Post Writer Finally Figures Out How To Work Longstanding Fantasy About Punching Lloyd Blankfein, Childhood Hangups Into Column


"I've been investigating Goldman and Blankfein for years," Post columnist John Crudele says this morning, "and -- yes -- I think he should get a smack or two." But he couldn't just come out and write that because, you know, it would be slightly awkward and not befitting this consummate professional and probably not make it to print. Oh, but he wanted to, so bad! But how? Think, damn it, think! [snaps fingers] GOT IT-- a charity boxing event. Write a column promoting the thing and then you can let LB have it!

Lloyd Blankfein, the chairman of Goldman Sachs, would probably like to see me hurt. And I'd like to see him investigated for insider trading. So I figured a boxing match was in order. The only hitch, I can't seem to get Blankfein to do it. Let me tell you anyway how I almost became a pugilist. A few weeks ago someone from a gym downtown was looking for some publicity and mentioned that there is a charity boxing match with Wall Street types going against each other scheduled for Dec. 10. It's for an excellent cause -- to help women who are trapped in the sex trade industry. It's at Cipriani Wall Street, an expensive joint that is only accustomed to sweat when customers get the check. One of us -- and I can't imagine it was me -- suggested that I might want to participate.

Without really giving it a lot of thought I agreed -- but only if my opponent was Blankfein, the 56-year old Bronx-born, Brooklyn-bred gazzillionaire who leads a merry gang of other gazzillionaires at the Wall Street firm. I figured, why waste punches on someone who doesn't deserve them. I've been investigating Goldman and Blankfein for years and -- yes -- I think he should get a smack or two...

Let me briefly tell you about my qualifications as a boxer. Back in the sixth grade at St. Agatha in Brooklyn, I threw a punch at Marty Burke, a friend who had probably stolen my Spaldeen or committed some other grievous offense. Marty turned, and my jab (or it could have been a cross) landed squarely on his shoulder blade and I broke my hand. It was one of those career-ending injuries. I never fought again. But, hey, what guy doesn't want to get into the ring? The silk shorts pulled up to mid-chest! Attractive women in your corner swabbing your brow! A guy dedicated to just fixing your cuts! That's my corner.

Blankfein would probably have his butler, a maid and a plastic surgeon. And he'd be sitting on moneybags instead of a stool. But we will never know because, as of right now, there is no match. I'm still willing although training time (Yeah, sure) is running out. I don't really know how this battle of the over-the-hills got nixed and I don't know if the word ever got to Blankfein himself. So, this'll be my final plea: Hey, Lloyd, (unless you are a karate champ) let's do it.