Bob Murnane

Bob Murnane

Bob suddenly appeared in our St. Anselm’s class somewhere around

the sixth or seventh grade, bringing with him both size and gravitas. He

was the tallest kid in the class, which naturally meant all the macho guys

needed to challenge him to fight. Bob held his own, didn’t back down, and

pretty soon won everyone’s respect.

He was a serious student and his gravitas impressed the nuns

enough that they made him the equivalent of our drill instructor. Every day

we would all have to march around the schoolyard singing “An army of

youth flying the standard of truth, we are fighting for Christ the Lord.” Then

we’d line up at attention and Bob would shout, “SaLUTE to the CROSS!,”

as he hoisted up a large crucifix in Heil Hitler! fashion. The entire student

body would then shout back, “I pledge allegiance to the cross of Christ

and to the Faith for which it stands . . .” all eyes glued to our fearless

leader, Bob.

Our eighth grade teacher was Sister Bernadette of Mary, a new

arrival conscripted at the last minute to replace Sister Noella, who had

died unexpectedly in August. She showed up for class the first day with

scars all over her face from a recent skin cancer operation, so we

immediately nicknamed her “Scabby.” She was old and grumpy, but she

liked Bob, especially after his announcement early in the year that he was

planning to enter the seminary. Her relationship with the rest of the class

was rocky at best, and became worse as the year went on, probably

because she seemed to completely disapprove of puberty and had little

understanding of teenagers. Even Bob eventually fell out of favor with her

after he decided his future seminary plans didn’t preclude having a steady

eighth-grade girlfriend.

Things came to a head one Friday afternoon late in the year when

Danny Taylor put an wilted carrot on Scabby’s seat, right in the middle of

her hemorrhoid cushion. She came in, saw what appeared to be a

blasphemous turd in the center of her chair, and totally flipped out,

demanding to know who was responsible for such an outrage. No one

admitted to it, so she declared that no one was going to be allowed to go

home until someone confessed. We spent the next two hours in tortured

silence. Finally, with minutes to go before the final bell, she came up with

a new strategy. She read off a list of her twenty least-favorite students,

suspects that would have to stay until someone cracked. The rest of uswere free to go. The suspects were a mixed group, male and female, most

of them known violators of her no-mixed-parties rule. Included in this

group was future-seminarian Bob and his floozy girlfriend. When our

school bus pulled away half an hour later, leaving several of our

classmates behind, we knew things were serious. Scabby was out for

blood.

Monday morning after the weekend, Scabby came into class and

victoriously announced, “The culprit has confessed. Robert Murnane has

admitted to putting the carrot on my chair. It’s unfortunate that some of

the rest of you had to suffer for his . .”

Bob leaped out of his seat. “Sister, I didn’t do it! The only reason I

said I did is because you would’ve kept us here all weekend if no one

confessed. I just said it so we could all go home.

Scabby was totally befuddled, on her back foot now, knowing the

pastor had received several calls from worried, angry parents on Friday

evening. “That’s not true. I would never . . .”

“I didn’t do it,” Bob repeated, and Scabby fell silent.

That’s when Bob Murnane became the moral hero of our class. He

had faced the dragon and slayed her. We were all in his debt.

Bob did indeed go to the seminary that Fall and, when he eventually

came home for summer vacation, it seemed like the seminary had

unleashed a wild streak in him. His car salesman father had furnished him

with a sporty little Hillman sedan for the summer, and Bob proceeded to

speed madly around the Marin hills terrorizing some of the residents,

including my mother, who forbad me from riding with him.

Bob’s inner wild-man evidently also come to the faculty’s attention

during his first two years at St. Joe’s, because, at the end of second high,

he received an official warning that he’d better shape up or he’d be thrown

out. He took it to heart. By the time I arrived in third high, he had reverted

to the earnest and sober student I had known in grammar school. That

was also about the time he became interested in the liturgy and joined the

rabid band of “movers” in our class who were fervently reading Pius

Parsch and defiantly wearing swoop-necked surplices in chapel.

Fast forward a few years to St. Pat’s.

It’s the first day and Bob is sitting in the front row of Red Cronan’s

philosophy class. We’re all terrified of Red, because of his reputation as a

hard-bitten ex-military chaplain who would have no compunction about

flunking us. Bob’s furiously taking notes as Red paces back and forth atthe front of the room barking syllogisms in Latin. Suddenly Red stops right

in front of Bob’s desk and spins around to face him.

“Murnane! Are you writing down EVERYthing I’m saying??”

Bob stammers, “Yes, Father. I’m trying.”

Red throws his hands up in the air. “Good God! Sincerity gone

WILD!!”

Red was right of course. Bob was one of the most sincere people

any of us ever knew. He was totally without guile, a true friend. Bob

was, in John Henry Newman’s words, a real gentleman, a person who

“never inflicts pain, avoids causing discomfort, interprets actions

charitably, and never speaks of himself unless compelled.”

Rest in peace, Blessed Bob, our patron saint of gentle humor and

soft heart.