The Grapevine phone rang at Fire Station 37 and I was fortunate enough to be the one to grab the receiver just two steps ahead of Firefighter Kevin Isozaki. It was 1984, 30 years ago, and most of you who are reading this were probably not “on-scene” yet or even in the dispatch rotation. A guy named Steve Minnehan was calling from Boston Fire Department Station 37, challenging us to a t-shirt wager for something he saw as a slam dunk.
The 1984 NBA Championship series was between the Los Angeles Lakers and the Boston Celtics. With athletes like Kevin McHale, Larry Bird, Magic Johnson and Kareem Abdul Jabbar on the court, NBA fans on both coasts were eager for their favorite team’s victory. In the end, the series would go to game seven, with the Celtics defeating the Lakers by a final score of 111 to 102. But it really didn’t matter that we lost the bet; the relationship that started with that phone call and endured between Steve and I was irreplaceable.
In 1984, LAFD Fire Station 37 was loaded with some of the finest, most underrated talent on the Department. Men like Bell, Murray, Navarro, Onishi, Isozaki, Cota, Williams, Jensen, Crockatt, Quinn and Hoffman. And that’s just a few names of the dedicated people loyal to their department and to their brothers.
In Boston, the fire service is more than family, more than politics. It’s a tradition that in some cases stretches back generations. Those generational members of Boston Fire understand their obligations and responsibilities to their citizenry and to each other, not because it’s printed on a contract, but because it’s written on their hearts.
Since we lost the basketball bet, we sent the LAFD shirts to Boston. Later that month, I received a phone call from Steve who told me to expect a package in the mail. Something, he said, that was very special . . . very important to a fireman.
The package arrived, and in it was a genuine leather Boston fire helmet, with shield and gold crown (crest). It certainly was a beautifully crafted piece of Boston history. The blackened leatherwork on the brim was strikingly worn to a legendary perfection. When I called to thank him, he could’ve said, “It was nothing.” But instead he told me that he wanted us to have it, a token of friendships built, of solidarity, forming a lasting brotherhood. Well, maybe not in those words exactly, but it is what he meant (amusing, colorful language included).
Steve and I kept our relationship alive for almost ten years with monthly phone calls. We shared fire stories, family stories and an occasional Laker/Celtic story. Long talks about his wife and kids, Petra – my fiance (and now my wife), our mutual Departments and how we could do it better. We each had plans to visit. Petra and I to Boston, he and his family to Los Angeles. Plans that never happened.
Then the phone calls stopped.
With busy lives, I figured that life was rushing us forward like a wave. But the phone calls never started up again. Then, one morning in June of 1994, while in quarters enjoying a cup of morning coffee, I read in the Times that a company of Boston firemen were critically injured while fighting a warehouse fire on the Boston wharf. During a dramatic rescue operation, one was killed.
What were the odds it was Steve? With hundreds of Boston firemen on duty that night, what could be the chances? Quickly covering down the page, I found the firefighter’s name – Steve Minnehan. Father of three. Married to Cathy. Beloved member of the BFD and 37 Engine. And, my friend. This had to be a mistake. No.
While attempting to rescue two fellow firefighters who were trapped, Steve was killed in the line of duty. He and fellow firemen had stretched a rescue line to the back of a 300 by 100 building to affect the rescue of the two who were trapped, deep within the building. Steve ran out of air and did not make it out. The others were overcome by smoke as their air bottles ran dry, and attempted to position themselves for rescue. Afterward, these gravely injured men were airlifted to Connecticut for treatment in a Hyperbaric Chamber, and survived.
Lieutenant Steven F. Minehan, was not so fortunate. He died exhausting every ounce of courage, strength and faith possible. And so, that’s the man Steve was raised to be – by family, by friends and by tradition.
In Boston, the job is not just a paycheck, it is an inherent part of who they are. It’s a true and heroic legacy. It’s in their blood. And the firefighting tradition there is proudly carried on by the next generation. Men like Joe Minnehan (Steve’s son) and Joe’s lifelong friend, Lt. Steve Mitchell have taken up the calling and now serve in place of their fathers and grandfathers.
This story starts up again, some thirty years later, in September of last year. I never dreamed that when Al Barrios, Fred Lopez and Dave Wagner invited me on a road trip to Boston, I would at last get to visit the home and last assignment of my great friend, Steve Minnehan.
On the day of the visit, the three left me alone to visit Boston Fire Station 37 in the Fenway park neighborhood, knowing that for me this would be an emotional pilgrimage. I had so many questions on my mind.
After building up my courage, I knocked on the door and could hear the rushing of booted feet. A firefighter named Barry met me at the door, patiently listened to the story and sized me up. He then invited me in and introduced his lieutenant, Steve Mitchell.
I was immediately treated like family. I noticed pictures lining the walls, with newspaper accounts about Steve and his heroic story. As Lt. Mitchell, “Mitch”, and I talked, I learned that his dad and Steve Minnehan were close friends and were working together the night of the fire. Mitch and Steve’s son, Joe Minnehan, are close friends as well. Joe Minnehan is stationed at nearby 15 Truck. Like us, this group of firefighters take their losses seriously and to heart. And the memories of these losses continue to linger.
Now, I hadn’t been on a fire engine since I retired more than four years ago, but on that day, I went on four runs, had dinner with an incredible crew and was treated like a long lost member of the Boston Fire Family. And . . . I got to sleep in my own bed! At days end, 37 Engine was given permission to escort me to the opposite side of town where we met up with my fellow LAFD travelers. “Dave, Fred, Al . . . I’d like you to meet Boston firemen, Mitch, Barry, Matt and Chris.”
Firefighters together, firemen all. Four from Boston, four from Los Angeles. Sharing stories, laughs and memories. Of fires fought, and brothers lost. A “Band of Brothers?” Quite a cliche, but maybe so. If nothing else, the events of the day surely brought two coasts together to share in the loss of one good man.
In closing, first let me say thanks to you, the reader, for getting this far in the story. It’s an important memory for me, but I think it’s also important for all of us who walk this walk, to hear accounts such as these. Second, please don’t ever forget to hold close those you love, and to do that a little tighter, a little longer each time. Remind those that you love why you love them and how much.
We never know if tomorrow someone you labor beside may lead such a monumentally heroic and equally unselfish rescue . . . for you or someone you love. And that that rescue may end up at the top of a tower or at the end of a warehouse, right alongside Steve Minnehan.
God Bless the members of Boston Fire, 15 Truck, Engine Company 37, Steve’s wife, his children, and those that he called friends and family. As well, to all of us whose lives were so enriched by the life of this one man – a man who left us too soon, over 30 years ago.
“Greater love has no one than this, that one lay down his life for his friends.” John 15:13
By Larry Jarvis, LAFD retired