Pat Browne

It seems fitting to honor my old friend Pat Browne here in this setting, because St.

Simon’s was built in 1957, the same year I first met Pat and my seminary class at St. Joseph’s

college - which is now The Forum and Rancho San Antonio park. Those of you who are friends

of Pat know that the last thing he would want from me is a long-winded, maudlin, or even polite

eulogy. So I’ll do my best to follow his lead and be concise, blunt, and suitably caustic.

Pat grew up in Sunnyvale and entered St. Joe’s right out of the 8th grade, along with

about 100 other idealistic 14 year olds, a few of whom are with us today. They had already had

two full years to get used to the place by the time I got there. Now you have to understand

that a pre-Vatican II seminary like St. Joseph’s was designed to be a very challenging place,

more like a Marine boot camp than a prep school. We were there - voluntarily - to be

programmed, our undisciplined minds and bodies broken and molded to the rule of God and

our superiors. We were to have no contact with the outside world; every hour of our day was

strictly scheduled; classes were demanding, and sometimes demeaning; all our

correspondence was censored. But despite this deadly disciplinary regimen, we did have one

very adolescent outlet - sports, and this is where the seminary showed its true genius in social

engineering. Using the same strategy as the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, as

soon as we entered the seminary, we were drafted on one of four teams, Bears, Ramblers,

Trojans or Indians, and this became our basic social identity for the next four years. Pat was an

excellent athlete and had been drafted as an Indian. That was his basic identity, but he had

also successfully covered all the other bases necessary for seminary survival in those days: he

was academically sharp, he knew how to charm his superiors, he was suitably, but not overly,

pious, and most importantly, he could utterly devastate with acerbic one-liners anyone foolish

enough to take him on.

The day I was picked by the Indians, Pat appeared after dinner, introduced himself, and

said, “Let’s take a walk.” As we walked around the building, Pat gave me a detailed

breakdown of who exactly in the class were jerks, who were jocks, and who were good guys. I

learned from him that most of the good guys were Indians, though a few of the jocks on other

teams were okay; the majority though were jerks. Needless to say I was very relieved to be on

Pat’s team.

Though our class spent a lot of time together in chapel, classes, and the dining room,

the place we really got to know each other was on the ballfield. In the ‘50s, soccer was almost

unknown in this country, but because we had a French order running the seminary, that was

one of our official sports. We weren’t very good at it, in fact we never learned the off-sides

rule, so the entire other team could swarm the goalie. Pat and Al Potter played fullback for the

Indians supposedly protecting me as their clueless rookie goalie. When the other team

charged down the field with the ball, Pat, who, I soon started to realize didn’t really like bodily

contact, would run out, take a half-hearted kick at the ball, then step back and yell, “Get ‘im

Potts!” It was a tough season.

Basketball was better. Pat had played CYO basketball in grammar school and had

developed a pretty deadly jump shot from the top of the key. Per his orders, we’d all dutifully

feed him the ball, he’d shoot, and we’d win about half of our games.

Baseball was Pat’s favorite sport. He’d pitched in Little League so he was our starter

on the mound. He had a strong arm and a wicked fastball and curve that occasionally would

land in the strike zone, but he was so wild that he hit abut half the batters he faced, so as his

first baseman, I usually had a runner to cope with. I’d carefully watch Pat start his windup,

then pause and casually look over to check the runner. He’d be looking for a long time, and I’d

keep waiting for a pick-off throw. Eventually I realized Pat wasn’t really checking the runner; he

was watching his shadow to make sure his form was cool.

Once we got into college, Pat started getting really interested in Sociology. He got

totally captivated by the book, The Organization Man, and pretty soon he started talking like a

corporate executive and analyzing everything in terms of efficiency. That kept him from getting

emotionally caught up in the ‘60s culture wars that had broken out between the liturgical

movers and the traditionalists. He was able to stay aloof and view both sides with a detached

corporate cynicism.You could be friends with Pat for years and never be sure he even liked you, because

he was anything but effusive. But once in a while he’d surprise you. When I finally left the

seminary just before our last year, I got a letter from Pat. One sentence. “Just wanted to let

you know that this place isn’t the same without you.” That was Pat being effusive, and I’ve

always treasured it.

Now I’m sure some of you are saying, “Wait a minute. This is Monsignor Browne you’re

eulogizing. Why aren’t you talking about his brilliant classroom management, his Edwardian

preaching style, his pastoral sensitivity? Why are you still roasting him as an adolescent? The

answer is simple: That’s how Pat and I got to know each other; It’s how all of us seminarians

bonded, seventy years ago - as playful adolescents in a totally unique, highly controlled and

pressurized environment that will never exist again. We grew up making fun of each other’s

foibles and learning about our own in the process. It was a sacred process of discernment.

Talk to anyone who was in the seminary in those days and they’ll tell you the same. It created

an absolutely unique bond. And the older we get, the more we appreciate it.

I told you Pat was always blunt and concise. That never changed. I hadn’t seen him for

several years, then I stopped at St Patrick’s to see him when he was dean of students in 1977.

As I drove into the grounds, I noticed that all our ballfields were totally overgrown with weeds. I

said to Pat, “What’s going on, nobody playing sports anymore?”

He just shrugged his shoulders, “What can I say? All we’re getting is gay Republicans.”

Some years later, when Pat was pastor at the Cathedral I visited him again and we were

standing out front after Mass when a woman parishioner came up to him. “Monsignor, I have

to tell you. You were talking over our heads today.”

Pat just looked at her and said, “Helen, you ducked!”

Losing an old classmate like Pat is like losing a library of memories that can never be

replaced. There’s a big rock in the middle of Rancho San Antonio park which holds a plaque

commemorating St. Joseph’s minor seminary. That’s the only evidence left of it. That rock

reminds me of Pat. He’s the original classmate who stayed and grounded our history. Over

the years, he presided at our funerals, preached at our reunions, and personified the classic

‘50s priest we all once aspired to be. He stopped calling us jerks long time ago and began

opening his heart to us, and we to him. It was never a soft mushy love. It was always tough

love. But we knew it was genuine and honest, and that made it very valuable.

I already miss Pat a lot. I love all my old classmates, but Pat maybe just a little more.

You know - He was an Indian.