Mike Sullivan

Sully

Although he spent twelve years studying for the Catholic priesthood, Sully’s real religion has always been Sports. He claimed he went to the seminary on an athletic scholarship. And when someone asked him what his preferred pronoun was, Sully said, “Jock.”

Sully was, above all . . . the quintessential jock.

That’s not to say Sully was a great athlete. He was an average athlete, in a seminary which, in those days, had a lot of outstanding athletes. Nevertheless, Sully loved sports and was determined to stay a contender, so he changed the rules and made up a new game that everyone could play. I’m not sure what you’d call it, Sully’s game - it was a little like fencing. Sully figured out that - what jocks loved most, when they weren’t actually on the field playing sports, was standing around in a circle giving each other shit. So he became an expert at giving people shit. He became a Zorro of verbal swordplay, mastering the art of thrust and parry, riposte and repartee. He paid close attention to people, looking for their vulnerable areas, their ticklish spots. Then he’d thrust with a humorous insult and await the response. If they got upset, he’d won, game over. If they parried and responded, he was ready with another thrust and the game would go on. Sully’s game was just as competitive as all the other sports, but if you played it right, no one ever had to lose and the game could go on forever. That was Sully’s genius.

Imagine, here’s a bunch of seminary jocks standing around after lunch. Even though they’re a fun-loving lot, being seminarians, they’ve also been programmed to take themselves very seriously as Christ’s future representatives on earth. Then Sully walks up and lobs a few funny insults into the group. Pretty soon it’s like Pirates of the Caribbean - everybody has their rapier out dueling with each other. It’s jock nirvana, the ultimate put-down contest. You can be big or small, athlete or egghead, it doesn’t matter; It’s all about scoring a hit. You just have to be able to parry long enough to eventually score a hit, make everybody laugh. And not take yourself seriously when you get hit. As soon as you take yourself seriously, you lose. Unlike most physical sports, this is a game you can keep playing into old age - often you actually get better the older you get.

It took me a while to engage with Sully in the seminary. He was a couple years older, so I was able to avoid his blade for a few years, stay under the radar. Eventually he got me though. It was around 1964, just when the Beatles were on Ed Sullivan with their long hair. Sully and I were both losing our hair, though mine was falling out a lot faster. One bright spring day a bunch of us are standing around talking and Sully looks over at me, shields his eyes, and says, “McAllister, you gotta to do something about that glare.” That did it - we were locked in the game from then on.

So then Sully gets ordained and I drop out and become a hippie. He’s a dynamic young assistant at some parish in the Sunset; I’m living in the Haight and protesting at SF State. Very different worlds.

Then I see this article in the Chronicle about the San Francisco Post Office outlawing long hair for its employees. There’s a big protest and everybody’s up in arms. A reporter from the paper corners a supervisor at the Post Office and says, “What do you think about the new hair rule?” The supervisor points to his own bald head and says, “Do I look like someone who should be deciding hair styles?” The supervisor’s name is listed as James Sullivan, and then I remember that Sully’s dad works at the Post Office.

So I get some fancy stationery and make up a letterhead - National Committee for the Social Acceptance of Baldness and send a letter addressed to Rev. Michael Sullivan, Holy Name Parish.

Dear Father Sullivan,

As its name implies, our organization is dedicated to promoting the social acceptance of baldness. To that end, we have reached out to charismatic public figures throughout the country who can enhance the image of baldness. Our current members include Telly Sevalas, Yule Brenner, and Y. A. Tittle.

Your father’s witty comment the other day in the Chronicle caught the eye of one of our staff, who also happens to be one of your parishioners. He said that you were an emerging leader in the local Catholic community, and that you were also experiencing a significant and rapid hair loss. He suggested I contact you to see if you would consider becoming a spokesman for our cause. If you have any interest in doing this, I would be most happy to meet with you at your convenience. Please contact me as soon as possible.

Yours in male pattern baldness,

J. Anthony Fandini,

President, National Committee for the Social Acceptance of Baldness (NCSAB)

A couple years go by. I don’t see or hear anything from Sully. Then one day I’m walking through Golden Gate Park. It’s a warm day and I’ve got my windbreaker slung over my shoulder. A sporty-looking Malibu sails past me, then abruptly screeches to a halt about 50 yards further. The driver jams it in reverse, backs up like a bat out of hell, and slams to a stop right next to me. The passenger door flies open. I look in. The driver's got dark glasses on and it takes me a second to realize it’s Sully. He’s got his finger pointed at me . . . “Fandini !!”

Sully and I kept our jousting match going the rest of our lives, much as I’m sure many of you did with him. When I stopped to visit him a couple years ago at the retirement home, he wasn’t as quick as he used to be, but he still had his old thrust and parry. I’d love to hear his caregivers’ memories about Sully’s last playful jabs at them.

Sully really was a priest. He brought an irreverent divine humor into a lot of situations that could have been a lot more boring and deadly without him. He never wanted the game to end.

And it still goes on, Sully. God loves nothing more than a playful jouster.