The church was on a side street.
His kind of street. His kind of church.
It was the church he and Ronnie Eldridge were married in at a time when religions found it hard to rise above themselves like this and bond two people of different faiths in public in a sacred space.
The Church of the Blessed Sacrament at 152 West 71st Street. And in many ways it was his kind of crowd: New Yorkers who packed it on Wednesday, March 22.
The governor’s mother, Matilda Cuomo, came. Her boys and girls grew up with the Breslin family.
The governor came. For a governor, he came quietly. His security detail was discreet and in the background. He came, Andrew Cuomo said, as the elected representative of the Cuomo family. His mother was there, of course, as the matriarch.
His father, Gov. Mario Cuomo, and Jimmy Breslin—who met as adults—also grew up together politically: defining, discarding, and refining their thoughts and feelings on social justice, on politics and on the body politic.
Chris Cuomo came, network-TV-tall-and-handsome, and the governor’s younger brother, came. He stood in the back of the church. Quiet. Keeping himself out of the picture.
Former Police Commissioner Ray Kelly came. Alone. In a black overcoat, a white shirt, and a perfectly knotted silver tie. Fit. Face tight. A former Marine.
Book agents came. Writers came. Politicians came.
And yet it was a simple memorial service on a quiet side street. The kind of street and the kind of church you could find in the neighborhoods off Queens Boulevard and even here off Columbus Avenue.
A grandchild read the Prayer of the Faithful:
PRAYER OF THE FAITHFUL
Lord, blessed in many and various ways, we have gathered to celebrate the death and Resurrection of your Son, placing James Breslin in the midst of that celebration. That prompts us to ask of Your mercy these gifts:
. . . for James Breslin…that having used the gifts given in Your service, he may now be admitted to the fullness of eternal life . . . we pray . . .
. . . for journalists . . . particularly in print media—the Fourth Estate—that neither political pressure nor fear of reprisal will alter their presentation of the truth . . . we pray . . .
. . . for a spirit of common concern in our City…that the various injustices that Jimmy railed against might be eliminated by our demand for integrity and honesty . . . we pray . . .
. . . for the poor and overlooked, the discarded, the unwashed and unwanted…be visible to us as we walk the streets of the City . . . as we imbibe some of the “rage” that was Jimmy’s gift to us all . . . we pray . . .
. . . for humor, for ’tis a sin to bore…we pray…
. . . for my grandfather, he who believed in God and the goodness of people, now he might enjoy the peace that God has promised to those who strive to be faithful . . . we pray . . .
. . . for our family and for our grandmother, we are experiencing great loss, that we might find comfort in the words that he wrote . . . we pray . . .
. . . for the world in which we, his grandchildren and children, and all gathered here will live, together let us raise our voices in a prayer for peace . . .
The governor spoke. Mostly in a quiet voice. You couldn’t call it a eulogy for Jimmy, really. It was more of a eulogy for a passing of the telling of the truth as part of the discourse in our society. One of the best tellers had passed, and with the passing some of the ability to call “bullshit” when it was heard or seen went with him.
“He was the quintessential New Yorker. He was irritable and he was tough, but he was an authentic voice for New York. He was the people’s voice. I think we are losing that more and more in journalism, frankly, where when you read a Jimmy Breslin column, you knew who he was and what his values were. . . . he brought a perspective to journalism and he gave people comfort.”
Thomas Ridges, Special Counsel to the Staten Island District Attorney, also spoke eloquently.
“The speaker before me said that Jimmy knew without this city, he would not be anything. Well, I’m here to tell you that without Jimmy, I would not be anything. . . . This story began in 1980 when I was 15 years old, living in the Sumner Housing Project in Bedford-Stuyvesant, and I was introduced to Jimmy Breslin by Michael Daly.
“I, at that time, 15 years old, didn’t know whether to thank Michael Daly or to hate Michael Daly. Think about it. For those of you that have been intimidated at times by Jimmy. I was 15 years old at the time. I am now 51. In a couple of weeks, I’ll be 52. God willing. So that means Jimmy has been in my life for 37 years and Jimmy dared me to do better, to be better.
“He saw something in me that I did not think at that time. I saw a lot of people around me that were dying, going to prison, no hope, and he told me that ‘doesn’t have to be you.’ Jimmy wanted me to do great things. He was with me through high school, through college, through law school, through the loss of my parents six months apart. I just wanna say I, I’m glad he saw and he looked beyond the headline, that he saw more than a 15 year old Black kid from the projects, Jimmy saw people for who for they are. And that’s why day in, day out, when I make decisions about cases, when I talk to people, I think about the person, not their status, not what they look like. I ask myself, what’s the right thing to do? . . .
“Jimmy knew. And until the day I die, I will not let him down. So whenever I’m faced with a hard decision going forward, and I know it might be sacrilegious to say this here, but I will ask it myself—not what would Jesus do, but what would Jimmy do . . . A lot of people talk about Jimmy being behind the headlines. It wasn’t about the headlines. He saw the story behind the story. The headlines back then were about crime and, and the projects and all these negative things. He saw me behind those headlines.
“I want to state to the family. I thank you for sharing Jimmy with me.”
And Michael Daly spoke. Someone who had known him since they were young and able to laugh watched Daly stand on the altar and hold up the one sacrament that mattered: a press card. The writer was as close to tears as he would allow. One had to wonder, as Tip O’Neill said when JFK died, whether he’d be able to laugh again.
“Nobody ever brought more honor to this pass than he did.”
Almost everything was said that needed to be said and then Ronnie Eldridge, his wife of thirty-four years, spoke the words you had waited to hear: “Thanks for the use of the hall.”
A Big Man had died. No longer would a reporter, lying in bed beside her husband, be awakened in the night with the shout, “I’M BIG.” And the hang-up.