Michael W. Ryan, Sr.

Quiet Patience, Simple Kindness and True Humility Words of Remembrance for Michael W. Ryan, Sr. Eulogy by his son, Dennis J. Ryan Funeral Mass June 13, 2012 I was looking at my father's Mass card that shows St. Joseph holding the infant Jesus, thinking of clever connections I could make between my dad and this great saint. On the one hand, we have Jesus' earthly father, Joseph. On the other, we have my father, Michael Ryan. Let's compare. If you consider their sons, on the one hand, Joseph had Jesus, also known as the Prince of Peace, Lord of Hosts, and Savior of the World. On the other, my dad had Mickey, Tommy and Denny. Enough said. Advantage: Joseph. To be fair, let's consider something more pedestrian, say, carpentry and construction, dexterity with tools. On the one hand, we have Joseph, a highly skilled craftsman who ran his own workshop. On the other, we have my dad, who was befuddled by the modern tool of the computer. To illustrate this, about ten years ago, my father asked my sister, Mary Meghan, for help in visiting the web site for Mount Saint Mary's, his alma mater. So she sat down at the computer, ready for my Dad to read the web address as she typed. He dictated slowly, "It's w, w, w. Now May May, it says here it begins with three w's." Advantage: Joseph. We all know from grade school that Joseph was a carpenter and the father of Jesus. His presence in the manger is ubiquitous at Christmas, so I was sure there would be more about this saint upon which to compare my father. However, after closer examination of the Bible (actually, after many Google searches), I found there was not that much written about the man. But what I did find, not surprisingly, was a site that referred to Joseph as the unsung hero of the New Testament. The unsung hero. My dad was an unsung hero, a gentle giant who never said an unkind or condescending word to anyone. But rather, he was a father to everyone. Several years ago, my mom and dad were at a neighborhood party where they were introduced to some newcomers as "Mike and Barbara Ryan, the couple who raised all of our children." In the 1970s, 12417 Seabury Lane was the hub of the neighborhood, where kids from several families would pile into my Mom's station wagon for daily excursions. And on several evenings in the summer, my dad would pack that same vehicle with a cast of characters from the neighborhood named Barba, O'Brien, Bohager, Francois, Federici, Hamilton and Raubaugh to go see Orioles named Murray, Palmer, Robinson, Dempsey and Flanagan. There were always twice as many kids as there were seat belts on these outings. It was a different time when we didn't lock the doors to our houses. All were welcome to come and go and play and feast in our home. And all who came witnessed my father's patience, his kindness and his humility. It took me a while to appreciate those virtues. At first, when I was little, he was just the Great Big Daddy. On family road trips, to pass the time, we would sing, "We've Got the Whole World in Our Hands." We would do a verse for each kid starting with the youngest and this would lead to the penultimate verse that we would whisper, "We've got the itty, bitty mommy in our hands. We've got the whole world in our hands." This would lead to the grand finale, the apex, the crescendo, with us busting our lungs, shouting as loud as we could, "We've got the great big daddy in our hands. We've got the whole world in our hands." I loved having a great big daddy. We didn't need one of those expensive jungle gyms in our backyard, not when we had my dad. His back was a rock-climbing wall; his arms were monkey bars; and as he sat, his legs transformed into a see-saw. His hands, his large hands, were a catapult for my brother Tommy (or as my dad called him, the Bird Man), whom he would fling in the air across the pool. For babies, his belly was a moon bounce. And my favorite was standing on his size 17 shoes and hugging his leg as he swung me up and down the grocery store aisles of Pantry Pride. As we grew older and got too big to climb on my dad, he taught us the classics: baseball, softball, football and basketball. He was prominent in the Bowie Boys and Girls Club where he was the Commissioner and Coach of numerous leagues and teams. My sister Tricia recalls how when coaching he would treat kids with special needs as equals to so-called rising stars; no one more or less important than the rest. Tricia especially remembers his loving patience with a deaf teammate. He was never lacking patience. Only occasionally would you hear his trademark "Hubba, Hubba" when asking for a little more hustle. He wasn't a tactician, or a motivational speaker, or even one of those boutique sports specialists for whom parents these days pay top dollar, but he always stood tall as a coach to countless Bowie kids. I think it's only fitting that my niece Caroline would write her grandfather a note saying, "Poppy, I will dedicate every game to you. Every time I make a hit, every time I kick the ball, every time I block a goal." He was so patient. I was just recalling last week to a friend about when my Dad took me to an open gym at the South Bowie Community Center when I was 11. I insisted that before we leave, I had to make 10 free throws in row. Of course, he complied. It's not like he had six other kids and a stressful sales job to look after. After countless failed attempts to achieve my feat, I finally looked up and noticed everyone had left. It was just me, a janitor and my dad, who was lying down on the dusty court, asleep, his head resting on a flat basketball. I remember staring at him for a long time, amazed by his quiet patience. His quiet patience. As I moved on from elementary school to junior high, he delegated his coaching duties to his older kids, Beth, Mickey and Tricia. And then, as I moved on to high school, he settled into a supporting role. He evolved from jungle gym to coach to Teddy bear. I remember after my high school basketball games, seeing my dad in his long, khaki winter trench coat waiting next to my sister, Shannon. He would say the same three words to me after every game, win or lose, "You played well." They were words that were affirming after victory and consoling after defeat, but sometimes after a bad game, I would retort sharply, "What game were you watching Dad?" But I still wanted to hear those words. My dad already knew there were enough videotape and coaching to highlight his son's every flaw and imperfection. That was somebody else's job. He knew his was to simply tell me, "You played well." That simple kindness was my reset button. His quiet patience. His simple kindness. It was just six weeks ago that I understood his true humility. I'm not talking about false humility that entails self-deprecation or feelings of inferiority. That's the false and unhealthy kind. True humility, on the other hand, entails respect for God and creation, not fear of others. Understand that my father was never star-struck, at least in the pop culture sense of the word. He always respected but never feared anyone. His words, tone and gestures were constant, whether he were talking to a homeless man or the President of the United States. He would neither look down his nose at the powerless nor "carefully choose his words" for the powerful. He would just implore each of them to "please, just call me Mike." In April, my dad and I began our three-day pilgrimage to Notre Dame where we would watch my nephew Trey play baseball for the Irish. We began our journey in a Red Top Cab at daybreak. I remember my Dad looking out the window and saying in his usual introspective way, "It's amazing how the sun comes up every morning." You see? My dad was only star-struck by actual stars. True humility. After getting my dad and his pocket full of coins through airport security and connecting to flights at gates that seemed miles apart, we finally made it to Touchdown Jesus just outside Father Monk Malloy's office. Father Malloy is a fellow high school alum whom my Father wanted to visit before Trey's game. My Dad had been literally star-struck that morning, but now I was star-struck. We were about to meet Monk Malloy: Carroll High School basketball legend; President of Notre Dame for 18 years; once the feature of a 60 Minutes piece; a man who convened with popes and presidents; the guy who was once Lou Holtz's boss. I thought it was so nice that this distinguished gentleman would meet with my father. "What a treat for Dad," I smarmily thought to myself. But as our meeting with Father Malloy proceeded, I realized it was as much a treat for Monk as it was for my dad. They rattled off myriad names, places and events: John Thompson, pick-up games at Turkey Thicket, Coach Dwyer and Father Driscoll; as they combed through every single page of the 1955 Carroll yearbook. Throughout the conversation, my dad never appeared star-struck. He was simply chewing the fat with one of his peers, reminding me of Kipling's words, "If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touchYours is the Earth and everything that's in it." True humility. On Saturday, I emailed Father Malloy to let him know of my dad's passing. He promptly wrote back with condolences. "I will remember the visit that I had with you and your father for a long time," he wrote. "I very much enjoyed hearing so many of his stories, it will be a visit long remembered." Monk Malloy couldn't get enough of my dad. It was my dad who had to politely end the conversation, saying, "Father, we could chat all day, but I really don't want to be late for my grandson's baseball game." True humility. Quiet patience. Simple kindness. True humility. It was a pure and unadulterated pleasure for my father to see his grandson play baseball in person. Baseball was definitely the pastime for my dad, whose formative years in the 1950s coincided with the game's heyday. Ironically, however, it was a lone foul ball that prompted the most memorable baseball moment of the weekend. During the game, one of the batters hit a ball over the press box behind home plate and into the parking lot. For kicks, the stadium would play the sound of a car windshield breaking, a cheesy sound effect. Well, my dad didn't it see it that way. He was startled that someone's windshield might be broken. I explained, "Dad, it's a sound effect. It's just a joke." He said, "You mean they have a guy up there in the press box breaking glass and they play it over the PA." "No, Dad. That would be dangerous. It's just a recording." "You mean they had a guy break glass once and they recorded it." "Actually, they just downloaded a sound file from the internet." "'Download'? What?" I finally gave up, saying, "Well, Dad, don't worry. It wasn't our windshield. We didn't drive to the game." From there, with the help of my brother-in-law Tony, we got my dad from one shrine to another on Notre Dame's hallowed grounds - from ballpark to Basilica. The Basilica of the Sacred Heart would be the last place where I would share Mass with my father. It wasn't the most memorable liturgy and I couldn't recap the homily for you. I have neither a program nor a keepsake. But what I do remember as we left the church was my dad telling Trey, "Your school has a great glee club." Of course, my dad was referring to Notre Dame's choir. It reminded me of how he used to insist, when we were younger, on going to what he called the "Rock and Roll Mass." It could be folk, choir or cantor. My dad had an ear for a good musical liturgy. Although he wasn't the most dutiful in every rite and ritual (his pre-Mass contemplation was kneeling and reading the Catholic Standard newspaper), he loved the Mass and he had a special place in his heart for priests. Nonetheless, his least favorite thing was a long homily and I'm sure he would want me to wrap this up too, especially with a nice spread of food waiting for us just a few feet away. But before I conclude, please let me quote my dad's youngest granddaughter Shelby (whom my dad liked to call Shelby Whitfield, after the old Senators broadcaster). Shelby said, "Jesus needed an angel. Now Poppy can fly and watch over everybody." To my mom and to my six brothers and sisters, "We're gonna have a party. We're gonna have some food that rare. At the head of the table, we'll have a big size chair. So save the pie for Cy, cause the Cy don't eat no meat." Finally, to rest of the congregation, thank you for letting me sing the praises of this unsung hero whose virtues were quiet, simple and true. Your mere presence here is an act of love that brings incredible comfort to my family. Thank you.