Monsignor

Every so often there comes a human being with an extraordinary gift which, in the sixties we dubbed “star quality,” and indeed, Monsignor Fulton J. Sheen had it in huge measure. Perhaps it is necessary to mention that in the sixties few knew of the term “charisma, ” which didn’t come into vogue until Mahatma Handy started preaching to half a million people at a time, most of whom couldn’t even hear him, yet such was the magnetic power of the man that they sat in the Indian sun and cooked while he spoke. So he was called “charismatic.” But I digress, which is sometimes an art form unto itself.

Anyway, I was hired by the new WCBS TV Ch. 2 New York, a network spin off focusing on the “Big Apple,” but that was before it was called the “Big Apple,” because no one had thought of the term yet. (Blessed are the phrase makers, for they shall elect presidents.)

Since I was one of the very few genuine New Yorkers, a former cab driver, and longshoreman in my college days, it fell to me to cover stories with a peculiar New York twist. It didn’t hurt that I had an Irish name, ergo I had to be Roman Catholic. The fact was my father was a Catholic, my mother an Irish Protestant. The Battle of the Bourne, (originally won by King William in 1690,) was fought daily in my house.

The good Monsignor was spokesperson for the “Powerhouse,” as the Catholic Diocese of New York was called, and powerhouse it was. Whenever I was called for such an assignment I could hear my Protestant forbearers gnashing their teeth, while the Catholics cheered and called for another flagon. I would tell Artie Goldman, my more or less permanent cameraman, he would shrug, (he didn’t hear my inner voices,) get the crew together and we would head for Madison Avenue, stomping grounds for Monsignor, eventually Bishop, Sheen.

It is necessary to add that no one, I mean no one, had ever bested this Irish priest in any verbal contest. His network television shows were viewed by millions. He was at his charming, brilliant best on the tube or when delivering a sermon. Don’t ask me what the subject was on this fateful day but I knew I would be no more than a microphone holder for this man. But something in me was rebelling, kindling a fire of self-worth, ego if you will. He wasn’t going to turn me into a “mike” stand this time.

He greeted me warmly with the usual, “Thomas my son,” and we got into the interview. I was immediately swamped with lovely phrasing, mellifluous verbs, adjectives which created pictures in the sky. But there was something slightly different, damned if I remember what it was, that didn’t sound logical, as if he were testing and probing the conversational and logical waters. He looked at me, and believe me the term “piercing gaze” was coined for this man, and waited for the next question like a gourmand for a superb strawberry shortcake.

But this time I was not to be denied. The Protestants rose in thunderous ranks and I ventured, on camera, that perhaps his last statement was touched with just a hint of “blarney.” I could see King William smiling benevolently on me. Monsignor Fulton J. Sheen must have sensed the aura for without pausing he said, ‘Thomas, my son, do you know what ‘blarney’ is?” and I knew the Catholics were in the ascendancy. There would be ‘hurrahs’ and calls for another jar in all the “Mick” pubs on the West Side when I said, “Not precisely Monsignor, just what does it mean?” “Why Thomas, my son,” (pause) “ It means nothing more nor less than the varnished truth.”

As we drove away, I stared out our dirty station wagon windows at a New York which punished the ill-prepared, and thought, “Perhaps there will be another day, perhaps a win, no matter how small,” but it was not to be. I mean, no amateur ever got into the ring with Rocky Marciano or Muhammed Ali and prevailed, right?

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