Son of Sam.
The Blackout
Reggie’s 3 for 3
Bella, Mario, Ed, Abe
Arguably the freakiest summer in New York history.
Yet…the book is oddly, frustratingly flat.
Mahler makes two mistakes.
(1) He covers too much territory without the necessary connective tissue. Moby Dick was long, covered a lot of water, but the White Whale was the unifying force. This book—what’ s Mario Cuomo got to do with Reggie Jackson?(2) Mahler mutes his prose. We need here a voice like a screech of subway brakes, like the smell of a bagel in the morning, like the hottest day in July. Instead we get the New York Times. I screamed, “C’mon, Jonathan, get mad!” But, good journalist he, he kept his goddamned emotions out of it.
How can you mute the anger over the looting that accompanied the blackout? How can you make an anti-climax of Reggie’s three homeruns—three titanic orgasms ending a terrible summer (I even heard about it, and I was teaching school in Wales at the time)?
I think Mahler’s biggest problem—despite his opening disclaimer—was that he started writing a book about the Yankee’s 1977 season, and chose to widen the subject to a Summer of Sam project (no, I don’t think Spike Lee got it right—stupid, superficial movie). That’s too much territory, Jonathan. You shoulda stuck to the Blackout (an amazing subject, given the euphoric experience many of us had during the blackout three summers ago).
The next problem—forgive me, I’m a Mets fan—is that Mahler clearly thinks the Yankees are an Important Subject. I go with—and have always gone with—the axiom that rooting for the Yankees is like rooting for General Motors. To keep this thesis short, let’s start with Derek Jeter—a great player who is also an ASSHOLE. Last year, this demi-god ordered security guards to eject a fan for heckling him. Way to go, Jeter, you puerile, self-aggrandizing penis-brain. Yes, the conflict between Reggie and Billy was epic, and that should have been Mahler’s hotdog—nothing else.
(I really don’t get why people like the Yankees—it’s like rooting for Nazi Germany in 1939).
I have two big memories of 1977: my trip to New York from Wisconsin (where I was attending school) with my horrible, paranoid Wisconsin girlfriend who, despite her hippie credentials, kept whining about Son of Sam shooting us. Son of Sam shooting us. My second memory was standing in a Merritt Farms (such a nice name for a place that sold only grease) on the Upper East Side when an friend walked in and said “The king is dead.” “What are you talking about?” I said. “The king is dead,” he repeated, “Elvis. He died.”
It was hot and we were surrounded by fried and battered chicken and shrimp and fish and pork chops and fries and the king was dead.
How do you capture that moment—the heat and despairing futility of a summer night in New York City during that murderous summer? I’m sure I couldn’t.
Neither did Mahler.