nizman

Fulton Street was a mixture of stores, mostly Italian for the length that I considered my neighborhood. The aromas went from heavenly to slightly abusive. If you caught the eye of any merchant you were sure to get a wave and a smile. Most of them knew you by name, which made the walk kind of happy. Except for Mr. Brennen who seemed to think my friends and I all had the same name, “punk.” He was well loved by especially when an errant Spalding would be hit into his store during a punch ball game. His favorite was of returning it would be in sliced up pieces. Yes well loved by all.

The corner candy store was filled with treats, egg creams, one scoop plates of ice cream with syrup, vanilla cokes for five cents; a momentary visit to what must be what heaven is like. Except this place was filled with local wannabes, and the neighborhood bookies. And out in front always stood Frankie who wasn’t quite one of them. He looked like them, talked like them, and dressed like them. I always felt kind of sad for him. Secretly I feared that I might be standing there some day. I moved on. Sadly for Frankie, he didn’t.

Passing face aging much faster than his time trapped image reveals
Roll collar shirt, wide tie, wing tip shoes all display how he feels
His thoughts in slow motion so his words won’t go too fast
The past his present, with his image built to last

Still standing in the spot like a statue, to where the future rushed by
Proud warrior. He hides his broken heart’s urge to cry
Mind wanders back to so many warning words spoken
Standing still, proud, ignoring what it feels to be broken
Every day blends with the next, same ritual, same plan
No pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, for the neighborhood man

I am sure every neighborhood had one guy everyone would talk about. “See him,” they would say, “he could ave been one of the great ones if it wasn’t for…” then they would fill in the blanks. It might have been the war, an injury or some bad choices. “He coulda been great.”

In my neighborhood baseball was the chosen sport of just about every kid. Being younger, we had to wait till the older guys were finished with the field to play, or play on a revised field with shorter fences, and closer bases, everything scaled down. It still was exciting for us. The only time we would stop playing was when Patty was on the field. He could run faster, throw harder, and hit farther than everyone else. We were in awe of him, all of us, even his peers. Even as a kid I admired the way he played the game, never showing off, always relaxed, never rattled. He just loved the game he played so well.

He did not play the rest of life so well however. The lure of drugs was too great for him. The streets were his hang out when he wasn’t on the field. He wasn’t so sure of himself without a glove or a bat. His peers became his idols. Their sins became his. Patty, he coulda been great.

Wiping what he told himself was dust from his eye
Stopping at the ball field he let out a sigh
The images from the past appeared in black and white
Like a newsreel his passion unfolded, his heart ached at the sight
The game he loved so much, now just a memory
The newsreel helped him to remember and lighten his misery
Reaching into the bag he had laid at his side
Pulled out a baseball, donned his faded cap with pride
From the mound hurled a fastball, it rocketed towards the plate
What once was clocked at ninety, now was thirty-eight
Pickimg up his cap, brushed the gray hair back  from his face
“Still got it,” he smiled, walking slow ly from his hallowed place.

Imagination is what makes up much of growing up. It serves to fill in many hours for an only child, or even for a house full of siblings. It can take you anywhere in the world. You can be anyone you want to be, alter any past situation or project into the future.

Most of the games we played were of the times, particularly what was in the movies. We were soldiers, cowboys, Indians, mobsters, cops, and my favorite, a Yankee. Throw the ball against the wall it would come back to me as a grounder with two out and a game on the line. I would call each play in my announcer voice and even cheer for the crowd. Playing actual ball in Brooklyn was an experience, high grace or no grass, many rocks and some gulleys in the outfield. But once I took the field it was Yankee stadium.

Imagination. It helped. You could see what it would be like if you changed where you were, or the way you were. You couldn’t change if you didn’t dream. I wish some of those I loved back then dreamt a little more.

I had a dream some time ago
Twas about a boy and his cape
The way he could duck reality
And use its powers to escape
He could stand atop a mountain
Feel the wind across his face
With one swipe of the magic cape
He could escape a dangerous place
He used it when he was lonely
Or to fight the urge to cry
It also came in handy
When loved ones said goodbye

Now grown, in his pocket a piece of the cape
Perhaps a tribute to adventures gone by
Almost sure it was imagination
Just in case, it can still make him fly.

Memories float above the soul
Lifted by the spirit made higher still
By the good that lives in heart and mind
With added imagination and strong will