Subjects of feature stories in some cheap tabloid? Nope. SI, August 28.
RANDALL M. GREASON
Your August 28 issue is a marvel. The cover alone (Intrepid) is art—and so is the article. Being a native-born New Yorker (more years ago than I like to admit, but not Victorian), I'm moved also by the bit about Coney Island.
And then the Irish. I was in Dublin two years ago, and the Irish astound me. They have their Republic, but their money is LSD, they drive on the left-hand side of the road, they still play cricket and the bridge across the Liffey is wider than it is long.
UPS AND DOWNS
Joseph Carroll's article, The Gentle Irish (Aug. 28), on the nongentle art of hurling is a gem. I hope you find a way to preserve it for posterity by including it in an anthology of great sportswriting one day.
The Mayo man who never read Sean O'Casey might be interested to know that the great playwright played hurling as a youth, though his poor eyesight made him rather ineffective. The game also supplies the phrase "hurler on the ditch," meaning critic-spectator of political developments.
New York City
Thanks to Joseph Carroll for a very pleasant relief—to me, anyway—from the colorless, professional sports of today. I am a college and pro football fan from way back but as of now, except for Notre Dame, the games leave me in a state of ennui.
I like the article very much except for Brendan Behan being brought into it. Mr. Carroll should know that all Irish people do not like Mr. Behan or his writing. He did not belong in the article.
I am one of those 40-year-olds from the jigs-and-reels era who were brought up on the Soldier's Song and Pearse, McDonagh, Plunkett and, of course, Yeats in literature. And Michael Collins, a great athlete and hero killed in 1922.
Up Cork, Kerry and Galway! Up all Ireland—but not Behan, not in a sports article anyway.
Mrs. JAMES E. QUINN
For me, Jeannette Bruce's article on Coney Island, Where the Fun Was (Aug. 28), was a thriller—mainly because of my own personal memories of it. In 1903 I was 8 years old. My father was just beginning to be "easy" in his famous restaurant, Charlie's (the poor but honest man's eating place, where a dinner from soup to nuts cost 15�). Once or twice a year Papa would take the family—Mama, my two sisters and myself—for a trip to Coney Island. At first we used to ride in a surrey behind a team of horses, but then around 1906 Papa bought a car, and this alone was almost as exciting as Coney Island itself. We never knew if, when and how we would get back home again.