Fr. Murray was small man, maybe cracking five-foot-two. I don't mean that he was frail looking, only that he was, well, short. But he could take care of himself.
He liked to walk around Matthei Field, the athletics area for the university next door to St. Dominic where he was stationed for awhile. Early one morning he was accosted by a ne'er do well who demanded his wallet. Father refused and the man attacked him, even shoving Father to the ground. Yet the brave and by then thoroughly incensed little padre fought all the way. He kicked like a mule, using the ground as a steady to enhance his blows. He put a hurt to his assailant, until the thief finally gave up and ran off.
Relating the story to someone after he had returned to the rectory, Father was asked what was in his wallet. "A dollar," he answered.
"A dollar? Why didn't you just give it to him rather than risk something worse?"
"It was my dollar," Father Murray replied emphatically.
You gotta love that spunk.
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