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 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 home run
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…
http://buildingshalom.blogspot.com
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