Chuck said simply, “I think for many of us it was one of the happiest times of our life.”
I believed him. The catastrophe had instilled in many—though not in me—a state of elation. From the beginning, for example, I’d suspected that, beneath all the tears and the misery, Rachel’s leaving had basically been a function of euphoria.
Now we were passing the great downtown vacancy, lit up like a stadium by the faint glow of construction floodlights, and the doomed Deutsche Bank Building on Liberty Street, which, with its mournful, poetical drape of black netting, was the object on which the eye helplessly rested.
“Anyhow,” Chuck continued, “inside the pier is a giant courtyard with two artificial soccer fields. When I found out the whole place was slated for total redevelopment, I had an idea. Why not, I thought, why not—”
He paused and adjusted his Yankees cap. “I have a question for you.”
“Fire away,” I said.
“How many West Indians would you say lived in the New York area? English-speaking West Indians, now: I’m not talking about Haitians and Dominicans and what have you.”
I told him that I had no idea.
“Well, let me enlighten you,” Chuck said, waving to the frozen cop who guarded the Battery Tunnel turnoff. “According to the 2000 census, five hundred thousand. You can safely add fifty percent: so we’re talking about seven hundred and fifty thousand, maybe even a million, and growing. We had sixty percent growth in the 1990s alone. And by the way, West Indians have a better socioeconomic profile than Hispanics, and a way better one than African Americans. But that’s not the exciting part. The Indian”—he banged a hand against the wheel—“population in NYC has grown by eighty-one percent in the last ten years. The Pakistani”—another bang—“numbers have gone up by one hundred and fifty percent, and the Bangladeshis, wait for it, five hundred percent. In New Jersey they’re overrun with South Asians. Fort Lee, Jersey City, Hoboken, Secaucus, Hackensack, Englewood: Navratri celebrations in these towns can bring out twenty thousand people. It’s the same in New Brunswick, Edison, Metuchen. I’m telling you, I’ve done the research. I’ve got all the numbers. And if you think they’re coming to mop floors and drive taxis, you’re wrong. They’re coming to make real money—high tech, pharmaceuticals, electronics, health care. There’s almost half a million South Asians in New York alone. Have you ever visited the Newcomers School in Astoria? All the kids are from Pakistan. You know what they do in their spare time, these kids? They play cricket. They play at Dutch Kills playground, over by P.S. 112, they play in vacant lots, they play in schoolyards up and down Queens and Brooklyn. Just down the block from me, at P.S. 139, you’ll see boys and girls with cricket bats, even in the snow. If I took you there now, I could show you the wicket they’ve drawn on the wall.” He grinned. “You see where I’m going with this.”
“You want to build a cricket stadium,” I said. I made no attempt to hide my amusement.
“That’s right,” Chuck said. “But not at Pier 40. That was my first decision. There’s no way they’re going to let a bunch of black guys take over prime Manhattan real estate. Hate the word ‘stadium,’ by the way,” Chuck said importantly. We were exiting the yellow gloom of the Battery Tunnel, whose old tiled walls invariably put me in mind of a urinal. “Stadium spells trouble. Just ask Mike Bloomberg. I’m talking about an arena. A sports arena for the greatest cricket teams in the world. Twelve exhibition matches every summer, watched by eight thousand spectators at fifty dollars a pop. I’m talking about advertising, I’m talking about year-round consumption of food and drink in the bar-restaurant. You’re going to have a clubhouse. Two thousand members at one thousand dollars a year plus initiation fee. Tennis, squash,
I believed him. The catastrophe had instilled in many—though not in me—a state of elation. From the beginning, for example, I’d suspected that, beneath all the tears and the misery, Rachel’s leaving had basically been a function of euphoria.
Now we were passing the great downtown vacancy, lit up like a stadium by the faint glow of construction floodlights, and the doomed Deutsche Bank Building on Liberty Street, which, with its mournful, poetical drape of black netting, was the object on which the eye helplessly rested.
“Anyhow,” Chuck continued, “inside the pier is a giant courtyard with two artificial soccer fields. When I found out the whole place was slated for total redevelopment, I had an idea. Why not, I thought, why not—”
He paused and adjusted his Yankees cap. “I have a question for you.”
“Fire away,” I said.
“How many West Indians would you say lived in the New York area? English-speaking West Indians, now: I’m not talking about Haitians and Dominicans and what have you.”
I told him that I had no idea.
“Well, let me enlighten you,” Chuck said, waving to the frozen cop who guarded the Battery Tunnel turnoff. “According to the 2000 census, five hundred thousand. You can safely add fifty percent: so we’re talking about seven hundred and fifty thousand, maybe even a million, and growing. We had sixty percent growth in the 1990s alone. And by the way, West Indians have a better socioeconomic profile than Hispanics, and a way better one than African Americans. But that’s not the exciting part. The Indian”—he banged a hand against the wheel—“population in NYC has grown by eighty-one percent in the last ten years. The Pakistani”—another bang—“numbers have gone up by one hundred and fifty percent, and the Bangladeshis, wait for it, five hundred percent. In New Jersey they’re overrun with South Asians. Fort Lee, Jersey City, Hoboken, Secaucus, Hackensack, Englewood: Navratri celebrations in these towns can bring out twenty thousand people. It’s the same in New Brunswick, Edison, Metuchen. I’m telling you, I’ve done the research. I’ve got all the numbers. And if you think they’re coming to mop floors and drive taxis, you’re wrong. They’re coming to make real money—high tech, pharmaceuticals, electronics, health care. There’s almost half a million South Asians in New York alone. Have you ever visited the Newcomers School in Astoria? All the kids are from Pakistan. You know what they do in their spare time, these kids? They play cricket. They play at Dutch Kills playground, over by P.S. 112, they play in vacant lots, they play in schoolyards up and down Queens and Brooklyn. Just down the block from me, at P.S. 139, you’ll see boys and girls with cricket bats, even in the snow. If I took you there now, I could show you the wicket they’ve drawn on the wall.” He grinned. “You see where I’m going with this.”
“You want to build a cricket stadium,” I said. I made no attempt to hide my amusement.
“That’s right,” Chuck said. “But not at Pier 40. That was my first decision. There’s no way they’re going to let a bunch of black guys take over prime Manhattan real estate. Hate the word ‘stadium,’ by the way,” Chuck said importantly. We were exiting the yellow gloom of the Battery Tunnel, whose old tiled walls invariably put me in mind of a urinal. “Stadium spells trouble. Just ask Mike Bloomberg. I’m talking about an arena. A sports arena for the greatest cricket teams in the world. Twelve exhibition matches every summer, watched by eight thousand spectators at fifty dollars a pop. I’m talking about advertising, I’m talking about year-round consumption of food and drink in the bar-restaurant. You’re going to have a clubhouse. Two thousand members at one thousand dollars a year plus initiation fee. Tennis, squash,
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