Jimmy Breslin, chronicler of tough guys, working men and women, and anyone who would not dream of seeing their name in print, has passed away at the age of 88.
“Jimmy Breslin, long the gruff and rumpled king of streetwise New York newspaper columnists, a Pulitzer Prize winner whose muscular, unadorned prose pummeled the venal, deflated the pompous and gave voice to ordinary city-dwellers for decades, died March 19 at his home in Manhattan. He was 88.
The cause was complications from pneumonia, stepdaughter Emily Eldridge said.
For an “unlettered bum,” as Mr. Breslin called himself, he left an estimable legacy of published work, including 16 books, seven of them novels, plus two anthologies of his columns.”
Jimmy always said he approached journalism in the manner of a sports writer, and the best story would not be found in the winner’s locker room but in the loser’s.
In the wake of the JFK assassination Jimmy sought out not the Politicians who survived Kennedy, not the family or friends who already had so much to bear, but the man who dug his grave.
“Clifton Pollard was pretty sure he was going to be working on Sunday, so when he woke up at 9 a.m., in his three-room apartment on Corcoran Street, he put on khaki overalls before going into the kitchen for breakfast. His wife, Hettie, made bacon and eggs for him. Pollard was in the middle of eating them when he received the phone call he had been expecting. It was from Mazo Kawalchik, who is the foreman of the gravediggers at Arlington National Cemetery, which is where Pollard works for a living. "Polly, could you please be here by eleven o'clock this morning?" Kawalchik asked. "I guess you know what it's for." Pollard did.”