Eulogy for Eugene J. Cronin

March 17, 2005

          The word is out and GM stock is down as Buick sales plummet. The sales clerks at Tiffany’s will have one fewer customer this Christmas. The Lionel Train Company has halted the assembly line for a moment of silence. Section 305 at Giant Stadium is that much quieter and waiters and staff from the Four Seasons to the Hyannis Yacht Club have bowed their heads. For Gene Cronin will come no more.

          Truth be told, when my father died early Monday, the President did not declare a day of mourning, the stock market did not grind to a halt and spring training baseball games went off without a hitch.

          And yet, do not take the lack of fanfare for a lack of meaning. For if there is anything to learn from my father, if there is anything to appreciate, it is that life matters, that what we do makes a difference.

He did not go gently into that dark night, he did not stride quietly through this world, as Joe Giuliani said Tuesday night, he sang the loudest in the crowd. If you met Gene Cronin, if he came into your life, you knew it.

He was a proud man, a confident man, but not a braggart, not one who inflated himself, but one who lived for causes greater than he: his God, his family, his country.

          Those of us who gather here today knew the man, so we can dispense with the niceties. He was not warm and fuzzy, not laid back, not the go-along type of guy. Many of us here today found ourselves on the receiving end of his anger, his silence, his steadfastness to principles and convictions that concerned everything from faith in God to supporting George Bush to not eating at Italian restaurants.

That’s okay, for the world has too many nice guys, too many who always go along, too many of the sorts who say, “whatever,” whose footprints barely leave a mark and then are gone. We need more Gene Cronins. We need more of his ilk, un-ironic in an ironic world. More people who have such faith in the possibilities of this life, such expectations, even if it means suffering disappointments. Better that, than asking nothing, expecting nothing and achieving nothing.

Many today brag of their patriotism and bellow about their love of country. I cannot tell you where my father ranks in the hall of patriots. I can only tell you this: at age 17, he joined the Army, getting his mother to sign the papers because he was underage. While in boot camp, he joined the paratroopers – an act many of us would consider crazy – but it seemed like fun and offered better food. He learned to drive by unloading Jeeps in the Brooklyn Navy Yard. While stationed in Japan, he learned to fly a plane, given his driving habits, thank God he never flew at home. And when he left the service in early 1947, only 19 years old, he had already done more than many do in a lifetime.

By the early fifties – after working full time while attending school at St. John’s – his affection for that school reflected in the fact that he wears his college ring even now – he took up the career that meant so much to him, providing for the protection of this country. There are more famous corporate names from this period – Lee Iacocca, Walter Wriston, Jack Welsh – and I will not make false claims for my Dad. This I can tell you. He joined the Maxon Company in 1953 as a stock boy, and when he left 13 years later, he was number two in the whole company, made them a major force in the field and personally led the production of the first guided missile, the Bullpup Missile.

He joined Sperry in January of 1968, and when he retired, he was the number two man in all of Unisys Defense Products. When much of the local defense industry – including Sperry – sagged under the weight of criminal investigations, the investigators praised him for his honesty and the honesty with which he conducted business. He stood as a beacon, one who saw no need to choose between strong ethics and business success: you simply did them both.  

I learned this from my father – it is not enough to do a job for pay. It is not enough to like your job. Your job needs to have some purpose, some meaning, some connection to a larger cause. For him, it meant providing for the defense of this country. Today, one of the many projects he brought to fruition – the Aegis firepower system – continues to protect this nation and is the single most import defense system in place to prevent a missile attack from North Korea.

I think of my Dad as a creature of the 1960’s. To many that engenders images of riots and protests. I want to offer a different vision. Think of a young father who put his two year old son on his shoulders and drove out to the old Commack Arena to hear another young American named Kennedy speak of his hopes for this nation. Think of that same father taking his place among the leaders of a country that dared to put a man on the moon. That dared put an end to discrimination, that declared war on poverty and set up health care systems as large and grand as Medicaid and Medicare. For my father – like many in this audience – became a leader in that generation, a generation of dreamers, of men and women who thought we could accomplish lasting greatness. Were there errors, were their failures? Yes, but think of their reach, think of their hopes and you will begin to understand the gravity of my father’s life.

Gene Cronin was not all work and no play. You knew that from the glint in his eyes. Oh, he gave his all on the job, but he had large appetites for fun too. In his younger days, that meant summers at the Jersey Shore and trips to Eddy’s Farm, where he stepped from the car and declared, “Let the party begin.” He drove as if there were no speed limits, then drove even faster to evade the highway patrol that knew to look for him. There were Dodger games – his first date with my Mom was a trip to Ebbetts Field – and he organized his friends into buying a box for football Giant games that still binds their friendship today. We’ve seen many of those friends this week – Bill Keller, Pete McQuad, Harold Earhardt, Paul Becker, Joe Guiliani, Ernie Alvarez and Wally Smith, and some who have passed – Jim Brady, Willie Sequari and Jim Lastra – they’re smiling now over parties with bathtubs full of cheap champagne and breaking summer leases by putting all the furniture on the roof.

In later years, Dad made himself the life of the party at church dances and New Year’s Eve at the Cooke’s house with the DeSpagnas and Martins. He played softball with the K of C – you should have seen him careering round the bases – and he always upheld the honor of his Council at the post-game festivities. Right into his last years, he threw open houses topped off by his famous Irish coffee and shepherded friends for sojourns in Bermuda. He wheeled himself around Disney World and attended every Giant Super Bowl. Each month he and the gang from the old neighborhood gathered for lunch at Koenig’s.

I can’t tell you if his parties were the biggest or the best; I can only tell you that those who attended, never passed up an invitation for another bash with Gene Cronin.

We live in a world where TV ministers and politicians boast of their faith. I can make no claims for my father’s faith for who can see into another man’s soul. This I know. He did not miss mass. He never gave up on his rosary beads. He relished the times at St. Martin of Tours, St. Ann’s Academy, St. John’s. And when he moved to Long Island, he helped give birth to the parish and the church in which we celebrate this mass and his life. My Dad helped form the Parish Council, the Knights of Columbus – serving as Grand Knight – the Holy Name Society and the ushers. He helped raise the money that made this building possible. One anecdote will give you a flavor of the man. Around that time, dress styles began to change and some groups in the parish wanted to institute a dress code for mass. The Parish Council engaged in a vigorous debate on this subject, until Gene Cronin stood up and declared, “God doesn’t care if you show up naked, as long as you go to church.” End of debate. Oh, one side note – we still had to get dressed up for church.

He was not alone in the early days of this parish; he would be the first to tell you that. Still, he was part of the foundation, which made all that followed possible.

The role the mattered most to Gene Cronin was that as family man, as husband and father. I will not tell you that he was the best husband, I can only tell you of his love and devotion to my mother. Nowadays, we suffer endless hype for the marriages of princes and princesses. Mom and Dad’s union did not appear on magazine covers, but to look at my parent’s wedding photos is to understand true love.

Dad started every morning with a kiss, came home with a kiss and ended every night with another kiss.

In the last few days, as we began to sift through his papers – we found clear evidence not only of has pack rat habits, but of his enduring love for my Mom. He saved anniversary cards, birthday cards, notes; he saved receipts, including the tariff for their honeymoon night at the Waldorf. He showed his love through his munificence, gifts that were not mere purchases, but thoughtful, insightful presents. Every December, my Dad and Denise would take a day as he asked her help in picking out the special dress, the perfect jacket. And every year for the last 24 years, he made a trip to Tiffany’s to pick out the diamond or pearl that might approximate the beauty my mother held for him.

Even in death, he wanted to please her. For years, he spoke how we would bury him at the national cemetery at Calverton, but he opted for St. Patrick’s Cemetery here in Huntington, because that’s what Mom wanted and he wanted to make it easy for my mother to visit.

Through nearly 48 years of marriage, in ways that seemed mysterious to outsiders, their love never waned, it flourished and when you saw my father with my mother, when you saw him look at her, you caught a glimpse of emotions and joys worthy of epic poems.

Before he became a Dad to Gene and Greg, Denise and me, my father assumed special, almost unbearable burdens within his own family. Before he turned five, my father lost his older sister, Regina. Just after he turned 13, my father lost his father and, by necessity, became the man of the household for his mother, Gerald, his late sister Pat and Bernadette, a role he took to heart. He forsook high school sports and afternoon fun to bring home money for the family. Of course, he did not complain, and years later regaled us with tales of working at the German Deli in Ridgewood, selling papers on the trains and working full-time at the Post Office by the age of 15.  

Those experiences gave him a tremendous sense of obligation, of duty to others. Above all else – even his own pleasure and joy – he gave to his family.

Then he became a Dad. I will not claim him a better Dad than others, for we all believe that our father was that special one, the one who mattered more. But I will tell you that he loved his children. He had a strong sense of what it meant to be the Dad. He felt a duty to show us right from wrong, good from bad. He explained to me that he was not my friend, he was my father and later added that he would tell us the things we needed to hear, not what we wanted to hear. My friends jokingly called him Clean Gene, for in an age of shifting morality, he drove home a clear sense of how one should conduct oneself in this world.

And what a life he gave us, not just the homes and comforts, the schools and colleges he helped fund. He taught us the richness of family rituals and holidays. For more than a decade, we gathered as a family each Labor Day on Cape Cod and relished the meals at the Hyannis Yacht Club and Chillingsworth. The Christmas-season trips to a Broadway musical and the Four Seasons became legendary among anyone who knew us. Each year my father jokingly bemoaned the size of the bill at the Four Seasons, but we knew, the higher it was, the better he felt.

And what adventures he gave us. Sudden ski trips, where he taught us by pointing down the mountain and saying, “Ski.” Work around the house where he was less Mr. Fix-It than Dr. Frankenstein – you hold that wire. He was Leo Durocher coaching Little League baseball and Vince Lombardi in green sweat pants coaching HBC football. We’d rummage through obscure toy-stores for a certain Lionel train engine. Even going out became an escapade – and pity the poor sales person or waiter who got his order wrong.

As kids, Dad only received a two weeks vacation. Did he relax, lie in a hammock and declare he needed some “me” time? Not our father. He’d load us in the car and start driving – windows down, singing, Rheingold Beer in hand. We might wind up in Canada, or Dearborn, Michigan or Cape Cod, each trip giving us a lifetime worth of memories.

As we became adults, he asked after our individual endeavors, beamed with pride as Denise achieved greater and greater prominence in the publishing industry, marveled at Greg’s investment wisdom, and wondered over Gene’s ability to run a business that spanned the East Coast. When I ran a health care company, he loved to hear the ups and downs of the business, saying to me, “Oh, to be back in the fray.” And he celebrated our successes – large and small. Last year, Carol and I ran two marathons, and though he couldn’t attend, he sat by the phone awaiting updates along the way, and when we finished, we received his exultant phone calls and found bottles of champagne waiting to congratulate us.

It is important to note that Dad welcomed Abbee and Carol into the family as if they were his daughters, asked after them – “How’s the law business, counselor?” – as if they were his own children, celebrated their achievements and birthdays, as if he had cherished them all their lives, for his heart was large. To see his warmth and love for them, and the responses he evoked from them, made me all the more proud to call him my Dad.

He taught us in words and deeds that life was ours for the taking, to go and grab not what we wanted, but what was right. He set such high expectations for us, and we often felt his sense of disappointment, but we understood that the expectations came out of his great faith in what we could do. And we never doubted his love. As Greg said Monday night, “No matter what happened, Dad never said no, he was always there for us.”

When we brought him grandchildren, he found a role that gave him no responsibilities, only joy. Gene already spoke about the day Patrick, his first grandchild was born, the ecstasy Dad felt, but that was true with each of five grandchildren. Christmas became a spectacle bordering on the ridiculous as half of F.A.O. Schwartz wound up under the Christmas tree. Look at the Christmas photo with Dad, his trains and his grandkids: Patrick, Jamie, John, Luke and Matthew, look at those smiles.

Carol and my children benefited from living near by. Dad took such an interest in the kids’ activities, always asking about school, attending their concerts, cheering on their games. He didn’t ask the general question – “how are you doing?” – which any stranger could pose. He wanted to know about every report card, every grade and every class. When Patrick worked out to increase his speed, my Dad would ask each week, “Have you gotten any faster?” He knew when Jamie had a lacrosse game, and if he didn’t attend, he wanted to know how Jamie played. The boys loved it when he came to their games, to their school concerts and felt thrilled as he dragged his failing legs across the fields this past autumn to see them play their football games.

So there we have him, Gene Cronin. He was no giant, no super hero, just a man, given one life, a vessel to fill. Boy did he fill it, right to the brim. He was the paratrooper and patriot, executive and role model, Catholic and church leader, devoted friend and good-time Charlie, husband, brother, father and grandfather. As Pete McQuaid told me, “My life was changed for the better because I knew Gene Cronin.”

Nine years ago, Dad fell into congestive heart failure and underwent a sextuplet heart bypass operation – whoever heard of such a thing? I sat with him the night before in his hospital room and marveled at his calmness. Dad was so secure in how he led his life – no second-guessing, no worrying about appearances. He had great faith that the operation would succeed, but if it didn’t, he had no regrets, he already felt fulfilled. We should all seek such a sense of peace, of oneness with God.

Now he has that complete peace, his life outside of time, no longer suffering the ravages that wore down even Gene Cronin. Being beyond time, he has, as St. Augustine wrote, found eternity with God. Though he took his last breath, he remains alive in this world, not in list of accomplishments, not in stale memoriams, but in the hearts and minds of all who knew him. He’s alive as we tell our stories from the days on Weirfield Street to the Jersey Shore to the fields of Caledonia Park. He’s alive as we remember his voice, his jokes, his urgings, his directives, his songs. He’s alive as we find ourselves repeating his words, passing on his wisdom, letting others see the possibilities as he showed us. He’s alive in each of us here and countless others, who worked with him at Sperry or played for him in HBC football or St. E’s Little League, or drank beers at Eddy’s Farm or heard him speak at church or received the turkeys he distributed every Thanksgiving. He touched so many, his fingerprints invisible, yet indelible, blooming and blossoming like crazy flowers in our lives. He finds eternity through each of us as we walk, talk and lead our lives that much differently, that much better, because Gene Cronin touched us. 

I love you Dad.