, my family of six, just called it run for cover…run and hide….like Monty Python—runaway,
Dad was all city in football as a fullback (before face masks), track as shot putter/weight thrower, when
Irish cops dominated the sport, and baseball as a catcher (they did have face masks). He was a Platoon
sergeant in WWII, landing at Omaha beach, and, then fighting in the bitter cold of the Battle of the
Bulge. After the war, he was a long shore man when Cockeyed Dunne ran the docks. He was what they
used to call “authentically tough,” and we all respected that power of persuasion. No finesse required,
just the legitimate threat of violence hanging over our actions. For the most part it worked, as pure fear
and respect usually does. We still made many bone head mistakes that give life that valuable
I felt sorry for the other kids on our block whose fathers just grew sullen and quiet when their children
were caught misbehaving with me… how boring! We lived with an Irish werewolf and it was fascinating.
Of course, his bark was worst then his bite, but he always had our attention, and love! They don’t make
people like my father anymore, and it is a real shame, because he was a complex, intelligent, and
We all miss him dearly and will until the day we hopefully meet him in … Tir na nOg- Irish Heaven.
So raise a toast up for all the old school Irish fathers that had our ever living attention!