RCS
Oscar Madison is dead and every ink-stained wretch should raise a glass to the great man’s memory, or change a typewriter ribbon, or recite a few lines from “The Odd Couple.” We never saw Oscar hammer out a game story on deadline for his newspaper, the New York Herald. But he was a sportswriter’s sportswriter. You could tell. He was messy, crude, and grumpy. He cracked wise. He wore a Mets cap and mustard stains.
He came in one day wearing golf shoes. Felix Ungar, the fastidious roommate, was horrified. “Oscar! Take your golf shoes off in the house!”
Hearing Felix’s plea, Oscar did a tap dance in the hallway.
Oscar was our patron saint, our role model, our excuse....
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