By Bob Fenske, New Hampton Tribune December 1, 2020
It must have been at the New Hampton Parks and Recreation tournament because I think that’s the only time I’ve ever officiated a game played by Josie Speltz.
It was a great game, and I have no idea whom New Hampton was playing or even won the game, but what makes that day so memorable was this guy came out of the crowd as Noah and I headed to the door.
He stops me and says, “Son, you need to go and see an eye doctor.”
And I laughed as he walked away because the man was Pat Sheridan.
Noah looked at me and was a bit aghast.
“Dad, I think that guy’s really pissed at you. Why are you laughing?”
“Noah,” I replied, “trust me, if Pat Sheridan didn’t give me crap, then I’d be worried about him.”
A few days later, I ran into Pat in Lawler and he gave me that Sheridan smile.
“I think I threw your kid for a loop,” he said with a laugh, “but it was fun telling that story over a beer.”
Oh God, I’m going to miss making new Pat Sheridan memories.
He died on Thursday, Nov. 19, at the age of 78, but trust me, he was the youngest 78-year-old you’d ever meet. God, I hate COVID-19. Not because of how much life has changed — the missed celebrations, the virtually empty Kinnick Stadium, the games that haven’t been played — but because it’s taking people like Pat Sheridan from us.
I first knew him as Bill Sheridan’s brother.
Bill’s work graces this page from time to time, and I’ve told the story of how I met Bill so many times I’m sure you’re sick of hearing it. But I don’t care today. I’m retelling it because it provides context to this column.
Bill came to New Hampton to read some of his stories from “Depot Street Memories: The Lawler Stories,” a collection of short stories that are a celebration not only of the little Irish town in Iowa but all the little towns across the nation.
I didn’t want to go. Damn it, it was that first perfect day of spring on May 2, 2010. The sun shone brightly, the temperature climbed to 75 on a day with just the hint
of a breeze instead of the usual spring gale.
And I had to go listen to some “old guy” read some stupid stories.
My plan was to sneak in, snap a few pictures, listen to one story and get the hell out of the Carnegie and enjoy that beautiful Sunday.
Instead, Bill hooked me with a story about how he was able to see his beloved Bums — the 1955 Brooklyn Dodgers — win Game 7 of the World Series.
I stayed inside for two hours, went back to the office, wrote a story and put it on the front page. A week later, I wrote a column about the “old guy” storyteller, and a deep, lasting friendship was born.
Here’s the context: The column appeared in the May 11, 2010, Tribune, and a few days later, Pat Sheridan popped into the Tribune, needing to talk to “that Fenske guy.”
Uh-oh, I thought, when I heard his voice. I must have screwed up. I was called to the front, and there stands this guy with maybe the most infectious smile I have ever seen.
“I figured you’d probably want to talk to the good looking Sheridan,” he said, “and get the real story about that ‘old guy’ you wrote about this week.”
We talked for 15 minutes at the counter and then moved the conversation to the conference room. I was laughing so hard that the rest of the folks in the front were starting to give the look, you know the “hey-I’m-trying-to-get-some-work-done-here” glare.
He loved using that “good-looking-Sheridan” line every time Bill and I were in the same room, and I think I made his day, probably his year, the Irish Fest when I asked Pat how “much younger are you than Bill?”
God, he howled at that one, and I’m not quite sure if Bill has quite forgiven me for it, either.
But I only knew the semi-retired Pat Sheridan (he taught at NICC after leaving Turkey Valley), the one who loved a good laugh as much as a good beer, the one who would do anything for his beloved little hometown.
I didn’t know him as an exceptionally gifted teacher who could reach any student — the jocks, the nerds, the musicians, the smart, the not so smart — and teach them not only about business, driving and keyboarding but also about life.
But as I’ve watched social media explode with posts from his former students whose lives he touched, I wish I would have had Pat Sheridan for a teacher.
My heart aches for all those who knew this special man way better than I did. When I talked to Bill last week, I wanted to reach through that phone and give the “old guy” a hug. When I talked to his daughter Kara last week, I desperately but vainly searched for the right words. When I saw his grandson Brady at wrestling practice, all I could muster was “I’m so sorry.”
But he did not want those that loved him to cry when he died; he just asked them to toast him.
So, tonight in the Tribune office, I will raise my bottle of Coca-Cola to the sky and toast a man who gave me plenty of laughs in the 10 years I knew him.
Here’s to you, the good-looking Sheridan.
Such a well written article and so true. We all miss him