In the pantheon of eulogies, Tony Vocalina hit one into the upper deck late Friday morning, even drawing vibrant applause from the full house at St. Joseph’s Church.

It was perhaps here that Vocalina discovered what many called upon to perform in front of a crowd realize: You can’t screw up good material. And Voc had the best, narrating the life and times of his dad, John Joseph “Sonny” “Jumpin’ Johnny” Madden.

Madden, another one of the characters who helped give New London its character, died at 82 earlier this month. Funny thing, too, that the elegant and entertaining eulogy aside, Madden’s contributions needed no words. Just a simple glance at the church. Not everybody’s life gets celebrated before a standing-room-only crowd.

But there are words. Necessary words. Words that must resound. Words that should be repeated. Because very few of us in (and out) of this corner of the world ever embraced the concept of responsibility better than John Joseph “Sonny” “Jumpin’ Johnny” Madden.

I started thinking about this as Vocalina detailed his dad’s life. Madden was an outstanding basketball player in the city, later inducted into Mitchell College’s Hall of Fame. A surface level summary of Madden’s life might even suggest that he was heroic during his athletic career, in all those ways we reflexively link heroism to all the on-field efforts.

But Madden died a hero for other reasons. Real-life reasons. He “enjoyed his Friday nights,” as Vocalina said, the way many thirty-something bachelors do. Except at 36, he married the love of his life, Lorraine. John Madden didn’t merely marry Lorraine, but became a new dad to Lorraine’s three young children: Tony, Mike and Lisa.

He supported them, loved them and assumed all the paternal responsibilities. He loved Lorraine and everything that came with Lorraine. This is the stuff that never makes headlines, but perhaps ought to. And on John Madden’s oak beam shoulders, this family thrived. There is no suggesting that Madden loved Tony, Mike and Lisa “as if” they were his own. There is no “as if.” John Madden was their dad. Period.

I knew John for many years and never knew any of this. He was just part of the comic relief every day at the old Thames Barber Shop in New London. Madden, Bob Reagan, Lou Pica, Dan Cardillo, Al “Sparky” Olson, Ernie Douglas, Joe Baude, Joe Basilica and many bands of others gave me the education of a lifetime. They hollered, swore, told stories and needled each other mercilessly. And while Reagan’s comedy was louder than a chainsaw, Madden could be the funniest guy in the room with one or two understated lines.

It wasn’t until a basketball game at Waterford High a few years ago that I pieced Madden’s life together. I didn’t know why a full-blooded New London guy was suddenly in the 06385 every night. It turned out that Madden’s grandson, Logan Peabody, was a Lancer (graduating last year). Logan’s mother is Lisa.

I overheard Peabody’s dad, Dave, who has become a very good friend, refer to Madden as “Pop.” Reporter mode (or maybe me just being Nosey Nate) kicked in. And I learned the whole story. I kept thinking: You think you know a guy. It turned out John Madden was a lot more than the guy who made me laugh every day with his malaprops, like the time he pronounced Marquette as “Mar-kweet.” (Reagan never let him forget that one.)

Our daily lives are very likely inundated with responsibilities that probably feel overwhelming. Perhaps frequently. I wonder if in times of peril, we can draw inspiration from John Madden — and how he did it all with a smile and a puckish sense of humor.

Many of our characters are no longer with us. But we mustn’t forget them. Because their contributions endure. None more than John Madden, who became a dad three times over at 36. And died the best dad Tony, Mike and Lisa could ever have wanted.

This is the opinion of Day sports columnist Mike DiMauro