Farewell to a mentor

One of the detriments of getting older is the sad realization that people who were (or still are) important to you in your life eventually pass away. On the day I headed north for a week at a lodge in northern Minnesota, the man who perhaps did more to save me from heading down life's wrong paths, passed away in his sleep.

Fr. Cullen was 94 and lost his sight a couple of years ago. He would probably be the first to say he was ready to go. he certainly had earned the right to rest forever.

Still, I couldn't help but feed a little sad at his passing.

Fr. Cullen ran the Residence Hall at Assumption when I was in high school. The boarders came from all over the place. There were guys like myself, a Detroiter who had been sent there to get disciplined in my studies. There were guys like Marc Boisvert, a wonderful hockey player who hailed from the tiny fishing village of Chapleau, Ontario. And there were a ton of guys in-between.

Running that group alone would be more than enough work. But Fr. Cullen also was the head of the English Department at Assumption. He was also the head coach for hockey and baseball while I was there. No man ever ran his team with a tougher but fairer stick.

The stories are, of course, endless and could fill up a rainy week.

Today, though, I prefer to remember what the man did for me. He pushed me hard in the areas he knew I had skill in. He gingerly guided me away from things I liked but either didn't know how to do or simply wasn't very good at.

I wanted to play hockey in the worst way. Unfortunately, that is exactly how I played the game. My wife met Fr. Cullen once and asked him what kind of player I was. He smiled and said, "He meant well."

But he saw that there was a way I could contribute to the team. So, he made me the team manager. When we started playing games in the old Windsor Arena, he told me that I could run the clock and do the public address work. He gave me no direct instructions as how to do this, though. (His only advice: "Listen to that guy who does the games at Maple Leaf Gardens. Be that precise." It's advice I have never forgotten and try to emulate to this day.)

That was Fr. Cullen's genius. He wanted you to figure stuff out for yourself.

As a coach, he ran his team hard. As early as 1970, we taped games. I remember one day going in to watch the tape of a 6-0 win over rival Brennan High School. Fr. Cullen kept stopping the tape and pointing out plays that could have gone wrong. The fact that they didn't wasn't important. He wanted his team to get a little better every game.

After a tough loss, he never berated anybody. He understood this wasn't the time or place. I remember a playoff game at Galt. Tom Morse, our goalie, misplayed a puck and turned what should have been an icing into a goal. We eventually lost, 4-3. There was no need to rip Tom a new one. Later on (after we could smile about it) he simply said to Tom, "I bet you will never make that mistake again." I'm betting Tom never did.

He was a man of sharp opinions and could tear your head off is you screwed up. At the same time, he could be gentle. One fine Friday in May, he pulled me out of a classroom. He told me I needed to go home right now. Bob Spillard, a neighbor and a family friend (who, ironically, had attended Assumption himself), was there. He would tell me what was going on. As I was getting into the car, I heard Father say to Bob, "Don't bring him back until you think he is ready."

My mom was dying in a hospital. I went there for one last visit. She passed away early the next morning. When I returned to school a week later, Father simply pulled me aside and said, "If you feel the need to break down, go to your room to do so." At the time, I thought it was callous. Later, I realized he said this because (at least this was true in 1969) high school boys simply don't like to see other boys cry.

The man was often ahead of his time.

I stayed at Assumption the rest of my high school career. When it was time to pick a college, Father knew of a small school in Minnesota I had never heard of. He had a friend who was Dean of Admissions there. It had an up and coming Journalism department. To deal the deal, he sent me to Reno Bertoia, a History teacher at our school who had played baseball in Minnesota in 1961. (Want to win a bar bet? Ask somebody to name the Twins' original third baseman. Throw in the hint he homered off Whitey Ford in the first game in team history. The answer, of course, is Reno Bertoia.)

Mr. Bertoia told me some of the nicest people he had ever met were in Minnesota.

End of deal. I have basically lived in Minnesota ever since.

There is more I can and probably should say about how much Fr, Cullen did for me. I wasn't alone. Thousands of kids at Assumption were guided one way or the other by him.

We'll save more remembrances for another day.

I am grateful I was able to get back a few times to thank him in person. I am grateful he was able to know I acknowledged him in my book on the Twins ... and that he was told about it.

Which leads me to one last thought. The last time I saw Fr. Cullen I thanked him for all he did for me. He gave me a genuine smile in return, a firm handshake and said, "You're welcome." I will remember that sequence forever.

Do the same thing for someone who helped you along the way. They will appreciate it and you will cherish their look back at you.