The state lost a man who would have been a great governor. The country gained a guy who thought he could portray an image of a warrior because he drove around in a tank wearing a helmet. Had Dukakis grown up in where I had he would have known not to have done that stunt. But coming from Brookline he saw a different world. He saw the world the Globe wants to see; one far removed from what most people know.
I always thought the greatest difference between Quinn and Dukakis was the disposition of the men: Quinn was always smiling while Dukakis always glowered. That was also one of the great separators between Billy Bulger and Alan Dershowitz, the smile. Perhaps it wasn’t that the Globe didn’t like the Irish from the inner city but it just didn’t like people who found enjoyment in life.
Having done in Quinn who was from Auckland Street in Savin Hill, the Globe now must deal with another Irish politician Boston Mayor Marty Walsh who also is from Savin Hill. He lives on Tuttle Street separated from Auckland street by Sagamore and Saxon streets. Tuttle Street is where many of my friends lived. Good guys like Timmy O’L . . . and Tord S . . . and lesser good guys like Tommy D . . . We hung around together, both good and bad for that is how it is in the inner city, finding enjoyment in the company of each other.
It was on Tuttle Street in the backyard of Roy F. . . where I first learned to make gunpowder. Bobby R. . . lived at the end of the street where it runs into Hartland Street and Billy M. . . lived across the street. From Bobby’s house we could look across into the little variety store that was owned by Baldy Sheehan – a man who was taken straight into heaven on his passing having had his purgatory on earth trying to run a store among a bunch of us wild ones.
When Marty got elected a person who I talk politics with said: “How long do you think it will be before the Globe starts going after him?” I shrugged: “How do I know? They’ll give him a little honeymoon.” He laughed and said: “Walsh will be lucky if they give him a six month honeymoon.” I nodded. He said: “You know it’s coming.” I nodded again. He went on, “you know what they did to Bob Quinn. It won’t even have to be on the level.”
I suggested to him that perhaps those days were gone and that paper had changed its attitude toward the Irish politicians from the three-decker neighborhoods. “No way,” he said. “You gotta understand. Walsh can only survive if he dances to the Globe’s tune.” He got up and said: “The lunch is on you. I’ll pick it next time.” I was reaching for my wallet when he returned.
I asked him if he decided to pay. He shook his head and sat down. “Going out it came to me how it will do it. It will use the “some-people- say- if- true” trick like it did with Quinn and others, you know, some people say Walsh is a racists, if true, he should step down – something like that.” He then smiled as if he had come up with a brilliant thought and left me to find the money to pay the bill. This was supposed to be the next time for paying but with this friend next time never seemed to come around.
I wondered if he was right. Had nothing really changed at the Globe after all these years. Had the Yankee/Irish animosity stayed as much a part of it today as it was in the past? The Globe still did old globbering routine against people as we see with John O’Brien and Patricia Campatelli so why would it not still do the hatchet job on the inner city Irish? Would Walsh be in its crosshairs. It didn’t take long to get the answer.