I first met Toots Shor in New York, during the Summer of ‘62. It was the year after Maris had bested the Babe’s record of 60 homers. I was 14.

Toots was a New York legend. A Saloon keeper. A friend of ballplayers, celebrities, mobsters and politicians (assuming there’s a difference in the latter two). He was a “Character.”

My grandfather was one of his best friends. Toots always took pride in the fact “Da Chief" hoisted a shovel full of dirt for his opening.

Papa Warren always admired Toots, though it was politically incorrect to do so. They both knew a thing or two about the definition of “friendship.”


Toots had a kid, Roary, about my age. I often think that Toots took a shine to me because one day at the Polo Grounds, Jimmy Davenport grounded one towards us. I reached over and retrieved the foul ball. Toots had had box seats along the third base line since the 30’s. Never once had he or his friends caught a foul ball. The next day at the park, Giant pinch hitter Harvey Newman (that'll date 'ya) grounded another one near us. I bagged that one too.

Toots was convinced I was good luck. He wanted Roary and I to be friends.

That night he invited me to spend a month with his family on the Jersey shore, in Deal, near Asbury Park.

Toots used words a small town kid from St. Helena had never heard before. His restaurant was a “joint.” He was a “Saloon keeper.” Women were “broads.” Jerks were “Crumb Bums.” The test was whether someone had “class.” “Big shots” bought rounds for the house.

Toots used to circle his glass with one finger, to order another Brandy and Soda. If he widened the circle he was buying a round for the table. If he circled his finger around his head, like a cowboy slinging a lariat, it meant drinks for the house. When he was 15 in Philly, his mother was killed when a drunk drove up on the curb. His father committed suicide five years later.

He’d married a Ziegfield girl everyone called “Babe.” Besides Roary they had two daughters whom I immediately fell in love with, though they didn’t know I existed.

That summer Toots taught me many things. Not the least of which was Gin--as in rummy. “Never wait for an ‘insider’. Get rid of the big cards early. Knock often. Never play for just one card.” And the key to gin--never pick up a card you don’t need. The game of “Gin” translated into life lessons we’ve tried to pass on to our kids.

That summer, tragically, Ernest Hemmingway shot himself. When the news reached Deal, Toots immediately put down his gin hand and called MaryHemmingway in Idaho (dialing the number from memory) as I sat there getting thumped. Impressed, would be an understatement.

Bari (the eldest daughter) said Hemmingway had put a manuscript in a bank vault with Toots’ name one it. It was meant to be Toots’ retirement. It’s never been found.


Twelve years after that summer, I landed in New York as 26 year old Copy Writer. My first stop was Toots’. I was an adult. He became my second father. I had much to learn. He was a willing teacher.


“Da mark of a man”, he said, “Is the ability to stay out drinking ‘till 4am and still get to the office by 9:30 and get the job done.” Sounded good to me. Who didn’t want to be a man?


“It’s all about class”, he would say. “Your grandpa had class. Imagine a man in his position lifting a shovel full of dirt to open my new joint. A guy like me, wit my reputation, but he shows up cause we’re friends.” Besides Sinatra, Toots had a few other friends like Frank Costello and Lucky Luciano—and their attorney, Edward Bennet Williams. Guys J. Edgar was not sending Christmas cards to.

Big Dan Levezzo, who owned P.J. Clark’s, was his late night drinking buddy. His boy, young Dan and I were to become fast friends. Co-incidence?


Toots’ “joint” was once filled with media types--Bob Considine, Jimmy Cannon, Walter Cronkite, and ball players like Martin, Mantle, Berra (he of the,”Toots Shor’s is so crowded no one goes there anymore,”) comment. N.Y. Giants like Connelly, Gifford and Wellington Mara were regulars. It had been the hub of New York “Cafe society.” Alas, by the time I arrived it had seen better days.

“Ya wanna know class?” Toots would say. “For twenty years Topping (former Yankees owner Dan Topping) gives me box seats to the world series. Then we had a fight. Da crumb bum and me weren’t speakin’. Well this year (1963, I think) we ain’t spoke all year long, but the Yanks make it to the series against the Giants. He don’t say nothin’. But he sends me my free tickets in the mail. Now dat’s class!”

Toots’ joint died. The Reese Brothers bought it and used him as a front man. His last days were not unlike the once proud Chief Sitting Bull’s, who spent his last days dressing up for Buffalo Bill’s traveling circus. One night after a Knick’s game I went in with some friends. Toots made a circular motion with his finger, buying us a round. On Reese’s orders, the waiter arrived and presented Toots with a bill he had to sign. Toots was humiliated.

At his funeral the coffin was covered in a spray of roses. The card read, “Save a table for 2”, signed Jackie Gleason.

Class.
Toots could really play gin.
Jeffrey Earl Warren