1. How He Is Cared for and Fed
2. How His Column Grew
3. In Which Some of His Friends Are Mentioned
4. In Which Negroes Are Just People
5. In Which He Has Some Difficult Times
6. How He Saw the War in Viet Nam
7. In Which He Sees the Dark Side of Life
8. In Which Erin Goes Blaah
9. How He Owns New York
10. How He Sold His Heart to the Newspaper Business for a Pot of Message
A Biography of Jimmy Breslin
JIMMY BRESLIN IS TOO FAT. He drinks too much, he smokes too much, and if he makes it past his fortieth birthday a lot of clockers and watchers are going to be surprised.
But he is not entirely uncaring about this. As he puts his cigarette down on the edge of the bar at Gallagher’s on West 52nd Street and sips from his half-empty beer glass, he complains that he isn’t feeling well. Most often he says that his circulation is going bad on him the way it went on Whitey Ford, and if you think pitchers need their arms, you should just know that a writer also needs his fingers. If the circulation isn’t that troublesome for the moment, he can work up a pretty good case for the fact that his column isn’t going as well as it should or that the Governor is avoiding him or that his wife, Rosemary, is upset with him again. And with every complaint comes a flow of reminiscence and anecdote that is almost uninterruptedly funny. It takes a happy man to sing a worried song that way.
Breslin is a walking contradiction who happens to be Irish and a little ambivalent about it. He is sometimes seen in the process of inventing himself, a luxury permitted only to the intelligent few, but he is inventing something pretty close to a kid who grew up in a rough section of Queens and never really left. When he is caught off-guard, he uses perfectly clear and well-articulated English because his mother is an English teacher in high school and that’s the way she taught him to speak.
He is thirty-seven, which is on the borderline of not being young any more. His early days were spent in the parochial and then public schools of Queens. He likes the fact that few of the kids he grew up with ever get divorced, not because the Church is against divorce, but because so many of them came from broken homes that most of them determined to keep what they have together.
Facts on his education are hazy because he lies so much about it. He has claimed he has a doctorate from Cambridge. He also has said he attended Elmira Reformatory. There is a valid question as to whether he graduated from high school, which he attended for five years. He enrolled somehow in a college in 1948, but he was already working on a Long Island newspaper and he used his college status to impress editors with the idea that he was trying to improve himself. His only real interest was sports writing, which he did for practically no pay and on the worst shift. His scholastic career soon faded while he wrote about sandlot football games.
What made him a writer instead of just a sports reporter was sheer, scrambling necessity. The twins were born a year after he and Rosemary Dattolico were married fourteen years ago. They were premature; nobody in the family had any money; the cost of incubators for a month’s stay in the hospital is high, and you can’t pay it with choirboy looks when the bill comes around. So he got out and began to sell the only thing he could make real money at—stories for magazines.
It was a curious progress. He moved from the Newhouse papers to Scripps-Howard to Hearst, each time a step up the journalistic ladder, each time almost getting a column, each move made on the strength of the magazine articles he had to write to stay in the newspaper business. And he began to discover that Breslin was his most salable commodity. You take in the sights that other people see and you turn them out through the lens that makes you an individual, and suddenly other people see them better. That’s why he always writes about Breslin and why people go on reading about Breslin and why he keeps on living like Breslin. The bars and the drinking and the ever-present cigarette are part of a slapdash poetry that irritates the hell out of a lot of people and charms others. Breslin is just trying to capture the essence of his own life and turn it into words. He also happens to be lucky that people will pay to watch.
He has a furious energy to find out what happens in the city because he identifies himself with it, or at least with a sidelong view of it. When he works for a newspaper he is never long out of touch with the City Desk. He gets furious if something happens and no one calls him. He constantly betrays his pose of ignorance by calling the shots for better coverage of the city. He is always frantically scheming how to get the best story out of any news event. And this is the way he writes about himself.
Measles
Fat Thomas, the bookmaker, his 415 pounds encased in a plaid sports jacket, stood in the doorway of the bedroom. He would not come any closer.
“How are you, baby?” he said.
“Terrible,” I said.
“What are you going to tell people?” he said.
“I’m sick,” I said. “What the hell can I say?”
“Yeah, but you can’t tell people you got the measles,” Fat Thomas said. “Everybody will be sending you baby food.”
“I feel so lousy I don’t care.”
“I’ll tell them you got a nervous breakdown, baby,” Fat Thomas said. “I can’t mention the measles. It’ll break everybody up.”
I pulled the covers up over my eyes and said I didn’t care. This was on a wet Thursday morning a couple of weeks ago. At thirty-four, and with a wife and children, and with enough debts to qualify as an adult any place in the world, I had the measles. Not just a touch of the measles. I had the measles from face to foot, and a fever and sore throat to go with them. The doctor was on his way, but his decision was going to be academic. When I had awakened an hour before, Kevin Breslin, aged nine, wandered into the bedroom and said hello, then looked at me carefully and let out a yell.
“You got something,” he said. “You got the measles.”
“I got what?”
“Jamesy, come here and look at Daddy,” he yelled. His twin brother came in. The two of them, the bills of their baseball caps poking me in the eyes, inspected my face close up.
“Open your shirt,” James said.
“See? He’s got them all over his chest,” James announced.
“Does your throat hurt?” Kevin asked.
It did. It hurt like hell.
“Uh-huh.” Kevin nodded. “You got them all right. You have to stay in bed.”
Then, with the experience of his years, he bent over, pulling down both the window shades, and announced that the room would have to stay dark. Then he and his brother left to go downstairs for breakfast.
“Too bad,” James said as he left the room. “But you got them all right.”
They went downstairs to announce, over Shredded Wheat, that their father had the measles. Their mother let out a scream, ran up the stairs, took one look, then went downstairs and was in tears when Fat Thomas arrived.
“Don’t get upset,” he told her. “It’s only a kid thing. It can’t be bad.”
“I don’t care about the measles,” she said. “I just don’t want him in the house all day.”
The kids went to school. The doctor came and left. And now Fat Thomas, still standing in the doorway and coming no closer, said he had to leave and book his bets for the day, and when he disappeared from the doorway I was left to face probably the worst morning of my life.
I’ve had bad mornings in my time. Once I had a hangover that was so bad I couldn’t make it out of the house and had to hire a private ambulance to get to work. It cost 45 hard dollars and the attendants came and carried me out on a stretcher and threw me into the ambulance and I slept all the way to work. Then I was single and living with my friend Max in an apartment on the West Side. We had a policy of paying nobody and the bill collectors got so bad that one morning we woke up with the finance-company guy sitting at the kitchen table. It was unnerving, but we grabbed the bum and threw him into the shower and Max held him in while I turned on the cold water. It fixed the finance-company guy, but it was a tough way to start off the day.
But no morning could come close to this one. Measles, like toy guns, are supposed to be for children. Adults are supposed to have sicknesses of their own. We have infectious hepatitis, bad virus, gout, old war wounds, recurrent malaria and, for the more sophisticated, unbreakable appointments with analysts and nervous exhaustion. But I had measles. I had measles just like Stevie Kirschenbaum next door and Danny Koch around the corner and Ramona Bartlett up the block, and let me see you try and tell me how you can pick up the phone and call your office and tell them, “No I won’t have a column today; I caught the measles from Danny Koch and I have to stay in bed and keep the window shades down.” You try that. Pick up the telephone and call Pennsylvania 6–4000 and ask for Mr. John Hay Whitney and say, “Jock, how are you, I got some bad news. No, not a libel suit. Not today, anyway. It’s measles. I can’t do any work for you today because I got the measles.” When you’re finished with him, start dialing again and call off all your appointments. Call the Waldorf-Astoria barbershop and tell the girl to get you a customer named Mr. Frank Costello. When he gets on tell him, “Frank, I can’t meet you for lunch at Moore’s. I’m home with the measles. Frank, stop it, this isn’t a gag. Listen. Do you hear the noise? That’s me slapping myself. You’re not supposed to scratch, remember?”
Then, when you’re finished with him, call Mutchie and tell him you can’t meet him at the racetrack later in the day and tell him why.
“Oh, I know what the measles are,” Mutchie said. He was the only one to sound sympathetic.
“I’m glad you do,” I told him.
“Yeah,” he said. “Once they held me for four days with them.”
“Where?”
“At Ellis Island. I had them when I got off the boat from Palermo. I was sick.”
I hung up on him. Then I got down under the covers again and lay there, a big speckled lump. It was no joke. I felt about as sick as I’ve ever felt. A kids’ disease, when caught by an adult, can be hell, the doctor said. He was right. I had a throat that was closed tight, a mouth that hurt so much I couldn’t eat for three days, and a fever that nailed down my whole body. I was left with only a temper. This is the one luxury I have when I’m sick. Anger. Good, deep, vicious anger. Sometimes it’s almost worth getting sick for, this anger you get when you’re sick in bed.
At noon little Rosemary came home from first grade in tears and it was great.
“Ritchie took my Beatles button when I was up reading and he won’t give it back,” she wailed.
“Didn’t you tell the teacher?” I called down.
“I did, but Ritchie told her it was his button, and she believed him. He lied, and she believed him.”
“Ritchie, hah?” I yelled. “That’s my stick today. I’m going to fix that Ritchie.”
I got out of the bed and went to the typewriter. I typed out a note to my daughter’s teacher. It read:
Dear Mrs. Stirt:
My daughter came home in tears because one of the future commercial criminals in your class stole her Beatles button and then lied about it. Which is about what I’d expect of the people here. They teach their children shoplifting, not honesty. I demand that Ritchie give back that Beatles button. If he doesn’t, I’m going to have somebody come around tonight and set his father’s car afire. I’d do it myself, but I am sick in bed with the measles.
Thank you,
Mr. Breslin
I called little Rosemary up to the room. “Don’t say a word to anybody,” I told her. “You put this note in your coat pocket and give it to the teacher. Remember, don’t tell anybody.” She nodded and skipped off to school, the note in her pocket. I fell asleep. I almost felt good.
Some time later I could hear, dimly, the phone ringing and my wife downstairs talking on it and saying, “Oh, Lord,” and, “Oh, I don’t know what to say,” and then she hung up and came storming up the stairs.
“You,” she screamed. “Do you know what’s the matter with you? You’re crazy. You’ve got that woman at the school all upset. You belong in an institution, that’s where you belong. I never heard of an adult doing something like this in my life.”
“I’m going to have Ritchie killed if he doesn’t give back the Beatles button,” I said. Then I went back to sleep.
This one morning now became four mornings and afternoons all in one, because I was asleep and half asleep during all this time, and I would wake up sporadically and do a few things by myself and then go to sleep again. It all became one long morning with the measles. The things I would do when I woke up were all little things. Talking to people mostly.
On Friday morning the Herald Tribune carried a little line in the space where my column usually runs. It said: “Jimmy Breslin’s column will not appear today. Mr. Breslin says he has the measles. (Honest.)” Right away, a fellow I know called me up.
“I just saw the paper,” he said. “I’m sorry to hear you’re sick…”
“Smart guy,” I said. “I’m going to call up your wife and tell her about the night I saw you having dinner with that broad.”
I hung up on him and went back to sleep. I felt satisfied. When I woke up the next time, I did another thing. I fixed the Dugan’s man.
“How much bread do you want today?” he called through the front door.
“Two loaves of white,” my wife said from the kitchen.
“Fine. Mrs. Breslin, Would you want to pay me now or should I come back tomorrow?”
“Oh, I’m in the middle of cooking and my hands are all greasy. Would you mind coming back tomorrow?”
“Wait a minute!” I shouted. I threw off the covers and hit the floor with both feet flying.
“So you like pressuring people, do you?” I yelled while I was coming down the stairs. “Who the hell are you to come around here like a shylock? I’m going to bite your nose right off your face.”
By the time I got to the door, Dugan’s was out in the truck.
“Look at him,” I said. “He’s yellow. Put the bull on these tough guys and they all bend in half.”
My wife said a word she is not supposed to know. Then she said another word. Then she called me an entire string of names.
“You’re going to the hospital,” she said finally. “You’re going to the hospital and you’re not coming out until I see the reports myself.”
I went back to bed. I felt a little better now. I had fixed that Dugan’s real good. So I turned on the television and spent the rest of the afternoon watching Ajax commercials. These are the commercials where an armored knight on a white horse charges at people with a lance and turns their dirty clothes to white. It is the ultimate testimonial to the tastelessness and nonsense which runs through most of the help in the advertising field. But I loved this Ajax commercial. It let me dream. I lay in bed and watched that knight come with his horse and lance and I dreamed of him running the lance right through that jerk in the dirty T-shirt.
And so it went. Stripped of manly pride and forced to admit that I had the measles, I stayed in bed and got back at the world. I turned on the radio loud. WABC was my favorite station. It plays Beatles songs all day and it drives everybody crazy and it’s wonderful. You can lie in bed and just by a twist of the knob you can make the Beatles louder and get the grown-ups so mad that they shout at you. That’s when it’s really good—when you get the grown-ups mad.
Then, just as they came, the measles left. And on a morning five days later I was standing in front of the house waiting for a cab to go to work. A now familiar car was parked across the street in front of Lederman’s house. It was the doctor’s car.
“What’s the matter over there?” I asked my wife.
“Stephen Lederman has the measles,” my wife said. Stephen Lederman is three.
“Oh,” I said. I didn’t say anything else to her. But I felt good. I felt power surging through my hands.
“That’ll teach that Stevie Lederman to fool around with me,” I said to myself.
The cab came. I glanced over at Stevie Lederman’s house and sneered. Then I got in and went back to work for a living.
The Sign in Jimmy Breslin’s Front Yard
The wife of a new neighbor from up on the corner came down and walked up to my wife and started acting nice, which must have exhausted her.
This woman is one of the people I have to live with. Four years ago, in the true style of an amateur, I “moved out a bit.” I moved onto a block with a lot of other people who live side by side in houses. Now, people are all right. Get them alone and they’re pretty good. But put five of them together and they start conforming and after that all they are is trouble. Put sixteen families on the same block, the way it is on mine, and they become unbelievable. They are not people any more. They are enemies. On my block they sweep the lawn and have the waxer polish the front walk and all of them ring doorbells about kid fights and if everything isn’t the same, and everybody doesn’t worry about things that show, they bother you as an occupation. Anybody who has his own mind and moves out of a beautiful, anonymous Manhattan apartment and goes to a house on a block is crazy.
For four years now, so many of the neighbors have come to the door, or had their kids run up like stool pigeons to report some crime my kids committed, that now I sit at the front window and watch one of them come down the block and as he walks I dream of a big black car pulling up and three guys in big hats jumping out and breaking both my neighbor’s legs.
It is this bad to live with these people, and this woman could get first on the whole block.
“I haven’t gotten a chance to see you since the baby,” the new one said. “How nice. This is, uh, your…?”
She knew the number, she knows everything. She knew my take-home pay by the end of the first week she was on the block.
“Fifth,” my wife said.
“How wonderful,” she said. “And did you plan this one?”
“Oh, yes,” my wife said sweetly. “Why, everybody I know plans their fifth baby.”
The woman got mad and walked away. Which was great. And I was going to say something to her that she could tell her husband for me, but I didn’t have the time. I had to stay on Walter, from the Dazzle Sign Painting Company, who was on my lawn and acting like a coward.
“Put it up, Walter,” I told him.
“Not in the daylight,” Walter said.
Walter had two big wooden posts and a lot of tools in his arms.
“An argument is an argument, but if you do this it lets everybody know that you’re crazy,” my wife says.
“Put it up, Walter,” I said. “I want these people to read my sign right now.”
Walter shook his head. Then he dropped everything and began jamming one of the posts into the lawn. My wife ran inside the house. She is the former Rosemary Dattolico and she is very Italian. She likes knives on black nights, not big posters in broad daylight.
“Let’s go, Walter,” I said, and Walter, from the Dazzle Sign Painting Company, put in both the stakes and tacked the sign on, and when he was finished, right there on the lawn was the most beautiful sign you ever saw.
It was about three feet high and five feet wide and it was in three bright colors and it read real good. On the top, in two lines of big red upper-case letters, the sign said:
SORRY TO MAKE YOU LOOK AT THIS BECAUSE I KNOW HOW TIRED YOU PEOPLE GET MOVING YOUR LIPS WHEN YOU READ
Underneath this, in smaller, but still real big blue letters, was a line which said: PEOPLE I’M NOT TALKING TO THIS YEAR.
The line was centered. Right under it, in neat columns, like a service honor roll, was the name of everybody who lives on my block. Everybody. All the couples, all the mothers-in-law, and all the kids. Every single person alive on my block had his name printed on that sign by Walter, from the Dazzle Sign Painting Company. And at the end of the list of names, I had Walter put “Dugan” for the bread man and “Stylon” for the dry-cleaning guy and “Borden’s” for the fat milkman I don’t like.
The best was at the bottom. In clear orange italics, the little passage said: “I also am announcing a special service for people who ring my bell to tell me what my children did. This service includes a man who answers the doorbell. Why don’t you come and ring my bell and see what happens to you?”
Walter and I stepped back to look at the sign. The white pasteboard looked nice in the sunlight. It was the greatest sign I ever saw.
“Nobody ever had a sign like this,” Walter said. “Nobody. I paint ‘Fire Sale’ and ‘Prices Slashed’ and for gin mills I do ‘Under New Management’ or ‘Sunday Cocktail Hour,’ but I never in my life done a sign like this.”
“Beautiful,” I said. I stood back and admired it. This was my message, my own personal message to everybody on the block. How could you find a better way to put it across? For a year now, my wife has been hissing at the neighbors, “He’s writing a novel about the block and you’re in it because he hid a tape recorder under your kitchen table.” But this sign of mine beat any book. And even those Burma Shave signs—“She went wild/ When he went woolly”—they never read as good as my personal sign.
“The sign costs $27.50,” Walter said.
“Walter, it’s worth $100,” I said. “Look at that.” I grabbed his arm. “Look at that woman up the block, Walter. She just saw the sign. She’s dying to come up here and see it, I bet. Look at her, Walter. She’s dying. Wait’ll she comes up here and sees what it says. Can you imagine the face on her when she does that, Walter? Boy, this takes care of them. Why don’t you stay around so we can both look out the window and watch?”
“I think you’re sick,” Walter said.
“No, I’m not, I just hate those people.”
I hate them all. In the whole area where we live, I hate them all. Once I thought we got a break. A big gangster from Brooklyn moved out and tried to live quietly with his two Cadillacs parked in front of the house and his pearl-gray hat stuck on his head even when he came out for the milk. But the guy was in the neighborhood only three months and then he got arrested and he was all over the papers. People began detouring two blocks so they wouldn’t go near his house, and the fellow stayed holed up so much that you never could meet him. He finally moved, and left me with all the garbage. One thing you can bet, I wouldn’t have had Walter, from the Dazzle, put the gangster’s name on my sign.
After I had watched my sign for a while, and Walter left with his truck from the Dazzle, I went into the kitchen and had coffee and waited until this friend of mine called Bad Eddie showed up. Bad Eddie is called this because he doesn’t do anything nice, and I had things I wanted him to do to my neighbors that aren’t nice.
“There’s a lot of people out on the block,” Bad Eddie said.
“That’s good, we’re going to get rid of them all,” I said.
“Oh, dear Lord, look at this,” my wife said. “They’re coming from the other block, too.”
“They could get hurt, too, and I wouldn’t complain,” I said.
Then I got down to business with Bad Eddie. “Now look,” I said, “we’re going to do this big-time. We’ll get white mice and put them in someone’s house. That’ll fix them. Now, look out the window. See that guy up there in his back yard? Walking around the bushes? We don’t even mess with him. He goes.”
“What do you mean, he goes?” Bad Eddie said.
“Any way you want to do it,” I said. “But he goes. We’re going to do this right, just like Capone. We’ll use mice, threats, beatings, anything we want.”
Bad Eddie did not look up from his coffee.
“Don’t that joint of his give him any vacation?” he asked my wife. “He needs a rest.” Nobody answered.
“It’s going to be crowded out there,” my wife said. “Almost like the day Jason Robards and Lauren Bacall were across the street.”
That was the biggest day in the history of the block and the people did just what you’d expect them to do. They acted like jerks. They walked back and forth, then back and forth again, or they stood on the sidewalk and gaped at Mr. Robards and his wife. They were visiting their accountant, who lives across the street and doesn’t talk to me, but they should have charged admission for coming out in the front of the house.
When they left, the block went back to normal. Which means all that ever happens is some grown man, pushed out by his wife with an adolescent’s mind, comes up to the door and tells you, “Your Jimmy tried to strangle my son the other day.” And you tell him, “I’m awfully sorry. I’m awfully sorry Jimmy messed up the job and didn’t kill your kid.”
Now, for the rest of this day, I sat over coffee with Eddie and plotted doing things to people, and, outside, the people stopped to look at the sign and they stumbled through the reading and then went on. And in one day everybody got my personal message.
They never did get Bad Eddie’s message because he spent the whole day sitting at the kitchen table and shaking his head and when he left he only said one thing. “Get yourself a good rest,” Bad Eddie said.
Since then the sign has come down, but it’s in the garage and it can go up any time, just like a flag. That is, if there is a garage left. As a precaution against a slow real-estate market when we find something in town and put the house up for sale, I had Marvin the Torch over one day. He is a man who burns down things for a living.
He went out in the front and dug a fingernail into the wood and looked around.
“Not too good,” he said. “The wood is green. Too green. To do this sure, I might have to load it up, and that would mean taking out half the block.”
“Don’t let that stand in your way,” I told him. The new one was right up the block looking at us.
Breslin’s life was like this even when he wasn’t employed on newspapers. There was an interlude of three years, starting with an unamiable row with the old New York Journal-American in 1960, when he managed to break the tie completely and get away from daily journalism for the world of magazines and books. It was in this period that he wrote a book about the New York Mets called Can’t Anybody Here Play This Game? The answer was a little foggy but the book wasn’t. It was serious and funny and very informative about a club that was beginning to take the place of the Dodgers, a manager named Casey Stengel, who might have been invented by Breslin, and an owner named Mrs. Charles’s. Payson, who was not only Breslin’s ideal of what a woman should be but also John Hay Whitney’s sister.
Like his sister, Mr. Whitney believed in backing something exciting. Together, they were owners of Greentree Stables. On his own, Mr. Whitney had had several successful careers. The first was in show business (he was David O. Selznick’s partner in producing Gone with The Wind, for instance); the second was in the Air Force during World War II; a third was in the private venture capital business after the war; and by 1959, when he took over control of the New York Herald Tribune, he was regarded as one of this country’s best ambassadors to Great Britain as well as a leading figure in Republican politics.
Mr. Whitney liked the book and asked the Tub’s sports editor, Hal Claassen, if he could get the serialization rights. The same day, Claassen got the same comment from Lawton Carver, a former assistant editor at the Trib who was soon to become a food columnist. Claassen figured that with recommendations like that from the galley and the bridge, he couldn’t possibly go wrong. The book was available and the Herald Tribune began to print it.
At that time the Trib was run by four editors. The Editor was James G. Bellows. He was from out of town. The Managing Editor was Murray M. Weiss, who was not from out of town and had no idea how much he was going to learn from Breslin. The Foreign Editor was Seymour K. Freidin, whose natural habitat is the Balkans and who was the only person in the Trib City Room able to match Breslin pound for pound in spreading gloom and destruction. The National Editor was Richard C. Wald, who was exactly Breslin’s age, from Breslin’s kind of neighborhood, and just as reliable in a pinch.
All four editors liked the book and when the Mets launched themselves into a highly improbable four-game winning streak, Bellows and Weiss conned Breslin into writing a free news story for page 1, to go along with the chapters that were then running.
This is the story.
The Mets
On Wall Street yesterday, the stock market hit a new high for the year with a volume of 5,600,000 shares. On Madison Avenue, a large men’s apparel division of Genesco shifted its big ad account to the Rockmore Company. On 55th Street, a literary agent was making a cocktail date to sell an unfinished novel for $350,000 to a producer of movies. And throughout the muggy day, box-office men at the 46th Street Theatre were saying, “No, you can’t get a ticket for tonight to see How to Succeed.”
This was New York City as we know it. Millions were in town and they were conducting the big business of the only city in the world worth talking about.
Then, at 4:31 p.m. everything changed. It was just another Thursday, but it became one of our great days. The money in the stock market? Forget it. You can borrow money. The ad account? You could have it. Who cares about anything? For at 4:31 in the afternoon, Al Jackson ran across home plate at the Polo Grounds and we beat the Philadelphia Phillies, 3–2. It was our fourth win in a row, and someday soon we are going to absolutely murder the Giants and Dodgers.
We, of course, is the New York Mets. And the Mets are, right now, the biggest thing to happen to this town since we got rid of Walter O’Malley.
“We win again.” You heard that any place you went yesterday. Only 3435 were at the Polo Grounds yesterday. Which was all right because we don’t have unemployment here. The crime was, the game was not on television.
For some reason, which the New Frontier should handle promptly—the Mets are the New Frontier—the station did not telecast their game.
But everybody knew about it. Yesterday we came barging into eighth place in the National League standings. And on the subways, and on commuter trains pouring through tunnels out of the city, everybody felt just a little bit better at the end of the day.
Except for one traveler. Out at Idlewild Airport, Marvin Throneberry stepped on a plane that was going to take him to Atlanta, Georgia, and the minute he put up his money for the ticket all of New York was poorer for it. Marv had been optioned to Buffalo, which was playing in Atlanta last night.
For Marvelous Marvin Throneberry is the man who made the New York Mets what they are today. Without Throneberry we would all be lost. His brand of baseball, as displayed last season, made the Mets. He had to be your hero. Anybody a little late paying a loan could understand Marvelous Marv when he went for, then usually missed, a pop fly. Only the bucket-shop operator, who specializes in old widows, didn’t like Marvelous Marv.
Everybody else fell in love with him. He did so many things wrong you need a whole newspaper to recount them. But all of New York fell in love with him while he was messing up—just as we’ll all do—and before anybody knew what was happening, the New York Mets became our team.
They shipped Throneberry out to the Buffalo team of the International League last night because he simply does not fit any more. Casey Stengel has kids like this Ed Kranepool, who went to James Monroe High—the same place that Hank Greenberg did. Kranepool and the ones like him are going to make the Mets a plausible baseball team before they are through.
But someday, when we’re up there fighting for the pennant, let’s all think of Marvelous Marvin Throneberry, the man who started it all.
Think of him? How could you forget him? Yesterday, he was supposed to go into Casey Stengel’s office before the game to hear the bad news. People go in and out of Casey’s office casually before a game. It’s easy. Just open the door and walk in.
Marvelous Marv even had trouble here. He kept turning the doorknob the wrong way. Gil Hodges had to open it for him.
ALL THIS WAS HAPPENING in May 1963, the month following what had been—up to that point—the most destructive newspaper strike in New York’s history. The editors and Mr. Whitney were looking for a New York columnist, or maybe a sports columnist, or maybe something new. They knew exactly what they wanted but they just couldn’t put it in words. They figured that Breslin might be it.
When he finished writing his Mets story, Breslin was asked to hang around for a while in the bar of the Artist and Writers Restaurant, next door to the Trib building. Since Breslin is fascinated with the sight of his name in print, he was more than happy to wait until the paper came up from the presses at 9 p.m. As soon as the edition was in, Mr. Whitney and Mr. Bellows went over to the bar, where they found Breslin and Lew King, a friend of his from the Journal-American.
First crack out of the box, Breslin announced to Mr. Whitney, “Hey, I got to hand it to your sister. She’s one hell of a broad.”
The story behind this is that while writing the Mets book Breslin had gone down to Pennsylvania Station to interview Mrs. Payson, who was on her way to Florida. As he told it, “I get there and I can’t find her nowheres. So I ask this guy and he says, ‘Sure, her train is over there in the corner.’ God damn, she’s got TWO private cars going to Florida, and there I was looking for her in the Pullman. How the hell was I supposed to know? So we get into this big goddamn drawing room with the servants in the other one and she offers me this drink and she has one and before I knew it, I was stiff. I mean stiff. They threw me out at Trenton. And she just took it all in like it was part of life. Beautiful. What a broad.”
Mr. Whitney agreed with Mr. Breslin’s appraisal of his sister. He tried to buy a drink, and Breslin was so mesmerized by the thought of buying one for a millionaire, he wouldn’t allow it. Whitney then brought up the subject of a column.
Breslin said, “You ain’t got enough money to make me work for a newspaper. I worked for Hearst, Newhouse, and Scripps-Howard and they all stink. There ain’t enough money in the world to make me go back.”
To which Mr. Whitney said, “Well, I think I can afford another writer on the staff,” and Lew King said, “Hey, Breslin, this bum is fading you,” and Breslin said, “Yeah,” and a short time thereafter—although not without a great deal of sweat in dealing with one tough agent and one oddball writer—Breslin began writing sports columns with the expectation of eventually moving onto the split page (first page of the second section) of the Trib.
All-Time Champ
The place was two stories high and strangers with money were welcome. Jess Jacobs was the owner and he had billiard tables on the first floor and a bar and eight bowling alleys upstairs. His joint was old, and it sat between crumbling buildings on 12th and Wabash in Chicago. The people who hung around it could do a classic job on new money.
When you came in you were hit with Major White, who was the best pool player in Chicago. He was always asking newcomers to teach him to play. Then there was Mike Kovacs, a square-faced Hungarian guy who wore overalls and tried to talk like a farmer. “I think these tables are for dice games,” he would say. He had been raised in a pool room in Trenton, New Jersey, and a cue in his hands was as good as a gun.
Upstairs, on the bowling alleys, the great Count Gengler bumbled around. He had a ladies’ change purse in his hands and he wore a white suit and a Panama hat. He spoke in a thick German accent. When he bowled, he took only one step and then dumped the ball.
He had been chased out of New York after he broke everybody in town, so now he was in Jess Jacobs’ and his line was the same:
“I giff you bets if we bowl against vun another.”
The one woman in the place was named McDonald. She was big and heavy and acted like a mother. Anybody who bowled against her for money went home sick to his stomach.
This is where Willie Mosconi learned to be the greatest billiards player of all time. Willie was only nineteen when he got to Jess Jacobs’ joint. The year was 1933 and the country was in the middle of a depression. But Willie could do things with a pool cue and in one big hurry he was making $15,000 a year.
Mosconi is forty-nine now, and his hair is gray. But the game has been good to him. Willie never hustled a sucker in his life. If you wanted to play him, you had to do the challenging and you had to know who he was before he made the deal. He is a dead honest, classy little guy who now is substantial, big business.
Because of a movie called The Hustler, pocket billiards, to give pool its proper name, has made a big comeback. Willie, who always had a fat Brunswick contract, now has Willie Mosconi Enterprises going for him too. He leases out these new carpeted billiard rooms they are throwing up every place.
But yesterday afternoon he was talking about the old days. Willie was walking across Main Street in Flushing to go into a place called Kings and Queens Billiards, where he was going to put on an exhibition.
The place is on the second floor and a kid was looking through the Venetian blinds to see if Willie was coming.
“There’s a sucker who can’t wait for you,” Willie was told.
“Those days are gone,” Willie said. “People are too smart.
“I remember the first time I saw Mike Kovacs. He was in this place in Trenton and he had a real act. If you listened to him, you could almost hear the milk going into the pail. Then he’d let you win a couple of games. After that, it was a joke.
“You know what would happen today? First, they’d know who he was the minute he showed up. Then if he still tried the act, they wouldn’t even bother to hit him on the head with a bottle. They’d just laugh.”
Upstairs, a crowd of a hundred young kids stood around the clean, air-conditioned place and watched as Willie unpacked his cue, then played an exhibition match with this fellow in a sports shirt whose name was John.
Mosconi doesn’t have time to play in competition any more, but he is something to watch. Those blue eyes flash as he walks around the table for his next shot, and he can do things on a table that are so good you have to laugh.
The kids enjoyed it. They were the same type of kids who always have been in pool rooms. The hair is worn a little longer and they all smoke. If you got a little fresh, they would know what to do about it.
They probably are the most maligned kids on earth, these ones watching Mosconi yesterday, and all the ones who have hung out in pool rooms throughout the years. A pool room always was a place which caused people to cluck their tongues upon mention. At the same time, a kid hanging out in one of them could get an education that lasted a lifetime. He also stood to get in a lot less trouble than he would in a car in the parking lot of a country club.
“Sure, bad fellows used to be in them,” Willie was saying between maneuvers yesterday. “But that kind would have been in trouble any place. They didn’t need billiard rooms.”
“This is a real nice place here,” Willie was told.
“They’re always nice,” Willie said. “My father owned one of them in Philadelphia. These places have been good to me all my life.”
Then he went back to play. Everybody watched him closely. He is the all-time champ of the pool rooms and Willie went over big with the kids in Flushing yesterday.
The Low Country
Rain dripped from the huge elm trees lining the stately driveway of the Westchester Country Club yesterday morning. In the lobby, a trim blonde in a pink suit, a big diamond on her hand gleaming in the lamplight, fussed over last-minute details of the inevitable women’s buffet and card game. Down the hall, a gray-haired man in a checkered sports jacket watched his money move across a movie screen.
Out on the practice tee, Ben Hogan, now fifty but still commanding, still a chilling sight with a golf club in his hands, hit a two wood. A silent crowd watched. Hogan is here to play in the $100,000 Thunderbird Classic, which begins tomorrow. There are 130 other pros here with him.
All of this is George Low’s country. There are golfers, and there are three barrooms, and, most important, people who have money are all over the place. So George was on the scene at Westchester yesterday, and the knowing held on to their wallets at all times.
George Low is a big tanned man who wears a blue plaid sports jacket and gray slacks and he is the oldest one on the professional golf tour in point of service. Not that George plays tournament golf. That’s too much like work, and George doesn’t go in for that.
“My game is playing with other people’s money,” he is proud to say.
Low is an institution, founded, supported, and loved by the sport of golf. Primarily what George does is to live good without paying for it. On the professional golf tour, he is known as America’s Guest. The pros won’t play unless Low is on the scene. He lives at the Eldorado in Palm Springs, California, or at the Desert Inn at Las Vegas. If the room is less than $75 a day, George won’t stay.
He has a silo for a stomach and he eats a frightening amount of food. There is no sense saying how much beer George Low can drink because nobody would believe you if you told him. “I can drink any given quantity,” George says.
He has played in one golf tournament in his life. That was in 1944 and he took first money at Memphis. This snapped a string of thirteen straight victories by Byron Nelson. Tournament officials would have made quite a fuss of it at the presentation ceremony, except George Low wasn’t there for it. Somebody had to go into the bar to hand George his prize money. George cashed the check and promptly announced his retirement.
“What do I want with golf?” George was saying yesterday. “Here I got all them millionaires walking around and not knowing what to do with their money and you want me to waste time on a golf course? Get out of here. I mean that. I can’t afford to. You’ve got to have a Dun & Bradstreet rating just to talk to me.”
Oh, George has a good-will connection with a string of motels, the Ramada Inns, but he couldn’t afford to sit on a bar stool one day a week at that.
Mainly he deals with rich people. Now and then, if it is somebody like Del Webb, George will even go out and play a round of golf with him. He probably is the most dangerous man on a putting green in America—he kicks it in with his foot better than most pros do with a club. Because of this, George always says, “Give me a multimillionaire with a bad backswing and him and me will have a pleasant afternoon together.”
In this league, what was perhaps George’s finest day came when he accompanied the Duke of Windsor and the late Robert R. Young, the railroad man, for a round at the Seminole Club in Palm Beach, Florida.
George had a rather good day with his putter, as he always does when the company has money. At the end of the round, there was a matter of $50 concerning the Duke.
George stood by and sort of coughed.
“Oh,” Young said, “His Royal Highness never pays money.”
“His Royal Highness never does what?” George said. “Mr. Young, you take care of your railroads and I’ll take care of my Dukes.”
George got the money.
Yesterday at Westchester, George was around observing things, as he will be for the rest of the tournament. Late in the day he was at the first tee, watching Hogan start off on a practice round.
“He wouldn’t be here unless he had it,” George said. “This man won’t let himself get embarrassed no way.”
Then George turned and took a man in an expensive gray suit by the elbow and guided him toward the grill room. The gray suit looked like he had a lot of money.
The Numbers Game
The Attorney General of the United States, working in cahoots with local enforcement agencies, judges who issue warrants allowing wiretapping, and various firms which manufacture electronic spikes and other hearing aids not usually associated with the deaf, has succeeded this year in severely hampering the National Pastime, which is betting on games of baseball.
Whether everybody is to be commended for this depends upon what side you take. A bookmaker whose New York office once did $300,000 worth of volume each week on baseball was rather bitter about the whole thing yesterday.
“Money and me had a divorce over this thing,” he said over the phone from Las Vegas. “They bet you baseball here, you got to take a 10 per cent federal tax right off the top,” he said. “The whole oil industry couldn’t stand 10 per cent. I’m wasting my time.”
On the other hand, one of his former customers, currently experiencing the thrill of paying bills on time, was delighted.
“This is the first time I’ve ever gone past June 1 without having my car repossessed,” he said yesterday.
“You know when I give it up? When the bookmakers had to get off the streets and give up regular phones and they took to using telephone-answering services.
“I had this one number to use early in the season and I called it and left my name and home number with the answering service. All the time, the bookmaker is supposed to call his service every ten minutes, get your number, and call back. Well, you know what other kind of people use telephone-answering services. So what happens? I call from home to bet the St. Louis Cardinals in a ball game. The answering service screws up the message. And who calls me back? Some broad who said her name was Sonny. My wife is on the extension in the kitchen. You could forget the whole day.”
However, because people in the garment center have to do something with the money they make, baseball betting is not a totally lost cause. Which is good, because baseball has a wearing effect on adults in July and August, and people betting the sport do much to uphold its interest.
The lowest bet accepted on a baseball game today is $25, a “five-time” bet, as it is called in gambling circles. Only large offices are left to handle the action, and they do not handle the $5 and $10 bettor. These smaller people are forced to spend their money at Jones Beach, where they sit on sand and say mean things about Robert Kennedy.
For the five-time-and-up bettors, the big thing in baseball this week is what Mickey Mantle’s absence has been doing to the price on New York Yankee games.
“Mantle,” a bookmaker explained yesterday, “is a five-cent ballplayer. Now you say that to somebody who don’t know what you’re talking about and he thinks it’s an insult. Well, it’s the other way around. It means he is worth five cents on every dollar when you’re handicapping a game.
“If the Yankees got Mantle in the line-up, you have to lay, say, $150 to win $100 if you bet the Yankees. Mantle is home in Dallas now. So the nickel comes off. Now you only got to lay $145 to win $100.”
Mande is one of the few non-pitchers who can affect the odds on a game. Baseball betting really is only betting on pitchers—more specifically, the value of a certain pitcher against a certain club. The earned-run average of a pitcher for the season, for example, could be 3.00. But to get this, he could be 4.00 against one club and 2.00 against another. You go broke more quickly if you don’t know this.
To illustrate, the other day a fellow I know who walks the streets with a transistor radio pinned to his ear so he can keep up with the games, won himself $900 because he keeps up with this.
He won it on a pitcher for the New York Mets, Tracy Stallard, who is not Walter Johnson. In a game at the Polo Grounds a week earlier, Stallard had limited the Cincinnati Reds to only two runs. Anybody who gives up only two runs at the Polo Grounds, with the Mets arrayed behind him in the field, is a national hero, our man figured.
A week later Stallard was named to face Cincinnati at Crosley Field. The price on the game was 9–11. This meant you either bet the Mets and took 9–5 or bet the Reds and laid 11–5. There is, of course, a number in between here. This belongs to the bookmaker and he takes girls out to night clubs because of it.
Anyway, Stallard, as his record indicated he would, delivered handsomely against the Reds. Our man had a $500 bill going on it. He took down $900 and this is a lot better than Jones Beach.
The $900, it must be noted, represents only a partial payment to the bookmaker, and to his friend who loans money, because of previous wagering on Stallard.
In fact, Stallard and his ups and downs as a pitcher illustrate the reason why baseball betting is far and away the most popular form of chance-taking in this country, even with present restrictions.