I knew of Jimmy Breslin. I had seen him on television and I remember his New York accent, his outspoken nature and his humor. Did I know of his writing? Not especially. He spent most of his career with the New York Daily News, a newspaper I didn’t read. But then he wrote books, too, which I didn’t read. This book is called the first biography of Jimmy Breslin.

I had a lot to learn about Jimmy Breslin and purchased the book. In the introduction, the author describes Breslin as “Pugnacious, Passionate, Profound, Bombastic, Bully, Buffoon, Bellowing, Reckless, Resourceful, Vengeful, Nasty, Gracious, Gratuitous, Insecure, Heavy drinking, Grandstanding miserable bastard and…. Better on deadline than anyone.” All this words are defined in the 400 pages of Jimmy Breslin: The Man Who Told the Truth.

Breslin wrote about the big subjects of the day, but his approach was different. Yes, he was around for the funeral of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, but instead of writing about the funeral itself he wrote about the man who dug the President’s grave. His approach was different and editors and readers related.

As a crime reporter, Breslin also wrote about policemen. From the book:

“His portrayal of the dedicated detectives and their work would put the lie to the later accusations that he hated cops. He was insulted by corrupt cops. Most of all he was angered by cops who took the paychecks but did not take the time to understand the city and the residents they were sworn to protect.”

Here’s another excerpt from the book, writing about gangster Bumpy Johnson but quoting Bumpy’s wife: “Bumpy had a head that broke a thousand nightsticks. He came up when Dutch Schutz and Owney Madden ran Harlem. He was in and out of jails. Alcohol, numbers, gambling (And yet)……”In 20 years with this man, never once had a fight in the house,” his wife said yesterday. “He left everything bothering him at the door.”

Jimmy Breslin could relate to every-day folks and he could write. Personally, he did not handle alcohol, his family or his money well. Reading about his triumphs (a Pulitzer) and failures is, however, fascinating.

A final note near the end of the book when Bresin is reporting on an evening when he was attacked by a group of young men looking for money and ripping off his clothes. He was rescued by two bystanders. “And then George Valentine put me into a gypsy cab driven by John Juin who is 35 and married and has three kids, and he drove me home.. And that is the end of my story for today.”

Jimmy Breslin died in 2017. His biography is a good read.