Adrian Del Valle - Diego's Brooklyn Page 4

  From inside the Lion’s huddle, Charlie had something he wanted to say first. “I doubt if those two ol’ farts can even run. They don’t have Hector, so this is gonna be a piece o’ cake. When the old guys get to bat, make sure you all move in, you hear?”

  “Yeah, like they’re gonna get a hit in the first place,” Butchie quipped.

  The game went well for the Lions. By the fifth inning they were ahead by three runs. At the bottom of the fifth, with two on base, Mr. D’avino grabbed the bat. He played baseball all his life, but had a hard time hitting a pink rubber ball with a bat that was no more than an inch thick.

  “Come on Mr. D, get a homerun,” Larry shouted.

  “Donta you worry. I’m a think I gotta the hang of it thisa time.”

  Butchie shouted to him, “Yeah, Grandpa, like you did the last two times at bat, right? Ha, ha!”

  “Aw, shut up Butchie,” The Chubs boldly yelled back.

  “You gonna make me?” Butchie shouted, taking a couple of steps toward Larry before two teammates stopped him.

  Butchie’s dad is a member of an Irish gang of thugs that make their money through extortion and control all of downtown Brooklyn. They have no affiliation with the Irish “Hell’s Kitchen” gang in Manhattan other than an amicable association.

  Waiting for their turn at bat, Bill said to Diego, “That boy out there is as sharp as a bowling ball.”

  “And that isn’t very sharp, right, Bill?” Diego replied, chuckling.

  “Not very…and not only that, if his brains was gas, he wouldn’t have enough to run a go cart ‘roun’ a Cheerio.”

  Diego liked the old man, but once Hector was back, convincing Leroy to keep him on the team would be another matter.

  “Come on, what are you guys waitin’ for?” Charlie yelled. “Let’s play!”

  Mr. D’avino tossed the ball into the air, let it bounce once and gave it all he had.

  Larry shouted, “That’s a tip ball. That don’t count, Mr. D. You go again.” He liked calling the shots. He liked it even better than playing the game.

  Again, Mr. D’avino tossed the ball up, let it bounce and swung.

  “You missed Grandpa. Maybe you better sit down and rest awhile,” said one of the Lion’s.

  “That’s right! Maybe you better retire,” another said, followed by more snickering. “One more and you’re out!”

  What no one there knew was that Mr. D’avino was once a minor league player back in Italy. At the time he was voted most valuable player three years in a row. He also played well for the Bensonhurst team, mostly older Italians like himself, but that was hardball.

  Setting himself, Mr. D took his time and then tossed the ball in the air. Bounce! Whack! As everyone there gaped open mouthed, the pinky sliced left and sailed over the tops of the trees two thirds of the way to Bond Street on the next corner. It surprised them all, all of them except for Mr. D’avino, of course.

  “Holy shit! Man, I ain’t never seen a ball hit that far,” Butchie said. “And never by an old man, neither!”

  Charlie yelled, “Damn! A home run and two already on base. Crap! Now the scores even, tied up five to five. I don’t believe this is happening.”

  Diego addressed Bill. “Did you know that back in ‘55, Willie Mays used to spend his spare time playing stick ball with the kids up in the Bronx?”

  “Wasn’t that before he went into the Army?”

  “Yes, when he played with the Giants. Well…he used to be known as a four sewer hitter. Now, that’s about two city blocks, isn’t it?”

  “Sho is. He’s a southern boy, too. Birmingham.”

  “Birmingham? Where’s that?”

  “Alabamy.”

  Bill himself, was unstoppable when he covered first base. Nothing the Lions hit his way got past him. And he had no problem catching Jerry’s fast ball thrown all the way from outfield. By the bottom of the ninth they were still at a five to five stalemate.

  “When are you going to let Jose hit,” Larry screamed.

  “Right now,” said Leroy.

  “Good!” said Diego. “It’s about time!”

  As he scanned the opposing team, Diego envisioned the heavy steel doors of a barn opening wide to unleash the prize bull, the same bull that was painted on Jose’s stick. Riding on the bull’s shoulders was Senor Jose, the El Paso Kid. He had his batting stick in his grip as they charged across home plate to slam the ball to the end of the block.

  “Do it, Jose! Remember the Alamo!” Larry yelled.

  For the last fifteen minutes, Jose had done nothing but loosen up and swing his custom made bat through the air. The broom stick was cut at exactly the right length, with Jesus Christ painted on the top of it between two, blue bands to represent heaven. At the business part of the bat, where the stick meets the ball, a black, snorting bull with red eyes stood ready to charge. Brown tarantulas, black scorpions and green, prickly pear cacti, adorned the rest of it.

  Waiting to score on third is, Jiminy Cricket. On second, the Giraffe towered over the manhole like a street light.

  At the forefront of the pothole, and as cool as an illegal swimming across the Rio Grande, the El Paso Kid, a normally quiet sort, smiled and pointed his bat toward Bond Street. “Kiss this ball goodbye, suckers.”

  “Fuck you, Jose,” Butchie shouted. “You couldn’t hit a refried bean off the tip of your nose.”

  “Stop cursing, Butchie,” Diego scolded. “Can’t you see there’s little kids out here?”

  “Yeah, right! Like that’s somethin’ they haven’t heard before.”

  Jose wet his forefinger and stuck it in the air. “Three degrees to the left and forty five degrees as the hypotenuse flies…no problem.”

  “Aw, stop the bullshit, beano,” Butchie yelled.

  Jose bounced the pinky against the pavement. He had his own style. Once set, he liked to let the ball bounce twice before swinging. The added second allowed more time to nail it just right. Jose knew he could make Bond Street, the goal was to not hit the ball foul. He took a full breath and stretched his batting arm. He swung the stick in a wide circle a few times, laid it across his right shoulder and tossed the ball into the air.

  Somewhere far away, in a place about two thousand miles to the southwest of Brooklyn and deep inside the Lone Star State, a powerful, snorting bull raked its hooves into dry Texas dust.

  Bounce! Bounce! Slam!

  “Holy burritos! How the hell did he do that?” Butchie shrieked, watching the ball sail well above the trees and clear across Bond Street.

  Charlie’s head lowered. He rubbed his neck and swallowed the lump in his throat. “Welp, I guess that’s the game fellas.”

  With their arms wrapped around one another, Jiminy Cricket and the Giraffe feigned two girls as they swayed sashaying hips from side to side. The casual walk home was a long drawn out affair with the top of Jimmy’s head barely reaching the bottom of Jerry’s chest. It was a comical sight, ‘though not so for the Lions.

  Jimmy ethereally waved a delicate hand through the air and effeminately said, “Tsk! Tsk! Oh, Jeremiah, you don’t suppothe we hurt the feelings of those two little boys over there, do you?”

  Jerry checked behind at Butchie and Charlie, and with the best impersonation of Maryilyn Monroe he could muster, eagerly chimed in. “Oh, I do hope so, my dear Jimmy, too bad, isn’t it?”

  Reaching the pot hole, the pair hovered over it momentarily before tagging home plate.

  “Oh, Jeremiah?”

  “Yes, Jimmy?”

  “Should I touch home, first?”

  “Oh please do, you thilly savage, you.”

  Jimmy gently dipped his right toe beyond the top edge of the pot hole.

  “Tsk! Tsk! Oh, it tickles. There, Jeremiah, now you.”

  “How exciting. Now don’t let me fall in that awful hole. Heeeere I go. Oh deary me.”

  To make it all legal, Jerry touched the edge of the pot hole, with The El Paso Kid walking home at the same time.

&nbs
p; In the middle of all the happy faces, Mrs. D’avino poured cream soda in paper cups for each of the boys. Beulah passed out her home baked, chocolate chip cookies. It was a great day for the Kings as they each slapped five with their two, new rooky players. For a long time afterwards, it would be a game no one would forget.

  The following morning, Sunday, Diego gathered in front of his stoop with Larry, Jerry, Jose and Jimmy.

  “I’m super ready. I got my bathing suit on right now,” said Larry.

  “Me, too,” said Jerry.

  “Nah, mines in the bag,” Jose chimed in. “I’ll change when I get there. I’m not wearin’ a wet bathing suit home.”

  “How much do we have between us?” asked Diego.

  Jimmy checked. “I ain’t got but a token on me.”

  Larry searched his pockets. “I have a quarter, but I’m saving it for the movies. Why? Whaddya need money for?”

  “I figured we put our money together to get a pizza later on,” said Diego. “We’re gonna be awfully hungry. Remember the last time?”

  Jose shook his head and grinned. “Yeah, when Larry ate that half eaten chocolate bar he found in the street?”

  Jerry laughed. “I remember that. It had ants all over it and he hogged it all. Not that I would’ve eaten any.”

  “Hey, I brushed the ants off first,” Larry retorted. “You wanted a piece too, Jerry. You was droolin’ all over me. Don’t you remember?”

  “Ha, ha, that’s right. Jerry wanted some, too. He even begged for it,” said Jimmy.

  “Aw, shut up, man,” said Jerry, pushing him.

  Bill waved from across the street. “Fine game we had yesterday, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, “Diego shouted. “Hey, do you want to go swimming with us?”

  “Aw shit, Diego! What’d you go and do that for?” Larry grumbled.

  “Swimmin’? Where at y’all boys goin’ to go swimmin’?”

  “Pier 34. Same place we always go. Come on…go with us!” said Diego.

  “Wale…I ain’t got no bathin’ suit.”

  “So go in with your jeans,” said Jerry, waving Bill over. “They’ll be dry by the time you get home, Mr. J.”

  “It sho is a hot one out here. Sho ‘nough is. I’ll be ready in a minute. Jus’ soons I puts this broom back.”

  The long walk toward the piers took them to the end of Dean Street where the name changed to Amity. They continued through the northern-most end of the Italian neighborhood of Cobble Hill on their left. To the right, a mix of Scandinavian, Polish and Irish families occupied the surrounding streets and had for generations. Among them, newly arrived Syrians huddled mostly on Pacific Street, between Court and Henry.

  Mr. Jackson and the boys continued down Atlantic Avenue toward the river. At the very end, a fence blocked their way so they stayed on Furman Street, walked about a half mile and went left. The side street soon changed to a gravel road which continued over the water in the form of a pier supported by pilings. A weather faded sign before it read:

  PIER 34

  NO TRESSPASSING

  Driven deep into the mud during the thirties and the hustle bustle days of factories and unchecked growth, the piers along the Brooklyn side of the East River now stood as forlorn monuments to that lost and prosperous past.

  Bill shook his head at all of the broken glass and debris scattered about. Clumps of grass and dandelions had a stronghold inside the cracks, with the smell of creosote permeating the air. Another odor that came from the water itself, smelled stale with a hint of decay. A thin, rainbow hew from oil, floated on the surface. Bobbing in the shallow ripples was a condom, floating like an expired sea slug, its mouth left agape as if from its final death throws. Long abandoned, rusty barges lined many of the other piers with sumac trees growing out of their fractures. Empty warehouses, most of the windows broken, lined the surrounding blocks. Strewn about their empty lots were stripped cars of almost every conceivable make and size, the doors and engines missing from many of them. Across the sidewalks and the cobble stone street were bald tires, fenders and chrome trim along with broken bottles.

  “My, my, and another o my. This here ain’t ‘zactly Holler Crick back at ol’ Stenson’s farm.”

  “This is a great spot,” said Jose. “You can even see the Statue of Liberty.”

  “So this here be yo’ swimmin’ pool?”

  “Ain’t it great?” said Larry, splashing water at Jimmy.

  “Boys…you can stick a cat into the oven, but that sho don’t make it a biscuit.”

  “There’s Manhattan!” said Jerry.

  “Yes, suh! I sees it. An’ right there be the Brooklyn Bridge, ain’t that so?”

  “The Staten Island Ferry! Over that way, Mr. J!”

  “So it is, Jerra. I ain’t never been on that boat.”

  “It only cost a token…fifteen cents.”

  “Fifteen cent? Is yawl sho?”

  “Yes, fifteen, that’s all it is,” said Larry.

  “Wale, I do believe me an’ the missus might just’ take us a cruise on that ol’ boat.”

  “If you don’t get off, you can go back to Manhattan for free.” Diego said. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Me, too,” Jose added.

  “When is yawl goin’ in that water, Diego? You is as dry as a bum settin’ outside a closed bar on a Sunday mornin’.”

  “I’m waiting for you!”

  “Me! “Hell, I sho don’t wanta swallow up none of that there water none.”

  “Why?” said Larry. “I see ducks in here all the time. And people fish here, lots of people come to fish…even at night.”

  “That so? Does you ever see them fish aglowin’ all green like? That right there could be a clue.”

  “Ha! No, really, lots of ducks hang around here.”

  “Funny, I don’t see nary a one.”

  “Tides out,” said Larry, “that’s why.”

  “What y’all boys don‘t know, is if’ns thems ducks you be claimin’ to see? Be the same ones that were there the day befo’. They might o’ glowed just like them fishes you was talkin’ ‘bout and been a settin’ all sick like at the bottom of that river a quackin’ for theys momma.”

  Diego stood on top of a piling.

  He scanned the river and its banks, while under his feet, all he saw was the wooden deck of a spanish galleon. Foamy white caps lapped abreast and washed over the forecastle, rocking the mighty ship from side to side. Below the distant horizon, in the final, fiery glow of sunset, the fierce bow of an English brigantine, chased through the waves to find him.

  Diego, the pirate, drew an ornate saber from its sheath, its glistening reflective light, sweeping across the oak planks like a flash of lightening. He ordered his helmsman to come about and shouted to make ready the ship’s canons—a double row of 40 carronades—32 pounders, scavenged from an English warship.

  “Hey, you guys know about the kid that drowned out here last year?” he asked.

  “What kid?” said Jerry.

  “Yeah, what kid?” Larry wanted to know.

  “A kid dove off one of these piers near here…and you know those big, metal milk cans?”

  “Like the ones they use at the Borden Dairy down the street from us?” Bill asked.

  “Yeah, only it was a four foot one. Well, the can was under the water sitting upright at the bottom and when the kid dove in, his head hit the can with so much force, it went right inside. It was wedged in so tight, he couldn’t pull it back out.”

  Larry found that frightening. “Did he drown?”

  “Well, whaddya think,” Jose snapped.

  Larry’s head shook vigorously. “I’m not diving, that’s all. I’ll go in, but I’m not diving. The heck with that. Hey Jimmy! I’m swimming to the end of the pier.”

  “I’ll beat ya,” Jimmy shouted.

  Bill walked to the end to meet them and to watch the ferry make its way against the tide toward its berth at Battery Park.

  Jerry came alongside. />
  “I thought yawl was still in the water, Jerra?”

  “I’d rather stand here with you, Mr. Jackson. I like looking across the river at all those skyscrapers in Manhattan. The way they seem to come up right out of the water like that…that’s really keen.”

  “Is you never been on that ferry nayther?”

  “Nope! My mother doesn’t go anywhere.”

  “What about yo’ dadda?”

  “He works a lot of hours. I don’t see him much and when I do he’s either on his way to work, or on his way to bed.”

  “Ah sees what you mean. Wale…you can go with us when we take the cruise. Yawl want to come?”

  “Wow! That would be great, Mr. J. I’ll ask my mom.”

  “Yawl do that, son. Let me know, ya hear? Now doncha swaller up non o’ that there water.”

  Tall and lanky, the sight of Jerry running to jump in seemed comical. Bill didn’t laugh.

  Now that’s a nice boy.

  “Aren’t you going in,” said Larry, wiping the brackish water from his eyes.

  “No, son, but I sees that Jimmy beat you to the end.”

  “That’s because I let him.”

  Jimmy smirked. “You’re a sap, Larry. I beat you fair and square and you know it. Watch me beat him back, Mr. J.”

  The afternoon went by quickly. By late afternoon, everyone had built up an appetite. On the way home, they started to take the same streets, but turned right onto Clinton for no better reason than to go a different way. They were soon walking through the Italian neighborhood of Carol Gardens.

  “This is a nice neighborhood,” said Jose.

  With the cool down of late afternoon, and it being Sunday, there were a lot of people outside, sitting on stoops to get away from the heat of hot apartments. Large trees gave ample shade and everyone seemed to know one another. Folks sat at tables filled with snacks and liquid refreshments or leaned over fences in conversation. No one said hello or waved or acknowledged the boys or Mr. Jackson’s presence in any way.

  “That guy over there keeps staring at us,” said Larry.

  “So don’t look at him,” said Diego.

  Jimmy turned from looking at the same guy. “You know what? There’s a couple of guys talking to him right now, and they’re all looking this way.”