'I'll just say this. . . . They can't stand in comparison to me'

Stephen J. Murphy does his best to look cheerful as he marches down Brighton Avenue into a fierce headwind, which is blowing his freshly moussed hair into a feathery crest atop his 6-foot-4-inch frame. ''Happy Allston-Brighton Day, everyone!" he calls out, waving to a couple of families huddled by the roadside, sidestepping the piles of horse manure dotting the road. Few onlookers have turned out, but the other candidates have.

''They're a necessity, these things. Everyone else is here, so I have to be here," he says, before quickly adding. ''Actually, I love this parade. I'm very active and visible in this community, I have an active relationship with the senators and representatives."

After finishing fourth in the September primary election, Murphy knows that he has to work harder than ever to keep the at-large council seat he's held since 1997. But, thanks to his irrepressible tendency to blurt out what he thinks, however impolitic, he can't help showing that he doesn't love every minute of it.

At 48, he is older than most of the field of newcomers promising change on the council. His detractors question how much he wants the job -- he has unsuccessfully sought higher office twice since he joined the council, most recently losing a high-profile sheriff's race last year against Andrea Cabral, who became the state's first black sheriff. For those who saw that race as a barometer of the rising power of the so-called new Boston, Murphy has become an emblem of the Irish-Catholic hegemony -- perhaps unfairly, considering that the at-large ballot this year is filled with such names as Flaherty, Connolly, and Flynn.

To fight back, Murphy has maintained a hectic schedule since the spring, and he has been trying to expand beyond his white, socially conservative base to draw support from liberals and minority voters. On the campaign trail, he is casting himself as the elder statesman in the eight-way race and the best prepared to handle the big issues, from state aid cuts to economic development.

''I'll just say this: A lot of them say, 'I'm the most experienced' and 'I'm the most dedicated' and 'I'm the hardest-working' and 'I'm the toughest,' " he said of his opponents. ''And you know what? They can't stand in comparison to me."

Supporters such as Joseph Daly, 39, an electrician from Allston, call Murphy ''a man of the common people."

Murphy has a strong affection for boneless chicken wings, John Wayne movies, and pitching horseshoes in the pits straddling his Hyde Park driveway.

Murphy, the son of a police officer and public school teacher's aide, attended Boston Latin School and Stonehill College, graduating with a degree in business administration in 1979. After graduation, he took a managerial job with a transportation company, Autobus Inc., eventually becoming vice president.

In the mid-1980s, he turned to the public sector, holding jobs as a budget aide in the state Senate and the attorney general's budget office, then moving to the secretary of state's office as assistant personnel director.

He then spent nearly 15 years trying to get elected to office. He lost two races for School Committee, one for state representative, and three for city council at large before he was appointed to replace Councilor Richard P. Iannella when he became Suffolk register of probate in 1997. He won in his own right later that year.

In his first years on the council, he championed legislation requiring city contractors to pay wages well above the state minimum, and extending healthcare benefits to domestic partners of city workers. A few years ago, he also discovered a state law requiring Boston to set aside a huge chunk of tax revenue each year -- more than other cities and towns. After Murphy raised the issue, the city lobbied the State House, and the law was changed, freeing up almost $30 million in taxes at a time when Boston had drastic state aid cuts.

''At the time, that meant additional cash flow we otherwise would not have had," said Councilor Michael P. Ross of Beacon Hill, the Ways and Means Committee chairman, who said he plans to vote for Murphy this year. ''That was one of the worst budget years ever."

Though Murphy says his commitment to the council is as strong as ever, he acknowledges it is not as fun as it used to be. He was devastated by the death of his close friend Brian Honan in 2002. Honan, a popular fellow councilor, died unexpectedly at age 39 while undergoing treatment for cancer.

''It's still a good place to work and to get a lot done, but the personal satisfaction isn't the same," Murphy said.

Murphy has also grown restless in recent years. He explored a bid for Congress in 2001 and lost a campaign for state treasurer in 2002 before his unsuccessful sheriff's race last year.

Driving in his silver Buick sport utility vehicle to a Fire Department memorial in Charlestown last Sunday, Murphy bristled when asked about the sheriff's race -- ''I don't know why we're going into that, we're running for council right now" -- and refused to speculate on why he lost.

Some political observers, however, say that because of his experiences in that election he is changing his tack and trying to appeal to new sets of voters. This year, Murphy led the council to a unanimous vote supporting criminal records overhaul legislation, a hot button issue in Roxbury, Dorchester, and Mattapan, where some attribute repeated recidivism to a flawed system that hounds young offenders looking for a second chance.

Murphy also hired an African-American woman as his chief of staff earlier this year. And he has been trying to address falling ground-water levels -- underground pilings supporting buildings in some areas are drying up and rotting -- a problem that many residents of the liberal downtown neighborhoods worry about.

Yet Murphy, whose major campaign contributors include unionworkers and developers, sticks by his opposition to rent control even when he is speaking before crowds of progressives and minorities, who tend to take the other side.

Some like that about him. At one such forum recently, Ernesto Arroyo, the 24-year-old son of Councilor at Large Felix Arroyo, came up to shake Murphy's hand.

''You speak your own truth, and I appreciate that," the younger Arroyo said. ''Even if I don't agree with it."

Murphy says he likes his chances this year, even if people say he's fighting an uphill battle. As he plodded up Brighton Avenue last Sunday, supporters shouted. ''How ya doin', Steve?"

''Hanging in there," he answered.