The Wild Rover
I spotted a New York Times story on What Hardcore New Yorkers Really Miss. One guy said the noise and commotion on the boardwalk at Coney Island. Guardian Angels founder Curtis Sliwa said newspapers from street kiosks. He’d grab four newspapers, a coffee and a twice-toasted bagel with cream cheese every day.
Alec Baldwin usually starts his day at a coffee shop called Madman Expresso. “In New York, a great neighborhood restaurant or coffee shop can be like home,” he says. “I miss home.”
So do I.
For more than 25 years, I started every morning at 5:30 am at Tailgate Picnic, my sister’s deli. It’s always the same gang. Steve the auto repair guy. Wayner, a Holyoke cop who used to chase me around the reservoir as a kid for fishing illegally. Dick, who runs and times road races. Jeannie, who coached the Mount Holyoke rowing team. And Pete the tree guy.
We’d swap stories, talk politics and sports, exchange insults. When one of us was missing, we’d call and make sure they were OK. It was routine. A ritual. I’m sure a lot of you did something similar.
It all came to a halt on March 17. St Patrick’s Day. That’s a very religious day where I come from. The local package store is the cathedral and the Jameson is the holy water.
When we all walked out that morning for the last time, everyone sang “The Wild Rover”, including the Tailgate crew. “No nay never, no nay never no more.”
We’ve been in this fight for a long time now. We need to get the old routines back. And we will.
Keep your dukes up.