Remembering Pete Hamill

For many readers, myself included, Pete Hamill was more than just a writer—he felt like family. This iconic columnist and novelist, who left us five years ago at 85, shaped my understanding of storytelling.

I devoured his books and even helped him with his columns, annotating magazine articles as if preparing for a quiz. Yet, with a large Irish Catholic family, getting together was, well, challenging. Aside from a few family reunions, our paths didn’t cross often.

It was 2018 when we finally reunited after a decade, lunching at Latigan’s, a bar frequented by my great-grandfather. Now transformed into a Mexican restaurant, it had long been one of Pete’s favorites since he studied art in Mexico City.

He grew up just across the street, in a tenement, as the eldest of seven. I was nervous about making a good impression, especially since I had chosen a path in writing like his. But once we started chatting, my anxiety melted away in the August heat.

Some people just click. Pete was one of those rare connections.

We exchanged thoughts about everything—Camus’ humor, free trade, Whitman’s “leaves of grass,” and shared admiration for Philip Roth and Twain. We even managed to share some food; after his first burrito bite, Pete looked up and exclaimed, “There may be a God after all!”

After our gathering, he brought me on as a research assistant for his final book. That year was invaluable; he imparted so many practical writing tips, pointing out how a story’s depth is sometimes measured in emotional footsteps rather than mere word count. He emphasized double-checking facts, even if it was my mom saying she loved me!

But I learned even more. I saw how deeply he loved his wife, Tomiko, and how that love was reciprocated. He labeled the three worst figures of the 20th century as Hitler, Stalin, and Walter O’Malley, who controversially moved the Dodgers to L.A. in 1957—though the order might not matter as much.

Despite being on dialysis in the ’80s, he had a zest for life, often acquiring Spanish songs almost on a whim. I discovered he had mentored countless young writers, even mistaking me for a cousin’s friend before recognizing me.

Always connected to his Brooklyn roots, Pete generously gave his time and attention to anyone who asked. That’s what I cherish most about his legacy.

“Don’t miss me when I’m gone,” he’d often say, “I lived the best life a Brooklyn kid could dream of.”

Yet, sometimes—like this week—I find myself missing him a bit selfishly.

We may never know about the existence of God, but if there is one, I hope St. Peter is waiting with open gates, ready to deliver the paper.

And if not, that’s okay too. Even if you can’t find yourself in the grass beneath a shoe’s sole, you can be found in the cracks of the sidewalk. I can still hear your serious voice echoing in the subway car, along with your laughter that punctuated the world.