for John F Kennedy: 'America's leaders must be guided by learning and reason', Response to violence, by Leonard Bernstein - 1963

25 November 1963, Madison Square Garden, New York City, USA

On the 24th of November 1963, two days after the assassination, Bernstein conducted Mahler's Second Symphony in JFK's honour. The night after, he addressed United Jewish Appeal of Greater New York 'Night of Stars' fundraising appeal, and read these famous remarks.

My dear friends:

Last night the New York Philharmonic and I performed Mahler’s Second Symphony-- The Resurrection-- in tribute to the memory of our beloved late President. There were those who asked: Why the Resurrection Symphony, with its visionary concept of hope and triumph over worldly pain, instead of a Requiem, or the customary Funeral March from the Eroica? Why indeed? We played the Mahler symphony not only in terms of resurrection for the soul of one we love, but also for the resurrection of hope in all of us who mourn him. In spite of our shock, our shame, and our despair at the diminution of man that follows from this death, we must somehow gather strength for the increase of man, strength to go on striving for those goals he cherished. In mourning him, we must be worthy of him.

I know of no musician in this country who did not love John F. Kennedy. American artists have for three years looked to the White House with unaccustomed confidence and warmth. We loved him for the honor in which he held art, in which he held every creative impulse of the human mind, whether it was expressed in words, or notes, or paints, or mathematical symbols. This reverence for the life of the mind was apparent even in his last speech, which he was to have made a few hours after his death. He was to have said: “America’s leadership must be guided by learning and reason.” Learning and reason: precisely the two elements that were necessarily missing from the mind of anyone who could have fired that impossible bullet. Learning and reason: the two basic precepts of all Judaistic tradition, the twin sources from which every Jewish mind from Abraham and Moses to Freud and Einstein has drawn its living power. Learning and Reason: the motto we here tonight must continue to uphold with redoubled tenacity, and must continue, at any price, to make the basis of all our actions.

It is obvious that the grievous nature of our loss is immensely aggravated by the element of violence involved in it. And where does this violence spring from? From ignorance and hatred-- the exact antonyms of Learning and Reason. Learning and Reason: those two words of John Kennedy’s were not uttered in time to save his own life; but every man can pick them up where they fell, and make them part of himself, the seed of that rational intelligence without which our world can no longer survive. This must be the mission of every man of goodwill: to insist, unflaggingly, at risk of becoming a repetitive bore, but to insist on the achievement of a world in which the mind will have triumphed over violence.

We musicians, like everyone else, are numb with sorrow at this murder, and with rage at the senselessness of the crime. But this sorrow and rage will not inflame us to seek retribution; rather they will inflame our art. Our music will never again be quite the same. This will be our reply to violence: to make music more intensely, more beautifully, more devotedly than ever before. And with each note we will honor the spirit of John Kennedy, commemorate his courage, and reaffirm his faith in the Triumph of the Mind.

Script of JFK's undelivered Dallas speech.  

for Stan Musial: 'Here stands baseball’s perfect warrior. Here stands baseball’s perfect knight', by Bob Costas - 2013

26 January 2013, St Louis, Missouri, USA

My name is Bob Costas. I’d like to thank all of you for being here for Stan. But in truth, in a certain sense, we’re all here for ourselves because, as the Pride of the Hill, that great sage Yogi Berra, once astutely advised, “Always go to your friends’ funerals. Otherwise, they won’t come to yours.”

I was very touched that toward the end of his life, Stan asked that I’d be one of those to speak today; and his family followed through on that request. But in a perfect world, we know that Jack Buck would be standing here now, representing the longest possible connection to Stan and the Cardinals.

Stan’s career and life were both too vast and too meaningful to all of those here today and to millions more here in spirit for any one person to sum it all up. But, like all of you, my own life was touched by Stan Musial. And like all of you, I have my own thoughts and memories. So, here are a few.

In recent years, and in the days since his passing, the point has often been made that outside St. Louis, through the years, Stan Musial had somehow receded from the national consciousness. That somehow, he had become Baseball’s least-celebrated, truly great player. Although, thankfully, it seems that over the last few days, the outpouring of appreciation has largely corrected that.

But still, there were reasons why, for so long, that was so. And one was the absence of any easy Musial hook or label or single signature moment as though the thousands of picture-perfect baseball moments weren’t enough. DiMaggio had the 56-game hitting streak. Paul Simon immortalized him in song; and his conflicted, sometimes brooding nature fascinated biographers. Stan won seven batting titles, but Ted Williams was the last man to hit .400; and his tempestuous personality and obsessive perfectionism made for drama and conflict. Mickey Mantle was, in a way, the embodiment of Roy Hobbs, “the Natural” of the book and the movie but flawed and star-crossed, simultaneously heroic and heartbreaking. Willie Mays was the Say Hey Kid, and it didn’t hurt that his career began in New York. He had a natural flare and electricity and he had that single indelible moment: the back-to-homeplate catch in the 1954 World Series, the hat flying off, that play forever set in memory.

Stan, by the way, played in three World Series. The last–wouldn’t you know it?–in 1946, was the last year before they began televising the Fall Classic. So aside from his perennial All-Star appearances, a national audience seldom saw him play.

Hank Aaron, a man who, like Stan, stood for something beyond athletic excellence, earned the title of all-time homerun king by chasing down Babe Ruth and staring down stark racism in the process.

Those are all vivid and valid storylines, but also easy for casual fans or those too young to have seen them play to grasp. But what was the hook with Stan Musial other than the distinctive stance and one of Baseball’s best nicknames? It seems that all that Stan had going for him was more than two decades of sustained excellence as a ballplayer and more than nine decades as a thoroughly decent human being. Even Ty Cobb, who apparently didn’t like anybody, once said that Musial was as close to a perfect player as he had seen.

They made a movie about Cobb’s life. Of course they did. It was a life filled with extraordinary achievement, but also filled with demons, rage and conflict. Where is the great conflict in Stan Musial’s extraordinary life? Where is the single person to truthfully say a bad word about him? You can picture the studio head reading that screenplay.

“What do we have here? 3630 base hits and the all-time record of autographs signed, spirits lifted and acts of kindness large and small? What are we supposed to do with that?”

Well those who know and love the Game, and especially those who knew and loved Stan, would trade two hours on the silver screen for 22 years of baseball brilliance and 92 years of a truly great American life.

Long after we’re all gone, the numbers will still show a good part of what Stan Musial meant to the Game. But what may be harder to understand is what he meant to us.

In the late 1960s, the great Paul Simon asked, “Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?” It was the right metaphor at the right time and he picked the right player to make his point. But no one in St. Louis ever had to wonder where Stan Musial had gone. He was right here. Right here at home. Our greatest ballplayer sure, but also our friend. Our neighbor. And that is why our bond and attachment between this player and this city is unique and lasting. Other great players may have had an aura about them; a mystique that made them seem unapproachable. Not Stan.

Every one of us, and through the years countless others, have their own personal stories not just of seeing him play but of running into him at the grocery store, the hardware store, a grandchild’s soccer game or high school graduation and having been touch by his good-naturedness, his graciousness, his buoyant personality.

He came out of an era when the Game provided not just excitement but romance. And he remained the perfect embodiment of baseball in the city where baseball matters most. The genuine hero, who as the years and decades passed and as the disillusionments came from other directions, never once let us down. And here at home were it mattered most, we got it. We understood that it’s more important to be appreciated than to be glorified, to be respected than to be celebrated, to be understood and loved than to be idolized, and that friendship is more important than fame.

As the remembrances poured in this week, I was struck by one in particular. In the early days of integration, more of the significant black and Hispanic players came to the National League than to the American League. Some were met with open hostility. In fact, they all were by some ballplayers. Some players were openly hostile. Others kept a wary distance.

Stan was not an “activist” by nature. He was just a thoroughly decent human being. Willie Mays and Hank Aaron have each, many times in the past and again this week, told the story of how, at an All-Star Game in the 1950s all the great black players–Frank Robinson, Hank Aaron, Willie Mays, Ernie Banks–were kinda gathered in a corner of the National League clubhouse playing cards. No white players anywhere near them. Then Stan just walked up and casually said, “Deal me in.”

That was his way… of letting those players know that they were welcome.

When the right-handed pitcher Joe Black, who was one of the first to follow Jackie Robinson to the Brooklyn Dodgers, was heckled from the Cardinal bench–it’s not an episode we’re proud of–there were some things said that we wish we could erase. Some were said while Stan was in the batter’s box, not by him but from the dugout. He stepped out of the box and he kicked at the dirt. And when the game was over he saw Joe Black out in the tunnel and he said, “I’m sorry you had to hear those things. But you’re going to have a great career, and I just wanted you to know that.”

This week, I spoke with Hank Aaron. He said, “I didn’t just like Stan Musial. I wanted to be like him.

And then, like for most of you, there are the smaller but still significant things. My daughter Taylor went from kindergarten all the way through high school, all twelve years, with one of Stan’s grandchildren, Lindsay. And when Taylor was just a little girl, she let us know that, “Lindsay can stay at our house any night of the week except Saturday, and she can stay at any of her friends’ houses any night of the week except Saturday, and we can all stay at her house on Saturday. But she has to stay home on Saturday night because on Sunday morning, Grandpa Musial brings McDonald’s.”

And so a seven- or eight-year-old girl would come home and you’d say, “Well, what did you do?” ”Well we stayed up late, we had a pillow fight, we played videogames and then in the morning Stan the Man brought us Egg McMuffins.”

Once or twice when I would cross paths with his daughter Jeanie, which I did many many times, but once or twice I made the mistake that I think almost anyone would’ve made. When someone is as famous and renowned as Stan, it’s just kind of a natural thing, a conversational ice-breaker to say, “How’s your dad?” I mean after all he was my friend, I knew him. ”How’s your dad?” And each time, without the slightest rancor (and I got it after the second time), each time Jeanie said, “Oh, he’s great,” or, “Oh, he’s fine, and my mom is too.” One way of indicating that while Dad and Grandpa and Great Grandpa was a national and local icon, each member of the family was just as important.

In the late 1980s or early 1990s, Mickey Mantle stayed at our house in St. Louis for a few nights. Mickey was having a very tough time in his life. It was before he went to Betty Ford. He was drinking heavily.

We had a dinner and I decided that it would make Mickey comfortable if people he knew were there, so we invited Stan and Lil for dinner; and Mickey said, “I don’t know how I’m gonna do it, but I’m not gonna have a single drink all day today or all night out of respect for Stan. I don’t wanna do anything foolish when Stan is here.”

And the night went on and many laughs were had and stories were told. And then after everyone left and everyone else had gone to sleep, it was just me and Mickey sitting there talking well after midnight. And Mickey Mantle, who was a flawed but somehow always lovable man, said something that was searingly honest and also in its own way eloquent. He said, “You know, I had as much ability as Stan, maybe more. Nobody had more power than me, nobody could run any faster than me. But Stan was a better player than me because he’s a better man than me. Because he got everything out of his life and out of his ability that he could and he’ll never have to live with all the regret that I live with.”

Years later, ironically only a year after Mickey had turned a corner and gone to Betty Ford, part of the life he had lived had caught up with him and he died of liver cancer. I gave the eulogy at his funeral. It was a much different occasion than this one, tinged with much more sadness because of all the regret and all of the sadness that had been a part of Mickey’s life; and he was only 63 years old. It was an extremely emotional occasion, and people often asked me in the aftermath, “How did you avoid breaking down when up there talking?” or, “Did you come close to breaking down?” And I told those who asked that, yes, there was one moment, and the moment was this.

As you stood there, you look out, and I tried not to make eye contact with his family. But everywhere you looked across the church, there would be Whitey Ford or Yogi Berra or Duke Snider or Reggie Jackson or Commissioner Selig, who is here today. Everywhere you looked baseball luminaries who had been connected to Mickey’s life as teammates or those who shared New York or some portion of baseball history with him; and they sat in a special VIP section. (Billy Crystal, who idolized him, was there.) And they were in a little section down to the right. And at one point, midway through, I just kinda looked up to glance around the room the way you do when you’re not looking at anyone in particular and you’re looking out over the crowd, and I saw against the wall at the end of a pew about a third of the way back by himself Stan Musial. And in that moment I was struck by the sheer decency of that simple act.

Nobody would’ve marked Stan Musial absent that day. Never played with Mickey, except in All-Star games never played against him, wasn’t in the same league, wasn’t linked with him like Willie Mays was. No one would’ve marked him absent. And it struck me in that split second as I turned away, because I didn’t want to continue the eye contact because I knew what would happen to me, it struck me that a 74-, 75-year-old man who had battled prostate cancer had gotten out of bed that morning and gone to Lambert, got on a flight by himself and flown out with no special treatment to pay his respects to a man who respected him so much and to try and comfort a family that was in a great deal of pain.

None of us are perfect, but Lincoln once called us to heed the better angels of our nature. I think it’s always meaningful when you see someone who does that; who more often than not heeds the better angels of their nature.

It was yet another moment of simple decency and generosity of spirit in a life brimming with them.

And so today, we say goodbye to this great ballplayer and good man. But we don’t give up the memories. How many of you of a certain age will put your head on a pillow tonight and hear the voices of Harry Caray and Jack Buck–the soundtrack of your youth–describing another musical double off the screen or homer into the pavilion? How many of you, perhaps too young to have seen him play in person, will nonetheless remember the first dates and all the family gatherings that were arranged appropriately with those familiar six words: “Meet you at the Musial statue”?

As was noted earlier, inscribed on that statue are these words:

“Here stands baseball’s perfect warrior. Here stands baseball’s perfect knight.”

Well Stan, as humble as he was great, would probably be the first to say, “Ah, c’mon, nobody’s perfect.” Fair enough. But there are some who come a lot closer to that unattainable ideal than most of us.

Some of you here may remember Stan Musial’s last at-bat, part of a two-for-three afternoon in 1963 against the Cincinnati Reds: a single to right field. Other may’ve heard the radio call of Harry Caray that day. And as Stan settled into the box, Harry said, “Take a look, fans. Take a good, long look. Remember the swing and the stance. We won’t see his like again.”

Harry was right. We never have and we never will.

for Michelle McNamara: 'She hasn’t left a void. She’s left a blast crater', by Patton Oswalt - 2016

published 3 May 2016, Time magazine, California, USA

Michelle McNamara was a true crime author and blogger, and her husband Patton Oswalt is comedian and movie actor. published Time website. There is no available video or audio of this eulogy.

Michelle Eileen McNamara entered the world on April 14, 1970.

On April 14, 2016 she turned 46.

One week later she was gone.

That’s the kind of opening Michelle would have written. She’d have done it better. Added one perfect adjective or geographical shading to pull you in. The pulling in of you, the reader, was never aggressive, calculating or desperate. She didn’t have to raise her voice.

She was a true crime writer—first on her blog, TrueCrimeDiary.com. More than 150 precise, haunting entries about subjects like “The Man With the Hammer,” “Devil in Michigan,” “The Ice Maiden and the Genius,” “Syko Sam” and “The Desert Bunker Murders.” There were also thoughtful, provocative ruminations on abiding crime topics—“The Big Fake Called The Fugue State,” “Crowdsleuthing” and “DNA (hooray).” There was also a fascinating entry called “#bloodbath,” a speculative masterpiece about how the Manson murders might have been different—or not happened at all—if our current social media infrastructure had existed in 1969.

This drew the attention of Los Angeles Magazine, who hired Michelle to write an article about “The Golden State Killer” (a name she coined)—the worst unsolved string of homicides in California history.

The article drew the attention of Harper Collins, who hired her to write a massive book about The Golden State Killer. This was the project she was 2½ years into when her story stopped, sometime on the morning of April 21.

Those are facts but not her entire story. Her life also involved social work in Belfast and Oakland, and screenwriting in Los Angeles, and teaching creative writing at Minnesota State, and motherhood and marriage and glorious, lost years on the outskirts of the early 90s Chicago music scene, where she also worked for a young Michelle Obama. One day Michelle Obama’s husband came into the office to speak to the staff. He was impressive and funny. Another encounter, another memory in a life spent fascinated with people and relationships and the unknown.

The reaction to her passing, the people who are shocked at her senseless absence, is a testament to how she steered her life with joyous, wicked curiosity. Cops and comedians call—speechless or sending curt regards. Her family is devastated but can’t help remember all of the times she made them laugh or comforted them, and they smile and laugh themselves. She hasn’t left a void. She’s left a blast crater.

I loved her. This is the first time I’ve been able to use “I” writing this. Probably because there hasn’t been much of an “I” since the morning of April 21. There probably won’t be for a while. Whatever there is belongs to my daughter—to our daughter. Alice.

Five days after Michelle was gone, Alice and I were half-awake at dawn, after a night of half-sleeping. Alice sat up in bed. Her face was silhouetted in the dawn light of the bedroom windows. I couldn’t see her expression. I just heard her voice: “When your mom dies you’re the best memory of her. Everything you do and say is a memory of her.”

That’s the kind of person Michelle created and helped shape.

That was Michelle. That is Michelle.

I love her.

for Prince: 'I gotta go. Prince just challenged me to a game of ping pong', by Jimmy Fallon - 2016

25 April 2016, California, Los Angeles, USA

He's booked to come on the show, and his people say, ‘Prince really wants to play ping pong against Jimmy’,

So I go, ‘beer pong?’

And they go, ‘no, ping pong.’

And we don’t play ping on the show. So I say, ‘okay, sure’

And they call back and say, ‘no Prince does not want to play ping pong’

We go, ‘okay’

They call back and say, ‘we’ve rethought it, Prince really wants to play ping pong’.

Sure, as long as Prince wants to play music. I mean that’s where it’s at. That’s what we want him to do.  Whatever’s going to make him happy.

They call back, ‘he doesn’t want to play ping pong’

‘Okay, fine, we’ll have it set up, just in case he feels like playing ping pong. ‘

This is a real story.

So they call back and say, ‘he wants to play ping pong, but not on camera’

So I go, ‘why ?’

And they go, “Prince thinks Jimmy will be fun to play ping pong with.’

I go, right, let’s bring it on man,  he comes to the show, doesn’t even look at the ping pong table, performs that night, destroys it, has the greatest show ever, Kirk lent him his guitar and he broke it ... he paid for it, right?

So then Prince leaves and I’m thinking, what was this ping pong thing all about.

So ... [throws to Questlove]

Questlove: He calls me and says, I’ll be there, at 12.30, and I tell him you just had a baby, and he says, ‘yeah, that’s nice, tell him I’ll be there at 12.30. And I’m saying, what part of baby does he not get?

No no no, he doesn’t get it. He's Prince.

...

I'm at dinner and I'm like, 'I gotta go. Prince just challenged me to a game of ping pong.' So I show up and I go to this ping pong place and I go down the stairs and I go, 'uh hey,' I don't even know how to ask ... and she goes, 'You're here to see Prince? Right this way, he's behind that curtain.' So I open the curtain and Prince is standing there with a double breasted crushed blue velvet suit holding a ping pong paddle and he goes, 'You ready to do this?'

for Robin Williams: 'For almost 40 years he was the brightest star in a comedy galaxy', Emmy awards - 2014

25 August 2014, Nokia Theatre, Los Angeles, USA

Billy Crystal’s tribute to Robin Williams during the 66th Annual Primetime Emmy Awards.

He made us laugh. Hard. Every time you saw him. On television, movies, nightclubs, arenas, hospitals, homeless shelters, for our troops overseas and even in a dying girl’s living room for her last wish. He made us laugh, big time.

I spent many happy hours with Robin on stage. The brilliance was astounding, the relentless energy was kind of thrilling. I used to think that if I could just put a saddle on him and stay on for eight seconds I was going to do ok.

Robin, Whoopi and I were once in Shea Stadium in the broadcast booth with the great Tim McCarver. It was Comic Relief Day for the New York Mets. Robin knew nothing about baseball. I asked him, ‘What’s your favorite team and he said, ‘the San Franciscos.’ So he was a little lost in the conversation, so I got an idea and said, ‘You know, Tim we got a great Russian baseball player with us.’ I looked over to him and his eyes got all bright, his ears perked up like he was like a little dog that was inside all day and the master said, ‘Hey, you wanna go for a walk?’

So I said, ‘What’s baseball like in Russia?’ Without missing a beat he said, ‘Well, we only have one team. The Reds.’ The next pitch, the batter fouled one off and it came screaming back at us, we ducked down and it slammed against the wall. Robin turned around, it bounced into his hand, he stood up and he screamed, ‘I love America! I’m gonna defect!’

He could be funny anywhere. We were such close friends. He would come to all of our great family functions—weddings, bar mitzvahs, that type of thing. He would sit with my older immigrant relatives like he was one of the guys and he would tell them about his journey from his little shtetl in Poland to America. One uncle of mine said to him, ‘I came to America after World War II and I hitchhiked. And Robin said, ‘I waited until there was a 747 and a Kosher meal.’

As genius as he was on stage, he was the greatest friend you could ever imagine—supportive, protective, loving. It’s very hard to talk about him in the past because he was so present in all of our lives.

For almost 40 years he was the brightest star in a comedy galaxy. But while some of the brightest of our celestial bodies are actually extinct now, their energy long since cooled.

But miraculously, since because they float in the heavens so far away from us now, their beautiful light will continue to shine on us forever. And the glow will be so bright, it’ll warm your heart, it’ll make your eyes glisten and you’ll think to yourselves, ‘Robin Williams— what a concept.’

for Clarence Clemons: 'Clarence doesn’t leave the E Street Band when he dies. He leaves when we die', by Bruce Springsteen

21 June 2011, Palm Beach, Florida, USA

I’ve been sitting here listening to everyone talk about Clarence and staring at that photo of the two of us right there.  It’s a picture of Scooter and The Big Man, people who we were sometimes.  As you can see in this particular photo, Clarence is admiring his muscles and I’m pretending to be nonchalant while leaning upon him.  I leaned on Clarence a lot; I made a career out of it in some ways.

Those of us who shared Clarence’s life, shared with him his love and his confusion.   Though "C" mellowed with age, he was always a wild and unpredictable ride.  Today I see his sons Nicky, Chuck, Christopher and Jarod sitting here and I see in them the reflection of a lot of C’s qualities. I see his light, his darkness, his sweetness, his roughness, his gentleness, his anger, his brilliance, his handsomeness, and his goodness.  But, as you boys know your pop was a not a day at the beach.  "C" lived a life where he did what he wanted to do and he let the chips, human and otherwise, fall where they may. Like a lot of us your pop was capable of great magic and also of making quite an amazing mess.  This was just the nature of your daddy and my beautiful friend.  Clarence’s unconditional love, which was very real, came with a lot of conditions.  Your pop was a major project and always a work in progress.   "C" never approached anything linearly, life never proceeded in a straight line. He never wentA… B…. C…. D.  It was always A… J…. C…. Z… Q… I….!  That was the way Clarence lived and made his way through the world.  I know that can lead to a lot of confusion and hurt, but your father also carried a lot of love with him, and I know he loved each of you very very dearly.  

It took a village to take care of Clarence Clemons.  Tina, I’m so glad you’re here.  Thank you for taking care of my friend, for loving him.  Victoria, you’ve been a loving, kind and caring wife to Clarence and you made a huge difference in his life at a time when the going was not always easy. To all of "C’s" vast support network, names too numerous to mention, you know who you are and we thank you. Your rewards await you at the pearly gates.  My pal was a tough act but he brought things into your life that were unique and when he turned on that love light, it illuminated your world.  I was lucky enough to stand in that light for almost 40 years, near Clarence’s heart, in the Temple of Soul.

So a little bit of history: from the early days when Clarence and I traveled together, we’d pull up to the evenings lodgings and within minutes "C" would transform his room into a world of his own.  Out came the colored scarves to be draped over the lamps, the scented candles, the incense, the patchouli oil, the herbs, the music, the day would be banished, entertainment would come and go, and Clarence the Shaman would reign and work his magic night, after night.  Clarence’s ability to enjoy Clarence was incredible.  By 69, he’d had a good run, because he’d already lived about 10 lives, 690 years in the life of an average man.  Every night, in every place, the magic came flying out of C’s suitcase.  As soon as success allowed, his dressing room would take on the same trappings as his hotel room until a visit there was like a trip to a sovereign nation that had just struck huge oil reserves.  "C" always knew how to live.  Long before Prince was out of his diapers, an air of raunchy mysticism ruled in the Big Man’s world.  I’d wander in from my dressing room, which contained several fine couches and some athletic lockers, and wonder what I was doing wrong! Somewhere along the way all of this was christened the Temple of Soul; and "C" presided smilingly over its secrets, and its pleasures.  Being allowed admittance to the Temple’s wonders was a lovely thing.  

As a young child my son Sam became enchanted with the Big Man… no surprise.  To a child Clarence was a towering fairy tale figure, out of some very exotic storybook.  He was a dreadlocked giant, with great hands and a deep mellifluous voice sugared with kindness and regard.  And… to Sammy, who was just a little white boy, he was deeply and mysteriously black.  In Sammy’s eyes, "C" must have appeared as all of the African continent, shot through with American cool, rolled into one welcoming and loving figure.  So… Sammy decided to pass on my work shirts and became fascinated by Clarence’s suits and his royal robes.  He declined a seat in dad’s van and opted for "C’s" stretch limousine, sitting by his side on the slow cruise to the show.  He decided dinner in front of the hometown locker just wouldn’t do, and he’d saunter up the hall and disappear into the Temple of Soul. 

 Of course, also enchanted was Sam’s dad, from the first time I saw my pal striding out of the shadows of a half empty bar in Asbury Park, a path opening up before him; here comes my brother, here comes my sax man, my inspiration, my partner, my lifelong friend.  Standing next to Clarence was like standing next to the baddest ass on the planet.  You were proud, you were strong, you were excited and laughing with what might happen, with what together, you might be able to do.  You felt like no matter what the day or the night brought, nothing was going to touch you.   Clarence could be fragile but he also emanated power and safety,  and in some funny way we became each other’s protectors; I think perhaps I protected "C" from a world where it still wasn’t so easy to be big and black.  Racism was ever present and over the years together, we saw it.  Clarence’s celebrity and size did not make him immune.  I think perhaps "C" protected me from a world where it wasn’t always so easy to be an insecure, weird and skinny white boy either.  But, standing together we were badass, on any given night, on our turf, some of the baddest asses on the planet.  We were united, we were strong, we were righteous, we were unmovable, we were funny, we were corny as hell and as serious as death itself.  And we were coming to your town to shake you and to wake you up. Together, we told an older, richer story about the possibilities of friendship that transcended those I’d written in my songs and in my music.  Clarence carried it in his heart.  It was a story where the Scooter and the Big Man not only busted the city in half, but we kicked ass and remade the city, shaping it into the kind of place where our friendship would not be such an anomaly. And that… that’s what I’m gonna miss.  The chance to renew that vow and double down on that story on a nightly basis, because that is something, that is the thing that we did together… the two of us.  Clarence was big, and he made me feel, and think, and love, and dream big. How big was the Big Man?  Too fucking big to die.  And that’s just the facts.  You can put it on his grave stone, you can tattoo it over your heart. Accept it… it’s the New World. 

Clarence doesn’t leave the E Street Band when he dies.  He leaves when we die.  

So, I’ll miss my friend, his sax, the force of nature his sound was, his glory, his foolishness, his accomplishments, his face, his hands, his humor, his skin, his noise, his confusion, his power, his peace.  But his love and his story, the story that he gave me, that he whispered in my ear, that he allowed me to tell… and that he gave to you… is gonna carry on.  I’m no mystic, but the undertow, the mystery and power of Clarence and my friendship leads me to believe we must have stood together in other, older times, along other rivers, in other cities, in other fields, doing our modest version of god’s work… work that’s still unfinished.  So I won’t say goodbye to my brother, I’ll simply say, see you in the next life, further on up the road, where we will once again pick up that work, and get it done.  

Big Man, thank you for your kindness, your strength, your dedication, your work, your story.  Thanks for the miracle… and for letting a little white boy slip through the side door of the Temple of Soul.  

SO LADIES AND GENTLEMAN… ALWAYS LAST, BUT NEVER LEAST.  LET’S HEAR IT FOR THE MASTER OF DISASTER, the BIG KAHUNA, the MAN WITH A PHD IN SAXUAL HEALING, the DUKE OF PADUCAH, the KING OF THE WORLD, LOOK OUT OBAMA! THE NEXT BLACK PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES EVEN THOUGH HE’S DEAD… YOU WISH YOU COULD BE LIKE HIM BUT YOU CAN’T!   LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE BIGGEST MAN YOU’VE EVER SEEN!... GIVE ME A C-L-A-R-E-N-C-E.  WHAT’S THAT SPELL? CLARENCE! WHAT’S THAT SPELL? CLARENCE! WHAT’S THAT SPELL? CLARENCE! … amen.

I’m gonna leave you today with a quote from the Big Man himself, which he shared on the plane ride home from Buffalo, the last show of the last tour.  As we celebrated in the front cabin congratulating one another and telling tales of the many epic shows, rocking nights and good times we’d shared, "C" sat quietly, taking it all in, then he raised his glass, smiled and said to all gathered, "This could be the start of something big."

Love you, "C".

for Father Mychal Judge: 'He was a New Yorker through and through', by Father Michael Duffy - 2001

Father Mychal Judge was chaplin to the New York fire department, and the first certified casualty of the 9-11 attacks .He was dubbed 'The Saint of 9-11'. There is no video or audio of the eulogy.

15 September 2001, St Francis of Assisi Church, New York City, USA

After all that has been written about Father Mychal Judge in the newspapers, after all that has been spoken about him on television, the compliments, the accolades, the great tribute that was given to him last night at the Wake Service, I stand in front of you and honestly feel that the homilist at Mother Teresa’s funeral had it easier than I do.

We Franciscans have very many traditions. You, who know us, know that some are odd, some are good. I don’t know what category this one fills.

One of our traditions is that we’re all given a sheet of paper. The title on the top says, “On the Occasion of Your Death.” Notice, it doesn’t say, in case you die. We all know that it’s not a matter of if, it’s a matter of when. But on that sheet of paper lists categories that each one of us is to fill out, where we want our funeral celebrated, what readings we’d like, what music we’d like, where we’d like to be buried.

Mychal Judge filled out, next to the word homilist, my name, Mike Duffy. I didn’t know this until Wednesday morning. I was shaken and shocked … for one thing, as you know from this gathering, Mychal Judge knew thousands of people. He seemed to know everybody in the world. And if he didn’t then, they know him now, I’m sure. Certainly he had friends that were more intellectual than I, certainly more holy than I, people more well known. And so I sat with that thought, why me … and I came down to the conclusion that I was simply and solely his friend … and I’m honored to be called that.

I always tell my volunteers in Philadelphia that through life, you’re lucky if you have four or five people whom you can truly call a friend. And you can share any thought you have, enjoy their company, be parted and separated, come back together again and pick up right where you left off. They’ll forgive your faults and affirm your virtues. Mychal Judge was one of those people for me. And I believe and hope I was for him.

We as a nation have been through a terrible four days and it doesn’t look like it’s ending. Pope John Paul called Tuesday a dark day in the history of humanity. He said it was a terrible affront to human dignity. In our collective emotions, in our collective consciousness, all went through the same thing on Tuesday morning.

I was driving a van in Philadelphia picking up food for our soup kitchen, when I began to hear the news, one after another after another. You all share that with me. We all felt the same. It was at 2 o’clock in the afternoon that I came back to the soup kitchen, feeling very heavy with the day’s events. At 4:30, I received a call from Father Ron Pecci. We were serving the meal to the homeless. And he said, “It’s happened.” I said, “What?” And he said, “Mychal Judge is dead.”

At that moment, my already strained emotions did spiritually what the World Trade towers had done physically just hours before. And I felt my whole spirit crumble to the ground and turn into a pile of rubble at the bottom of my heart. I sat down on the stairs to the cellar, with the phone still to my ear and we cried for 15 minutes.

Later, in my room, a very holy friar whom I have the privilege to live with gently slipped a piece of paper in front of me and whispered, “This was written thousands of years ago in the midst of a national tragedy. It’s a quote from the Book of Lamentations. “The favors of the Lord are not exhausted. His mercies are not spent. Every morning, they are renewed. Great is his faithfulness. I will always trust in him.”

I read that quote and I pondered and listened. I thought of other passages in the Gospel that said evil will not triumph, that in the darkest hour when Jesus lay dying on the cross, that suffering led to the resurrection.

I read and thought that the light is better than darkness, hope better than despair. And in thinking of my faith and the faith of Mychal Judge and all he taught me and from scripture, I began to lift up my head and once again see the stars.

And so today I have the courage to stand in front of you and celebrate Mychal’s life. For it is his life that speaks, not his death. It is his courage that he showed on Tuesday that speaks, not my fear. And it is his hope and belief in the goodness of all people that speaks, not my despair. And so I am here to talk about my friend.

Because so much has been written about him, I’m sure you know his history. He was a New Yorker through and through. As you know, he was born in Brooklyn. Some of you may not know this, but he was a twin –– Dympna is his sister. He was born May 11th, she was born May 13th. Even in birth, Mychal had to have a story. He just did nothing normally, no.

He grew up in Brooklyn playing stickball and riding his bike like all the little kids then. Then he put some shoe polish and rags in a bag, rode his bicycle over here, and in front of the Flatiron building shined shoes for extra money. But very early on in his life, when he was a teenager –– and this is a little unusual –– because of the faith that his mother and his sisters passed on to him, because of his love for God and Jesus, he thought he would like to be a Franciscan for the rest of his life. And so, as a teenager, he joined the friars. And he never left. He never left because his spirit was truly, purely Franciscan, simple, joyful, life loving and laughter. He was ordained in 1961 and spent many years as a parish priest in New Jersey, East Rutherford, Rochelle Park, West Milford. Spent some time at Siena College, one year I believe in Boston.

And then he came back to his beloved New York. I came to know him ten years after he was ordained. This is ironic: My 30th anniversary of ordination was Tuesday, September 11th . This always was a happy day for me, and I think from now, it’s going to be mixed.

My first assignment was wonderful: I was sent to East Rutherford, New Jersey, and Mychal was there doing parochial work. In the seminary, we learned a lot of theory, but you really have to get out with people to know how to deal and how to really minister. So, I arrived there with my eyes wide open, my ears wide open. And my model turned out to be Mychal Judge. He was, without knowing it, my mentor and I was his pupil. I watched how he dealt with people. He really was a people person. While the rest of us were running around organizing altar boys and choirs and liturgies and decorations, he was in his office listening. His heart was open. His ears were open and especially he listened to people with problems.

He carried around with him an appointment book. He had appointments to see people four and five weeks in advance. He would come to the rec room at night at 11:30, having just finished his last appointment, because when he related to a person, they felt like he was their best friend. When he was talking with you, you were the only person on the face of the earth. And he loved people and that showed and that makes all the difference. You can serve people but unless you love them, it’s not really ministry. In fact, a description that St. Bonaventure wrote of St. Francis once, I think is very apt for Michael: St. Bonaventure said that St. Francis had a bent for compassion. Certainly Mychal Judge did.

The other thing about Mychal Judge is he loved to be where the action was. If he heard a fire engine or a police car, any news, he’d be off. He loved to be where there was a crisis, so he could insert God in what was going on. That was his way of doing things.

I remember once I came back to the friary and the secretary told me, “There’s a hostage situation in Carlstadt and Mychal Judge is up there.” I got in the car and drove there: A man on the second floor with a gun pointed to his wife’s head and the baby in her arms. He threatened to kill her. There were several people around, lights, policemen and a fire truck. And where was Mychal Judge? Up on the ladder in his habit, on the top of the ladder, talking to the man through the window of the second floor. I nearly died because in one hand he had his habit out like this, because he didn’t want to trip.

So, he was hanging on the ladder with one hand. He wasn’t very dexterous, anyway. His head was bobbing like, “Well, you know, John, maybe we can work this out. This really isn’t the way to do it. Why don’t you come downstairs, and we’ll have a cup of coffee and talk this thing over?”

I thought, “He’s going to fall off the ladder. There’s going to be gunplay.” Not one ounce of fear did he show. He was telling him, “You know, you’re a good man, John. You don’t need to do this.” I don’t know what happened, but he put the gun down and the wife and the baby’s lives were saved. Of course, there were cameras there. Wherever there was a photographer within a mile, you could be sure the lens was pointed at Mychal Judge. In fact, we used to accuse him of paying The Bergen Record’s reporter to follow him around.

Another aspect, a lesson that I learned from him, his way of life, is his simplicity. He lived simply. He didn’t have many clothes. They were always pressed, of course, and clean, but he didn’t have much. No clutter in his very simple room.

He would say to me once in a while, “Michael Duffy” –– he always called me by my full name –– “Michael Duffy, you know what I need?” And I would get excited because it was hard to buy him a present.

I said, “No, what?”

“You know what I really need?”

“No, what Mike?”

“Absolutely nothing. I don’t need a thing in the world. I am the happiest man on the face of the earth.” And then he would go on for ten minutes, telling me how blessed he felt. “I have beautiful sisters. I have nieces and nephews. I have my health. I’m a Franciscan priest. I love my work. I love my ministry.” And he would go on, and always conclude by looking up to heaven and saying, “Why am I so blessed? I don’t deserve it. Why am I so blessed?” But that’s how he felt all his life.

Another characteristic of Mychal Judge, he loved to bless people, and I mean physically. Even if they didn’t ask. A little old lady would come up to him and he’d talk to them, you know, as if they were the only person on the face of the earth. Then, he’d say, “Let me give you a blessing.” He put his big thick Irish hands and pressed her head till I think the poor woman would be crushed, and he’d look up to heaven and he’d ask God to bless her, give her health and give her peace and so forth. A young couple would come up to him and say, “We just found out we’re going to have a baby.” “Oh, that’s wonderful! That’s great!” He’d put his hand on the woman’s stomach, and call to God to bless the unborn child. When I used to take teenagers on bus trips, he’d jump in the bus, lead the teenagers in prayer, and then bless them all for a safe and a happy time. If a husband and wife were in crisis, he would go up to them, take both their hands at the same time, and put them right next to his and whisper a blessing that the crisis would be over.

He loved to bring Christ to people. He was the bridge between people and God and he loved to do that. And many times over the past few days, several people have come up and said, Father Mychal did my wedding, Father Mychal baptized my child. Father Mychal came to us when we were in crisis. There are so many things that Father Mychal Judge did for people. I think there’s not one registry in a rectory in this diocese that doesn’t have his name in it for something, a baptism, a marriage or whatever.

But what you may not know, it really was a two-way street. You people think he did so much for you. But you didn’t see it from our side, we that lived with him. He would come home and be energized and nourished and thrilled and be full of life because of you.

He would come back and say to me, for instance, “I met this young man today. He’s such a good person. He has more faith in his little finger than I do in my own body. Oh, he’s such good people. Oh, they’re so great.” Or, “I baptized a baby today.” And just to see the new life, he’d be enthused. I want just to let you know, and I think he’d want me to let you know, how much you did for him. You made his life happy. You made him the kind of person that he was for all of us.

It reminds me of that very well known Picasso sketch of two hands holding a bouquet of flowers. You know the one I mean –– there’s a small bouquet, it’s colorful and a hand coming from the left side and a hand coming from the right side. Both are holding the bouquet. The artist was clever enough to draw the hands in the exact same angle. You don’t know who’s receiving and who is giving. And it was the same way with Mychal. You should know how much you gave to him, and it was that love that he had for people, and that way of relating to him, that led him back to New York City and to become part of the fire department.

He loved his fire department and all the men in it. He’d call me late at night and tell me all the experiences that he had with them, how wonderful they were, how good they were. It was never so obvious that he loved a group of people so much as his New York firefighters. And that’s the way he was when he died.

On Tuesday, one of our friars, Brian Carroll, was walking down Sixth Avenue and actually saw the airplane go overhead at a low altitude. And then a little further, he saw smoke coming from one of the trade towers. He ran into the friary. He ran into Mychal Judge’s room and he says, “Mychal, I think they’re going to need you. I think the World Trade tower is on fire.” Mychal was in his habit. So, he jumped up, took off his habit, got his uniform on, and I have to say this, in case you really think he’s perfect, he did take time to comb and spray his hair.

But just for a second, I’m sure. He ran down the stairs and he got in his car and with some firemen, he went to the World Trade towers. While he was down there, one of the first people he met was the mayor, Mayor Giuliani. Later, the mayor recounted how he put his hand on Mychal’s shoulder and said, “Mychal, please pray for us.” And Mychal turned and with that big Irish smile said, “I always do.”

And then kept on running with the firefighters into the building. While he was ministering to dying firemen, administering the Sacrament of the Sick and Last Rites, Mychal Judge died. The firemen scooped him up to get him out of the rubble and carried him out of the building and wouldn’t you know it? There was a photographer there. That picture appeared in The New York Times, The New York Daily News and USA Today on Wednesday, and someone told me last night that People magazine has that same picture in it. I bet he planned it that way.

When you step back and see how my friend Mychal died, when we finish grieving, when all this is over and we can put things in perspective, look how that man died. He was right where the action was, where he always wanted to be. He was praying, because in the ritual for anointing, we’re always saying, Jesus come, Jesus forgive, Jesus save. He was talking to God, and he was helping someone. Can you honestly think of a better way to die? I think it was beautiful.

The firemen took his body and because they respected and loved him so much, they didn’t want to leave it in the street. They quickly carried it into a church and not just left it in the vestibule, they went up the center aisle. They put the body in front of the altar. They covered it with a sheet. And on the sheet, they placed his stole and his fire badge. And then they knelt down and they thanked God. And then they rushed back to continue their work.

And so, in my mind, I picture Mychal Judge’s body in that church, realizing that the firefighters brought him back to the Father in the Father’s house. And the words that come to me, “I am the Good Shepherd, and the Good Shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. Greater love than this no man hath than to lay down his life for his friends. And I call you my friends.”

So I make this statement to you this morning that Mychal Judge has always been my friend. And now he is also my hero.

Mychal Judge’s body was the first one released from Ground Zero. His death certificate has the number one on the top. I meditated on that fact of the thousands of people that we are going to find out who perished in that terrible holocaust. Why was Mychal Judge number one? And I think I know the reason. Mychal’s goal and purpose in life at that time was to bring the firemen to the point of death, so they would be ready to meet their maker. There are between two and three hundred firemen buried there, the commissioner told us last night.

Mychal Judge could not have ministered to them all. It was physically impossible in this life but not in the next. And I think that if he were given his choice, he would prefer to have happened what actually happened. He passed through the other side of life, and now he can continue doing what he wanted to do with all his heart. And the next few weeks, we’re going to have names added, name after name of people, who are being brought out of that rubble. And Mychal Judge is going to be on the other side of death to greet them instead of sending them there. And he’s going to greet them with that big Irish smile. He’s going to take them by the arm and the hand and say, “Welcome, I want to take you to my Father.” And so, he can continue doing in death what he couldn’t do in life.

And so, this morning we come to bury Mike Judge’s body but not his spirit. We come to bury his mind but not his dreams. We come to bury his voice but not his message. We come to bury his hands but not his good works. We come to bury his heart but not his love.
Never his love.

We his family, friends and those who loved him should return the favor that he so often did to us. We have felt his big hands at a blessing. Right now, it would be so appropriate if we called on what the liturgy tells us we are, a royal priesthood and a holy nation. And we give Mychal a blessing as he returns to the Father.

So, please stand. And raise your right hand and extend it towards my friend Mychal and repeat after me. Mychal, may the Lord bless you. May the angels lead you to your Savior. You are a sign of his presence to us. May the Lord now embrace you and hold you in his love forever. Rest in peace. Amen.

- See more at: https://www.funeralwise.com/plan/eulogy/judge/#sthash.fw7WCbj8.dpuf

for Mattie Stepanek: 'The most extraordinary person whom I have ever known in my life is Mattie Stepanek' by Jimmy Carter - 2004

22 June 2004, Gate of Heaven Cemetery, Silver Spring, Maryland, USA

Mattie Stepanek was a sufferer of MDA who died at just thirteen years of age. He wrote poetry and was a peace ambassador. His three older siblings died from dysautonomic mitochondrial myopathy, too. His mother was only diagnosed with mitochondrial disease after her four children were born. There is no available audio or video of this speech.

When I was running for governor a number of years ago, my wife and I didn’t have much money so we traveled around the state and we estimated later that we shook hands personally with 600,000 people.

Later I ran for president, as some of you may remember, and campaigned in all 50 states. Subsequently, I traveled around the world. In fact, since I left the White House, my wife and I have been to more than 120 nations. And we have known kings and queens, and we’ve known presidents and prime ministers, but the most extraordinary person whom I have ever known in my life is Mattie Stepanek.

I didn’t know Mattie until about three years ago when Make-A-Wish Foundation sent me a letter and said there was a little boy who only had a few more days to live and his final request was to meet Jimmy Carter. I was surprised and honored and within a few days, as a matter of fact, the Good Morning America program arranged for Mattie to be interviewed and for me to come there as a surprise to meet with him. He later told his mother, Jeni, that when I walked in the room he thought it was a presidential impersonator. And later, when it proved to be me, he told Jeni, and Jeni told me, that that was the first time in his life, and maybe the only time, when Mattie was speechless. But we exchanged greetings and formed, I would say, an instantaneous bond of love.

The next morning back home, Mattie woke up and he told Jeni what a wonderful time he had had. He had been dreaming, but he was so proud that he had met Jimmy Carter. And Jeni, often teasing Mattie, said, “Mattie, you must have been dreaming. You haven’t actually met Jimmy Carter,” and Mattie burst into tears and Jeni very quickly reassured him that we had actually had a personal meeting.

That meeting and our subsequent relationship have literally changed my life for the better. Mattie said that day that I had been his hero for a long time and I was sure that he was just joking and he could tell on the ABC program that I didn’t really quite believe him. And so to prove that, he sent me a video, a 20-minute-long video that he had made when he was 6-years-old, explaining the life of Jimmy Carter. And for the different segments in the video, he dressed appropriately.

So, it started out I was a little farm boy and Mattie had on ragged clothes and he spoke with what Rose (Rosalynn) and I thought was an atrocious Southern accent. And then later I was a naval officer and then later I came back to be a farmer and then ultimately was president, so he changed clothes every time. And then while I was president, he gave an appeal to human rights and peace and things of that kind and while the camera was on him, he realized later, his toes kept wiggling, he was barefoot, so for a long time he apologized to me that he should have done that segment over and at least put on shoes to be president.

He sent me another video, which I would like for all of you to try to see. It’s a video of his competition as a black belt in martial arts for the ultimate prize in that intense and demanding sport. It was incredible to see the agility of that young boy and the strength in his body.

Mattie and I began to correspond. After his death, Jeni gave me the honor of letting me come and do this speech. I had my secretary get out our correspondence. It’s that thick, on every possible subject. He was always in some degree of anguish, and I think embarrassment, when his books on the New York Times list were always above mine. And he would sympathize with me and say, “Well, you know maybe poetry just has less competition than what you are writing about.” But he was very sensitive to my feelings. We also were close enough for Mattie to share some of his problems with me in his private messages. He talked about when he and Jeni were not well off and some local churches, I’m sure not the one represented here this morning, would take up a food collection and send it to them. Mattie used to examine the labels on the food and quite often he said he would find that the date had expired and that people were giving poor people inferior food that they didn’t want to use themselves. And Mattie said, “If my books make a lot of money, we’re going to get food that’s brand new and make sure that poor people get the best food, even if we have to eat the old, outdated food in our house.”

He was very proud of the fact that he and his mother could move into a place that had windows.

I’ve thought a lot about Mattie’s religious faith. It’s all-encompassing, to include all human beings who believe in peace and justice and humility and service and compassion and love. The exact characteristics of our Savior Jesus Christ. He was still a boy, although he had the mind and the consciousness and the awareness of global affairs of a mature, philosophical adult.

One of his prime goals in life was to see the movie “Return of the King” seven times and I hope he was able to accomplish his goal. I’m not quite sure. But that was the kind of thing that he had as his ambitions.

He was as proud as I was when I won the Nobel Peace Prize, which has already been mentioned. As soon as the ceremony was over at the hall in Oslo, I went by myself to the top of a little hill right behind the place and I found a rock and I inscribed on it and I sent it to Mattie, because I felt that he shared the honor that I had received.

The last few days, I have been re-reading some of Mattie’s statements that he wrote to me, I’ve re-read the correspondence. One thing he said was, “I choose to live until death, not spend the time dying until death occurs.”

Jeni told me about one occasion when Mattie was supposed to be a main part of the program which he helped prepare to raise funds for muscular dystrophy, but when the time approached he was in the intensive care unit. They announced at first that Mattie could not attend the event that meant so much to him, in which he had helped in its preparation. He insisted on coming. When he got there and began to say his lines, he announced, “I’m out of breath. I can’t speak.” Mattie loved to dress up and to wear fancy clothes and his favorite kind of clothes, as some of you may surmise, was a tuxedo. So Jeni and Mattie arranged for him to put on a tuxedo and he said, “When I have a tuxedo on, I can talk.” So he went back with his tuxedo.

Mattie said he wanted to be, as an ultimate goal in his life, an ambassador of humanity and a daddy. Mattie had already named his first seven children and had even given personal idiosyncrasies and characteristics to the first four. He wanted to leave a human legacy and family descendants, but Mattie’s legacy, obviously, is much greater than that.

As has already been quoted, he said, “I want to be a poet, a peacemaker and a philosopher who played.” Mattie was deeply aware of international affairs and shared a lot of his thoughts with me. He was once again in the intensive care unit when the war in Iraq began and Mattie burst into uncontrollable sobs of grief and anger. Jeni said he had never cried nearly so much about his own health or his own problems.

He wrote me right after that and I will quote exactly what he said: “Dear Jimmy, I am hurting about the war and I cried last night when I saw the attack on Iraq. I am not trying to be disrespectful, but I feel like President Bush made a decision long ago that he was going to have this war. Imagine if he had spent as much time and energy considering the possibility of peace as he has convincing others of the inevitability of war. We’d be at a different point in history today.”

Mattie was obviously extremely idealistic, but not completely idealistic. He also wrote me in a subsequent letter, “I know that I should be peaceful with everyone, but it’s also not smart,” he said, “to put yourself in a dangerous situation. Like even though I would want to talk to Osama bin Laden about peace in the future, I wouldn’t want to be alone with him in his cave.” In the same letter he asked me if I would join him not just in that meeting, but in writing a book that Mattie wanted to call, and had already named, “Just Peace.”

In an incredible way for a child his age, he analyzed the semantics of the word “just.” The title was “Just Peace” and he said “just” had so many connotations that he thought that was the best word to put before “peace.” He said “just” could be a minimal expectation, just peace, nothing else. It could mean just peace and peace as a paramount commitment, above everything else. And it could mean a peace that was exemplified by justice.

I spent seven years earlier in my life writing a book of poems about which Mattie was graciously complimentary. Poetry seemed to flow out of Mattie, kind of like an automatic stream, directed by inspiration through Mattie’s hands for the enjoyment of hundreds of thousands, maybe millions of people. I want to read just a few of them with which many of you are familiar, because he combined humor with serious thoughts. All of them I would say are unique, surprising when you read them.

One of them is titled “About Angels” and he honored me by letting me write the foreword to this book, called “Journey Through Heartsongs.”

About Angels
Do you know what angels wear?
They wear
Angel-halos and Angel-wings, and
Angel-dresses and Angel-shirts under them, and
Angel-underwear and Angel-shoes and Angel-socks, and
On their heads
They wear
Angel-hair –
Except if they don’t have any hair.
Some children and grownups
Don’t have any hair because they
Have to take medicine that makes it fall out.
And sometimes,
The medicine makes them all better.
And sometimes,
The medicine doesn’t make them all better,
And they die.
And they don’t have any Angel-hair.
So do you know what God does then?
He gives them an
Angel-wig.
And that’s what Angels wear.

I like them all, but there’s another I would like to read.

Heavenly Greeting
Dear God,
For a long time,
I have wondered about
How You will meet me
When I die and come to
Live with You in Heaven.
I know You reach out
Your hand to welcome
Your people into Your home,
But I never knew if You
Reached out Your right hand,
Or if You
Reached out Your left hand.
But now I don’t have to
Wonder about that anymore.
I asked my mommy and
She told me that You
Reach out both of Your hands,
And welcome us with
A great big giant hug.
Wow!
I can’t wait for my hug, God.
Thank you,
And Amen.

And another one that he wrote:

I Could…If They Would
If they would find a cure when I’m a kid…
I could ride a bike and sail on rollerblades, and
I could go on really long nature hikes.
If they would find a cure when I’m a teenager…
I could earn my license and drive a car, and
I could dance every dance at my senior prom.
If they would find a cure when I’m a young adult…
I could travel around the world and teach peace, and
I could marry and have children of my own.
If they would find a cure when I’m grown old…
I could visit exotic places and appreciate culture, and
I could proudly share pictures of my grandchildren.
If they would find a cure when I’m alive…
I could live each day without pain and machines, and
I could celebrate the biggest thank you of life ever.
If they would find a cure when I’m buried into Heaven…
I could still celebrate with my brothers and sister there, and
I could still be happy knowing that I was part of the effort.

And the last poem I will read is titled:

When I Die (Part II)
When I die, I want to be
A child in Heaven.
I want to be
A ten-year-old cherub.
I want to be
A hero in Heaven,
And a peacemaker,
Just like my goal on earth.
I will ask God if I can
Help the people in purgatory.
I will help them think,
About their life,
About their spirits,
About their future.
I will help them
Hear their own Heartsongs again,
So they can finally
See the face of God,
So soon.
When I die,
I want to be,
Just like I want to be
Here on earth.

Well, it’s hard to know anyone who has suffered more than Mattie. Sandy sent us almost daily reports about his bleeding, internally and from his fingers. I doubt that anyone in this great auditorium has ever suffered so much except his mother Jeni, and our Savior Jesus Christ, who is also here with us today. I always saw the dichotomy between Mattie as a child and with the characteristics and intelligence and awareness of an adult. Just as we see the dichotomy of Jesus Christ who was fully a human being at the same time as truly God.

I would say that my final assessment is that Mattie was an angel. Someone said that to him once and he said, “No, no.” He was very modest. But really in the New Testament language, angel and messenger are the same and there’s no doubt that Mattie was an angel of God, a messenger of God.

He was concerned about his legacy, wanting to have seven children and talking about his grandchildren, but Mattie’s legacy is forever because his Heartsongs will resonate in the hearts of people forever. I thank God that he is no longer suffering and that he’s with the Prince of Peace, getting big hugs in Heaven and maybe wearing a tuxedo.

To learn more about Mattie's legacy, please visit MDA's website at http://mda.org/about/bio/mattie-jt-st... and The Mattie J.T. Stepanek Foundation website at http://www.mattieonline.com.

For Micky Mantle: 'We can still recall the immediate tingle in that instant of recognition when a Mickey Mantle popped up in a pack of Topps bubble gum cards'', by Bob Costas - 1995

20 August 1995, Dallas, USA

You know, it occurs to me as we’re all sitting here thinking of Mickey, he’s probably somewhere getting an earful from Casey Stengel, and no doubt quite confused by now.

One of Mickey’s fondest wishes was that he be remembered as a great teammate, to know that the men he played with thought well of him. But it was more than that. Moose and Whitey and Tony and Yogi and Bobby and Hank, what a remarkable team you were. And the stories of the visits you guys made to Mickey’s bedside the last few days were heartbreakingly tender. It meant everything to Mickey, as would the presence of so many baseball figures past and present here today.

I was honored to be asked to speak by the Mantle family today. I am not standing here as a broadcaster. Mel Allen is the eternal voice of the Yankees and that would be his place. And there are others here with a longer and deeper association with Mickey than mine.

But I guess I’m here, not so much to speak for myself as to simply represent the millions of baseball-loving kids who grew up in the ’50s and ’60s and for whom Mickey Mantle was baseball.

And more than that, he was a presence in our lives-a fragile hero to whom we had an emotional attachment so strong and lasting that it defied logic. Mickey often said he didn’t understand it, this enduring connection and affection-the men now in their 40s and 50s, otherwise perfectly sensible, who went dry in the mouth and stammered like schoolboys in the presence of Mickey Mantle.

Maybe Mick was uncomfortable with it, not just because of his basic shyness, but because he was always too honest to regard himself as some kind of deity. But that was never really the point. In a very different time than today, the first baseball commissioner, Kenesaw Mountain Landis said, “Every boy builds a shrine to some baseball hero, and before that shrine, a candle always burns.”

For a huge portion of my generation, Mickey Mantle was that baseball hero. And for reasons that no statistics, no dry recitation of the facts can possibly capture, he was the most compelling baseball hero of our lifetime. And he was our symbol of baseball at a time when the game meant something to us that perhaps it no longer does.

Mickey Mantle had those dual qualities so seldom seen-exuding dynamism and excitement, but at the same time touching your heart-flawed, wounded. We knew there was something poignant about Mickey Mantle before we know what Poignant meant. We didn’t just root for him, we felt for him.

Long before many of us ever cracked a serious book, we knew something about mythology as we watched Mickey Mantle run out a home run through the lengthening shadows of a late Sunday afternoon at Yankee Stadium.

There was a greatness about him, but vulnerability too. He was our guy. When he was hot, we felt great. When he slumped or got hurt, we sagged a bit too. We tried to crease our caps like him; keel in an imaginary on-deck circle like him; run like him, heads down, elbows up.

Billy Crystal is here today. Billy says that at his bar mitzvah he spoke in an Oklahoma drawl. Billy’s here today because he loved Mickey Mantle, and millions like him are here today in spirit as well. It’s been said that the truth is never pure and rarely simple.

Mickey Mantle was too humble and honest to believe that the whole truth about him could be found on a Wheaties box or a baseball card. But the emotional truths about childhood have a power that transcends objective fact. They stay with us through all the years, withstanding the ambivalence that so often accompanies the experience of adults.

That’s why we can still recall the immediate tingle in that instant of recognition when a Mickey Mantle popped up in a pack of Topps bubble gum cards-a treasure lodged between an Eli Grba and a Pumpsie Green.

That’s why we smile today, recalling those October afternoons when we’d sneak a transistor radio into school to follow Mickey Mantle and the Yankees in the World Series.

Or when I think of Mr. Tomasee, a very wise sixth-grade teacher who understood that the World Series was more important, at least for one day, than any school lesson could be. So he brought his black and white TV from home, plugged it in and let us watch it right there in school through the flicker and static. It was richer and more compelling than anything I’ve seen on a high-resolution, big-screen TV.

Of course, the bad part, Bobby, was that Koufax struck 15 of you guys out that day.

My phone’s been ringing the past few weeks as Mickey fought for his life. I’ve heard from people I hadn’t seen or talked to in years, guys I played stickball with, even some guys who took Willie’s side in those endless Mantle, Mays arguments. They’re grown up now. They have their families. They’re not even necessarily big baseball fans anymore. But they felt something hearing about Mickey, and they figured I did too.

In the last year, Mickey Mantle, always so hard on himself, finally came to accept and appreciate the distinction between a role model and a hero. The fist he often was not, the second he always will be.

And, in the end, people got it. And Mickey Mantle got from something other than misplaced and mindless celebrity worship. He got something far more meaningful. He got love. Love for what he had been, love for what he made us feel, love for the humanity and sweetness that was always there mixed in the flaws and all the pain that racked his body and his soul.

We wanted to tell him that it was OK, that what he had been was enough. We hoped he felt that Mutt Mantle would have understood that Merlyn and the boys loved him. And then in the end, something remarkable happened, the way it does for champions. Mickey Mantle rallied. His heart took over, and he had some innings as fine as any in 1956 or with his buddy, Roger, in 1961.

But this time he did it in the harsh and trying summer of ’95. And what he did was stunning. The sheer grace of that ninth inning, the total absence of self-pity, the simple eloquence and honesty of his pleas to others to take heed of his mistakes.

All of America watched in admiration. His doctors said he was, in many ways, the most remarkable patient they’d ever seen. His bravery so stark and real, that even those used to seeing people in dire circumstances where moved by his example.

Because of that example, organ donations are up drastically all across America. A cautionary tale has been honestly told and perhaps will affect some lives for the better.

And our last memories of Mickey Mantle are as heroic as the first. None of us, Mickey included, would want to be held to account for every moment of our lives. But how many of us could say that our best moments were as magnificent as his?

In a cartoon from this morning’s The Dallas Morning News. Maybe some of you saw it. It got torn a little bit on the way from the hotel to here. There’s a figure here, St. Peter I take it to be, with his arm around Mickey, that broad back and the number 7. We know some of what went on. Sorry, we can’t let you in, but before you go, God wants to know if you’d sign these six dozen baseballs.”

Well, there were days when Mickey Mantle was so darn good that we kids bet that even God would want his autograph. But like the cartoon says, I don’t think Mick needed to worry much about the other part.

I just hope God has a place for him where he can run again. Where he can play practical jokes on his teammates and smile that boyish smile, ’cause God knows, no one’s perfect. And God knows there’s something special about heroes.

So long, Mick. Thanks.

For Marilyn Monroe: 'I cannot say goodbye. Marilyn never liked goodbyes', Lee Strasberg - 1962

8 August, 1962, Westwood Memorial Cemetery, Los Angeles, California

Marilyn Monroe was a legend. In her own lifetime she created a myth of what a poor girl from a deprived background could attain. For the entire world she became a symbol of the eternal feminine.

But I have no words to describe the myth and the legend, nor would she want us to do so. I did not know this Marilyn Monroe, nor did she.

We gathered here today, knew only Marilyn – a warm human being, impulsive and shy, and lonely, sensitive and in fear of rejection, yet ever avid for life and reaching out for fulfillment.

I will not insult the privacy of your memory of her – a privacy she sought and treasured – by trying to describe her whom you know, to you, who knew her. In our memories of her, she remains alive and not only a shadow on the screen or a glamorous personality.

For us Marilyn was a devoted and loyal friend, a colleague constantly reaching for perfection. We shared her pain and difficulties and some of her joys. She was a member of our family. It is difficult to accept the fact that her zest for life has been ended by this dreadful accident.

Despite the heights and brilliance she had attained on the screen, she was planning for the future; she was looking forward to participating in the many exciting things which she planned. In her eyes, and in mine, her career was just beginning. The dream of her talent, which she had nurtured as a child, was not a mirage.

When she first came to me I was amazed at the startling sensitivity which she possessed and which had remained fresh and undimmed, struggling to express itself despite the life to which she had been subjected. Others were as physically beautiful as she was, but there was obviously something more in her, something that people saw and recognized in her performances, and with which they identified.

She had a luminous quality – a combination of wistfulness, radiance, yearning – that set her apart and yet make everyone wish to be a part of it, to share in the childish naivete which was at once so shy and yet so vibrant.

This quality was even more evident when she was in the stage. I am truly sorry that you andthe public who loved her did not have the opportunity to see her as we did, in many of the roles that foreshadowed what she would have become. Without a doubt she would have been one of the really great actresses of the stage.

Now it is all at an end. I hope her death will stir sympathy and understanding for a sensitive artist and a woman who brought joy and pleasure to the world.

I cannot say goodbye. Marilyn never liked goodbyes, but in the peculiar way she had of turning things around so that they faced reality – I will say au revoir.

For the country to which she has gone, we must all someday visit.