When I was a little boy, I time traveled by peeling back
layers of old carpets to an era where people used newspapers to line wooden
floors in The South Bronx. As if handling butterfly wings, I picked up journals
yellowed by decades and marveled at the stories.
I saw a reporter who used my name as his first name and
last. He wrote about Joe Di Maggio holding out for more money from the New York
Yankees and how he wished Jolting Joe would shout for his net worth as one of
the greatest ballplayers in history.
Reading ancient articles made them news again and made me
feel like I had slipped from the floor to the skies of the 1930s. I was so there
walking among the roaring crowd.
Strange that I practically live in the shadow of Yankee
Stadium and could hear the cheers but never once taken to a ballgame. My
mother’s husband was more interested in drinking with his friends and better
with their children than he was with me.
Childhood melancholy gives way to hitting my first homer
to the cheers of teammates in our backyard of scattered grass and cracked
concrete and that battered ball flying over the fence was as close as I would
ever get to The House Babe Ruth Built.
I call this chapter Bronx, Baseball and Beyond. I’m writing
this in an attempt to recover memories lost to head injuries. I aim to touch
all bases before sliding into home.
So far so good…
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