Former Hoboken Teacher Shares 'Eulogy For My Brother'

Eulogy for Anthony R. Sevano

(Written by his son)

May 13, 1943 – September 6, 2026

On behalf of my mother, Judy, my wife, Danielle, our children, Natalia and Nicholas, and my uncle Dennis, thank you for being here. You came because my father mattered to you.

A Son of Hoboken

Dad grew up in the Yellow Flats section of Hoboken, and he never stopped being a son of Hoboken.

Many families during that time lived in cold-water railroad flats and tight brownstones, so life happened out front, on the stoop. Kids spent their evenings on the steps, playing music, talking, laughing, playing stickball or just watching the neighborhood go by. It was, for my father’s generation, the original social network. Face to face. In the flesh. You shook a hand. You gave your word. No wifi required.

In his novel Underworld Don DeLillo opens with a description of a city kid on his way to a legendary baseball ballgame, a kid who talks with street slang and moves with street swagger, “he’s a kid who speaks in your voice, American, and there's a shine in his eye that's halfway hopeful.” Whenever I read that line, I see my father in his mile-square metropolis, hangin out on his concrete gray stoop: a Hoboken kid with a big-city voice, and a light in his eye that tells of hope in future things.

Dad never really left that city or that stoop. On a stage, on a Little League diamond, at countless lunch tables in Manhattan and New Jersey, he lived in the open, surrounded by people. He did nothing halfway. He threw himself into the business of life with love and energy and brought everyone along.

And wherever he went, he was always dressed to perfection. His friends even called him “Neat.”

Growing up, my father had no idea his name was Anthony. Everyone called him Ron or Ronald. Then one day his high school principal told him he could not have four names on his diploma. Later, his mother explained, “Yes, your name is Anthony, but we just never really liked calling you that.” So there you have it.

Shakespeare asks, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Anthony, Ron, or Neat, he always was the same man. And knowing how neat he was, he probably smelled sweeter than the bard’s rose.

He graduated from Demarest High School in 1961, attended Fairleigh Dickinson University, and even studied in the seminary for a time. In the end, the stage called louder than the pulpit.

Then in the mid-60s came Vietnam. Dad pushed up his draft, and his family threw him a huge going-away party, a proper farewell to a Hoboken son who would soon be in a different jungle. Three hours after he boarded the bus for boot camp, he returned back home, rejected by Uncle Sam for a bad foot. Saigon would never get to greet, Mr. Neat.

The Stage

As a student at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York, he played Happy Loman in Arthur Miller’s Death of a Salesman. His acting coach told him to lose the Brooklyn accent, that he needed to work on proper elocution. Dad shot back, “Hey I’m not from Brooklyn! I’m from Hoboken!” Never mind that in the play, the Lomans live in Brooklyn.

He carried that thespian passion into local theater for years. When I was young, I watched him in musicals such as West Side Story and Brigadoon, and his performances kindled in me my own love of performing.

And we shared it all his life. We loved watching movies together and talking afterward about the actors and what makes a performance great. One favorite was Midnight Cowboy. When Dustin Hoffman slaps that cab and yells, “I’m walking here! I’m walking here!” that was pure city-speak, pure Dad.

We laughed at Archie Bunker on All in the Family and at Hawkeye Pierce on M*A*S*H. On Sundays, we watched the New York Giants. Dad always said the Giants were great at getting your hopes up, then tearing your heart. Win or lose, we were always on that couch together.

Building a Life

Dad made his career in steamship and trucking logistics. From 1969 to 1987, my parents raised me in River Edge, New Jersey, where he was active in various civic groups and local theater.

He was also an unsung hero of American history. At lunch in Manhattan one day, a friend who was a little, shall we say, sauced, spotted Spiro Agnew, the former vice president, and got up with the intention of beating the Republican out of him. Dad held him back, and the vice president lived to fight another day. So if you’ve ever wondered who saved the life, or at least the reputation, of Spiro Agnew, now you know.

In 1987, at forty-four, mom and dad moved us to Las Vegas, and there he started his own trucking logistics company. I watched him build it. He took pride in doing a job right and never let down the people counting on him.

When I was twelve, I decided I would be a guitar-slinging rock star. Dad had a saying: success isn’t based on what you can see or feel. If you really want success, you have to taste it. He tasted it, and he made me want to taste it too. His work ethic shaped me as a student, a teacher, and a musician. And I’m still chasing that taste, Dad.

Family

Dad was an involved parent. He came to my Little League games and saw my first home run. He even volunteered as an umpire. And I don’t hold it against him that he called me out on a low-and-outside pitch with a two-two count. Mostly.

In The Godfather, Don Vito Corleone says, “A man who doesn’t spend time with his family can never be a real man.” By that measure, my father was as real as they come. He was not a Corleone, thank God, but he would have made the Don proud.

My parents were married for fifty-nine years. Fifty-nine years. Mom, thank you for loving him and caring for him so faithfully, right to the end.

In West Side Story, Tony and Maria sing “Somewhere,” about a place of peace waiting for the two of them. Mom, you were Dad’s Maria. I believe he has found that peace, and somewhere, he is keeping a place for you.

Strength at the End

Dad faced a long illness and endless doctor’s appointments with toughness and dignity. Remember what he said about the Giants losing in the fourth quarter? Dad never did. He played every down of that last stretch with heart, and he never lost his sense of humor.

He always found laughs with Natalia and Nicholas. He nicknamed Nicholas “Rocky,” because my boy ran around their condo with his fists up, ready for a brawl. And earlier this year, he got to see Natalia perform in her first dance recital. The man who once stood on stage in West Side Story sat in the audience and watched his granddaughter take the stage.

Natalia, Nicholas: your grandfather loved you very much. You come from someone brave enough to chase his dreams and steady enough to care for the people he loved.

We’ve asked for donations in his name to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital, so his story keeps reaching out to children and families facing hard roads of their own.

Closing

In Death of a Salesman, Willy Loman measures every man by whether he is well liked. Willy and his sons dismiss the boy next door, Bernard, as “liked, but not well liked.”

Dad played Willy’s son, but he never had to chase the admiration. Look around this room. He wasn’t just liked. He was well-liked. He earned it by being exactly who he was, and by living his whole life out front.

Dad’s curtain has come down. But his story lives on in all of us lucky enough to have shared a scene with him.

It was a great performance, Dad. A full life, well lived, from a stoop in Hoboken to the tree-lined streets of River Edge to desert sands of Las Vegas.

Take your bow. We’ll take it from here.

Thank you.