THE HERO of LOST CAUSES

Riverhead is at the far end of Long Island with a bay to the Atlantic. On Memorial Day, the town begins to fill with vacationers who have come to take advantage of the fishing season. When Labor Day arrives, the townspeople return to their quiet, homespun lives.

A number of decades ago, in this predominately-Irish township, the locals would gather twice a month during the off-season and listen to tales of Irish history and folklore. Stories of struggle and courage, and of sprites and leprechauns, told by retired fireman Kevin Michael Emmett.

There was only one thing about Kevin that troubled the locals: Kevin's insistent belief in his kinship to the 18th-century Irish patriot Robert Emmet, to this day referred to as The Hero of Lost Causes.

The Riverhead locals doubted that Kevin Michael Emmett was a direct descendant, especially since Kevin's surname had a second T at the end.

Kevin had answered this many times: "When me and the folks come over, immigration

added the extra T, they did, and that's that."

Kevin had named his son Robert after the Irish hero, feeling in his bones that someday the lad would become a hero and give credence to the lineage.

After retiring from the fire department, old Kevin bought a 40-foot fishing vessel and opened a fishing-charter business, summers only.

The office was in a trailer just off the marina parking lot. Labor Day had come and gone. It was on a Saturday morning that Kevin was at his desk with a glass of Irish whiskey. His son Robert sat on the sofa, flipping through a tackle catalogue.

"Hey, Pop," he said, "I'm going to be thirty next month."

"Your dear departed mother'd be prouda ya, she would."

"For what?"

Old Kevin looked into his drink. "Makin' it t'thirty, safe and sound."

His son stretched out on the sofa and thought about the patriot Robert Emmet, a hero at 25. He sat up then. "Pop, you've proven the lineage. You're a hero of a lost cause—me."

"You're no lost cause and I'm no hero. Robert Emmet's in your blood, he is, and one day we'll be sure t'know it."

The phone rang. "Don't answer, Pop, might be a charter."

"Ehh, nobody here to fish off-season." Kevin picked it up. "Emmett's Charter," he answered. "Poseidon? Musta got the wrong... oh... oh... yep, uh-huh. Stay put a minute."

Kevin covered the mouthpiece. "It's the Poseidon Cremation Society of West Hampton," he told his son in a whisper. "Got a cracked hull and a service in three hours. Says give us three hundred for a half-hour anchor time."

Robert set his magazine down. "Not bad for throwing ashes to the wind."

"Saturday—got folks comin' t'listen to the Big Fella story."

"No problem. I'll take her out, I can handle it," Robert said with quiet authority.

Kevin gave his son a nod of approval. Robert's quiet authority is what gave Kevin all the more reason to hang on to his dream. His son sounded like a hero.

Kevin uncovered the phone and was transferred to a Mr. Evans.

Two hours later the funeral procession rolled in. Kevin and his son came out of the trailer as 14 mourners got out of 4 cars, somber men and women in drab clothing.