I was all set to do my column about sports. I planned to talk about how the Phillies broke our hearts for the fourth year in a row. I planned to talk about how their highest-paid players didn’t come through yet again this postseason.
I was gonna talk about the concerns with the Eagles. That’s right, the Super Bowl champion Eagles, who seem to be searching for a yearly identity.
But then something just smacked me in the face. One of those things you knew was at some point going to happen, but never tomorrow.
My friend, our community’s friend, and one of the kindest guys, passed away so suddenly. My golf buddy, my go-to guy for health questions and a friend who encouraged me when I needed it, and do I seem to need it.
Like many of us, Dr. Patrick Sewards grew up in heaven, he just didn’t know it. Oh, he knew it later in life, and we shared those sentiments.
You see, Patrick grew up on 17th Street in the heart of Allentown in one of those amazing row homes that fill most of America’s Northeastern cities. They weren’t steeped in opulence or surrounded by acreage. Their wonderfulness was vertical.
In those three-story masterpieces, there were lots of bedrooms because we had lots of kids back then. Inside they were full of life. And outside the front door, they offered more life than you could ever dream.
Across from Patrick’s little slice of heaven was the iconic Hersh’s Market. In about 20 steps, Pat and his family could get everything their hearts desired. In about 20 steps, Pat and his family could get everything their hearts desired. Freshly sliced cold cuts, what we called them back then, selected cuts of meats from the longstanding, knowledgeable butchers perched behind the deli cases. There were staples like fresh bread or Mrs. Hersh’s amazing potato salad and rice pudding. Those little neighborhood markets were hopping, each holding a huge slice of America.
Unlike today’s impressive, huge marketplaces, Hersh’s didn’t have an abundant area of pharmaceutical needs. But that wasn’t a problem either because next door was the West End Pharmacy. The old school neighborhood pharmacies knew as much about your health needs as your doctor did. There they were, at the ready, to supply you with whatever you needed for any family health crisis.
But today in our beautiful huge markets, you can stop and have a bite to eat while shopping. Patrick’s neighborhood had that covered also. You see, a mere 20 steps away was Sewards Steak Shop, which is still standing today. It may be for sale, but it has served a lifetime of people. And it’s not just about the food. It’s equally about the camaraderie with a nice guy, owner Mike Sewards, and formerly, his dad.
Relatives of Patrick’s played a big part in an amazing, kid-filled neighborhood.
I attended Raub Junior High School, and after football practice, we’d scrape together just enough money to get one hot dog. I can’t tell you how good that smothered in mustard and relish masterpiece tasted. There was something about the lack of abundance, so prevalent back then, that made everything taste a bit better.
Oh, if it’s a fitness center you were looking for, we got that covered too. Maybe not up to the standards of today’s 21st-century facilities, but just five blocks away was the YM-YWCA, with its beautiful swimming pool and expansive gym. And nestled in the basement was the weight room filled with clanking iron and the chatter of a group of unique muscular characters. If you were working on a piece of equipment and they said they needed it, you got out of the way, and fast.
If you needed a haircut, that was maybe 50 steps away. And if your shoes needed repair, in the close by alley was Camody’s Shoe Service. Set up in a former garage, that no frills brick workshop fixed a lot of shoes. It wasn’t meant to be pretty. You see, that building screamed hard work and money saved, preserving shoes that would be otherwise discarded by today’s standards.
Oh, I forgot to mention, if it was time for a little fun, four blocks away was Union Terrace. It wasn’t some modern-day high-end fitness center. But it had basketball courts, baseball fields, and if you were feeling like ice skating on a cold winter’s day, you could find hundreds of people joyfully skating on the pond. There was no indoor restaurant, but could you warm yourself on a wood-burning trash can. And if you were hungry, you could walk another 20 steps to Peanut’s store. It had more penny candy than you could eat or whatever sugar-packed morsel you ever dreamed of.
Oh, a skier, you say? Well, there was no resort close by. But on a beautiful, snowy winter, no school day, you could find a hill on a street closed off by the city. It’s where millions of kids could sleigh ride. Those streets would be closed off for days after a snowstorm, and somehow, the people living on the street lived with it. The people who used that road went around it, and the children in the neighborhood rejoiced in it.
You see my friend Patrick was an easy walk to Union Terrace during grade school in his younger years, to Raub Junior High School in his middle years, and finally to Allen High, where the Sewards name was so well-known. The gym is named after his dad, Milo Sewards, a coaching icon from back when coaches stayed with the same school for a long time.
All this neighborhood interaction developed Patrick into who he was. A lover of his community, a supporter of his friends, and like many of us who grew up in that era, an imperfect guy riding the roller coaster of life.
Pat went on to be a doctor. Actually twice. I never encountered the first Dr. Patrick, but the second one was as good as it gets. And while it wasn’t Patrick’s personality to be affiliated with any network, he sure as hell made a lot of people healthy.
It’s not a stretch to say that he saved a lot of people’s lives. Within Patrick’s practice was a gym and a workout room. I used to kiddingly call it “the home for wayward athletes,” because more than the clanking of iron and the humming of the machines, there was a lot of chatter. There was a whole lot of joking, and, like many locker rooms, a steady diet of humorous jabbing. That kind of good-hearted interaction may be the best medicine of all.
Like in his youth, Patrick lived close enough that if he wanted to, he could walk to work. And like in his youth, his community was so important to him that he revived the old West End Community Center. No need for first-class office space, just a building he brought to life making people healthier, both physically and mentally.
I loved the guy. Like all of us, he had faults. Like me, he made mistakes, and like so many of us, he just kept marching on. We didn’t do a lot socially, but we played a lot of golf, and we shared a lot of stories. Most of all, he cared about me, and I cared about him.
His sudden death last week rocked many people. It rocked them because he was their rock. He wasn’t a huge backslapping guy, but he was there for anyone when needed. I can’t tell you how many people told me they went to that center and were rebuilt, both physically and mentally.
Patrick, in your “always there” way, maybe we didn’t realize how much we loved you. And we didn’t realize, in your way, how much you loved us. But we’ll miss you, and there will be a void in our hearts and for sure in the area’s elderly and former athlete community.
Like me, like so many of us, you were imperfect. And in that imperfection, we saw ourselves. You made us know it was OK to be vulnerable. It was OK to admit health challenges that age brings. You may not have been a giant relative to your mainstream colleagues, but you and your amazing wife Diane raised a beautiful family, lifted up thousands, and in the end, made this world a better place. I wish we would’ve gotten the chance to tell you that we will miss you more than you will ever know.
Let me close by saying I don’t know all of you. But if we sat down and had breakfast or lunch, our stories would be similar in many ways. Because we’re all pretty imperfect, trying to make our world and this planet a better place. And the concerns in our minds can’t outweigh the love in our hearts.
So let me make sure to tell all of you what I was thankfully, able to tell Patrick before he passed. I love you, Lehigh Valley, cause you’re a beautiful place filled with beautiful people. I love you because you’ve made my life fuller than I ever dreamed. You lifted me up higher than I could see. And I hope you see, in my immense gratitude, I so do love you back.
This is a contributed opinion column. Tony Iannelli is the president and CEO of the Lehigh Valley Chamber of Commerce. He can be reached at tonyi@lehighvalleychamber.org.