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Phil Rubin

An Aging City Kid Learns to Drive Away From It All

This is the story of a guy driving a little gray Volkswagen on a late summer afternoon. He rolls along the Palisades Parkway, the sun and breeze blowing through the window, around his ears, which protrude from the sides of his back-turned baseball cap. Art Tatum is in the tape deck. The Volkswagen purrs along Read More

It’s Jewish Night at Shea Stadium and I Am There

A few weeks ago, the Mets’ management dressed its players in spacesuits for Turn Ahead the Clock Night. As I sat at home watching the game on the tube, I pictured the veteran Orel Hershiser at home, his wife shoving him out the door, telling him it would be all right. He wouldn’t look like Read More

Looking for Stuey. Lonesome Search for a Poker God

There’s a little place off Lexington where I read the paper over my morning slice of pound cake. One day, there I was, deep in the obituaries. Sweeping crumbs aside, I saw a photo many New Yorkers were undoubtedly looking at that very moment. Stuey Ungar.

He was so strange-looking, gaunt, almost simian. A Read More