It is with shock and incredible sadness I pay tribute to this man today.  The men and women of the legislative messenger service are the eyes and ears of the NYS Legislature, and their huge and radiant personalities have brought light to many a droll and dreary downtown day for me over the past 20 years.

Robert and I bonded as Yankees fans, especially of their mid-70s resurgence as a championship team after a decade in the pit.  My favorite Yankee was Bobby Murcer, and he knew all the facts about the man.  He knew his status as a .275 hitter despite being a home run chaser (he hit over 250 home runs in his career), and how as a rookie he was billed as the next Mickey Mantle.  He knew he was a golden glove winner in 1972 and a five-time All-Star, and how he was great at the delayed steal, which requires precisely timing a catcher’s throwback to the mound after a pitch.

Mostly, however, we talked about Bobby’s performance against the Orioles on August 6, 1979, the same day he eulogized his close friend and teammate Thurman Munson following his tragic death in a plane crash just a few days prior.  Murcer practically won the game by himself, bringing the Yanks back from a 4–0 deficit with a 3-run homer in the 7th, then hitting a walk-off 2-run single down the left-field line in the bottom of the 9th.  The Bronx crowd went totally bonkers.  My dad bought me picture pins of both Bobby and Thurman in Cooperstown the following summer, which I recently rediscovered in an old memory box in our basement.

The last time I saw Robert was Wednesday, March 11, outside a bank of elevators in the LOB.  He was quiet, sad and angry.  Clearly preoccupied with something.  Instead of his usual greeting – “Hey, Bobby Murcer!” – he was red-faced, near tears and distracted.  It was a getaway day, which is slang for the final session day of the week when all the electeds make a beeline for home once the gavel falls, so we were alone when we got into the elevator, which is where he broke his silence.

“Do you think I’m a bad person?” he asked suddenly, his glance alternating shyly between the floor to my face in rapid succession.  “Somebody said I was a bad person.”

I was stunned. Who would say that to this giant, cheerful, funny, force of nature?

Oh, right.

Humans.

“Robert, you have more charm, integrity and intelligence than three quarters of the people in this building,” I said to him.  “Don’t pay any attention to that crap.  You’re a good man.  One of the best in my book.  You show up for life and you meet your commitments and make people smile.  What more can people want from anyone?  So hold your head up high and don’t worry about what other people say.  People say all sorts of awful crap that they’ll regret on their deathbeds.”

He softened a bit when I said this, the cloud lifting somewhat, but he was still out of sorts.  He did, however, give me a trademark fist-bump as he got out of the elevator.  “Thank you, sir,” he said, and disappeared around the corner.

I made a note to gift those Yankees pins to Robert next time I saw him, but it wasn’t meant to be.  Two days later, the governor shut down all public spaces in the face of a global pandemic, and that was the last time I ever saw him.  He may have lived, as his obituary reads, “a life of struggle with a developmental handicap,” but if he did, I rarely saw it.  And to be sure, I only saw him at work.  We were work buds.  I have no idea what he faced at home, with family, with friends or bosses.  But I know a good man when I see one, and he was a good man.

During his eulogy for Thurman Munson all those years ago, Murcer quoted poet and philosopher Angelo Patri, saying that “the life of a soul on earth lasts longer than his departure… he lives on in your life and the life of all others who knew him.”  I’ll be sure to mention your name in the halls of Albany, Robert.  You’re a legend in my book.

Say hi to Bobby for me.  Thank you, sir.