A memory

[steve coffey]

For those who grew up in the old neighborhood in the 50's, when you read the name I am about to mention, an instant image will pop into your mind. Pat Clancy
I graduated from St. Anthony"s in 1952. I believe Pat was about my age or a year younger. When he was in the second grade, about 7 years old, someone started a fire in one of the empty lots in the neighborhood. Pat was part of a group of kids watching the fire, when someone threw in what they thought was an empty can of paint. A few minutes later the can exploded and hit Pat flush in the face, hands, neck and chest. The fire that covered him was so intense his fingers burned away. In retrospect it is amazing he lived.
Before I share my memories of Pat, I want to make clear that there are many people reading this who knew him far better than I did.
After the accident, I don't remember seeing Pat for months, if not years. Once he arrived back in the neighborhood the only reaction I can describe when people looked at his face was "Oh my God". When I try to imagine how tough it had to be for him, I could cry. What his parents and family had to endure in their sorrow for the hurt he would have to deal with for the rest of his life, one can only imagine.
As he got older and into his teenage years, he started weightlifting. He grew bigger and his arms and chest expanded. He even affected the Marlon Brando "Wild One" look; black leather jacket, engineer boots, the whole nine yards. You can only imagine a stranger's reaction looking at him for the first time. One morning, I remember walking to the 177th st. station and hooking up with Pat along the way. When we stepped onto the train, we were in the middle of the car. We continued talking while the train pulled out of the station toward Manhattan. I remember looking to my right and was startled to see almost everyone was looking at me. People who had been reading the paper, were looking up. Those who were standing had their heads turned towards me. It was then it struck me that they were looking at Pat. I didn't say anything,but it occured to me that for him it was all day every day.
Now comes the amazing part of my memory of Pat Clancy. He was a good guy. I never heard him complain, feel sorry for himself or be a troublemaker.
One night when we were about 18, I remember drinking beer in Hestoffer's bar on the corner of Tremont and St. Lawrence Ave.