“Jack Keane is recalling the days when he’d be threatened with physical violence for televising football in New York City. How dare you show that shit? shouted an instigator, some drunk East Village punk who was offended at the sight of the game. Don’t you know where you fucking are? ‘He grabbed me by the collar over the bar,’ Keane remembers. ‘He didn’t like me much, I’ll tell you that.’ This was the mid-’90s, when Manhattan’s East Village still had an extra layer of Giuliani-era grit to it and Nevada Smiths, the bar on Third Avenue that Keane ran, was the only place in town showing European football. ‘It was a completely different neighborhood,’ he says. ‘Filled with fucking crazy people. Cars being broken into, drug deals on the streets. It was a different era.’” 8 of 8