By Robert D. Fierro
My cohorts Jay Kilgore, Frank Mitchell and I had the distinct pleasure and honor of being introduced to Harvey Clarke by his major domo Steve Shahinian several years ago and we were among the lucky to have been in his orbit. He had an unerring dedication to quality and a calming attitude which belied his prominence in the “real world,” which is New York City real estate–a field which can turn a person into something other than a prince. Harvey, however, was a prince.
Early on when we ran across each other at a sale he noted my Yankees cap and raised an eyebrow and made a charmingly crass remark about my loyalties, explaining that he was, of course, a Mets fan. I informed him on the spot that I attended the opening day of the Mets when they moved into Shea Stadium in the 1960s and got the last seat in the stadium in the top row in right field, (his eyebrows disappeared below his cap) and that I’d attended many a Mets game, which was convenient since I was a fan and a resident of Queens—and rubbed it in when he told me he lived in New Jersey. I told him the Mets were second in my heart–he was not amused, but he had an inscrutable smirk on his face. This was a man we will all miss for his charm, insight, humor, and ability to make so many good choices. Rest, my friend.