Mike McLaughlin

Ode to a Tribal Chieftain

            My classmate, Mike McLaughlin, died on August 12th, 2016. 

            He was an archtype in our class of ’61, a fiercely competitive athlete, Trojan captain, accomplished in baseball, basketball and track, and utterly menacing on the soccer field.  He had a sarcastic wit, and he wasn’t above “laying a little muscle” on younger classmen who questioned his authority.

            After leaving the seminary, Mike became a lawyer and went to work for the Teamsters, carrying on the union tradition of his father and grandfather.  Earlier this year, he celebrated 50 years of marriage to his wife Nancy, and was the proud father of four children.  At his funeral, Pat Browne, a close friend of Mike, eulogized him for his commitment to family, church, teams, and union:  “Mike . . . was tribal.”   

            He definitely got that right.  I met Mike in September, 1957, the first day of third high. I was a brand new “non-orig” from Marin Catholic, totally overwhelmed by the mystique of “seminary” and “seminarians”.  Everyone had finished unpacking and they were all milling around the courtyard, renewing acquaintances and waiting for the Angelus bell to ring for supper.  To my awe-struck eyes, this was a throng of saintly warriors, called by God to this sacred place and already introduced to mysteries I could only hope to someday share.

            Dick Ormsby, a third-high “original” from Mission Dolores, had taken me under his wing and was introducing me to my fellow classmates, two-year veterans who seemed happy to welcome me. 

            Then I noticed a guy in white bucks sauntering toward us.  He had a macho swagger and was surrounded by a bunch of raw-boned jock types.

            Dick seemed to get a little nervous as he introduced us.  “Uh, Greg, this is Mike McLaughlin, one of our classmates.”

            I reached out to shake his hand and got a cold fish in return.  McLaughlin was already looking over my shoulder, checking out the guys behind me.  Dick told him I was from Marin, and Mac mumbled the name of some guy from San Rafael he’d played ball with, then moved on with his entourage. 

            I was a little taken aback.  I’d entered St. Joe’s pretty naïve and idealistic, expecting   . . . what?  Maybe a young St. Francis or St. Ignatius.  

            Instead, God gave me Mike McLaughlin.

            The next afternoon, all us new guys had to go down to the campus to play softball, so that we could be scouted for the sports teams.  I hadn’t been played sports for the last two years, because I’d developed a weird blood condition in my freshman year, and the doctor was afraid I’d get bruised and bleed to death.  Away from home now, I was determined to get back to sports.  My first time at bat, I got a single, and scored after the next batter hit a double.  I was standing next to the dugout catching my breath when McLaughlin sidled up to me with his clipboard.  

            He glanced around, then moved in close and started talking low, out of the side of his mouth like he was trying to sell me some drugs.  “Ever play any ball at Marin Catholic, Mac?”

            “No,” I said. “I would have, but I got a blood disease at the beginning of my freshman year and . .”

            He raised an eyebrow and stepped back. “Disease?”

            He made a mark on his clipboard and walked away.  Needless to say, I wasn’t picked by the Trojans.  

            Mike and I had adjoining desks in study hall, but we were in different divisions, so we didn’t have the same assignments. Once in a while he’d whisper a question about a Latin translation, and every Wednesday night he’d borrow a stamp for his letter home, promising to pay me back the next week; but other than that, we didn’t have much in common.  We were in different tribes.  

            The next year, in fourth high, Mike became Trojan captain, and I was an Indian, so the distance between us grew even wider. He had a little book in his desk that he would pull out once in a while and shield it with his arm so I couldn’t see it.  That’s where he kept all the scores from every game and all the statistics he needed to calculate just how many victories it would take for the Trojans to win the pennant. That was the most focused I ever saw him in study hall.  He warned me never to look in his book, and I, always subservient, never did. The Trojans came in first place that year; the Indians, last.

            Mike seemed to have an inside track on everything in the seminary.  His older brother Jack had given him a lot of tips, as well as his old soccer and baseball cleats, so Mike was always ahead of the game - unfairly, it seemed to me (lacking, as I did, both siblings and hutzpah).  Jack also provided him with copies of all the old tests, so he never had to study too hard for the finals. That of course gave him more time to plot Trojan strategy during study hall.  

            Once we got to the college side, Mike and I slowly began to emerge from our tribal imprints.  Occasionally we’d end up on the same team, and now we had all our classes together, so we began to become tentative friends.  Our rooms were always next to each other, so during our week-long silent retreat in First Philosophy, I decided to test the depth of our budding intimacy.  I unwound a hanger and drilled a hole through his wall with the corkscrew end.  I heard his chair scrap and his footsteps coming over to the wall.  Then there was a knock on my door.  

            It was Mike, looking perplexed.  “Did you do that?”  

            I laughed and told him yeah, that I was bored.  

            He shook his head.  “You’re crazy, McAllister.  You’re going to get me in trouble with Red Cronan.”  Then he smiled.  Just a little bit.   That’s when I knew we could be friends. 

            Mike mellowed a lot over the years, but he never gave up his pugnaciousness.  He was always ready to do battle.  His close friends understood that about him.  

            Mike Murray was in the fourth grade when Mac suddenly arrived in their class, twice as big as everyone else and cocky as hell.  He challenged Murray to a fight that first day at recess and beat him up.  After that they were good friends.   You just had to be willing to stand up to him.  

            Denny O’Brien has been Mike’s best friend for 61 years, the last 45 years of which they’ve been battling each other over union-management issues.  It’s never diminished their friendship.

            Pat Browne is almost as pugnacious as Mike, so they always made good sparing partners.  Not surprisingly, Pat got the last word at Mike’s funeral:  

            “Mike could be really funny.   Sometimes intentionally.”

            Fifteen of Mike’s classmates made the trek down to Cambria for his funeral, coming from as far away as Phoenix, L.A. and Portland.  They weren’t all Trojans, or even jocks.  Mike had expanded his tribe a whole lot since third high.  

            As I knelt there in the church after communion, I glanced to my right, expecting Mike to be kneeling next to me, like he had for all those years.  I realized then that - other than his family - the seminary was his oldest, most heartfelt tribe.  

            And I was part of it.