official sainthood, and he was hot again. I was three years gone from the Times by then, in a New Jersey basement happily writing fiction, and I didnât pay much attention. I was not keeping up with sports; I thought I was through with journalism. I certainly had no idea that I wasnât through with Mickey or Joe, that we would meet again in a few years. I hadnât yet learned the lesson that as you grow and change, you keep rewriting your best stories.
Chapter Four
Nigger , the Book
F ollowing my hero, Gay Talese, I began writing nonsports pieces for magazines, somehow specializing in cop stories. This was in 1963, a year after the Metsâ first spring training and a year before Cassius Clay beat Sonny Liston for the heavyweight title. I wasnât committed to sportswriting yet, and I didnât want to be pigeonholed for life. I hadnât yet figured out that sports led me to everything and everything led me back to sports.
My favorite piece, for the Times Sunday magazine, was about two narcotics detectives who disguised themselves as bums, old ladies, hippies, to bust heroin dealers. Hanging with the cops was exhilarating. Now, these were authentic men! They had guns! We swaggered through the streets, daring the bad guys to make their moves!
The magazine article attracted book offers. The cops told me to go ahead and make myself a deal but leave them the movie rights because there was a huge case they were wrapping up that would make us all rich and famous. I signed a contract for a nonfiction book about the central characters in one of their big drug cases. It was less about them than about NarcoWorld, including the dealers and the buyers, but they were key characters. I got my first advance, $1,500, one-third of it up front. I felt like a real writer.
I kept hanging with them, but as time went on I began liking the older, alpha cop, Eddie Egan, less and less. He was a self-absorbed jock who had had pro baseball dreams. He was hard and violent. I thought his partner, Sonny Grosso, had a soul, but I wasnât sure Eddie had one. One day Eddie and I went up to Harlem on a case (people thought I was a cop by this time, or maybe an assistant DA), and he kicked in an apartment door and started slapping a young white woman who cowered on her bed clutching a mixed-race baby. He stopped when he remembered I was there. Later, he said to me, âI hate it when white women fuck niggers.â
I sensed that as I dug deeper into the story, there would be more incidents like that one. There was no way I could write about these guys as heroes and no way I could write the truth so long as they had some say over the final product. I hadnât promised them veto power, but I had promised them a look at the manuscript. I wanted to write this book, a nonsports book, but I returned the advance. I was glad I had a day job.
A few weeks later, the book editor called back. He was looking for a writer to collaborate with Dick Gregory on his autobiography. Gregory was already under contract but hadnât clicked with any of the writers who had been sent to meet with him. I wasnât that interested in ghosting a book, but I was interested in meeting Gregory, the first black comedian to make it in the major white clubs. He was earning $5,000 a week! While much of his act was standard stand-up about dumb cousins and vicious mothers-in-law, his racial rim shots (ââLeven months I sat in at a restaurant, then they integrated and didnât even have what I wantedâ) were repeated everywhere as social commentary if not uncomfortable truths (âWe wonât go to war in the Congo âcause weâre afraid our soldiers will bring back war bridesâ). At thirty, he was hailed as the Jackie Robinson of topical comedy, a Will Rogers for the Atomic Age.
So on the evening of September 16, 1963, I walked into a New York City hotel suite, where I was politely told by Gregoryâs wife, Lillian, that
Chapter Four
Nigger , the Book
F ollowing my hero, Gay Talese, I began writing nonsports pieces for magazines, somehow specializing in cop stories. This was in 1963, a year after the Metsâ first spring training and a year before Cassius Clay beat Sonny Liston for the heavyweight title. I wasnât committed to sportswriting yet, and I didnât want to be pigeonholed for life. I hadnât yet figured out that sports led me to everything and everything led me back to sports.
My favorite piece, for the Times Sunday magazine, was about two narcotics detectives who disguised themselves as bums, old ladies, hippies, to bust heroin dealers. Hanging with the cops was exhilarating. Now, these were authentic men! They had guns! We swaggered through the streets, daring the bad guys to make their moves!
The magazine article attracted book offers. The cops told me to go ahead and make myself a deal but leave them the movie rights because there was a huge case they were wrapping up that would make us all rich and famous. I signed a contract for a nonfiction book about the central characters in one of their big drug cases. It was less about them than about NarcoWorld, including the dealers and the buyers, but they were key characters. I got my first advance, $1,500, one-third of it up front. I felt like a real writer.
I kept hanging with them, but as time went on I began liking the older, alpha cop, Eddie Egan, less and less. He was a self-absorbed jock who had had pro baseball dreams. He was hard and violent. I thought his partner, Sonny Grosso, had a soul, but I wasnât sure Eddie had one. One day Eddie and I went up to Harlem on a case (people thought I was a cop by this time, or maybe an assistant DA), and he kicked in an apartment door and started slapping a young white woman who cowered on her bed clutching a mixed-race baby. He stopped when he remembered I was there. Later, he said to me, âI hate it when white women fuck niggers.â
I sensed that as I dug deeper into the story, there would be more incidents like that one. There was no way I could write about these guys as heroes and no way I could write the truth so long as they had some say over the final product. I hadnât promised them veto power, but I had promised them a look at the manuscript. I wanted to write this book, a nonsports book, but I returned the advance. I was glad I had a day job.
A few weeks later, the book editor called back. He was looking for a writer to collaborate with Dick Gregory on his autobiography. Gregory was already under contract but hadnât clicked with any of the writers who had been sent to meet with him. I wasnât that interested in ghosting a book, but I was interested in meeting Gregory, the first black comedian to make it in the major white clubs. He was earning $5,000 a week! While much of his act was standard stand-up about dumb cousins and vicious mothers-in-law, his racial rim shots (ââLeven months I sat in at a restaurant, then they integrated and didnât even have what I wantedâ) were repeated everywhere as social commentary if not uncomfortable truths (âWe wonât go to war in the Congo âcause weâre afraid our soldiers will bring back war bridesâ). At thirty, he was hailed as the Jackie Robinson of topical comedy, a Will Rogers for the Atomic Age.
So on the evening of September 16, 1963, I walked into a New York City hotel suite, where I was politely told by Gregoryâs wife, Lillian, that
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