Sure, the photo of my smiling puss atop my thrice-weekly column in the Brooklyn Sentinel, "Sports A-Plenty," is twenty years old, and I've carefully avoided being photographed I'm proud to be a minor celebrity in all five boroughs. Whose beeswax is it anyway if a certain outfielder is a boozer? Or if a certain college football coach cheats on his wife? Certainly not John Q's. The athletes on my beat praise me for honoring an off-the-record etiquette. In an exquisitely ambiguous fashion, the great Jimmy Cannon of the New York Post dubbed me "The verse of the peepul." Even the Broadway wiseguys treat me with respect. I'll admit to being a witty and energetic writer, able to compose inspired Brooklynese with overtones of Shakespearean irony. With my sporty blue eyesĪnd stubborn chin, with my cigar, my trademark soiled felt hat, and even the blasted blood vessels that lace my nose, I look like what sportswriters are supposed to look like. That's why there's always a Cuban cigar between my crooked yellow teeth, small leathery-looking cheroots that smoke like long-burning fuses. ![]() I'm proud to be just an old-fashioned guy who values purity and quality. "ask the man for Ballantine." Giants fans drink Knickerbocker, strictly pisswater. In bottles or from the tap, but never in cans because of the coppery aftertaste. So this round'sĮven though sportswriters are supposed to be impartial, I'm a Brooklyn boyo and Dodger fan through hell or high water, so my beer is Schaefer. That's twenty-five years of drinking beer. Patting my belly, I've often said to an admiring postgame audience at Toots Shor's: "I figure my bumper here must've cost me a couple of thousand bucks. ![]() God, I love my paunch, all this beautiful pink flesh, solid and undeniable. A Novel of the 1951 College Basketball Scandals
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