The Decline And Fall Of New York

"Give it to me," said the man in the camel's-hair. He took it and broke off the filter tip. The old man held out a match for him and he dragged deeply.

Exhaling, he said, "Nothing wrong with this. I've always said it's what's up front that counts."

"You're changing the subject, aren't you, Mac ?" asked the man in the leather jacket archly. "Weren't we talking about the Giants ?"

The man in the camel's-hair coat nodded. "Precisely," he said, flicking the ash from his cigarette butt, "and they prove my point that it's what's up front that counts. A great football team, I agree. But consider, my friends, isn't there a slightly greater one down the line in Baltimore ? In other words, the Giants are second-best. They're the best we've got and they're second-best! Just like a young man you all know. A New York boy. A prizefighter. A heavyweight. As a matter of fact, since that Swede came over and knocked him silly, he's the second-best heavyweight in the world!"

The entire group was silent. The leather-jacket man squirmed uncomfortably. The Burberry man frowned. The old man shook his head. "Oh," he said weakly, "I think Floyd Patterson will take the Swede in the return match."

The man in the camel's-hair pressed his advantage. "Second-best," he cried. "Second-rate—or worse! Go on all down the line. Hockey? The Rangers are last in the league. They have not won a championship since '42. Basketball? The Knicks are in the cellar, a player has to take over as coach. They offer to trade anybody on the roster and there are no takers. College football? Columbia was last in the Ivy League . College basketball? We put on the Holiday Festival and all three New York teams are knocked out of their own tournament. The thing is even getting to the animals. A French horse they train on artichokes comes over here and beats Trader Horn in the International at Roosevelt. And who was named dog of the year?"

The old man rubbed his chin. "Wasn't it some mutt from up in The Bronx ? A boxer or something?"

"It was not!" exclaimed the man in the camel's-hair, "it was a lousy Pekingese from Atlanta !" He tossed away the last fragment of his cigarette butt. The man in the leather jacket pulled out a pack. "Here," he said, "take a fresh one. I didn't offer you one before because I thought you were a phony. But I can see you're a man who knows what he's talking about where sports are concerned."

"Thank you," said the man in the camel's-hair, throwing back his outer coat to reveal the narrow lapels of an Ivy League Executive Model suit that looked like it might have been slept in. He accepted a light and inspected the filter tip. "Aha," he said, "excellent smoke. I like the recessed element here. It avoids filter feedback. I consider this little recess to be the most important quarter inch in smoking today."

IN DAYS OF OLD PAYOLA