Nostalgia has kept the legacy of the bygone Albany River Rats alive on online marketplaces and chat rooms, but for a time, no one waved the hometown hockey team’s flag higher—or with more heart—than Bernard Harney. He was a lifelong hockey fan with a loud mouth who’d perfected the art of heckling.
He liked to tell the story of how the team’s marketing head caught him one game night sitting in his usual spot—behind the visitor’s penalty box.
“Hey, 22,” Bernie would bellow at the opposing player just sent to the box. “Your teammates hate you!”
The River Rats were good in those days, and the prospect of the other team skating a man down often led to a goal in their favor. Visiting players wanted to avoid that scenario, but those stuck in the box couldn’t avoid Bernie: They’d turn to find a broad-shouldered man—with the build of a former offensive lineman—wearing a smirk framed by a red goatee and a crown of matching hair. That was Bernie: sharp, playful, and just respectable enough to keep nearby parents from cuffing their kids’ ears. He kept it clean because he knew it was a family game. He didn’t have children of his own, but plenty called him Uncle Bernie—an honorary title he earned from friends whose kids grew up on his jokes.
Bernie’s enthusiasm landed him a gig as the Albany River Rats’ No. 1 Fan in two seasons of television commercials. As he told it, the team paid him in hockey tickets and maybe a sweater or two. No one, he’d say, had as many sweaters as he did.
Long before the River Rats made him a fixture in Albany, I knew Bernie as a college kid with the same big laugh and bigger heart. My earliest memory places us in the second-floor barroom of the Theta Gamma fraternity house at Plattsburgh State. We struck up a friendship while listening to Don McLean’s “American Pie,” to which he choreographed an interpretive dance—no Irish jig, just hand movements: waving bye-bye or mimicking the motion of steering a Chevy to the levee.
To this day, I can’t hear that song without seeing Bernie’s hands moving through the air.
While some will remember Bernie for his legendary heckling, I’ll remember him for his bad jokes and his kind heart. If you were hungry, he’d feed you. If you were visiting, he’d make time. Even when time was short, he made room for you. Other locals will remember him for his ability to seemingly belong everywhere—on parade routes, in union halls, or at the corner bar. As a member of the Ancient Order of Hibernians, he often led Albany’s annual St. Patrick’s Day parade, proudly dressed in full regalia, kilt and all. He wore his heritage the way he wore his heart—out front, with humor and humility.
That big heart is what finally gave out. He passed away on Monday at the age of 54.
When I last saw Bernie, he was recovering from surgery, propped up in a hospital bed. He was tired, but his spirit was the same. I walked into the room expecting a handshake from the bedside, but Bernie had other plans. He stood—still bandaged, still pale—to meet me halfway.
“Always greet a friend on his feet,” he said. That was Bernie. Even in recovery, he led with grace.
That memory returned to me earlier this week when I found out he was gone. I’ve learned to read a person’s life not by their job or address, but by how they show up for others. Bernie showed up—in hospital rooms and parade lines, at hockey games and kitchen tables.
I believe that the measure of a life can be seen in the crowd that gathers to say goodbye. Today, that crowd also forms online. My social feeds have been flooded with stories and pictures—each post a small echo of the same truth: Bernard Harney made people feel seen, heard, and loved. And he always—always—rooted for the home team.
