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CHAPTER 1
On St. Patrick's Day, in 1955, a friend of mine died.
Patrick Edmund O'Connor was bigger than life and the type of man you'd think would live forever. I still recall how stunned
I was when Sweeney, a gifted and talented young reporter, stormed into my office and told me the news."Mr. Casey,"
he said, "The Hero of Barryton just died."
That's what the folks in this northeastern Pennsylvania town always called him. And I was fortunate to consider him a
friend, my best friend in fact.
"Tell production to save a two-by-five hole on the front page," I barked, more crotchety than usual. "We'll
jump the rest inside."
"Isn't that a lot of type for an obit?" Sweeney said.
I shot back that he earned that much space. In fact, I thought, if I wasn't just a hack I'd have written O'Connor's life
story long ago.
"Because he saved the lives of those four miners?"
The kid was still green behind the ears. He didn't know a damn thing.
"Sweeney, I'm going to give you an exclusive interview. Now go get your reporter's pad and get your ass back in here.
And bring some coffee ... black."
He returned and looked like a kid on Christmas Eve about to get a free peek at his gifts. I knew that feeling. I had it
once. But that was a long time ago. I pointed to a chair in front of my desk and he sat down with pen ready. I went to my
file cabinet and withdrew the large folder I had on O'Connor.
"Most of what you'll need is in here," I said. "What's not in here is what I'm going to tell you now."
I handed him the folder and sat at my desk and lit a cigar. I smiled, recalling how my best friend disliked my expensive cigars.
He always said cheap pipe tobacco was good enough for the likes of him.
I looked over at Sweeney and said, "Oh, he was a hero all right, but not just for saving those men from a would-be
grave. That was just a minor incident in his life. Hell, I'm the one who used that headline. He couldn't have cared less.
But this town needed a hero at that time and I gave it to them, mostly for my own personal reasons. But we won't go into that
right now. What you have to understand is that Patrick O'Connor was a hero because of his character ... because of the way
he lived his life. To understand, you have to go back to the very beginning--long before I first met him after Jack's tragic
death--back to when he brought his family to the United States."
I blew a puff of smoke over my head. "In fact," I said, "it was his son Jack who first spotted the Statue
of Liberty. That was in 1910 ..."
"It's America! It's America!"
The cry rang out from one end of the immigrant ship to the other. The sound echoed off the top elite deck down to the
musty levels below where the third-class passengers, mostly Irish immigrants, awaited word of the first sighting of land.
Young Jack O'Connor was the first to announce the news to his mother.
"Aye, 'tis true, Mum! Come on up and have a look."
"Ah, now, this is the hour we've all been waitin' fer," Margaret Maher O'Connor said to her son, unable to control
the quiver in her voice. "I'll take Eileen and baby Pat. Now, ye go find Dada and tell him the news. More than likely
he's down in the boiler room showin' off and a playin' his sport. Dada's sport, as his wife Maggie called it, was to arm wrestle
other strong men, often taking on two at a time using both arms. It didn't matter if it was for a pint or a sixpence. He simply
enjoyed the challenge and took on all comers. On this twentieth day of March, 1910, his opponent was a giant of a man by the
name of Adolph Mueller. He had large hands like Dada and equally strong arms. They were a good match and bets on the outcome
increased with each passing minute. They had been at it for half an hour, each not giving an inch to the other, when Jack
raced into the smoke-filled boiler room.
"Dada! Hurry!" He pointed a small finger upward. "We can see America. Mum wants you to come topside now
to have a look."
The men surrounding the small wooden table where Dada and Mueller sat arm-in-arm in combat tried to silence the boy. "Quiet,
lad," one of the men said to Jack. "There's a bit of money at stake here. Ye don't want yer da to lose his concentration,
now do ye?"
Dada looked at his son and grinned. "It's okay, Jack. Tell yer mum I'll be there in a bit."
His son had seen that grin before and knew his father was about to teach the big German a lesson in humility. As soon
as he was out of sight, Dada looked around the room and asked if all bets had been made.
"Aye, that they have O'Connor," one of the men answered.
"Good then," Dada said. He eyed his perspiring challenger and smiled one of his grandest Irish smiles. "Well,
laddie," he said, "you've been great sport. But, now I best put an end to this." He squeezed Mueller's hand.
The German winced. Dada's biceps bulged as he forced his opponent's arm slowly down to the table. Mueller grunted loudly and
fought to raise his arm, but it was an attempt in futility. The match ended with a resounding thump, and the loud cheers of
those who were smart enough not to bet against Patrick Edmund O'Connor.
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