The Rusty Nail, December 2012
right into high school, even if he didn’t go to the same high school. Why did he agree to attend those lessons his little brother got as a birthday present, but refused to take? No matter now. Despite his best efforts to hide his guitar (he once put it behind a park car when he thought he saw someone he knew) and take every side street between his house on Tremont and the Melody House on South Orange Avenue, the damn bird caught him. Now he was about to shit all over him. “I was walking home.”The bird’s voice was a vicious chirp, a warble that rose from his throat and held every one spell bound. “I turned the corner from Sanford to Tremont. That’s when I saw it. Georgie was walkin’ with Rita DiBelasco.” He took three long struts toward George then gave him a “header,” a three-fingered slap on the forehead. The bench shook with laughter. “Fuck no,” Mario jumped up and down and squeezed himself so hard he started to cough. Chi-Chi ran straight up to George, “Man, like, what were you thinking? Rita DiBelasco is one ugly broad.” Doc looked up from his blade of grass. “She walks with a limp. I think one leg’s shorter than the other.” He went back to his peeling. “She is so you-geh-lie,” the bird said. George could see his brother Ralph frown and shake his head. That was about as verbal as he got when it came to his brother. “She ain’t so bad,” George said in a relieved tone. “I happened to run into her. We were just talkin’. What’s wrong with that?” “She’s a skank, that’s all. You shouldn’t be walkin’ and talkin’ with no skanks,” said Chi-Chi. “I wouldn’t be cawt dead with Wita DiBewasco,” nasaled Victor Beansey. “I’m sure she feels the same about you,” said George. But George was relieved his secret was safe, at least for now. He had three more lessons to take at the Melody House, then he’d see what to do next. Maybe he’d sign up for a few more. Maybe he’d ask Bernie Schneider to give him private lessons. Bernie lived close to George’s house, reducing the risk of being seen by his friends. “Hey, your mother wears combat boots,” Chi-Chi called out to Mario. “Your father’s greasy,” Mario replied with a light rub of his chinos. “Least I got one,” Chi-Chi said. “What’s your father doin'…time?” “Hiking” on each other’s parents was another one of the gang’s rituals, but JayBird quickly cut it short. “So are we gonna’ play or what?” “Or what, jackass, of course we’re gonna play.” ChiChi picked up Ralph’s Louisville slugger and swung it a few times. “I told yous. We’re waitin’ for some of the Irish dudes from Blessed Sacrament.” “Those guy’s ain’t comin’,” Ralph said. “Let’s just choose up sides and play. We got six of us.” “I told you already. Seven. We got seven.” Doc stopped mutilating the grass for a moment. “If you count your brother," he added, turning away and looking on the ground for another ripe, juicy blade. Ralph gave George a blank look then reached down to tie the lace on his right sneaker.
“Alright, then let’s do the steady pitcher, two guys in the infield and one in the outfield.” Ralph finished with his sneaker and looked at everyone for his reaction. “Let’s just fweakin’ play,” Beansey said. “Looks like today’s yawr day. Yaw’re in,” he said with a sudden look at George. The gang was practically all in agreement when ChiChi pointed to a group of guys crossing Tremont Avenue and heading directly for the park. They were still a long way off, but Mario remarked that he thought he saw bats and gloves and someone tossing a ball. After a few seconds, the Blessed Sacrament boys came into full view. George started furiously counting the number of players as they got closer. “Two, four, eight…shit!" He thought. Eight plus our seven…15, an uneven number. He ran his fingers through his hair and desperately looked around the park. There had to be another person around, to make the sides even. That way, he would have to play. They couldn’t make him a steady catcher or pitcher, like they had done so many times before. He’d have to be on a team and have a position (usually right field) and get his ups at bat. Every trip to the park or the playground for a game was a knot in George’s stomach. Even if he played, he had to bear the brunt of his team’s wrath if he missed a fly ball or let a ground ball go between his legs. “You’re shit!” they would tell him. “My little sister plays better than you.” Still, he could bear the taunts, which everyone quickly forgot after the game. He couldn’t bear the humiliation of not being picked. That’s why the head count was so critical…it had to be even. Jimmy Savage led the Blessed Sacrament pack and began swinging his bat wildly as he got closer. “Hey, what are you wops doin’?” These were the Irish kids and there was naturally a little tension between the two groups. George felt himself instinctively take about a half-step back. Jimmy’s curly blond hair fell over his freckled forehead as he waved the bat back and forth as though warding off an enemy. “Shut up, Mick!” one of George’s friends shouted. “Who you callin’ a Mick?” The response came from someone inside the Blessed Sacrament pack. Jimmy took his bat and used it like a cane. He put his hand on his hip and struck a pose. “Well, listen to that. I say we settle this on the ball field.” Everyone relaxed, the rival neighborhood posturing now over. “Our eight guys against your eight,” Jimmy challenged. “Let’s go.” “Hold on, Savage, we only got seven.” Ralph gestured to the guys standing around him. Jimmy frowned and started counting heads with his eyes. He came to George who promptly looked away. He was about to say something when JayBird started jumping up and down pointing down toward the Joker Lounge. A drunk was coming out of the door to the bar at the time. “Look at the rummy,” Jimmy said. “No,” said the Bird. “Behind him. Look who’s comin’.” Everyone followed the Bird’s extended arm to the barrel-chested figure walking adjacent to the Joker Lounge. He wore a madras shirt, which he let hang outside of his tan shorts. He wore white sneakers, no socks and his thin blond hair was parted to one side. He 80