Anyone who met Pope John Paul probably has the moment printed indelibly in their mind.   I may be a cop but I’m no exception.

While the exact time and day are foggy in my memory, I  met him in the summer of 1987, when he visited San Francisco. I remember it as a sunny, warm day, but then perhaps we remember all glorious events as happening on beautiful days.  John was visiting San Francisco as part of an American tour, one of many such trips that made him famous as “the traveling pope.” He presided over a mass at San Francisco’s St. Mary’s Cathedral, then traveled through the city on a motorcade attended by hundreds of thousands of cheering admirers.

The first attempt on the pope’s life was in 1981, when  Mehmet Ali Agca shot him during a motorcade in St. Peter's Square. John met Agca in prison, forgiving him and later asking for clemency—which was granted. Needless to say, of course, the pope no longer stood exposed in his “popemobile,” as it was called, but was now enclosed in head-to-toe bullet proof glass.  Even with this protection, the pope was guarded with tremendous caution in his travels.  Thousands of police officers were put on duty in San Francisco, augmented by many more from other California cities, to provide security and crowd control. They came in by the busload and in lines of patrol cars, joined by a mass of traffic headed in one direction—into San Francisco to see the Holy Father, the “most recognized man in the world.”

Which is how I got to meet him.  A police officer from across the bay, I was put in charge of a small squad to drive over and join the legions of officers assigned to control the crowds.  Putting on our full dress uniforms with polished brass, spit-shined shoes and green parade jackets with gold aiguillettes, we left before sunrise to beat the crowds. Parking our cars at shipping docks outside of the city, we climbed onto buses that lumbered us down to Van Ness Avenue and dropped us off.

Captains and chiefs walked from corner to corner for miles down the street, briefing officers.  This was hardly a confrontational assignment.  Too fresh in my mind was standing on a university ground not that many years before, with buildings burning and chunks of concrete being catapulted at me.  Forget that, I was told.The greatest danger, they reminded us, was the zeal of the crowd that might spill them into the street and block the motorcade.  In the hours before the Pope’s arrival, we were encouraged to stand our posts and get to know the crowd near us and gain their support and understanding of our purpose.

But there was always the chance, were their last words.  Lest there be danger present, our job was to keep our eyes intently on the crowd, not on the figure in the motorcade, and watch for potential threats.

With this in mind, we took our positions along the sidewalks.  To my left and right, every six or ten feet apart, officers lined both sides of the boulevard for as far as I could see. The crowds, however, were like nothing I had ever seen.  Within a short time, there was no space  left for anyone to stand.  As they waited patiently, they began to talk.  Merriment was in the air and, in short time, the people saw me as a part of the great experience.

An elderly woman commented, “I have waited all my life to see the pope.  After this, there’s nothing I ever have to fear.”

A young father said, “I wanted my children to see him.  They will always remember this day.”

“Il papa sta venendo!” (the pope is coming!).

Others just stood, numbed by anticipation. 

The hours passed until we heard a very distant roaring.  It wasn’t the ocean—the waters of San Francisco Bay are quiet, with few waves.  We looked down the boulevard.  While we could see the crowd for a vast distance, it was still.  The roar was what one would expect from a faraway stadium, however, and while nothing was visible, it was approaching steadily.  At a distant curve in the road, an automobile turned and came into view.  Like a giant ripple in a pond, the excitement swept down the entire boulevard like a thunderclap.  People began to strain to see a tiny figure, clad in white, standing above the automobile.

“Is it the Pope?  Is it the Pope?”  Men strained on their toes, women began jumping up and down to get a glimpse, and the crowd surged forward as people leaned forward to see down the street.  I spread my arms and everyone cooperated, restraining themselves and pulling back politely.

I glanced quickly over my shoulder.  Another portion of the crowd had pushed several steps into the street, blocking my view.  Banners, flags and arms were waving wildly and people screamed in excitement as officers joined hands and exhorted them back up onto the sidewalk.  The pope, I realized, was only yards away, but behind me.  I couldn't look, because it was my job not to look.

Keeping my arms apart to restrain the people in front of me, I scanned the faces for anything unusual or threatening. All I saw were faces wet with tears, laughter, and near hysteria as they shouted and

waved.  What began with “Hello Pope!” quickly changed in tempo and fever.

“Il papa!”

“The Pope!  Hey Pope!  Pope, Pope!"

"HeyPopeheyPopeheyPopeheyPopeHEYPOPE!”

The sound of a motor and brush of air were all that told me the Pope had passed me, only a few feet away.  Realizing I hadn’t seen him, I made sure the crowd was staying in place and hurriedly looked over my shoulder.  Disappearing into a swarm of people who were spilling into the street behind him stood Pope John Paul, his back to me as he waved in his slow, customary manner

and vanished down the street.

With the motorcade gone so quickly, officers stepped back and the street was filled with people running out to get a final glimpse of the man in white as he disappeared into the masses.  In moments, they fell quiet, then separated and began filtering away. 

The ride home was a cheerful one and I slept well—exhausted from the excitement and from standing so long.  The next day, I was back at work in a patrol car, watching traffic signals and following suspicious people.  I guess it took quite a few years for the significance of those moments, however, to catch up with me.  Perhaps it hit me hardest when I saw the proclamation from the Vatican, “Il suo holiness il papa è guasto”--the pope is dead.

Il papa.

At times, since, I’ve wondered how the Roman soldiers felt as they stood along the road to Golgotha.  Not being a devoutly religious person, it occurred to me that paintings always show them facing in to the road, looking at the man who carried the cross.  Any good cop knows they would be facing the other way—controlling the crowd.