Last Round For Willy McGovern


The caller ID read “Roberta McGovern.” I hesitated picking up the phone. I knew that my beloved friend, Willy, had finally lost his long and valiant battle with cancer. The odds were heavily against
him—he couldn't win. I just didn't know how long he could hang on. Often he sounded as if it might be forever. His only complaint was that the endless treatments made him very tired. Knowing this, I tried to keep our phone conversations brief. No matter how short the call, I always felt better after talking with him. He could do that for me. Roberta told me that he faded fast once he decided it was time to let go.

Our mutual pal, Jimmy Mills, said it best on his Christmas card: “Willy was 'unique.'” I couldn't agree more. I thought so when I first met him in 1947 and the passing years had re-enforced the image.
He wore glasses, when most of us didn't; he was short, yet somehow made “shortness” attractive;
he had a tattoo—one of only three in the whole school; he was a voracious reader—never without a Penguin book stuck in his hip pocket; he had a grin that just made you feel good; and his voice—his voice was then, and until he passed—music to my ears. Even over the phone, even though he was dying, that voice could transport me back over time to boyhood days and happy times. It was a truly Chicago voice—low, gravelly, deliberate, emphasizing each word, combining a barely discernible sarcasm with a tinge of humor. Thankfully, I can hear him clearly in my mind whenever I wish.

If not for Willy, I might never have heard Tony Smith rock the foundation at the Blinkin' Pup on North Clark St. or gone down to the Blue Note to hear Art Lund sing or George Shearing's jazz. I may never have discovered pegged pants or blue suede shoes. I would watch him dancing with his girlfriend, a foot taller than he, and try to emulate his rhythmic bebop moves—never with much success. I even got a tattoo, although, many years later. I was eager to show it to him—strange behavior for a man well into his sixties.

Together, we joined the high school boxing team and soon were fighting for the Northwest AC, a fairly decrepit 2nd floor gym on Division Street, formerly a Bugs Moran Speakeasy with the peep hole still in the door. I was too young for an AAU license, but Willy's friend, Vinny Peletieri, who worked for a printer, charged me 25 cents for a most authentic looking Baptismal Record, complete with gold seal and baby's footprint. It was completely bogus except for my name and that of the South Side parish where I was christened. Mr. Parks, the AAU inspector, happened to be the father of a girl with whom I went to grade school. Chewing the stub of a cigar, he growled that he knew I wasn't old enough, but signed me up anyway, seeming to admire Vinny's handwork.

Our timing couldn't have been better. There were two amateur shows a week. Tuesdays at the North Side's Rainbow Arena and Fridays at the American Legion Hall on the West Side. It was the early days of black and white television and ABC televised all the bouts. I once got a telegram clear from Pittsburgh. Pop Howard, the matchmaker, took a liking to us and put us on the card whenever we wished. The frosting on the cake was that we received “expense money,” $10.00 for 3 rounds and $15.00 for the 4 round windups. That was some serious revenue in the late '40s for a couple of wise guy teenagers.






Willy and I were sparring one evening at the Midwest Gym on West Madison Street, when over his shoulder I saw the popular heavyweight, Bob Satterfield, come out of the showers. “Willy, you got to see this guy!” He squinted towards the locker room--to no avail. He then rushed to the ring post where he had hung his glasses. Watching him fumble to put on his glasses with boxing gloves was hilarious.
He finally succeeded, took a look, and agreed with me: “Jeeze! That Satterfield is Quite The Man, even if he does have a glass jaw.”

In our senior year, he and Jack Rose devised a way to raise some extra cash. Mac-Rose Enterprises was loosely formed for the purpose of running raffles. The first one had a barrel of beer for the prize and was moderately successful. Willy decided to up the ante—so to speak. Rumor has it that the McGovern's had a cleaning lady with less than perfect morals who was willing to lend her support to the Enterprise. The sale of chances improved immensely as the word spread throughout St. George High School and beyond, but unfortunately, found its way to the attention of our school's principal. The Christian Brothers presented Willy with what they considered a reasonable condition. Either he bring in his father for a conference, or be expelled. This was an easy decision considering graduation was only two weeks away. Surprisingly, Willy opted to be expelled. As he told me many years later, “I loved the old man too much to subject him to that kind of humiliation.” I fear that John McGovern never knew that his eldest son had been offered this alternative to expulsion.

When I got married, my mother-in-law-to-be insisted the reception be held at the Womens Club of Evanston. Since Evanston was completely dry in those days, non-alcoholic punch was to be the featured beverage. “Punch!” roared her husband, Mike. He spat out the word as if it were “cod liver oil.”
He was afraid the Irish uncles wouldn't stay-- that is, if they showed up at all. Not to worry. Willy McGovern saved the day. Marching in with a mile-wide grin and a flourish, he pulled a quart of Jim Beam from his coat and hid it behind the seat cushion of an overstuffed couch. Needless to say, thanks to Willy's foresight, the reception was a huge success.

To me, Willy always seemed even-tempered. I can't recall ever seeing him angry or depressed--if so, he hid it well. Any enemies he may have had were invisible. He had a truly magnetic personality. Everyone wanted to be his friend and I was no exception. I think I loved him most because I sensed the genuine kindness of his heart beneath all that cool bravado. Jimmy Mills was right. Willy was unique--never to be duplicated--not even close. He enriched our lives. I'll miss him.


Terry Tynan

January 22, 2010