I think about him every day, but not with regret, rather with an appreciation of a life well lived, and with deep admiration of a colorful Irishman who loved his family above himself, and who lived a life rich in spirit, if not in wealth, for 88 years.
Born to a large Irish-Catholic family in the anthracite coal town of Frackville, Pennsylvania, he spent most of his youth in the nearby "patch" of Girardville. Small coal towns were often dubbed "patches," because most of their poor residents sported patches in order to cover the holes on their clothing.
He did some amateur boxing to earn a few bucks, and upon graduating from high school, he immediately enlisted in the Army Air Corps, serving most World War II in London, where he endured the German Blitzkrieg, rising to the rank of Master Sergeant.
He came home, married my mother (they were married for 62 years), and raised my brother and I.
My dad loved any kind of sport. He was a rabid Notre Dame fan, and, despite his short stature, would verbally challenge anyone who displayed disrespect toward the Fightin' Irish.
In high school and college, he enjoyed attending my running events, and he continued to do so when I began my road racing career.
Joe Muldowney Sr. possessed the Irish gift of gab. He could cause a monk to break his vow of silence. He was fiercely proud of his family, and would go to any length, and stretch the limits of embellishment, when bragging about its members.
In the late 1970s, as I suffered through a cold, snow covered Prevention Marathon, near Allentown, Pennsylvania, he froze at the finish line, informing anyone who stood in the range of his voice, that his son, the marathon runner, had suffered from a heart murmur. I imagine the crowd was surprised to see this physically impaired twenty-something runner cross the line vertically. My dad had conveniently omitted the fact that I outgrew my heart murmur at the age of three.
On another occasion, he volunteered to work a water stop at a local race. My training partner led the race, followed by another runner, who held a slim lead over me. My dad gladly trotted next to my friend, carefully handing him a full cup, but "forgot" to offer a cup of hydration to the second place runner. Of course, I had no problem receiving my cup of water.
I dedicated my book, "Running Shorts: A Collection of Stories and Advice For Anyone Who Has Ever Laced Up a Pair of Running Shoes," www.runningshortsbook.com, to him.
The picture below was taken near Columbus Circle, at the 1981 New York City Marathon. He stood in anticipation of my arrival, yelling, "Go Joey," as I passed.
As we approach the Holiday season, I hope you appreciate those loved ones, who, like my dad, support your running and racing. We are blessed with their love for a finite number of years, but memories of them will live forever.
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