Beefchip and Team Cyclops: Remembering ‘Rockaway’s Favorite Son’

By Sean Tubridy

“Seany, you want to write a weekly column with me? Kevin Boyle is starting a newspaper called The Rockaway Times, and he wants some hospitality after-hours talk. We will call it Beefchip & Team Cyclops.”

“I’m in Patty. Who am I?”

“You’re Beefchip, I’m Team Cyclops.”

While the meaning of my new identity escaped me, the assignment that Patrick Brady put forth did not. Be funny, be creative, take it to the mattresses. Pat must have seen something in me; our constant cheese raps via the early days of Facebook are where we honed our future journo skills. In all honesty, I was just excited to have another opportunity to work with my boy Beast again, even if it was from behind the comfort of the notes section of our iPhones, rather than behind the bar we both worked together, Connolly’s.

What wound up being a 20-year stint at local hotspot Connolly’s started with a Tuesday night phone call: “Pat, you want to bar back at Connolly’s with me?” Combined with a steady, but unearned paycheck by way of the Parks Department, we were flush with cash. Days on the beach were recovery from Mug Night at The Bridge, Wing Night, and Wacky Wednesdays at the Circle; that’s what started our ascension into and our love of nightlife. Though my tenure at Connolly’s would come to an end, he remained and would go on to become the World’s Best Bartender, and what I lovingly dubbed “Rockaway’s Favorite Son.”

Brady just had it: a charming smile, a full head of Mike Francesa hair, the gift of gab, and the patience of a saint. He controlled the room from behind the bar, a skill and character trait that cannot be taught. He was a bouncer’s dream; they knew they had an easy night and a quick paycheck with Brady as Maestro! But my story with Pat starts even earlier than a shared love of having a seat at the nightlife table.

Dennis, his father, and Timmy, my uncle, founded The FishHeads, our local drinking/rugby club. A familial relationship pinned us as buddies from the start. We bonded in ways that only we understood. To say the least, we were both husky youths and enjoyed “fat guy weather” long before it became a hashtag. Our weekly weigh-ins as Rock Park All Stars and slugging out the endless Indian runs in 109 Park, when all we wanted was Twinkies and ices from Dierdre Maeve’s, that built character. As we got older, I broke Pat into the Bridge via a quick Pier 92 (Bungalow Bar) hop over the fence, while he broke me into lifelong friendships with the uptown crowd, the first being Bernadette Heeran.

I missed him so much that after two years at Canisius College, I decided to join him in Belmont, North Carolina, as a Crusader. Brady was already the Mayor of Campus, not to outdo him, I was elected Senior Class President, as Pat would say, through sheer intimidation and a campaign that would make Boss Tweed blush. It’s not often students have a beer with campus police, but those are the stories that contribute to Brady’s larger-than-life personality, why he was so revered. Pat loved Belmont Abbey College, all five years of it, as I offer a winking nod to hobbies and interests that we proudly took part in/provided for the student body. You see it now, his impact reaching every corner of this country with the way he treated people and why so many are making the trek to bring Brady home.

After a quick stint as a ranger, Beast proudly joined the ranks of the Bravest, solidifying what we call “The Rockaway Dream.” The pathway to true happiness, as set forth, was the trajectory from barback to bartender, lifeguard to fireman! Naturally, he earned the respect of senior men and bosses. Set aside his cool and calm demeanor, he was physically one of the strongest men I knew, and possessed a physical agility that would make your head spin. I remember him scoring his first try with Xavier Rugby. I couldn’t really see him; it was difficult with Kio Academy’s outside line on his back. Proud father Dennis, running the sideline screaming, “Go Pat, Come on Patty!” When he scored the try, Dennis turned around, cigar in a hand, “That’s my son, goddamnit!” I’ll never forget that proud moment and recalling it 27 years later brings tears to my eyes. Brady was not to be tested, as “The Diary of Third and Long” surmised one of the greatest donnybrooks in NYC history, of which Pat, myself, and a few other knuckleheads found ourselves in the heat of battle. We brought the W home that night, some unruly patrons needed discipline, and discipline is what they got by way of Beast and Co.

For his part, Pat’s forte was taking junior guys under his wing. Pat brought all of his barbacks to after-hours at Bungalow Bar, where we taught them how to drink and act like gentlemen. We would debrief the night, sing songs, and go over the worst, the best. It was all part of his training program. On Watkins Street, the names O’Grady, Millsy, and Ruddock, among them, I recall how highly he spoke of each to me, as if I knew the traditions like the back of my hand as a DSNY supervisor and part-time hospitality investor. Pat jubilantly spoke of each, allowing me in on the buff sessions. Time cut short, these men lost their older brother. And even I know the burden of being a firefighter, immense psychological stress from constant exposure to traumatic events, none more so than this. Hold steady, lads!

Life is lived forward and understood backward. It makes combing through nearly 40 years of memories a daunting task.

The question that has never been able to be fully answered and traps me at this time is how the rest of us move forward when a giant of a human leaves us. Rockaway hit with back-to-back monumental losses, it’s hard to make sense of any of it. Rather than sit in my sheer grief and sorrow, I am doing what I often have done, without the always-present encouragement from my co-author, compadre, trusted friend, and brother, I put pen to paper. After a long examination of Pat Brady’s spirited lap around the track, I offer this: Pat had something special with everyone he knew. He knew what and how to connect with you. He knew what you liked or didn’t like. It was genius-level, and every relationship he had was like an inside joke between the two of you. But he made everyone part of it. Who isn’t convinced in the Friends of Rockaway Beach that New Parks Pizza is indeed in Broad Channel, right over the bridge, after 15 years of Pat’s dedication to the craft?

But his small, little gestures of anonymous charity, his specialized gift-giving à la nunchucks to his beloved sister-in-law Teenie, or a random gift, like Jason Vorhees’s coffee cup for childhood friend Krista, are what made him angelic.

Fame, that he never sought in life, he is receiving in death. He died a hero, and the way to honor that sacrifice is to live as he did. All of our faiths get tested. He lived with faith despite all of our setbacks.

We follow celebs for the wrong reasons; we make a spectacle of nonsense when the blueprint for a life well-lived is right here in front of us. Patrick Brady, 42, graduated life with honors. He leaves behind a beautiful wife in Kara, a true love derived from corny yet romantic jokes. He is survived by his parents, Sue and Dennis. Always trying to make Mom laugh, leveling up his last prank or act of kindness. He is survived by his family, an irreplaceable void that cannot be filled, The Funcle! He is survived by Konan, his beloved bulldog and best friend. And he is survived by Rockaway Beach, as the Great Unifier, he connected everyone through laughter and generosity.

What we know are these truths: we have been tested, we have been here before. And the way that we have gotten through is with our people. We carried each other, and there was no one better during these times of tragedy and triumph than Patrick Brady. He offered no other options, we carry on, we forge ahead, TOGETHER. Tell a story, laugh about it, send a drink across the bar before you order yours, love hard, “tell people you love them, if you love them, you must tell them.” Sing a song with your arms around your friends, “’Cause You Got a Heart So Big, It Could Crush This Town, And I Can’t Hold Out Forever, Even Walls Fall Down!”

Take a bow, Big Guy, as we bend the knee to the best to ever do it. We are all better people for having known him, our only wish being more time.

As they come down the stretch, it’s Brady in the lead by a mile. He’s headed to the

Winners Circle, cloaked in honor, a hero’s welcome awaits him.

Love you 4 Life, Love You 4 Ever, Team Cyclops.

 Sean “Beefchip” Tubridy