Ace Holleran: Yeah, I’m From Bridgeport—What Of It? Got Somethin’ To Say?

Nearly 40 years ago, on the cusp of age 30, I came up with the forced-literature idea of starting my own community weekly newspaper. With the help of my gifted friend Paul Bass, father of the New Haven Independent, a business plan led to investors bringing rays to The Bridgeport Light.

I was coming off a gig as communications director for Mayor Tom Bucci. As a result, not to be viewed a shill for my former boss (and soon to be my brother in-law) I needed scribes who had a healthy skepticism toward politicians. If I interfered I knew they would cut off my cashews.

Jim Callahan and and Bob Fredericks, seeking an escape from the corporate journalism that took over the Bridgeport Post and Telegram, predecessors to the CT Post, led my editorial team. Those dudes cranked copy. We did good for about 18 months and then the 1990 New England economy hit the rocks. All my banking advertisers pulled out with three of them closing. My investors said ciao, adios, see ya.

Toast.

(Now I do this, OIB 20 years, still here!)

We, as a Light staff, had fun along the way. I needed something light editorially to complement the hard news. I reached out to my friend Timothy “Ace” Holleran who had mountain ranges of institutional knowledge of Bridgeport. He also understood the bright lights, playing drums for world class musicians and vocalists, and then winning a bunch of money on a game show.

For 75 columns or so, Ace regaled readers in music, memories and memorials of fascination.

The thing about Ace, if he’s your friend, he doesn’t care if he’s facing Godzilla, Rodan, or a strange creature from parts unknown. If they insult you, he steps in.

Circa 1989, we’re in J.F. O’Connell’s Pub, now occupied by Joseph’s Steakhouse, where Light staff segued for a libation after deadline.

Something had appeared in The Light that a fired-up politician loathed. He went straight for me. He said this, that and the other thing.

Okay.

Ace went right at him, “You’re a FAO!” Ace ripped him to pieces. Later, a decade later, it would remind me of the bar scene in Good Will Hunting.

Anyhoo, Ace sticks up for his friends and also for the city he loves.

Check out the latest from Ace Man:

In a public watering hole, many moons ago. She had curly, bronze hair. From Derby. I was plying my trade, sticks in hand, banging on my trusty kit of Slingerlands. On break, we chatted. I ventured, “Yes, well I’m from Bridgeport; you should come visit me. I’ll show you around.”

“Oh.”

That one syllable launched a zillion thoughts. The tone alone. I saw her eyes drop floorward, so I sidled away. One word hung a shroud on everything. I wasn’t insulted but felt how uncomfortable she was. I learned that evening.

You Park City denizens, you kings (and queens) of Connecticut, tell me you’ve avoided similar interactions.

“What about the crime?”

“My cousin got his car stolen.”

“Is it nice there?” That one drives me up a wall.

Yes, in my experience, living in the poorest hamlet in one of the nation’s richest counties invites the slings and arrows, especially from our NiMBY neighbors.

You read about the high school hotshot from “up the line” who gets into the glue in Bridgeport. “He’s such a good kid. Never in trouble.” Okay, what’s he doing on that street at three in the morning?

No, we don’t own it. Murder in New Canaan? That can’t happen here. But it does.

Once I was asked by a loudmouth woman in painter’s pants and black-high Cons, “What’s it like in Bridegpuertorico?”

I said, “Tell you what. Let’s go to Helado de Coco on East Main Street, and ask the same question.” For some reason, she shut her pie hole.

From a Little League coach, playing a tourney game at The Field (okay, Ellsworth Park for you fancypants Black Rock arrivistes). “Ace, this is Bridgeport here?” No, Glastonbury, I wanted to say.

“Sure is.”

I let him stumble. “Well, you know, it’s, well, kinda surprising. Er, nice houses, clean. Y’know.”

I said, “You can only hear the gunshots from the projects when the wind’s blowing across the harbor.”  The moronically confused puss he made was memorable.

One of my favorite comebacks was hurled at the face of a low-rent legislative wannabe on the campaign trail. I was in Fairfield (imagine!), buying a paper. He pitched me hard, angling for a vote.

I said, “Sorry. Can’t do it. I’m from Bridgeport.”

The guy puffed out his scrawny chest. “Well, you should tell the politicians in Bridgeport they oughta go up to Hartford and blahblahwoofwoof…” I shut my ears and waited for an opening.

“Listen,” I said. “The next time you get sick, go to Fairfield Hospital.” Ace on the serve. Match point.

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Nope they ain’t all bad. And this one happened in LA.

The Green Room at Merv’s show in Hollywood. Pete McCann (from Gregory Street in the South End) was onstage. Celebs filed in for a second taping that day. I acted like I belonged, which can get you far in that town. I recognized one guy in a heartbeat. A big fella, that hangdog expression and gravelly vocal delivery. To my surprise, he motioned me over to his side. He said, “I’ve seen you before, kid.” (Kid? I was 27.) “How about you go over and get me some Scotch, rocks? And yourself.”

Sure! I hit the self-serve bar, elbowed Martin Mull aside and poured. I could spot my new buddy holding up thee fingers, horizontally. More, okay. I delivered the drinks, and he held my arm, almost affectionately, as he talked. I told him why I was there. We chewed the rag for a bit—a quickly hewn friendship.

“You look and talk like an East Coast kid. I like that.”

I felt pride when I said, “I’m from Bridgeport.”

“Great town. Great town. Bob Mitchum came from there. Listen, I’m gonna steal that recliner and put my feet up; Nice ta meetcha.”

We clinked. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Vigoda.”

“Abe, kid. Abe.”