By David Nyhan
Special to the Reporter

(Editor's note: On Sunday, David Nyhan- the legendary Boston Globe columnist who retired from Morrissey Boulevard in 2000- died unexpectedly, the apparent victim on a heart attack that struck as he shoveled out at his Brookline home. David was a true friend of Dorchester- and to communities like ours all over the world. He gave generously of his time and energy to the Colonel Daniel Marr Boys and Girls Club, where he could frequently be found playing basketball with colleagues from the Globe and with young members of the Club, too. He championed the cause of helping refugees all over the world, following the lead of his great friend, Dorchester's Dr. Thomas Durant. David was due to travel to Sri Lanka this month to assist in relief efforts following last month's terrible tsunami in that part of the world.

David treated all as equals and, despite his access to the rich and the powerful, never forgot where he came from. His loss will be felt for years to come.

Last March, David contributed this article to the Reporter's sister publication, Boston Irish Reporter, for a special edition we did on Boston Irish politics. He was asked to give his definition of what makes an authentic Irish politician. Many of the traits defined David Nyhan so well, too. Here's just a taste of the David we knew so well: insightful and sharp-tongued, humble yet assertive, a maestro with the keyboard and, always, unafraid.

We share his words now with our Dorchester readers in loving memory of our friend and brother. Rest in peace, David.- E.F., B.F., J.O'S.)

The first requirement is cheek. Chutzpah. Brass. Nerve. Balls. Audacity. Courage. Thick skin. Willingness to make a fool of yourself. Being not afraid to step out in front of a crowd. Call it what you will.

No one ever got elected without first saying to him or her self: "Why, I can do a better job of it than that miserable so-and-so of a politician who got there ahead of me."

Past that hurdle, we're talking ability. Charm. IQ. Wit. Capability of wiggling out of a ticklish situation. Gravitas when required, wisecracking when useful, silence when nothing else will do. Knowing when to hold and fold. Remembering to ask, politely, even when you're being treated rudely.

Knowing when being second choice is not so bad. Realizing that today's foe is tomorrow's potential ally. Being nice to the waitress, the cabbie, the secretary, the salesgirl. Never saying: "Do you know who I am?"

Relishing drollery and savoring a lovely bit of craic. Being wise enough to realize that when you're in a tight spot, it helps to be a bit cute.

Having the knack to avoid the off-color story, the too-oft repeated joke, the slam at the rival who's already down, the casual insult to the target absent. More often than not, it's just having the brains to avoid insulting someone with a lot of brothers or voting relatives. This is not rocket science, Irish people.

So, you've got the cheek, and the wit. Now what? The money? Nah.

The nerve, and the brains, that's all it takes, plus a bit of a golden tongue, and a large bladder, and ability to hold your liquor, and feign interest in every old sodality lady's endless tale, and cozying up to Monsignor, and always tip the pizza guy, and never pass judgment on the cleanliness or the total of charges at the funeral home, and don't knock the boys on the fire, or ever say they sit on their asses while the poor cops are out there every night getting bashed around, and for God's Sake, never say anything good about Harvard or bad about BC, especially during the Beanpot, when it's OK to root for BC, or BU, but don't waste your time on Northeastern, it's BC or BU you want to be for, depending upon the year and how the Canadians are distributed.

Well, you may ask, if the Irish are such great politicians, why haven't we had an Irish governor since God knows when? Eddie King in the '70s, one lousy term, the only one since Paul Dever in the '50s, when we've had Yankees (Herter, Sargent, Weld), and a Greek (Dukakis) and an Italian (Cellucci) and a woman (Swift), for God's sake, and now a Mormon?

And an Italian in City Hall for 10 years? How do I explain that to my friends from out of town? I begin this way: It's hard for an Irish pol to be a reformer, when reform is all the rage. No one believes an Irishman can be for reform. "Chicago," goes the great saying, "ain't ready for reform." So true. An Irish pol has to be a regular, or else be suspected of being "different," or somehow put of the mainstream.

The great Boston Irish pols, Curley, Honey Fitz, Sonny McDonough, John McCormack, yes, even the sainted JFK, on down to Tip O'Neill and Joe Moakley, they might have been branded "reformers" when they got far enough out of town so word didn't get back home, but here they were solid mainstream don't-rock-the-curragh Democrats.

"I'm not a save-the-whale guy, I'm a work-and-wages Democrat," Tip would shrug during the polarizing fights of the '70s and '80s. And the Democrats kept putting up reformers. Dukakis. Silber. Mark Roosevelt. Scott Harshbarger. Not a one of them Irish, natch. What about Shannon O'Brien, who lost to Romney by five points last time?

Irish, to be sure. But a reformer, ahh, done in by Tim Russert, a Buffalo machine product who prospers in the media now, who pushed her into a corner on her backing of third-term abortion and abortion without parental consent for teenage girls, and gay marriage, and with Romney clobbering her 5-1 in TV ads over the final six weeks, it amounted to the political equivalent of manslaughter, or womanslaughter.

The landscape has changed. The Post and Record American evaporated, the Globe is owned by out-of-towners, the Herald still dances to Rupert Murdoch's tune, the banks and insurance behemoths have their signals called in far-away places, the Church has yet to get over the predatory priest scandal, and the average pastor in Boston is old enough to collect Social Security.

The two-toilet Irish turned lace-curtain Irish have moved to Weston and Nantucket, their kids aspire to Ivy League credentials, you've only to glance at the American Ireland Fund magazine to see how toothy and slim and elegant are the Irish matrons now, how sleek and tanned and trim are the Irish-who-made-it. The assimilation of the Boston Irish pol is complete; he or she is now virtually totally submerged in the mass culture of the 21st century.

When the Globe turned up that John Kerry's grandfather on one side was Jewish, everyone yawned: he'd always been suspected of being a closet Yank traveling under an Irish county surname. I defended Kerry on that point one night on TV: "John must have thought he was Irish, because he went to BC Law School and became a prosecutor in John Droney's Middlesex DA's office. If he'd thought he was Jewish, he'd have gone to Harvard Medical School and become a doctor."

But being an Irish pol means you can never win. Your tribe will always cut you down. Rising in the world is a great sin to the Irish. Look at the Kennedys. Look at all the Irish who moved to the suburbs and voted Republican. You move up in the world, and you're Irish, watch your back: it's your kinsmen you must keep an eye on. I speak as a descendant of West Cork, where there are 87 Nyhans in the phone directory.

I close with a tribute I came up with several years ago for a magazine that wanted only a paragraph:

Ah, the Irish: as ready to fight as frolic, as quick to lend an ear and a hand as to take offence. Was there ever a people more indifferent to drizzle, more disposed to idle conversation, or less inclined to boredom? I think not. Thank God they're surrounded by water.