The Eulogy

Everyone in this room has at least two Kevin Blakeley stories: one where he made you laugh harder than you ever had before or have since, and one where he bent over backwards to help you. I'd like to share with you a few stories that defined the man Kevin Blakeley was to me.

My parents named me Claire, but I don't think I ever heard him use that name. I was always Cluny, or Clune Marin, or Clem Sequis, or Clementine, or Sequin Gown, or Claireballs. Damian was always Devo Te, or Ed Buttocks, or Eddie Jo, or Champion, or Sport Billy. My mom was always Spud, or Spunky, or Sweetie Peets, or Maggie, or Sex Pot. He called every waitress Sheila, and told us the men who invented the railroads and street signs were Ed Railroad and Ed Street Sign.

My father has a way with words. When he wanted you to do your best, he told you to "be the ball." When he wanted to hurry you out the door, he said, "Helmets on." And when he wanted to tell me he loved me, all he had to say was Larry Bird's number, "33."

He was the kind of father most people can only dream of, completely dedicated to his children. He never missed a phone call. Granted, sometimes he told me he was in the middle of a drug bust and needed to call me back, but he always answered the call. He didn't just support us, his heart beat to our successes; and when we cut ourselves, he bled. I have trophies he made me when I was little and had just started performing. Every show he had a trophy made for me. Just so you know, I won Best Actress in 1993 and the Mary Lenox Award in 1994. In his closet sit two shoes boxes full of old baseballs that he saved from Damian's baseball career, little league to the pros. He wrote on every one the amazing play Damian made with each ball. And not just when he pitched a no-hitter or hit his first grand slam, but even when he hit a home run and the ump called it foul. He didn't just hand us big wheels and send us outside. He loaded the big wheels into the car and drove us to the walking bridge that crossed over the freeway so that we could get the thrill of riding over the traffic and speeding down the spinning walkway. When my mom found out he was taking us to the freeway to play, she had concerns; but he would never let anything happen to us, and she knew it.

If you wanted something, he couldn't rest until you had it. I can't tell you how many times he left a house full of perfectly good food and went to the store to get me the one thing I wanted that we didn't have. The last time I was home, I went with him to three different stores to find Genny Cream Ale for his friend, Teddy Rossman. Other people would have given up after the first store; maybe Teddy could drink a good beer for once. Not my dad. One year, my mother decided to take up the bagpipes. She had mentioned that she'd love to find a bagpiper snow globe. Well, of course, this doesn't exist. He searched for months. He tried to get one specially made, no luck. So finally, he took the bagpiper figurine, some wood, a rounded piece of glass, and some caulk that he cut up to make snow, and made her one himself. If you've ever seen him try to do something artistic, you probably know what it looked like; but you also know it was the most romantic snow globe ever made.

He loved with all his heart. His obvious devotion to my mother has taught everyone around him what marriage truly means. But he also loved his friends. He never used their names either, referring to them only as "brother." And he let them know exactly what they meant to him every day. Then there's Beatrice, our dachshund. His biggest joy was to take her for a ride in the car, watch Becker with her in his lap, or mow the lawn with her in a bag on his back. And I know so many of you got one too many picture messages of his goldfish, Mr. Nibbles, or of course, what he called him, Nibs.

Less was always more with him. He's never had a whole stick of gum for as long as I've known him. All he would allow himself was half. What if someone else wanted some gum later and he had eaten it all? He made his own stationary by photocopying pictures he loved of Damian and I. He used to make burgers on the grill and he'd cut Kraft singles in half; a whole Kraft single would've been a sin. He was disturbed when automatic windows started coming standard on his cars, and when his cell phone automatically came equipped with a camera. A car was to get you from A to B, and a cell phone was to make and receive calls. And when he finally learned how to text, he decided that vowels were pure luxury. Even a three letter word like "got" was spelled simply "gt." "Well, you know what I mean, Ass."

He was a role model. When I was in seventh grade, he coached my basketball team and taught us that winners had more than just talent and mechanics, winners had character and heart. We never left the huddle without hearing, "Ten girls, one ball. You gotta want it more." And even if we lost, if we played our hearts out, he was proud of us. "Your hearts are as big as this room right now! I'd rather go home with you guys."



I'm proud of you, Dad. I'm proud of the man you made Damian. Thank you for teaching me loyalty, love, and compassion. Thank you for teaching me the importance of generosity, courage, and kindness. You are the epitome of selflessness and integrity, and you had an unparalleled dedication to sacrifice. I've got my Larry Bird Smile on now, Dad. Because of you, I can walk through the world on my own terms. I'm glad you're in a place where all the balls you hit are going over the fence, and ice cream's not running all over your hands. 33.