Remembering Pete Hamill, 5 years after Post columnist’s death

Like millions of other Post readers, for most of my life, I knew my uncle Pete Hamill – the legendary columnist and novelist who died five years ago this week age 85 – through his writing.

I devoured his books, pored over his columns, and annotated his magazine articles like there was going to be a quiz.

It’s a tall order to get a large Irish-Catholic family all in one room, and – outside of a handful of family reunions – I didn’t see him much.

Until, that was, the summer of 2018, when we were having lunch in Park Slope at my great-grandfather’s old bar of choice, Rattigan’s, for the first get-together in a decade.

The former watering hole is now a Mexican restaurant – like everything in the city – and had been Pete’s favorite since his days studying art at Mexico City College.

It was across from the top floor, tenement railroad flat where Pete – the eldest of seven Hamill kids – was raised.

I was nervous walking in.

Since deciding to pursue a writing career like my uncle, I was determined to make a good impression. But the moment we started talking, my sweaty jitters evaporated in the August heat.

There are few people in life with whom you click from the word go. Pete was one of them.

We talked about everything from philosopher Albert Camus’ sense of humor, to free trade, to our love for Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass,” and our shared admiration for Philip Roth and Mark Twain. 

We even found time to eat. Taking his first bite of his burrito, Pete looked heavenwards and cried, “Maybe there is a God after all!”

After the reunion, he hired me as a research assistant for what would have been his final book.

Pete taught me something new every day that year – from practical writing tips on using concrete nouns and active verbs, to advice on the craft.

He told me how stories aren’t measured in inches on the page but by the tread on your shoes, and how, even if your mother tells you she loves you, double-check it.

But I also learned so much more.

I learned how fervently he loved his wife, Fukiko, and how much she loved him back. 

He taught me that the 20th century’s three worst people were Hitler, Stalin, and former Brooklyn Dodgers owner Walter O’Malley, who hijacked the team to LA in 1957.

And not necessarily in that order.

Even though Pete was in his 80s and on dialysis, he still found the energy to belt out songs in Spanish randomly.

I learned I was just one of dozens of young writers he took under his wing over the years, and that he offered me the job before recognizing me, thinking I was my cousin’s friend.

Pete never forgot his roots as a poor Brooklyn kid, offering his time and attention to almost anyone who asked. He was a most generous man.

Out of his many legacies, that’s the one I cherish the most.

“Don’t miss me when I’m gone,” Pete would often say. “I had the best life a kid from Brooklyn could have dreamt of.”

Sometimes, like this week, I selfishly do.

I don’t know if there is a God up there after all. If there is, I hope St. Peter opens the gates wide enough for papers to get delivered.

If not, that’s fine too.

Because while I may not find you in the grass under my boot-soles, I can spot you in the cracks in the sidewalk. I can hear your gravely voice singing through the whizz of a passing subway car.  And I hear your laugh when thumbing through the headlines in The Post.