 |
| Lefty with Mary Fran in the early 1950s. |
May 31st is the 127th anniversary of the birth of John Jeremiah "Lefty" Sullivan: our patriarch, grandfather, great grandfather and great-great-grandfather. He was born in Chicago in 1893 and died on July 7, 1958.
Jim has actual, real-life memories of Lefty, so I'll offer his story here:
He was 5' 10" tall, about 185, and his shoulders were so wide that he just barely got through the door. Even when he was in his last year, his 65th, he was graceful as a cat. We used to go for walks around the block and talk baseball and they are among my most treasured memories.
He was the youngest of six, second brother, son of Jeremiah Barry O’Sullivan from Limerick, and Anna Meany from Clare. He had a full scholarship to play football at Notre Dame- he was a split end, today's wide receiver- but he turned it down to sign with the White Sox in about 1911. His father never forgave him. He went to the farm teams for some years until WWI broke out.
He joined the Army. He was the first generation of us born here, and the first of us to go into the American, not the Irish Republican, Army. After him, three generations of his descendants have served in that same Army. He was in a cavalry unit, and shortly after he reported to the front line, the Armistice was signed. He claimed forever after to have shown up, and as a result, the Germans got scared and quit. With a straight face. He used to say he gave them a choice. Then he'd hold up his right fist and say, "Six months in the hospital." Then he'd hold up his left fist and say, "Or sudden death."
Back home, his rookie year in the big leagues was 1919, the year of the Black Sox scandal. He was a rookie on that team and appeared four times. After that, the Sox were busted up and Lefty pitched semi-pro ball for 25 more years, sold insurance in Chicago, hustled pool in the summers to feed the family and ran for alderman. And lost.
Everybody in Chicago knew him, and when I was growing up people would ask me if I was related to John "Lefty" Sullivan. I'd say yes and they'd say he was the greatest pitcher they ever watched. The great Warren Spahn of the Milwaukee Braves said on channel 9 the day Lefty (we called him Boompa) died, "Lefty Sullivan was the best natural pitcher I ever saw. Better than me."
He had the narrow coronary arteries, "Sullivan Heart," and when he bent over to field a slow grounder or a bunt, his vision blurred, oxygen didn't get to his brain enough. The pros took advantage of this, of course. But that was the first clue. He had six heart attacks, dying in bed on 7 July, 1958, from the last one at age 65. Uncle Bob had one. Big Sully had one which killed him. And Blackie and I have had one.
All the Sullivan men really must get the tubes checked out. I officially beg all of you, again, to do that soon.
Lefty took a beating from his father, Jeremiah, in front of his oldest son, my Dad, Big Sully, because he had given an intentional walk in a ball game. The old man, Jeremiah, thought he knew what he was doing, accused Lefty of cowardice, and beat him with his shillelagh! True story! My dad, Big Sully, asked why he took it, and his dad, Lefty said,"He just doesn't understand." My father never got over that.
Grandma, Booma, Anna Conick Sullivan, his beloved and only woman, used to call him Sully. I thought that was the coolest thing I ever heard. She was stern with him, and called him Lefty sometimes when she had had one beer, and when angry, John.
I used to think that the picture on the dime was Lefty. The profile of Roosevelt looked like him. So I used to tell everybody that my grandpa was on the dime. Got some funny looks. He was such a character. He hated being left-handed, because he felt it put him out of the mainstream. He forced himself to write with his right hand.
He always wore a white shirt and a tie, shined his shoes and always had clean fingernails, was always spiffy and well-groomed, well dressed.
He was just like Blackie, and they even look much alike. The one who really looks like Lefty is Timothy Aristotle Sullivan, his grandson. It's spooky. And of course, Tim and Blackie look a lot alike, being first cousins, which, genetically, is like half-brothers.
There is a story about him in the confessional, just after Pope John XXIII let us drink water after midnight before going to communion in the morning. One Saturday night, late, Lefty got up and drank a whole pitcher of ice water that he used to keep in the fridge. Then he went to communion at Mass the next morning. Then later in the week, he went to confession and confessed that transgression. The priest said, "But, John, it's ok to drink water before communion now." And Lefty said, "Yeah, but I shouldn't have been such a God damned pig about it."
The priest laughed aloud in the confessional, and then got Lefty's permission to tell that story.
When he died, his wake was at Duffy's, the famous Chicago south side Irish funeral parlor. It was a strange night, because there was Lefty in one room, in his coffin, surrounded three deep with people crying, and then in the next room people were drinking and laughing and singing, and then people went back and forth between these rooms and between these activities. Crying, laughing, praying, drinking, there was plenty of smooching and feeling going on, too. It was a real slice of life. I later came to learn that it was just an Irish wake.
My Dad did what all Irish American fathers did- he brought all his children right to the coffin and we came in direct contact with death. My Dad was teary-eyed, and kissed his father. I went up to the coffin to kiss him goodbye, in the Irish tradition, right smack on the lips. And then it hit me- he was really gone. He wasn't getting up. I thought I'd never see him again.
I was 10- what did I know? But the grief overwhelmed me and I fled into the cloak room where there was a line of chairs with raincoats draped over them, forming a tunnel. I crawled into the tunnel. I cried my heart out and felt like I was going to die of grief. I had never had an inkling of death before.
After a bit, a big hand comes in there and pulls me out and holds me in his arms- Uncle Bob. He explained everything to me, and how Lefty lives and always will, and how we all love each other, so none of us can actually ever die. He told me, Jesus Christ, the Son of the Living God, never died. So we don't really die either. And love never, never dies, he told me. I have found it to be true.
Uncle Bob saved me that night, and when Uncle Bob died and I was crying my eyes out in the aisle of St. Gregory's, another John Sullivan, Seamus the Younger's oldest son, my beloved cousin John Robert, 11 at the time, puts his little arms around me and comforts me, at the death of his grandpa. Full circle. The love of the family.
I think Lefty has formed a special bond with John Davis, because he has appeared to John twice in dreams, and delivered to John a message which served John and his loved ones well. And they are both Celtic John's.
Lefty was our patriarch. I love and miss him so. He and I used to walk around the block together, and he played roll the ball with us, and, later, catch, and once in a while he'd throw his heater. That was something- a fastball from Lefty Sullivan of the Chicago White Sox, our grandpa. And John Davis and I took batting practice from him in one of those dreams.
Good night, precious, dear hearts. Good night, Boompa. Thanks for everything.
God bless us and save us and keep us from harm.
Love,
Seamus the Older
He was the youngest of six, second brother, son of Jeremiah Barry O’Sullivan from Limerick, and Anna Meany from Clare. He had a full scholarship to play football at Notre Dame- he was a split end, today's wide receiver- but he turned it down to sign with the White Sox in about 1911. His father never forgave him. He went to the farm teams for some years until WWI broke out.
He joined the Army. He was the first generation of us born here, and the first of us to go into the American, not the Irish Republican, Army. After him, three generations of his descendants have served in that same Army. He was in a cavalry unit, and shortly after he reported to the front line, the Armistice was signed. He claimed forever after to have shown up, and as a result, the Germans got scared and quit. With a straight face. He used to say he gave them a choice. Then he'd hold up his right fist and say, "Six months in the hospital." Then he'd hold up his left fist and say, "Or sudden death."
Back home, his rookie year in the big leagues was 1919, the year of the Black Sox scandal. He was a rookie on that team and appeared four times. After that, the Sox were busted up and Lefty pitched semi-pro ball for 25 more years, sold insurance in Chicago, hustled pool in the summers to feed the family and ran for alderman. And lost.
Everybody in Chicago knew him, and when I was growing up people would ask me if I was related to John "Lefty" Sullivan. I'd say yes and they'd say he was the greatest pitcher they ever watched. The great Warren Spahn of the Milwaukee Braves said on channel 9 the day Lefty (we called him Boompa) died, "Lefty Sullivan was the best natural pitcher I ever saw. Better than me."
He had the narrow coronary arteries, "Sullivan Heart," and when he bent over to field a slow grounder or a bunt, his vision blurred, oxygen didn't get to his brain enough. The pros took advantage of this, of course. But that was the first clue. He had six heart attacks, dying in bed on 7 July, 1958, from the last one at age 65. Uncle Bob had one. Big Sully had one which killed him. And Blackie and I have had one.
All the Sullivan men really must get the tubes checked out. I officially beg all of you, again, to do that soon.
Lefty took a beating from his father, Jeremiah, in front of his oldest son, my Dad, Big Sully, because he had given an intentional walk in a ball game. The old man, Jeremiah, thought he knew what he was doing, accused Lefty of cowardice, and beat him with his shillelagh! True story! My dad, Big Sully, asked why he took it, and his dad, Lefty said,"He just doesn't understand." My father never got over that.
Grandma, Booma, Anna Conick Sullivan, his beloved and only woman, used to call him Sully. I thought that was the coolest thing I ever heard. She was stern with him, and called him Lefty sometimes when she had had one beer, and when angry, John.
I used to think that the picture on the dime was Lefty. The profile of Roosevelt looked like him. So I used to tell everybody that my grandpa was on the dime. Got some funny looks. He was such a character. He hated being left-handed, because he felt it put him out of the mainstream. He forced himself to write with his right hand.
He always wore a white shirt and a tie, shined his shoes and always had clean fingernails, was always spiffy and well-groomed, well dressed.
He was just like Blackie, and they even look much alike. The one who really looks like Lefty is Timothy Aristotle Sullivan, his grandson. It's spooky. And of course, Tim and Blackie look a lot alike, being first cousins, which, genetically, is like half-brothers.
There is a story about him in the confessional, just after Pope John XXIII let us drink water after midnight before going to communion in the morning. One Saturday night, late, Lefty got up and drank a whole pitcher of ice water that he used to keep in the fridge. Then he went to communion at Mass the next morning. Then later in the week, he went to confession and confessed that transgression. The priest said, "But, John, it's ok to drink water before communion now." And Lefty said, "Yeah, but I shouldn't have been such a God damned pig about it."
The priest laughed aloud in the confessional, and then got Lefty's permission to tell that story.
When he died, his wake was at Duffy's, the famous Chicago south side Irish funeral parlor. It was a strange night, because there was Lefty in one room, in his coffin, surrounded three deep with people crying, and then in the next room people were drinking and laughing and singing, and then people went back and forth between these rooms and between these activities. Crying, laughing, praying, drinking, there was plenty of smooching and feeling going on, too. It was a real slice of life. I later came to learn that it was just an Irish wake.
My Dad did what all Irish American fathers did- he brought all his children right to the coffin and we came in direct contact with death. My Dad was teary-eyed, and kissed his father. I went up to the coffin to kiss him goodbye, in the Irish tradition, right smack on the lips. And then it hit me- he was really gone. He wasn't getting up. I thought I'd never see him again.
I was 10- what did I know? But the grief overwhelmed me and I fled into the cloak room where there was a line of chairs with raincoats draped over them, forming a tunnel. I crawled into the tunnel. I cried my heart out and felt like I was going to die of grief. I had never had an inkling of death before.
After a bit, a big hand comes in there and pulls me out and holds me in his arms- Uncle Bob. He explained everything to me, and how Lefty lives and always will, and how we all love each other, so none of us can actually ever die. He told me, Jesus Christ, the Son of the Living God, never died. So we don't really die either. And love never, never dies, he told me. I have found it to be true.
Uncle Bob saved me that night, and when Uncle Bob died and I was crying my eyes out in the aisle of St. Gregory's, another John Sullivan, Seamus the Younger's oldest son, my beloved cousin John Robert, 11 at the time, puts his little arms around me and comforts me, at the death of his grandpa. Full circle. The love of the family.
I think Lefty has formed a special bond with John Davis, because he has appeared to John twice in dreams, and delivered to John a message which served John and his loved ones well. And they are both Celtic John's.
Lefty was our patriarch. I love and miss him so. He and I used to walk around the block together, and he played roll the ball with us, and, later, catch, and once in a while he'd throw his heater. That was something- a fastball from Lefty Sullivan of the Chicago White Sox, our grandpa. And John Davis and I took batting practice from him in one of those dreams.
Good night, precious, dear hearts. Good night, Boompa. Thanks for everything.
God bless us and save us and keep us from harm.
Love,
Seamus the Older
No comments:
Post a Comment