The delivery of the hard copy of this week’s edition of the South Shore Press falls on Wednesday, September 11th, 2024.
As you are well aware, we post news stories around the clock on our website SouthShorePress.com, on Twitter @SSPNewsroom, and our Facebook page, @TheShouthShorePress.
But the weekly edition that might be in your hands right now was delivered on September 11th.
I turn 51 years old this November, so it’s hard to fathom that the horrific attacks on America took place 23 years ago today.
Many innocent souls from Suffolk County died or were injured when despicable scum weaponized planes to kill more than 3,000 people in New York City, the Pentagon, and Stonycreek Township, Pennsylvania.
It’s also hard to believe that the average age of this year’s college graduates were born after the worst and deadliest terrorist attack on American soil.
They have no direct memory of the horror, the loss of life, and the sheer shock of the Twin Towers collapsing in a matter of seconds.
It is only known to them if we stress the importance to “never forget” what happened on 9/11.
It is up to us who remember that fateful day to ensure the memories of those that died are never forgotten, and that we maintain a vigilant spirit and desire to defend our great nation and rid the world of terrorist filth who want to wipe America and Israel off the map.
The stories of those on planes who knew they were going to die and frantically calling loved ones to tell them one last time they love them is both heartbreaking and heartwarming, under terrible circumstances.
They knew they would be dead in a matter of minutes. Yet they had deep, enduring, passionate love in their hearts to make one last phone call to let wives, husbands, mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters know how much they meant to them.
I don’t have a heartwarming, loving, “feel-good” story about one last phone call to someone who lost their life on 9/11. Quite the opposite, unfortunately. It’s a regret I’ll have for the rest of my life.
My home parish was run by the Franciscan Friars, the same order of FDNY Chaplain Father Mychal Judge. He is considered the very first casualty on 9/11. Fr. Mychal’s lifeless body being pulled from the North Tower was captured in an iconic photo that is now known around the world. Like a true hero, Fr. Mychal rushed into the burning buildings while all others were frantically running for their lives in the opposite direction.
Fr. Mychal was a spiritual mentor to the man I consider my “real father,” the man who raised me, Fr. Ronald Pecci. Fr. Ron was my parish priest who took me under his wing and taught me how to be a man, personally, professionally, and spiritually.
The Franciscans were a godsend and escape from the horrors of our home that was a denizen of dysfunction and terrible abuse. So much so that Fr. Ron would often bring me to multiple trips to New York City every year where he would visit his family in the Bronx.
For years on end, we stayed at the Saint Francis Friary on West 31st Street, close to Madison Square Garden and the Empire State Building. It was also Fr. Mychal’s home.
He was kind, loving, and welcoming every time I visited. His Friary to this poor kid was like staying in the Ritz Carlton. I remember the kitchen/small cafeteria area where food was basically available 24/7. It later reminded me of my college dorm mess hall.
We all stayed in touch over the years, so much so that Fr. Mychal scored me prime seats to a Buffalo Sabres vs. New York Rangers game at the Garden prior to 9/11. You have to remember, online ticket exchanges and Stub Hub didn’t exist back then. If you left someone tickets, they were “actual tickets” at Will Call and you had to pick them up. None of these fancy bar codes and electronic tickets on your phone.
So when I ventured to Will Call at MSG right before opening faceoff, my tickets weren’t there. Sure, I was aggravated. I’m nuts about missing the beginning of a hockey or football game. The ticket reps at MSG suggested I call Fr. Mychal.
Cell phones still weren’t prevalent back then, so I left Fr. Mychal a voicemail on his Friary phone that my tickets weren’t there. I was most definitely a frustrated crabass on the phone, not in the least thankful or thankful for him getting me tickets. I was pretty pissy.
It would be my last voicemail or communication with Fr. Mychal.
I regret my tone with him on that voicemail message, to this very day. I always will. None of us had a clue that terrorists would be responsible for his death just months later.
What we can do moving forward on the 23rd anniversary of the attacks on America is always leave a loving message for those we care about. Not a text message. Not a DM. An actual phone call. The human lesson of that day is that life is short. We never, ever know if today is “the day” we take our last breath.
Second, we as Americans have a duty and responsibility to keep the memories of those who perished alive, whether it is attending 9/11 memorial events or simply sharing conversations with younger adults about “where you were that day the planes hit the Twin Towers.”
Let us all gather today to pray for those who were killed, to pray for our great nation, and to show love and kindness to those in our lives that we love and cherish.
If we do that, then we truly honor those who knew that phone call to their loved one would be their last.