Many of my longtime readers tell me that they feel like they know my Uncle Jack by now, since I’ve mentioned him so often. For those who don’t know, he is the patriarch of his family and the founder of McShea & Company, where I work. He gave me my start in commercial real estate and has been an important presence in my life for as long as I can remember.
A few years ago Jack celebrated his 80th birthday with a small gathering of family and close friends with a “New Orleans” theme (Jack has roots in that famous city). I was honored to be invited along with my wife. I was standing by the entrance shortly after arriving when in walked National Basketball Hall of Fame coach Morgan Wootten, a lifelong friend of my Uncle Jack from as far back as their days growing up in downtown Silver Spring near the railroad tracks.
Although the meal was being catered by a chef from New Orleans, Morgan handed Jack an envelope and loudly announced that he was insisting on his own menu. Jack opened the envelope and pulled out a card and an old menu from the Tastee Diner in Silver Spring. That old diner had been the source of many a fond memory for Morgan, Jack and my dad when they were growing up. Jack laughed and gave Morgan a hug.
Later on as the party was winding down Jack’s oldest son, Jack Jr., said a few words about his dad. Jack Jr. thanked all of the guests and, with a slight crack in his voice, he called his father the most optimistic person he knew and explained how he took pride in encouraging other people. That last point hit me like a thunderbolt. I was reminded of all the memories I had of my uncle at swim meets and football games, all the way from my peewee football games through high school, college and my college coaching career. And on top of all that, nearly 26 years of working with my uncle at McShea. Suddenly it was clear to me how during all those years what had mattered most was that he was there for me, whether I won or whether I lost.
I’ve been around long enough to know the locker rooms of losing teams are a lot less crowded than those of the winners. It’s after the losses that you find out who really cares about you. This was when my Uncle Jack was at his best. Whether I was 8 years old crying after losing a swim race or 45 years old and had just lost a big deal at McShea, he was always the first person to come up and put his arm around me and tell me how proud he was of me. He’d say all the right things and somehow through his encouragement I knew everything would be okay.
As I drifted back out of my thoughts and focused on the party again, I noticed I could feel a powerful force in the room and that it seemed like all the people, young and old, at that party could feel it, too. Like Bob Marley’s famous song “One Love,” that room was filled with one love for my Uncle Jack.
Finally Dave McShea, Jack’s youngest son, played the guitar and his beautiful daughter sang a song about angels and how Jack was one and we were all blessed to have him in our lives.
To which I said, “Amen.”
Have a great weekend,
Ro