My Dad's Eulogy

Next Week I'll Stop Focusing on My Dad

Eulogies, my father, Tim Connolly, was the absolute best at these. When I started to realize that I was going to have to do this, I asked, “how do you eulogize the GOAT of eulogies?” He’s the Tom Brady of eulogizing. But if he taught me anything in my 36 of his 68 years it’s that you’ve got to do the job, and you should do it well. I just wish he was here to edit it so we could argue over syntax and voice.

He taught me to be fearless. He sang even though a nun once told him to mouth the words instead to help the choir, he danced despite not owning an ounce of rhythm. It wasn’t the least bit surprising when we had Davin, my son, and he slipped right into being Pop. I strive and hope to just be half the father that my dad was to me. 

My dad spoke of Pittsfield as if it were the Roman Empire. Mythical figures like Frank Scago, Mark Bellanger, and Tim Kearns. He told of walks to Sacred Heart from Edward Ave., pick-up games at the Boys Club, playing basketball from dawn to dusk at Deming Park, that last memory cursing him with the nickname Grub. The house on 81 Edward Ave. had this gravitas to it. He’d tell stories of his siblings Mary Pat, Kevin, Michael and Chris. He’d recall specific moments of his father listening to the Red Sox in the dark as to not jinx the lead or the smell of his mother’s blondies fresh out of the oven. All of his brothers had larger than life nicknames, Chief (or Hoocher depending on who you talk to), Moses, and Beamer, plus his brother from up the street Mark Walsh, or Boomer. They all loved him in their weird Berkshire County way.

My dad could shoot. I have never seen a purer looking jumpshot in my life. You can ask anyone here who played with him and they’ll say the same thing. Except maybe Mark Murphy. Of course I never got to see him play at his peak, but one time my brother Mark and I were playing 21 with him. He scored his first two points, went to the free throw line and then hit his next 18 shots in a row, then took one step back and hit a three to beat us. A man who was running laps up above the gym came down to shake my dad’s hand, “I’ve never seen such a performance of shooting in my entire life.” I’m sure all of you have a similar story about him.

Those talents brought him to Worcester. More specifically, Assumption College. It’s there where he met Donna. The absolute love of his life. He called her Pee Wee and then just recently found out she always hated that nickname. Dad would do anything for Mom. Once, he was asked to go grocery shopping. My mom had made a list of things to buy. It was in her shorthand and dad was able to decipher all of the items but one. He walked up and down the aisles for over an hour searching for this one thing. The item said, “ch. syrup.” He came back home distraught that he couldn’t help her “Donna,” he said, “I looked everywhere and I just couldn’t find the chicken syrup.” 

Wherever Donna went, Tim went too, which meant a lot of drives to Islip, LI. She gave him a second family of sisters (Patti, Laurie, Tricia, Mary, with Linda and Sharon marrying in). When grouped together with Donna they were, in his words, the Generals. He gained even more brothers too, his reluctant best friend Johnny, as well as Rusty, Scott, Lenny, Harvey, Mike, Mike and Rick, all of whom he enjoyed hanging with to escape the wrath of those Generals. He also got to be someone he never had the chance of being, which was an older brother to his royal highness Dr. Prince Brian Knoth. 

They bought a house and raised two absolute idiots, myself and my brother Mark. He instilled a love of reading, sports and humor. He watched countless hours of sports games, theater productions, and Jonny and the Pickpockets concerts. He relished every minute of it. He loved talking music with Mookie and Mookie loved getting a rise out of him. In so many ways Mookie is my dad. They are both caring, self-deprecating, loyal and sweet. I’m happy that I get to have a version of dad around all the time and that he’s my best friend.

He loved my wife Mairead, and Mookie’s wife Sam. He was so happy that we are happy and that he had two more people that he could run his bits on and two more people that could help gang up on us. 

Dad could tell a story like no other. Whether holding court after dinner, in a newspaper column or at a party, he captivated his audience. He had a story or an anecdote for anything you brought up. It could be about Ted Kennedy speaking at Assumption, Michael Jordan giving him his mother’s address to send the press clipping, or Mitt Romney not spilling a drop of sauce from a meatball sub on his crisp white shirt. He seemingly always had a Pittsfield or Worcester connection.

Being a journalist just seemed like the perfect job for him. He was a fantastic listener and gifted writer. And just like his regard for Pittsfield or his love for his family, he made it all feel so important and worthy. 

He loved coming to see me do comedy, even when I was really bad. He loved to tell people that I was a comedian. When his friends would ask him where I got my humor from, he’d reel back, mouth open and give his perfect guilt trip performance. “I’ve been doing bits for years!” He’d say. 

When dad was given the diagnosis of this evil disease he was surprisingly zen. His faith in God, his practice of mindfulness and his love of Jesus’ teaching were able to keep him levelheaded and strong during this last year. If the dude wasn’t already my hero, to see him keep his humor and optimism throughout it all left me in awe. The book he finished just before leaving us was John McPhee’s A Sense of Where You Are. It’s a book about another hero of his, Bill Bradley and his time at Princeton. The title refers to a shot that Bradley would often take  blindly, but that he frequently made. It was like a credo for dad, whether Pittsfield or Worcester, talking to a stranger or his best friend or his wife, he was grounded, listening and caring because he had a sense of where he was. 

Understatement of the year: Tim Connolly was an amazing man. When he decided to leave the Telegram because he saw the writing on the wall, there was a giant reception for him at O’Connor’s and my mother toasted him using a quote from his favorite movie. And now, seeing you here, those words were never more true. To Tim Connolly, “the richest man in town.”

NEWS

I’ve only one show this week and it’s on Sunday at the Garrison House in Brookline, it’s a free show but reservations fill up fast. You can reserve a seat here.

Don’t forget to pick up your tickets for Ryan O’Flanagan at The White Room on June 4th. This guy is so funny, here is a clip from his Comedy Central Special. And you can grab tickets here.

Tell your friends about this! I have some exciting news too!