Remembering Big Mac: Michael T. McInerney

Between the Birthday of the Corps and the Nation’s Day of Reverence

Forty years ago today—November 9, 1985—my father died at forty-three. So long ago, but I remember that last month in the hospital like I just left the room. The smell stuck with me for years. I only shook it once I made a happier memory in a hospital—because hospitals only host two things: joy or grief. Joy replaced grief when my daughter was born.

Naturally, he didn’t make it simple—he died late at night, just shy of midnight. A few hours later, and it would’ve been November 10: the Marine Corps’ birthday. The next day’s Veterans Day. So every year, this week carries his shadow and his service both.

He was a giant—six-foot-five, 225 pounds. A lifeguard at Jones Beach, college ball player, and later, a starter for the Marine Corps national basketball team before his tour in Vietnam. There, he ran “Rough Rider” convoys through contested areas, ensuring ammo, supplies, and comms stayed open to the front. Ambushes and firefights were a daily occurrence.

His presence filled any room. They called him “Big Mac.” That made me “Little Mac.” Most Saturdays, we’d be at the bar with his buddies, watching college football. I spent half my childhood surrounded by veterans and learned more about character there than any classroom ever offered.

Great taste in music: The Beach Boys, The Doors, Hank Williams, Redding and Sinatra, all in the air when I was growing up. And the stories, a true Irish raconteur—funny as hell.

He was fiercely independent. I remember the 1980 election—he voted for John Anderson. I didn’t get it. He explained that if Anderson hit five percent of the popular vote, he’d qualify for federal campaign funds and wouldn’t be personally stuck with the debt. That sounded absurd to me as a kid. But for him, it was about principle—doing the right thing even when it went nowhere. Anderson wound up with 6.6%.

He once wrote to President Reagan, arguing the Laffer Curve was a joke and trickle-down economics wouldn’t work. Reagan wrote back—thanked him for his service (he had a soft spot for Marines)—and praised the strength of the argument, even if he didn’t budge.

More than anything, he taught me to cherish freedom. He believed in the First Amendment with his whole being. He used to say that even if he disagreed with someone completely, he’d risk his life to protect their right to speak. I’ve never forgotten that.

He let it slide that I was a Yankees fan. That was no small thing for a man who grew up on Duke Snider and the Brooklyn Dodgers. The first time I said it out loud, he gave me a look, shook his head—and let it be. He didn’t just tolerate it. He took me to games. He stood in Yankee Stadium beside me and, reluctantly, let himself enjoy it. That alone says more about love than most people ever manage to put into words.

He wasn’t perfect. In the end, it was PTSD and alcohol that killed him. Growing up was hard. It was just us. No safety net. No margin for error.

There were repossessions, foreclosures, and flashbacks in the middle of the night. Some days were chaos. But through it all, he tried—he really tried—to be there. Playing catch. Coaching Little League. Showing up. That’s what I remember most. Not the fear, but the effort.

The hole he left hasn’t closed—but I’ve learned to fill parts of it with my own family. My children. My wife. And I like to think he’d be proud of them, and of me.

Mostly, I know he’d still be standing for what he believed in—quietly, stubbornly, on his own terms.

And now, forty years to the day, I can still see him—Big Mac at the bar, hand on my shoulder, still telling me to play it straight, keep my word, speak my mind.

CODA

“Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay” – Otis Redding (1968)

This was one of his favorite songs. Rest easy Dad. Godspeed.