REAL MEN: BUBBA

I first met Joe Bianculli on July 4th 1997. It was a scalding hot summer afternoon at Joe’s do-not-miss-cookout at his home in Milton, Massachusetts.

It was an intimidating day.

The youngest of Joe’s three sons, Matt, and I were dating sisters. Matt and I had met months prior and this was my first introduction to the Bianculli family (and by “family” I mean more like the Gambinos or the Sopranos). As I rolled up on this magnanimous Italian summer feast, I quickly understood this was a hard core family, lead by “Bubba”, a term his future grandchildren would deem.

A product of the Savin Hill section of Dorchester, Joe is the middle child with two incredible sisters bookending him and keeping him in line. His Dad, Dominic, a Boston political legend and mother Martha (dubbed Charlotte Cha-Cha), the Bs were a tight knit brood. Joe grew up in the glory days of Beantown. And lucky for Joe, he courted and married his wife, Christine, of nearly 50 years, he has lead an admirable life.

As I walked in to that first cookout, I smelled the intensity of this man (ormaybe it was the onions and peppers?). Fire and passion.

Matt proudly grabbed me for in introduction.

“Dad, this is Fra….”

“Frankie Baby!” he yelled, cutting off Matt’s intro. A huge hug to follow at our first-minute-ever spent. Yup, I dig this dude.

“How you doing, pal? Good to meet ya! How about a Pearl? (a classic sausage/hot dog kind if thing he always had for his guests).

Deep breathe exhaled.

“Sounds great . Thank you, Mr Bianculli!”

“Joe! I’m Joe. Cut that Mr. Biancull bullsh#% out”.

Joe was a wild and energetic soul. Fun, loud, anxious and excited. I knew from Day 1, I liked this guy. Reminding me very much of my own Dad, Joe was a screwball.

Temper of a demon, heart of an angel.

And so, years wore on and I got more insights on Bubba. I heard a lot of stories. Stories of a guy that would road rage to the point of a Wild West gun fight. Stories of a guy that would chase a hockey referee in to the stands to challenge after a questionable off sides call. Stories of a madman I had never met.

Turns out, I never did get to meet “that” Joe Bianculli.

Not sure if that was good fortune or not? But I have had the pleasure to spend the last 20+ years around the only Joe I ever met; a complete softy. The Joe Bianculli I have spent my adult years around is a perfect husband, father and gentleman. And, not to keep you in suspense, he is freakin’ awesome.

You know when you see that person that you know will deliver the greatest hug ever? That’s Bubba.

Need a compliment when you aren’t feeling so great about life? Look, there’s Bubba.

Need a kick in the ass to get your world together? Also, Bubba.

As years passed, as they tend to do, Bubba became as much a friend to me as a father figure. We have waxed poetic about life and the world. We have tried to figure it out. And it always started and ended with a hug and a kiss. (Real men don’t mind giving a hug and a kiss; just so you know.)

My own father, very similar to Joe, fell ill a few years back. Joe never EVER failed to stay in touch with me through it all. He, and his beyond wonderful wife Chrissy, always reached out to me with love and prayers.

Joe made me feel like the 4th Bianculli son ( the really pale brother that could not skate or fight like the others).

Joe called me often. Simply to say hello. Ask about my Dad. Sent his prayers and love. Always. When my Dad did finally succumb to his cancer, Joe was one of the first in line to just offer his condolences and love.

Joe will always be an influence on me. He’s the best. I love this guy.

Real Men.

REAL MEN: Mr. Manager

If Cambridge Massachusetts was a man, he would be a homeless, hippie, double-MBA from Harvard grad, stepping down as CEO from Biogen to run for City Council as a Liberatarian while simultaneously writing the next War and Peace as he is being arrested for urinating in the Charles River.

How’s that imagery? 

Cambridge is the one of the epicenters of intellect, imagination and ingenuity.  It is also the birthplace of my mother and her family. However, Cambridge is not the epicenter of this story, just the backdrop.

My mother’s oldest brother, Robert “Bob” Healy was the City Manager of Cambridge for more than thirty years.  With the gentle-est of Iron Fists, Bob turned this once downtrodden municipalities into an economic iconoclasts envied by others in his post across the nation.

Below is the very first column I ever penned and put “out there” for public consumption.  Thankfully this article was well received, not because of my powerful prose but because of the substance of the man I was writing about.

Bob was a humble legend.  A yeoman-level workaholic, Bob was always a simple but not-to-be-fooled-with leader.  Bob could be on the phone with the Governor while he was ordering a hot dog from the cart next to City Hall (he was on a first name basis with both of those guys, by the way).

The oldest of six children and the son of a Cambridge bus driver, Bob epitomized “self-made”.  I was always impressed by him, but not because of his status, title, or power.  I was impressed by him because he was such a kind, compassionate, genuine man.  

A great leader but, moreso, a great husband, a great father, a great friend (and pretty great uncle too).

Real Man.

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Standing the Test of Time

Lowell Sun

February 3, 2009

I wanted to take this opportunity to recognize one of Lowell’s finest leaders – Bob Healy.

Who, you ask? True, Bob has not been part of Lowell city government in 30 years, but itis where he got his start. If you don’t already know, Bob has served as the City Manager of Cambridge, Massachusetts for nearly 30 years and has been a resident of Lowell for over 40. In an age when we see our public officials come and go as nearly as fast as our professional sports heroes, Bob has stood the test of time in his post. How has he done so? Quite simple. Honest, hard work and the ability to get along with those around him no matter the circumstances or varying personalities.

This brings me to my next point – diversity. No sure how much you know about Cambridge, but it may very well be the most diverse and liberal major city in America. Cambridge is the home to, arguably, the nation’s most prestigious universities in Harvard and MIT, and some of our country’s most cutting edge bio-tech companies, but you are never more than a stones throw from a homeless person or low income housing. Bob, himself, has joked many times, “If it were not forCambridge and Berkeley, CA the country would tip over!” (referring the extreme levels of racial and economic diversity in each city)

Its FY 2007 residential property tax rate was rated one of the lowest in Massachusetts.Cambridge enjoys the highest possible bond credit rating, AAA, with all three WallStreet rating agencies.

Not bad.

To know Bob in private life, as I do, you would never know he is the leader of a major metropolis. Quiet, shy and extremely unassuming. But, turn on cable access on Monday nights in Cambridge and you will see a very different Bob Healy. Eloquent, confident,calm. Calm to the point of nauseum even with an upset citizen or disgruntled city councilmember screaming from the hilltops. It is perhaps this quality – calmness in the face of adversity or hard times- that above all has allowed for his longevity and separated him from the pack. (Bob is the longest serving city manager in Cambridge history) Bob is a fully ’vested’ state employee – and by that I mean his has reached his maximum lifetime pension requirement in regards to years served– yet he continues to work. Work REALLY hard. Rarely a day goes by when Bob is not the first person at Cambridge City Hall. It is not uncommon to see his car pull out of his driveway on Raven Road in Lowell heading for the People’s Republic of Cambridge (as it has been dubbed by it’s citizens for it’s extreme liberal nature) at 4:30AM. And when it starts to snow…forget it! Bob is racing the snow plows down Route 3 in the middle of the night to get to his ”command post” at city hall to ensure ”his” streets are safely plowed! So, why does he continue to work so very hard for virtually pennies on the dollar related to his retirement package? No one really knows but Bob. My guess is because that is all he knows how to do – and when you are really good at something, as Bob is, it is hard to give that up.

This coming Saturday, February 7th, the City of Cambridge will honor Bob by unveiling the new ‘Robert W. Healy Public Safety Facility’, which will include a state-of-the-art Police Headquarters and Emergency Communications Center.

Bob will probably make a few very brief and humble remarks and rush back to his office.I hope he takes at least a few minutes to reflect on all he has achieved.

If this reads as somewhat biased, it should – I am Bob’s nephew.

-Frank McCabe, Jr.

REAL MEN: TIGHE-ger TRACKS

So, finally ready to start the book I have had in my mind, for years, titled “REAL MEN

Decided to get it started and my first entry is about one of my favorite families; the Tighes. Hope you enjoy. If you have a tale of a Real Man; father, brother, son…worth telling, send me a note and we can include a chapter.

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Philomena“Philly” Tighe died of cancer at a young age. A lovely Irish lady, Philly left behind her husband, John, and their five young sons to figure the world out (don’t worry, they all did a wonderful job of that).  My father’s family were the next door neighbors to the Tighes and they grieved with them. As years passed, my dad and mom always shared some fun and funny tales of their years living next to the Tighes on Moore Street in Lowell.

When I was 4 years old my parents packed up to build their first home. As the house was being constructed, a chimney needed to be built and bricklayer “Old”  John Tighe was the only man ever considered for the job. John was a cool, calm badass of a man and I became infatuated with his mason craft. Cigar hanging out of his mouth, John carried layer upon layer of bricks up and down a ladder, all day. I was mesmerized. So much so, I attempted to carry bricks around the yard, following John. At first, I grabbed one. Then two. Soon I thought I could carry as many bricks as my mortar-l idol, John .  And…hernia. Pain, surgery, scrotal-area scar…whatever.

It was worth it, Mr. Tighe

Flash forward 36 years.

My annual boys golf trip. Gratuitously titled “The Green Jacket“, a tradition unlike any other. Twenty-five aging married men with children drinking for a weekend and a round of golf might have accidentally broken out. October in the Live Free or Die state for 48 hours. Epic event that lasted nearly two decades. Personally, my last G.J. was 2014 as I just turned the page in to my fourth decade.

Here is why it was my last.

On the first day of our cherished tradition I had a bit of an “accident”.

Rather, another Tighe sent me to the emergency room.

This time the culprit was the youngest of their clan, my old buddy Marty. At a table set for 25 inebriated men we were having a bit of a Craic. Marty, at the head of this banquet table like a Dean Martin Roast, and I to his right, were laughing like the audience of court jesters. Then it took an unexpected turn. A playful slap on my arm from Marty quickly devolved into a more jovial tackle.

Boom.

Ass-over-tea-kettle, my noggin smashed off the nearly 100 year old hotel radiator. As I sat back up in my chair, still belly laughing, I observed the looks of despair on my mates’ faces. My cousin, Kevin, directly across from me, says in his best Boston accent, “Ah, dude, that’s gonna need stitches.”

He was right. Ambulance whisks me of to “We Almost Went to Medical School General Hospital” in East Nowhere, NH for nine badboy sutures just west of my left eye. Dr. Quinn, Almost Medicine Woman, asked me if I had been drinking to which I eloquently responded, “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA”

No local anesthetic needed, Doc.

It was worth it, Marty.

And so, Tighe men, thank you.
Two lifelong scars but two better lifelong memories.

Real men.

2019 Cities: Who are those guys?

Famously quoted in cinematic classic, “Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid“, “Who are those guys?

That is my sentiment toward the field of incredible amateur golfers at the 2019 Lowell City Golf Tournament.

Before I go further, you know how great the Cities are as I noted a few years back

As this nearly 100 year old tradition comes to its conclusion today, I realize I have no clue – zero – who 90% of these guys are?  Why is that?  They are kids!  Children!  It seems like only yesterday when the youngsters of this 3-day party had names like Pare, Dowd, and McGuirk (hey Chris!)

I looked at the leaderboard today and I personally know like 5 guys in the entire field.  What happened?  When did I get so old and, worse off, when did my contemporary golf buddies get so damn old that they cant even make it any more.  “You bums’ cried the 18 handicap!”

And kudos to the REALLY old guard including players like Parigian, Harrison, and Stone for continuing to fight the fight.  I salute you, but these young guns are gonna prevail.  Time and tide.  Death and taxes.  Cant’ beat the clock.  Those are the facts.

Well, while I can’t go back in time, I can recreate as it as best possible.  As I noted in a tweet I posted yesterday, “in my day” I made the most of the Cities as did my juvenile delinquent friends.

I’m 44 years old damnit, but, as Thornton Mellon so eloquently stated in Back to SchoolI will not go gentle in to that good night!

I will rage!  Rage against the dying of the light.  I will restage the City Tournament I once knew.  The 90’s man!  It was Hammer Time!  I’m grabbing a case of warm Bud Heavies, sliding them in the bushes by “Old’ Jack Hassett’s house and rage! I’m slapping on some jhorts (jean shorts), popping the collar on that size medium Polo and getting at it.  Mothers, lock up your daughters!  Frank circa 92′ is coming in hot to Mount Pleasant today for some final round revelry.  Look out!

What’s that, honey?  Oh, the need to look at tile at Loews today and cut the lawn.  That’s right.

Well, it was fun to dream for minute.

Good luck to all today – even you young punks!

Empty your Bucket

Masters 4

BUCKET LIST (noun): a list of things that one has not done before but wants to do before dying

I think we all have our Bucket Lists; I hope you do.  That trip, adventure, goal we want to complete before the clock expires on this earthy world.  One of the very largest items in my personal bucket was a trip to The Masters golf tournament in Augusta, Georgia with my Dad, Big Frank.  Well, last April we removed this item from the bucket.

Masters 12

The trip was everything we hoped for and beyond.  He and I spent three incredible days walking the most beautiful and hallowed ground in golf lore.  Augusta National is golf heaven for the player and fan alike.

Since I was a little kid, the week of The Masters has been very special.  On this week, Dad and I carve out as much possible time together to just sit and soak it all in.  To actually walk the course, smell the perfectly manicured grass, stand just feet away from the worlds’ best players (and even drink a few very economically priced adult beverages) was everything  we dreamed it would be.

Masters 8

The moment we left those “pearly gates” of Magnolia Lane, we both insisted we needed to come back; as soon as possible.  It was 100% worth it.

And so, we booked the trip to return in 2019.

But, life got in the way; as life tends to do.  Late last year, Big Frank got diagnosed with cancer.  He would have a big battle on his hands.  Masters 2.0 for the McCabe Boys was not going to happen this year.  That said, he has a very positive prognosis and fights the good fight everyday to get back to his full health.

And so we will, per usual, enjoy another Masters from the comfort of home.

First round is less than 48 hours away.

And while I am confident Dad and I will be back in Georgia in April again, you never know?  I am just so thankful we have no regrets and got there when we could.

More so, what prompted me to pen this story today is when I learned one of the most kind, genuine and decent human beings I ever knew passed away; very unexpectedly and far too young.  He led a wonderful life, but I am sure he had some more items on his list he will never get to cross off.

Start emptying your bucket.

Rest easy, Billy.

 

Voter’s Remorse

100 days in.  Remorse is growing stronger….

Written 1/12/17

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I voted for Donald Trump.

I did.

Like (obviously) many Americans, I was/am ready for a change.  Like any Average Joe, I do not feel as if the country was doing the best it could for me and my family.  I am ready for change.

Step back a year.  As the election race evolved, I became weary.  I can’t vote for Hillary (certainly not Bernie) but reality -TV-crazy-man, Donald Trump, surely won’t win the nomination? No way. I’ll wait this out.  It will be fine.  Someone great will surface.

But s/he didn’t.  Months turned to weeks.  Weeks turned to days.  Holy shit.  Donald Trump is the Republican National Party’s nominee for President of the United States of America?

Ok.  Deep breath.  This could be a good thing?

Right?

Time for  a major change.  An evolution.  Turn things upside down.

Right?

That’s what I tried to buy in to.

As November grew closer I got more and more apprehensive.  Watching the Saturday Night Live-fodder made me even more nervous.  This guy is not built for President.  He is just a giant, orange, obnoxious, rich bully.  He is an asshole.  I hate him.  Everyone hates him.

After 3 debates, it was quite clear Hillary Rodham Clinton would be the (first woman) next President.  I was a bit apathetic, so I entered that voting booth and figured ‘What the hell, Donald.  Have my vote.  Doesn’t matter and anything is better than Hillary.  You can’t win anyway”.  

Right?

And then this shit actually happened.  He won.

Wow.  Well, maybe this is OK?

Right?

Healthy change in the country.  Cant be a bad thing?

Right?

And then I REALLY started to pay attention.  Like a moment of clarity, I was filled with regret.  This guy is a narcissistic, ego-maniacal, shallow, spoiled, childish asswipe…and he will be MY President.  What have I done?

While I am, by no means, an Obama guy, I reflect on where I sit as a human.  Love or hate his politics, Barack Obama appears to be a ‘good dude’.

Right?

A family man. A gentleman.  A good husband and father.  Classy.  The qualities I certainly aspire to possess.  Dare I say Barack Obama was certainly, “Presidential“?

And then I watched this presentation of the Medal of Freedom he bestowed upon his Veep, Joe Biden.  Like Mr. Obama, I am not necessarily a Biden guy either, but if I step back, Joe Biden is the guy you totally want to hang with.

Right?

Fun, funny, charming, charismatic and, most notably, good hearted.  Joe Biden is the guy you would be grilling burgers and sneaky smoking (legal) weed with on a Friday night.  He just is.

And isn’t that what America is about?  Isn’t that what you want a leader to be?  A person like you.  Relatable.  Basic. Kind.  Real.

Right?

And now we have this orange, soulless, baseless,  useless a-hole about to lead the free world.

Donald Trump is the guy who would cheap shot punch you during gym class when no one was looking?  He is guy that cuts you in the lunch line cause his Dad bought the team uniforms.  The guy that pays for his kid to be on the varsity team.  The guy that has no time for a couple Budweisers and some football talk with you.  The guy that actually makes fun of special needs people.  He is a fucking dickhead.  And I cast a vote for him…in the name of change.

And while I had/have no interest in Bill-ary leading our country…this guy?  Big mistake…and I aided it.  Why can’t we just have a “do over”?

Right?

So, I am sorry ladies and gentlemen.  We fucked up.  Can’t we all just poetically exclaim in unison”You’re fired!“?