Sunday, January 19, 2025
I have always been an avid reader of newspapers, and have a great admiration for columnists, particularly Jimmy Cannon, and then Jimmy Breslin and Pete Hamill. That’s why I so appreciate the opportunity to write a column for the Heralds.
All of this came rushing back at me as I was reading the recently published biography “Jimmy Breslin,” by Richard Esposito. Breslin was a unique character. No one understood New York’s people, neighborhoods and streets like him.
Breslin’s New York was Queens Boulevard, not Park Avenue.
It was cops, prizefighters, bookies and cold beer (until he stopped drinking, anyway). I started reading his columns years ago, in the old Journal-American, and continued with him through the Herald Tribune, the Daily News and Newsday.
I first met Breslin in the 1980s, and we became close friends in the late 1990s. My wife, Rosemary, and I would go to dinner with Jimmy and his wife, Ronnie, at least once a month, and he and I would talk at least once a day. When Jimmy wanted to talk, he wouldn’t stop, and it was almost impossible to get off the phone with him, even if you had work to do. I found that the one way to close out a conversation was to compliment him on something. In true Irish fashion, he would get flustered, mumble a rushed goodbye and slam down the phone.
Breslin was a great guy to be with. He was tough and cynical, but had endless stories and was a true friend — when he was still your friend. He wrote several columns about me during President Bill Clinton’s impeachment that I will always cherish, and he wrote a great blurb for my first novel (which he probably never read). We commiserated after the 9/11 attacks, attending funerals of mutual friends, giving each other support in an Irish sort of way. He came to my daughter Erin’s wedding and reception, and stayed to the very end — and that was long after he’d stopped drinking!
During these good times, though, I would have in the back of my head columns Breslin used to write when he was living in Baldwin, listing people he would no longer speak with. Though he stopped issuing those lists, I wondered when my number would be up. I found out in March 2003, when Rosemary sent him a heated note, blasting him for comparing President George W. Bush to Adolf Hitler.
That ended it. It was curtain time. No more phone calls or dinners. I did call him once when I heard there was a serious illness in his family.
“Jimmy, I heard the news,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m thinking of you.”
“Yeah,” he replied, “I’ll be thinking of you, too. Goodbye.”
Later I saw him at the renowned journalist Jack Newfield’s funeral, and we had a quick handshake. Several years after that, in 2009, Rosemary and I went to the funeral of Breslin’s daughter Kelly at an old church in Lower Manhattan. Afterward we sat and talked with him at a table in the churchyard for 10 or 15 minutes. The conversation was warm and friendly, almost like it used to be. When it was time to say so long, I said, “Jimmy, we should get together.”
“Yeah,” he said. “We should. That’d be good.” We shook hands.
We never got together. I wish we had. Breslin died in 2017, and a large part of New York died with him.
Esposito’s biography brings back the memories not just of Breslin, but of the days when newspapers and their columnists — and the written word — had such a vital role to play in our society. While much of that has died, I commend the Herald for keeping the tradition alive for the people of Long Island.
Peter King is a former congressman, and a former chair of the House Committee on Homeland Security. Comments? pking@ liherald.com.
