Ed Kelly answers the door of his home in Lincolnwood.
“Let me show you a few things. Muhammad gave me this here,” he says, pointing to a clenched bronze hand. “This is his fist. He gave me that years ago. I was like a father to him. The twins are my nieces. We were close. I’ve got pictures of him in the basement.”
That he does. Many pictures. Being close to Ali, the greatest athlete of the 20th century, is the sort of thing a man can take pride in. As are photographs with the powerful and famous. Kelly, 100, former Democratic Party slate maker and czar of the Chicago Park District, in that order, has much to be proud of.
Readers might recall we chatted for Kelly’s birthday, when he rewarded my interest by firmly planting a harpoon into the side of then-Mayor Rahm Emanuel.
“Rahm’s not a Chicago guy,” Kelly said then. “He’ll never be a Chicago guy.”
Troublemaker that I am, my fondest hope for this visit is a reprise. I bait hooks with the two mayors since. Nary a nibble.
Kelly’s centennial was in August — he waved off media inquiries, then. But longtime press agent Bernie DiMeo persuaded him to open up.
“This is Richard J., fishing with me.” Kelly says, of a photo with the first Mayor Daley. “He called me. He said, ‘Get a boat; let’s go fishing.'”
Not that the past is all hanging with mayors — tragedy will find even the most connected insider.
“This is my grandson, killed in Texas,” he said. “Three Niles motorcycle police officers were trying to raise money. This is my Joey.”
Sgt. Joseph Lazo, 39. His photo is everywhere — in frames, on pillows.
“A drunk driver …” Kelly says. “He was like a son to me. We raised him. I’ve been going to the grave for four and a half years, for Joey and my wife. I go every Monday.”
Marilyn Kelly, 94; 76 years of marriage.
“I lose Joey, then two years later I lose my wife,” he says.
What’s it like to be 100?
“Hard to believe I’ve reached 100,” Kelly says. “Everywhere I go, I have doctors and nurses asking, ‘What did you do?’ I can’t say I’ve lived different. I’m not a food guy. I’ve never been a drinker. Never smoked.”
We go into the basement. The bar seats six. One hundred photos are framed on the wall if there is one, and we pause before many.
“Here’s Papa and with Janie,” he says, pointing to a photo of Bears founder George Halas and Jane Byrne. “Here’s Stevie Zucker. Here’s Gale Sayers. Jesse White — I’ve known Jesse since he was 15 years old.”
I point out an impossibly young Paul Simon, the former senator.
“One of the best friends I ever had,” Kelly says, and we work our way along all four walls.
“Pate Phillip. Very good friend of mine. Sid Luckman. Keith Magnuson” — the Blackhawks player —”Here’s Puchinski. Cullerton … Bill Veeck. What a guy. We’re at the Cubs game here. Bernie Hanson. Here’s Walter” — Walter Payton, no last name necessary. “Mitch Miller. Milt Pappas. LaMotta. Zale” — boxers — “Here’s Neil Hartigan and his wife. Here’s Reinsdorf. Michael Flatley. There’s Mondale. Roger Maris. There’s Dick Elrod. Ditka. Dick Durbin. A beautiful guy. Here’s Stroger. I was his closest white friend. Here’s Rod” — Blagojevich — “I’ve known him since he was 17. I knew he was a problem. Here’s Thompson, governor. Good friend of mine. Wirtz. Here’s Andre Dawson. Johnny Kerr. My kids. Here’s my son. Here’s Kup with his cigar. Jack Brickhouse. There’s Bill Lee. This is Sinatra, Perry Como. Here’s Tito Francona” — the ballplayer — “Tito was a great friend of mine. Here’s Greg Gumbel. Greg and I were very very good friends. Bill Kurtis. Dave Kingman. The Kozy Korner Kanteen, these are all my buddies. This place was across the street from Seward Park on Cedric and Elm. That was my hang-out.”
Were I to leave Ed Kelly in his basement, pointing to photos of his old friends, you might judge him for taking pride in having known the famous and the powerful. Though I thought of a W.B. Yeats poem, “The Municipal Gallery Revisited” where the Irish bard does the same thing, writing: “I thought, ‘My children may find here/Deep rooted things.'” At the end, Yeats nearly puts his friends on even par with his poetry:
You that would judge me do not judge alone
This book or that, come to this hallowed place
Where my friends’ portraits hang and look thereon…
Think where man’s glory most begins and ends
And say my glory was I had such friends.
