STROBEL: Friendly arm-twister Mort Greenberg dies at 89
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It’s like Santa Claus just died.
Around noon Saturday, with 248 shopping days ’til Christmas, Mort Greenberg breathed his last at the old Toronto East General.
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He was a few hours past his 89th birthday.
Regular readers know Mort as the Gordie Howe of Toronto sports charity.
He raised $800,000 over the decades, including for my Sun Christmas Fund for Variety Village.
He did this by putting the arm on his army of famous friends, including, well, Gordie Howe.
At Mort’s 80th birthday bash in 2009, at Zupa’s deli on Adelaide, a Toronto sports fan would have been forgiven for fainting.
I sat between George Armstrong, captain of the last Leafs’Stanley Cup squad and Brian Williams, TV’s Olympics maestro.
Mort met them all as a CBC cameraman who, among other things, helped promote curling as more than a fringe sport. (Some might say he succeeded.)
Oh, and James Dean still owes him 17 cents. They were theatre school mates in California and the future film idol borrowed gas money. He could have asked another student, comedienne Carol Burnett, but I guess Mort looked likelier.
Later, of course, James Dean died, aged 24, in the wreckage of his Porsche. Mort fared much better.
He was an opera nut who could sing any aria you named, and was pals with celebrated Swedish soprano Birgit Nilsson.
He introduced her to Harpo Marx, of all people.
Wish I’d been there.
“Birgit, meet Harpo. Harpo, Birgit.”
You get the idea. Mort Greenberg was a true Renaissance man.
I last saw him in January, after he’d passed along a record $11,000 for my Variety Village fund – thanks to nephew Sheldon Ehrenworth and friend Elizabeth Shelton, who took the torch from his failing hand.
Mort was even frailer than usual, the bone-twisting ravages of Paget’s disease in full bloom, his body beginning to shut down, his mind to wander a bit, though still plenty sharp and cranky.
Still, you could picture mighty “Mutt” Greenberg who in the 1940s pitched a no-hitter and stroked three home runs in a 3-0 win for the legendary Lizzies. Babe Ruth never did such a thing.
The Lizzies were an amateur team made up mainly of Jewish guys from the West End, including Major St., where Mort spent his whole life.
Did I say life? I meant LIFE.
If you measure a man by his friends, Mort Greenberg, Paget’s disease notwithstanding, was Goliath.
From Gordie and Colleen Howe to Wayne Gretzky to Rat Packer Peter Lawford to boxing champ George Chuvalo to violinist Itzhak Perlman to countless curling buddies to neighbourhood kids whose education Mort secretly helped finance …
Few celebrities said no when he asked for their charity with one of his famous Christmas cards. Our Christmas Fund, the Star’s Santa Claus Fund, Kids Help Phone, Special Olympics and others are deep in his debt.
But I will always think of Mort Greenberg, the great doggerel poet, who could turn a rhyme on a dime. Here’s the first sing-song verse he ever spouted at me, still my favourite: “Why does the chicken cross the street? It’s such a curious notion. Would I be somewhat indiscreet if I deemed it an artful feat? Behold, it’s pure poultry in motion.”
Eat your heart out, Shakespeare.
I hope God likes doggerel. Services for Mort Greenberg begin at 2:30 p.m.
Tuesday at Benjamin’s Park Memorial Chapel, 2401 Steeles Ave. W. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the Abrahamson Fund, Michael Garron Hospital Foundation.
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