My Father's Heroes: Forgive Us Father, for We Have Sinned

trip!

Chapter 1

So it begins

This book is about my life with my father, Salvatore who in turn was my hero. He was known as Sally to his family and friends. These are my memoirs. It tells the stories that were his, which in turn became mine.

This is a story about a time and place that can never again be. It was a time when baseball players played for the love of the game. It was a time when people fought to put food on the table. You could not even think about owning a home or a car. We learned what was going on in the world by radio or newspaper, no TVs.

We did not own a phone. There was a coin phone on the first floor of the apartment building for the use of tenants without one, which were most. Someone on the first floor would answer it, and then ring your bell three time as a signal you had a call. The chances were the call would be bad news, a death or sickness of a loved one, something of great importance, which could not wait for a letter to be written. It cost money to use the phone.

My father never had a driver’s license. I never saw him or my mother eat out, except for one time. That was for rich people. He called homeowners chooches, because they never stopped working on their homes. He would walk with me on Sunday and show me the homeowners fixing something. There was always something to fix. Truth is he saw the depression. Saw people lose everything. He wasn’t going to let that happen to him. He lived his whole life in fear of not having enough money to feed and clothe his family.

I know times were supposed to be good during and after the war. Not for our family, he was a furrier, a cutter, but he would qualify that with saying, He worked on the shit. The Rabbit, Squirrel, Raccoon and sometimes he said, The skins look like cat or dog. The real shit. He worked piece-meal. That meant you were paid by the piece. Each piece that was cut to a pattern would be worth so much. So the faster you worked, the longer you worked, the more pieces you cut, the more you would make. There was no overtime, no holidays, no sick-days, and most important, no medical coverage. Therefore, when there were skins to be cut, you started as early as you could, and stayed as late as you could. That meant Saturday and Sunday too.

The most important thing was that the work was seasonal. Therefore, you worked as much as you could, because one day you would get to work and find out there were no more skins to cut. It would just stop, so he would bank as much as he could for when the work stopped.

After so many years of doing this work, he would have an idea when it would stop. Usually it was around the middle of June. Just in time for real baseball.

The workday was 12-14 hours long when you had work. The radio and newspapers were the way that communications took place. There were no things such as anti-depressants, tranquilizers and sleep-aids. Who could afford them? Most people were too busy with life to be unhappy. They took pleasure in the simple things in life.

I have to tell my life story to tell you his. About his heroes, and how I finally realized, he was mine. It all started out in the Bronx where I was born in Hudson Hospital on the Grand Concourse. Dr. P. J. Le Porti delivered me. He was a short, stout, tough man, a relative on my mother’s side. I think he was a cousin of some kind. He was looked up to, by the family; after all, he had completed medical school in a time of the Black Hand, as the Mafia was referred to back then.

Later in life I was told the story of my name, they fought like hell, my father wanted to name me after his father, Francesco but we were in America now, so they all went back and forth, Americanized it and came up with Franco. I lived with that name until I got my nickname, Frankie, that was started later by my mother, she thought it sounded softer.

I’m writing this from memory and will tend to ramble around a bit, but bear with me; it will get a lot fucking better as I go along. Among my earliest recollections was waking each morning to my parents yelling. They would begin in English then switch to Italian, thinking I didn’t understand the language. The other was the fighting going on in the world at that time.

I remember one warm night when I was about 4 years old sitting on the windowsill with my mother, Josephine, referred to as Josie. It was a clear night. Pollution and smog had yet to become a big problem.

We lived on Bathgate Avenue. To the left was 179th street, where there was a huge hill looking down to Third Avenue. That’s where the 3rd Avenue El ran. About 100 feet from our apartment, there was a bit of a curve there. Talk about noise. When the fucking train went by, the whole ground shook. Sparks flew. The buildings shook, and should an uptown and a downtown train cross, just double the noise. The same was true at night, and yet I slept as if nothing in the world was wrong.

Now, at night, a fly on the wall farts, I’m up for the rest of the fucking night.

Our apartment was on the third floor, in the rear of the building, which was 2 stories higher than the buildings on Third Avenue. It consisted of three small rooms, with some of the windows facing windows in the nearby buildings. The bathroom window was only about five feet away, facing the back apartment house. Next was a bedroom with one window looking at the same apartment house, the other window looking to the south overlooking short two and three story row homes, the living room faced south and had two windows. The kitchen’s one window looked directly into the bedrooms of the three-story row home that was about three feet away.

I slept in the living room on a folding bed, which was stored in the only closet in the room. It was great. The bed was covered in the daytime by something my mother had made. At night, it was wheeled out next to the couch, and opened, clean sheets and pillowcases were put on the bed every day. It was like living in a hotel. My mother hand washed all the clothes and linens every day, and hung them on a clothesline, which ran from our kitchen window to a pole that was about 40 feet away. It was great. Yeah right, until I turned 13. Boy, kids talk about privacy now, the things I wanted to do in private, could not be done.

I can remember one night when I was about four and a half, sitting on a pillow on the living room windowsill with my mother. She explained that this was a black out, and we were looking for German planes, which would drop bombs in the Bronx and burn us all up. From where we were looking out of, you could see all the way south to the Empire State Building with its red light on top. Some blackout, between the Third Avenue El, with its sparks and lights, and the lights on the tall buildings in the city, you would have to be a blind pilot not to see where to drop the bombs.

I didn’t seem to give a shit. I was four and a half, but bright for a child that age, Colombo bright. I knew more than I was supposed to know, but I never let anybody know how smart I was. Somehow, I knew no German bombs would be dropped on the Bronx that night. I think Adolf Hitler had a little more on his fucked-up mind.

People and parents expected big things from smart kids. I had my own world, and nobody was going to take it from me. This was going to be my secret, and I would fight to keep it that way. Nobody would take this God given gift from me. No matter how smart you are, keep it to yourself, people, teachers, and especially parents, expect so much more from smart kids, especially their own, and it never ends. You could have done better.

On to Bathgate, there was a candy store on the southeast corner of 178th; working your way down the street was St. John’s Parochial School, (Cat-lick school). I would get to know St. Johns very well, what a fucking hellhole it would turn out to be for me. Then Fox’s Funeral Home, a couple of stores then Tremont Avenue. Directly across the street starting at Tremont was the 48th Police Precinct, where I spent a few horrifying nights.

Then started Saint John’s Church and the Rectory, where I would commit a horrendous act that would change my life forever. The Convent came next. All three buildings were connected thru various tunnels and hidden doorways.

My parents married when he was thirty-nine and she was thirty-eight, both having been raised in the Bronx, he from the mostly Italian and Irish High-Bridge section, and she from Morris Park, which was predominantly Italian.

My father was short, stocky, and muscular. He was a dead ringer for the actor, Lloyd Nolan, a famous actor of that time, who starred in, A Hat Full of Rain with Don Murray and Anthony Franciosa, a cousin of my mother.

My father loved the Yankees, and especially the Italian ball players. From that comes the name of this book. His favorite ball player was Tony Lazzeri, hero number one. Lazzeri played second base for the Yankees from 1926 to 1937. He was nicknamed Poosh 'Em Up Tony by Italian-speaking fans, from a mistranslation of an Italian phrase meaning to hit it out (hit a home run).

Story has it Joe DiMaggio (another hero, also Italian) called him Wop, and the reason Joe D came to the Yankees, so it was said, was because of Lazzeri. Lazzeri once drove in 11 runs in one game with two grand slams. The reason nobody paid much attention to him was that he was on the Yankee teams call Murderers’ Row, a team with Ruth and Gehrig. He being traded to the national league in 1938, the year I was born. He died in 1946 at the age of 43.

My father cried that day. He said, He should be in the Hall of Fame. It only took 45 years, and the Veterans Committee to do it, too late for my father to see.

I remember seeing a picture of my father in a baseball uniform with his hands on his knees, glove on his left hand, and the name on the uniform unreadable. Written at the bottom of the photograph, it simply said Sally playing second base, semipro High-bridge, Bronx N.Y. No wonder Lazzeri was his hero, a fellow second baseman.

My father came to this country when he was ten years old, did not speak a word of English, but the first thing he did, was to learn to say, I Do Not Speak English, without an accent. Since I was able to understand the spoken word, he never had any accent, knew English fluently, spoke pure Italian, not slang, the Italian being taught in schools. He became a citizen about 5 years after he came to this country. He was a simple, but tough man who took no shit from anybody. He never looked for trouble, but when trouble found him, he did not turn from it, as I found out many times later in life.

My mother, Josephine, Josie, as she was called, was born on the boat coming over from Italy. She was very pretty, and petite, with green eyes, and reddish hair. She was a good cook, Northern Italian style with light, thinner red tomato sauce, because that’s where her family came from.

She worshipped me, and in her eyes, I could do no wrong. I never lied, never took anything that was not mine, never hurt anybody or anything. I could get away with it all. I could do or say anything. The world was mine, according to my mother. She bordered on being bi-polar.

Three things consumed her life. First, was me, and then came Dust. She would spend hours a day dusting, saying, Dust be my destiny. Remember we only had three rooms. She would have the super come up once a year and move the radiators so she could clean behind them.

The third was God. He did everything good. When there was a problem with anything, sickness, money, the family, you get the idea; God would take care of it. I remember falling down some stairs one day. My father came home from work, saw me all banged up, and asked my mother, What happened? Her answer was, God will take care of it.

My father would go nuts, and she would just sit there and say to him, God will take care of it. Kay Sara, Sara, whatever will be, will be. God will take care of it. Daddy would just sit there, shake his head, and ask me, Are you all right, what happened?

He would say to her, You dote over this kid like he’s a God, but when something happens to him; you let God take care of it. What, are you out of your fucking mind? Her answer was, Kay Sara, Sara. What Will Be, Will Be. This was my mother’s version of Que Sera, Sera, which was a song sung by Doris Day in The Man Who Knew Too Much.

She also believed anything or any person having to do with God, Priests, Nuns, Brothers, were the servants of God and could do no wrong, ever. She worshiped them along with God. She would attend the 11 o’clock mass, which was the high mass, and stay for extra prayers. My father called it the show, and extra innings. He would ask her on Sunday morning, What show are you going to and are you staying for extra innings? This would piss her off to no end, and she would say she had to go to the high mass and stay for extra prayers because he needed them.

She started dragging me along when I was about five. That was the most frustrating and boring hour and fifteen minutes of my life at the time. She would stop at the vestibule at the end of the mass and wait for Father O’Connor, who said the mass and was the Pastor of the Church. At one point, she asked him to bless me. He went to put his hand on my head and I pushed it away. My mother stopped me, and said, His hand is like the hand of God.

My mother could not wait to get home, to tell my father that Father O’Connor blessed me. My father said, That was nice. Then he asked me, Was O’Connor drunk? Had he been at the holy wine or hung over from the beer he had drunk on Saturday night after he heard Confessions? This was said for my mother’s benefit, which of course, wound her up and set her off about what an evil soul my father had, and the yelling continued.

I had heard it all before, every morning to start my day. They started in English as usual but as the words got harsher and harsher, it switched to Italian. They still didn’t know I understood Italian. They went back and forth, words like boutana, which meant whore, figlio a boutana, which meant son of a whore.

They fought for about an hour, switching from Italian to English, they constantly are looking at me to see if I understood what they were saying. I asked, Can I go out and play? No. They both looked at me and went right back to fighting, even worse than before.

Then my father would go into one of his many tangents about the church and how much money they had. How they made poor people donate money they really couldn’t afford out of guilt, and which the church didn’t have to pay taxes on. They would build other churches, schools or statues, shrines or some other shit they didn’t need.

Then he started on the Government, how politicians were just like the Priests and how the crippled bastard, meaning FDR, had lied to the American people, saying, I will never send your boys overseas to fight in a war that was not ours. Saying it twice in front of Congress. Another bunch of crooks, being they were mostly lawyers first. He said, "The only thing Shakespeare ever wrote worth a shit was, Kill all the Lawyers’’.

He even had a secret plan to screw up the finances of the federal government. He was drafted into the service for World War I, served one day, and received a check in the amount of one dollar for final pay issued on January 22, 1919 drawn by the War Quartermaster, Treasurer of the United States.

His idea was that if this check was never cashed the government of the United States could never balance their books. They would be looking for this check forever. I now have this check in a display cabinet with other valuable antiques. I guess the government never went nuts trying to find this one-dollar check. I wonder what would happen if I ever tried to cash it?

His brother, my uncle Eddie was fighting somewhere in Burma or India, Whatever that fucking place was called, his words. A couple of first cousins and some of our neighbor’s sons being killed over there. This pissed him off to no end. He started in on Churchill with his big cigar, coming to this country with a big empty briefcase and leaving with it full of money. The money American people paid in taxes.

He wasn’t against taxes. He was proud to be an American and pay taxes. What pissed him off were the people bitching about paying too much. He would always say to me, The more taxes you paid, meant the more money you made. Why bitch?

One thing he didn’t know about was big business and the loopholes that existed.

He even believed when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor it was some kind of conspiracy pulled by the Government and FDR to get us into the war. Times were bad before the war and he said, The only way the Government and that crippled bastard could get us out of trouble was to get us into a war.

Then he would bring up how we took down the 6th and 9th avenue El and sold them to the Japanese. They gave them back to us for free in the form of bullets. In time, FDR went down in history as one of the great presidents of our time.

After that tirade my father had enough of the arguing, and announced, He was going for a walk, would be back at a quarter to 3. Meaning Sunday dinner would be cooked and served at three, which was the normal time for Sunday dinner. This was his way of ending the fight for the time being. My mother usually started cooking at about half-hour after she got back from church. Because of the verbal barrage, she had done nothing but fight with him and cry. It was already after 1pm, she went into the bedroom, and I heard her crying. I opened the door and said, Kay Sara, Sara. I also told her, I said a Hail Mary. She smiled, got off the bed and went to the kitchen to start cooking.

Sunday meals usually included pasta, some meat when things were going good at work for my father, and a salad that was served after the meal. My father came home when he said he would, turned on the radio to listen to the Yankee game, sat in his chair next to the radio, and didn’t say a word. After about ten minutes, my mother said, Dinner is ready. My father and I washed our hands, sat down and started to eat. I don’t know what my mother did that day, but it was the best meal she ever made. I said, Mommy that was good. My father said Au boin, Josie.

They started fighting again, worse than before. It went on for about another hour. As my mother was doing the dishes, she dropped one, breaking it. My father said, Break another one, the money grows on trees. She did.

This was getting more and more upsetting to me; let alone what it was doing to them. They had said words before, but not like this. I heard the word child repeatedly in Italian. This fighting was about me. I couldn’t believe this. This had never happened before. Life had been good. This fight came from some place down deep, some origin that their beliefs were so different, there was no way one was going to give in to the other.

After about an hour, my father said he was going for another walk. The fight started again. They were louder than before, more vicious and threatening.

I now knew this was all about me. I had to find out what it was. I would be the one to solve this problem between my mother and father. They couldn’t do this themselves. I took the responsibility on myself, since it was because of me they were fighting. I couldn’t believe my mother was mad at me for something; my father said what was on his mind. What could it be?

There was only one person to ask the questions and get answers, who they respected and would listen to. But, how do I get the three of us there together with him, without letting them know what was going on? My father was the kind of person who believed nobody should know your business and you should mind your own. The only person I know of to do this would be Dr. Le Porti. He spoke with authority, did not mince words and most of all, they trusted and respected him.

I developed a plan; it had to be worked out carefully, and couldn’t be overplayed or put into effect too quickly.

It was very simple, I would get sick, over time, my stomach would start to bother me, in the afternoon, I would come up for lunch, eat very little, and complain just enough to get my mother’s attention.

I started on Monday, and got a little worse until Thursday when my mother told my father. He said, Take him to see Dr. Le Porti on Friday. I said, I wanted daddy to come with us. He said, All right, call Paul and see if you can make an appointment for late on Saturday, about 3 o’clock, after I finish work.

Friday morning, about ten, my mother called. She said to me later when she came up from using the phone in the hall lobby, Everything will be ok. We’re all going to see Doctor Paul Saturday at three.

His office was on 116th street between third and 2nd Avenue. We had to take the 3rd Avenue El. We would go to the first car so I could look out the front of the train. The train ran along Third Avenue and went over the East River. The closer we got to the river the higher the train would go. You could see almost all of the Bronx and Manhattan. It was exciting for me just to go over the bridge on the train. The bridge was only for the El.

The plan was we would meet on 3rd Avenue at about three, and would walk down to his office.

His office was located on the second floor of a big brownstone. The ground floor consisted of a storefront, with an attorney and an accountant as tenants. There was a flight of stairs straight up, right turn; you were in his waiting room, which was huge, four chairs, two couches, and a fireplace, which was lit in the wintertime. This was the living room of the brownstone. The dining room and kitchen had been transformed into his office. The ceilings were about 16 ft. high, and separating the two rooms were two pocket doors that went from the floor to about two feet from the ceiling, about three feet apiece in width. It was something to see him, only a little over five feet tall, opening both the doors from the middle with his little, but powerful body, filling the area.

He would then call the next patient into his office by their first name.

I never saw a chart. Never saw him taking notes. Inside the office was an examination table, a screen for privacy, various pieces of medical equipment, and a very large sink with cabinets over and around it. You left the office, through a side door, that led to the same staircase you came up, without going through the waiting room.

He charged us 3 dollars a visit, 5 dollars for a home visit. Yes, he made house calls. I don’t know what he charged the rest of his patients, but when my father paid him, he would come out with a roll about 3 inches thick, which was held in place by two rubber bands. Most were singles. I guess the larger bills were hidden somewhere in his office until he went home. After we left, my father would always wonder aloud, How did he pay his taxes? If all the money paid by each patient was cash, how did he keep the records to pay his taxes? The answer was simple; he did not pay any fucking taxes.

We walked up the stairs, I sat in the chair by the office door, my mother, and father sat in the big couch at the back end of the waiting room. We were the only people in the room. I think that Dr. Le Porti had wanted me to be his last patient of the day. I heard the back door to the down staircase close. It was time for me to do the acting job of my life. To me, this would be the turning point of my life. Little did I know how right I had been?

He opened the two big doors, went straight for my mother, gave her a big kiss, shook my father’s hand, and then walked over to me. What’s your story, where does it hurt and how long has it been going on? Right to the point, I guess he wanted to get home; it was about 3:30 on a Saturday afternoon.

This was my big play; I had to get him in the office alone, without my mother and father. I said, It hurt down here. He said, Down where? I pointed to my testicles. My mother let out a shriek. My father laughed. They both got up to come with me into his office. I looked at Dr. Le Porti with the saddest eyes I could manage. I said, Can we go in alone? He looked at my mother and father and said, Alright let’s give the boy a little privacy. Perfect.

We walked into the office but he left the doors open. I walked directly to the back of the screen. He said, Get on the table, then wheeled his stool over and sat down. He looked at me and said, What’s going on, what’s this bullshit all about? He caught on right away, knew there was nothing wrong with me. OK let’s have it. You’re here for a reason.

They’re fighting, with their mouths, terrible fighting. It’s about me. I know it has something to do with religion. However, the words are terrible, English and Italian. They fight for hours. It’s going to kill one of them. After he leaves in the morning, my mother cries. He comes home, and ten minutes later, they’re fighting, before and after dinner. Mommy washes the dishes and then goes in the bedroom. Daddy goes out for a walk.

Then to emphasize how bad things really are, I tell him that my father isn’t even listening or reading about the Yankees. This gets his attention. It’s the middle of July. Now he knows there‘s a real problem.

Then he asks an unexpected question, When are you going to start school? I tell him, I’m about to turn 5 years old, in August. They told me I was too young to start 1st grade. I would have to start next year. Of course, he delivered me so he knows most of this already.

He says to me, Drop your pants. Pick them up and button them when they come in. He calls them in, my mother looks like she’s about to faint. My father has a look on his face I can’t make out. He directs his diagnosis to my mother. Nothing much, a little strain, it will heal up just fine. He’s fine.

Now, while I have the two of you here, you haven’t been here for 2 years. Let’s examine the two of you. My father is about to say something and Dr. Le Porti beats him to the punch, I’m going to do a special for you, 3 for five dollars. I know him. He has a plan. Therefore, I keep my mouth shut. I learned this important fact early in life, if you don’t know what’s going on, what the answer is going to be, keep your mouth shut.

He take’s my father’s blood pressure, listens to his heart, pokes all around his throat, looks in his ears, checks his eyes, all of this in about 10 minutes. He repeats the same thing with my mother. He steps back, Franco wait outside. He goes and sits at his desk. I am outside. The doors are still open, and I stand at the side of them and can hear all.

He starts slowly, Both of you, your blood pressure and heart rates are up. Then he hits them hard, What’s bothering the two of you? There’s something wrong. Even the boy is all uptight. There’s something going on in your home that’s causing you both trouble, and it’s starting to make you sick. This is only the beginning, wait, you’ll see. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been a doctor a long time and have seen many things happen to good people. Talk to me, Sally, Josie. I can help for Christ’s sake we are family. You can trust me. What more can I do and say to the both of you?

My mother broke first. She spilled it all out in about ten minutes. She wanted me to go to Parochial School. She wanted me to have a good Catholic education. She wanted me close to God. She said my father was a lost soul, a heathen, who didn’t believe in anything but money and work, that all Nuns, Brothers and Priests were drunkards and homos.

My father sat there and said nothing. At one point he was about to say something, but Dr. Le Porti gave him a stop sign, and he shut up. He just sat there and listened, knowing he would get his chance to speak. That was the way Dr. Le Porti was. Fair. My mother said a few more things about my father.

Dr. Le Porti put up his hand. Signifying she was done. Dr. Le Porti looked at my father and said, Go ahead. My father said that this was all about his son, Franco. About St. John’s classes having 50 or more kids in them, how the Nuns were brutal with the kids. About how when the kids were released at 3 pm they would run out of the school like caged animals, that they were not allowed to express themselves, they had homework for two hours a night. They all had to dress the same, buy certain shoes, clothes, no lunches. No health care performed at the school.

Then to top it off, he brought up the praying. Each class started with prayers and ended with prayers, prayers before and after lunch. When would there be time for real learning the three R’s, as they were called.

He said, the regimentation would kill me. I couldn’t exist in that type of atmosphere. Dr. Le Porti said, Stop. I get the idea. Do you both know how smart Franco is? He can adjust to what he has to. I’m not saying that’s the reason he should go to St. John’s.

He sat back for several minutes. Nobody said a word. Then he started, "Sally, who is going to take the boy to school? Who is going to make his lunch? Who is going to pick him up? Who is going to help him with his homework? Who is going to help him with his clothes? Who’s responsibility is school going to be? Josephine. She in all common sense should also have the right to pick out what school he attends. It doesn’t matter what school he goes too. She’s going to take the responsibility for all of this. This is what a mother does.

You go to work. Spend every hour you can to make a buck. Protect the family. This is what a father does. Love in the home is for both of you to provide, for him, for each other. When was the last time you two were together? Take him out and play catch with him. Talk about the Yankees with him. Now give each other a kiss, and make-up. Do something together, the three of you. You two have been making your home a hell, for too long."

He said to my mother, Josie you didn’t win anything, Sally you didn’t lose anything. Think of how much this is going to do for your family.

He called me into his office. I tried to look concerned, worried. Your mother and your father have something to tell you. I was debating whether to start crying, or ask if anybody was sick, but I remembered, to keep your mouth shut when you don’t know what’s coming. My mother told me she was sorry about the fighting, and that it would stop. That I had nothing to do with it, my father said the same thing to me.

Then the decision that was reached, came. Next year I would be attending the first grade at St. John’s Catholic School. My father said, You have another year of freedom and that I should enjoy it, because I had no idea what was about to come. My mother was about to say something, but my father said, Its okay. I understand, and maybe God will work everything out.

My mother and father went in the waiting room. I lingered back and asked Dr. Le Porti if they were sick. He made a face. The plan had worked. In addition, he went along with it. As he was kissing my mother and me, shaking hands with my father, he said, Hey I got an idea. Why don’t you three go across the street to Uno Ocho’s (one eyes) candy store? There’s a person there named Vito, one of his boys, who makes the best black and white ice-cream soda you ever tasted. That’s all he has in that candy store, Vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup and seltzer. He gets the ice cream from some farm upstate, fresh, twice a week. Here, I’ll show you. He took us to the front window and pointed across the street.

There was an old man sitting on a stool, looking out at the street. There was no glass in the window. He just sat there looking at the street. I said, What’s he looking at? My father said, His neighborhood. Dr. Le Porti looked at my father, and said, Go ahead. Tell him Dr. Paul sent you. We are related. Tell him to put them on my tab. My father who never took anything from anybody, least of all, from one the cheapest sons of a bitch in the world, Dr. Le Porti, his words in private, shook his head, looked at me and said, Okay. My mother said, Let’s do it.

We crossed the street, walked up to the window with no glass, and my mother spoke up, Dr. Paul sent us over for ice-cream sodas. My father stayed in the background, being quiet. The old man said, I guess he said Vito should make it too, and I should put it on his tab. Yes that’s right. The cheap bastard has no tab. It’s all on the arm, and I would love to do it for you good people. Ok. Dom, table and chairs, alfresco.

I didn’t quite know what to make of all this. A round table, with a red check tablecloth were brought out onto the sidewalk. Placed in front of the counter, he was looking down at us behind the counter top. Spoons and napkins were placed on the table. He said, Au setti (sit down). My mother felt good, felt important. She sat down. I joined her, and my father took his seat slowly. Hi I’m Vito, the short stocky man said, And I makca da besti ice cream sodas in da world. In addition, true to his word, and Dr. Paul’s, as far as I was concerned, it was the best I had ever tasted.

When we were done, we were licking the spoons. My mother thanked the old man behind the counter and Vito. My pleasure they both answered. The old man had started a conversation with my mother and me, not talking to my father. After we were done, my father reached into his pocket to get something, I guess it was money. The old man looked down and said, Don’t insult me Sally, that’s your name right? My father said, Yes. The old man and my father shook hands, talked in Italian, had a few laughs. I understood only a little because this was a different Italian than I knew. They were talking about the old country, the neighborhood where we lived. They both seemed to know the same people.

The one eyed man said to my mother, Josie fa eu spase (go food shopping)? Most people went food shopping on Saturday. We evidently did not have time and he knew this. My mother said, Where? He pointed up toward Third Avenue. He said there was a bunch of stores, with stands that extended up to the curb. They have good vegetables, and the second butcher up the street has good chicken. My mother said it was getting late and she had to get home to cook.

My father made a motion as if we were going. The old man said, As spect, wait a minute. Go do your shopping. Leave the food with the person in the last store. Tell him to hold it for a while. Tell him I told you to do this. And when you are done, come back down to Second Avenue and go to Patsy’s.

Patsy’s was located on Second Avenue between 115th and 116th street. My mother looked embarrassed. My father looked a little annoyed.

The old man said, They have the best Pizza and Calamari in New York. He also said he owned the place and not to worry about a thing. My father mumbled under his breath, Yea I know. Please do this, and enjoy. You don’t want to insult me, do you? My father was quick to say, It would be our pleasure to enjoy your food.

My mother looked apprehensive. My father gave me a look, which meant keep your mouth shut. My mother kept quiet, which was unusual for her, but I think she was getting the drift of what Dr. Le Porti had set us up for.

Before we left, uno ocho yelled out, Vito, get the car, it’s time to leave. Vito disappeared out the back, we said a few words, and then this big black car (a Lincoln I think) pulled up in front of the candy store. They didn’t bother to lock the doors, close anything up. I said to my father, What’s that all about? My father said, Who’s going to steal from him. My mother and father went shopping, my mother remarking, How reasonable the prices were. My father keeps saying, Yea, yea, and yea. We finished with the shopping about an hour and a half later.

It was about 5:30 and I was getting hungry. I said, Are we going to the restaurant to eat? I had never been to a restaurant and I don’t think my mother had been to one in years. Again, my mother said, Let’s go Sally. All he said was, Yea, yea, and yea.

When we got to the restaurant, it was as though they were waiting for us. The person who takes you to your table, the waiter, all knew our names. Seems as though everybody knew everybody’s fucking name. There was no menu, just a lot of food, an antipasto, and Ballantine beer, which is what my father drank. A glass of red wine for my mother, for me, root beer, how did these people know all of this?

The calamari was fried. My mother made them in a sauce and stuffed them. There was a bowl with some kind of sauce, which was spicy hot to the taste, but good. The brick oven pizza was unbelievable. We finished eating, and we were stuffed. We got up ready to start to walk to the Third Avenue El.

As we walk out of the restaurant, a big black car pulled up and the driver said, Are youse guys going to Bathgate Avenue? My father said, Yea, yea, and yea. We stopped and got the groceries, and were home by seven. I was hoping some of the neighbors, or my friends were out front to see us. Nobody was there. My father looked relieved.

I would find out later in life who the old man was, and what he did. He was capo di tuti capo, which meant boss of all bosses. You did not say no to a man like that. You get the idea what had happened. My father knew what was going on all the time.

In August, I turned five. The year was 1943. The war was going ahead full steam. My father would say to me, The American people have no idea what could happen if we lose this war. Most people just wanted the war to be over, not even thinking about losing. We had right on our side. We had God on our side. God bless America. We were fighting two wars, one in Europe, against Germany, one in the South Seas, against Japan. My father would tell me how vicious and bloody they were. He would repeat how we sold the 6th and 9th Avenue El to the Japanese for which we got them back for free, of course they were in the form of bullets.

My mother would get mad at him for telling me the things that went on in war and politics. He told her, Am I lying? I am not going to paint a rosier story that does not exist. We could lose. Nobody ever discussed anything about losing. We all believed the United States invincible.

The crippled bastard, as my father would call the president, would go on the radio, at any given time and talk. They called them fireside chats. He would give all good news, trying to keep the morale of the people up. In addition, as he spoke my father would say, Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. Baseball was the only thing people had to look forward to. It was not the same because the better ballplayers were in the service.

However, there was one thing that happened. Ernie Lombardi being traded to the New York Giants. He had won the batting title the year before when he played for the Boston Braves. My father got all excited, another Italian ball player in New York.

My father seemed disappointed after he saw his picture in the papers and learned he had played in the major leagues for 12 years. He did not pass his physical to get into the service. He had an idea it was because of his weight. At this stage of his career, he was the slowest runner in baseball.

His listed weight was 230 but from the looks of his pictures in the papers, he looked to weigh about 250 to 260 according to my father. This made him very angry. He would say, The people look at him and they see a fat slob. He said, Stupid people take a God given gift and waste it. To my father it made the Italian people look bad. However, he could still hit.

I did get to see him hit and catch. We’ll get to that later on. This is not a book about stats, but I do remember him inducted into the Hall of fame in 1986, nine years after his death. My father didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. He wanted to root for him, and then he didn’t. You see, he hated the Dodgers so the lesser of two evils was to root for the Giants against the Dodgers. Lombardi did win the MVP in 1938, and went to eight All-Star games. Therefore, overall he was a good ballplayer, so I guess you could classify him as one of my father’s heroes.

My father also idolized prizefighters, later in this book, I will go into some of the heroes that were his, and which ones became mine. Most of the fighters of that time were of Italian or Black ancestry. It was the quickest way to get to the top, gain fame and make large sums of money. People that came from the streets, made money from the street, fighting was a street thing. Unless you came from money, money that was going to be yours anyway, to being spent on you, the best clothes, schools, people, the classes were separated more than they are now.

Now you can walk into a restaurant, and sitting at a table next to you could be some very wealthy individual, a movie star, anybody. Years ago, you could not gain access to places like that, let alone afford the cost of a meal. It was out of reach for all but the best and richest of people. The haves.

Chapter 2

I start to grow

After my fifth birthday in August, I was allowed to play in the courtyard in front of the building with my friends. I had two friends, Billy and Michael. Billy was my best friend. Billy could do no wrong. He was almost an idol to me. My father would say to me, Why do you look up to him? He’s not as smart as you, not being raised like you. Billy’s parents were from Germany. They said Austria, but everybody knew it was Germany.

When Billy did something wrong his father would say, I hit you mit my hands and I will make you blue and black. Billy was the kind of kid that nothing bothered. He had a smirk on his face all the time. An impish look, you knew that he was trouble, would make trouble, be trouble, you just had to look at his face. He had pale blue eyes, and was about my size and weight. His mother combed his hair with a part on the left side, most of the hair pushed to the right. He looked like a very young Adolf Hitler.

He was my best friend in the whole world. I had to be with him any time I could. I was trouble too. When the two of us were together, you knew a shit load of trouble was about to happen.

Billy lived on the first floor, in the front of the building. His parents were the superintendents of the building. They had three bedrooms, 2 baths. It was the largest apartment in the building. Their bedrooms overlooked Bathgate Avenue. Billy had two brothers, Walter, with whom he shared the room, who was our confidant. We could ask him anything requiring answers, especially things we couldn’t ask our parents. He looked out for Billy, fearlessly. He looked out for me also, but not in the same way. He knew all of the Big Guys, the people, who had cars, and played stickball in the street. Their room was in the extreme right corner of the building.

His parents had the bedroom in the back.

Karl, was about six-foot three and weighed about 260 lbs., had broad shoulders, big arms, and was strong as an ox. He got that way because he shoveled the coal and stoked the furnace. When the coal stopped burning, it would turn to ashes. He would then shovel the ashes into garbage cans and then wheel them out to the curb on some homemade contraption. What a way to build yourself up! He also had a plate in his head. Nobody would say how it happened, but you knew he was not quite right.

Sometimes he would just look and stare into space; other times he would laugh uncontrollably, that crazy kind of laugh. Let me tell you, it would scare the shit out of me. He would scare the shit out of anybody. Simply put, he was fucking crazy.

Just one of the things he would do. He hated cats, for what reasons nobody knew. If a stray would show up, he would put a saucer of milk out for it, catch it, put it in a burlap bag, and on certain days, you could hear screaming coming from the window in the boiler room. It was a terrible screaming, like a baby in terrible pain. There were the days he would throw the live cat into the fire in the boiler. It lasted all of two minutes. We didn’t know what he was doing, but later in life, we figured it out.

It was eventually put to a stop. Nevertheless, it went on for too long a time. Poor Karl, he was a good person, but he couldn’t control himself when it came to cats and people who did bad things. Many a person would get the shit beat out of them, and they knew the reason, for nobody would say anything.

I would call for Billy about 10 o’clock every morning. We would play together, with a Spalding, with bottle caps, marbles, cans. About 10:30 or so Michael would show up and the three of us would play. The rule was that we stay in the courtyard and not go out to the sidewalk.

Michael lived on the first floor of our building. He was our age. He had a little brother, Joseph, not Joe. He would try to hang out with us but Michael would ignore him, and he would go back in the house. Every once in a while, his father would come out and say, You guys should play with Joseph,

Big Michael would have black pants, a sleeveless tee shirt, and suspenders on, over the tee shirt. The reason he was home was that he worked nights. Michael was bigger than we were. All you had to do was look at the size of his father. He had broad shoulders, black kinky hair, brown, almost black eyes. His skin coloring was a dark brown, almost looking like he was Spanish.

My father said that was because his parents came from Sicily, showing me the spot on the world globe we had. Michael being the bigger of us rather looked after us. Between Michael’s father, Karl, Walter and the other big people around, nobody would even think of causing us any trouble.

One day we were outside playing and this kid came in the courtyard and asked if he could play with us. Everybody seemed to look at me. I said, Yea, why not. His name was Richie and he had a big brother named James. He was as Irish as they come, freckles and bright blue eyes. His hair was almost blond. He had a pug nose, like the Irish leprechaun. It turned out his brother was a friend of Walter’s.

He looked off to the side and said, Who’s that? Natalie was standing there. We said, That’s Natalie, she never says much. She looked at Richie and said, Hi. Richie said Hi. Richie lived down the block closer to 180th Street in an apartment house like ours on the fourth floor.

I haven’t mentioned Natalie earlier because she was just always there. We rather took her for granted. She did none of the things we did, just stood there, watched us and spoke very little. She had mousey brown hair, brown eyes, and a very slight build and lived directly across the hall from me.

We had an open door policy with her parents, Paul and Sadie. They were Jewish, my father said it didn’t matter what they were, as long as they were nice people. I never quite knew what that remark meant then. Later in life, I found out. The open door meant you could walk right into each other’s apartment with a slight knock on the door. The doors to the apartments were open, from about 10 in the morning until about nine at night, especially in the summer time. If there were a breeze coming from the front, it would find its way into our apartment and the same with the breeze from the back into their apartment.

Paul knew everything, about anything, from fixing electric wiring, to the oven. My father never owned a screwdriver or a hammer. It was always, Call the super. Why do we pay rent? This was Billy’s father. He worked full time at an Oscar Myers’s packing plant.

Billy always had bologna or hotdogs for us. He said, His father would put them down his pants and would walk out of the factory with them. I said, You mean he stole them. No. He cleans them. That became our code word for stealing, clean, cleaning. Being he worked all day, he was not in any mood to do anything in the apartment house. He was always miserable, had a terrible temper, and would yell at the tenants.

Around 8 o’clock, one night my father was sitting in the living room and the heat was shushing away. It was as hot as hell and I was going to go to sleep in about an hour. He went down to Billy’s apartment and knocked on the door. I was with him. Billy’s mother answered the door, Yar? My father started to explain to her what was wrong and she pulled the shit she did not understand.

Billy was there with the smirk on his face. I walked into the house, pointed at the radiator, and said, Too hot. She pointed at the knob at the bottom and said, Turn mit it off. My father knowing Billy and I were best friends was not looking to make any trouble, just said, he could not turn it off, it was broken. She yelled, Louie, come mit here, Mr. Frankie can’t turn his radiator off. She would refer to the parents by their kid’s first name. Louie yelled, Tomorrow. I have to go to bed so I could get up and go to work tomorrow.

My father holding his temper, not cursing, very polite, said, Franco has to go to sleep by that radiator and it will be too hot for him to sleep. Louie’s answer, Open the window. My father, What happens when the heat goes off at 10 o’clock, it will get too cold. Louie, Put mit him a warmer blanket. Billy was laughing up a storm. I was choking not to laugh. Then it finally happened. My father said, Louie come up and fix the fucking radiator already.

He grabbed me by the hand. Out the door, we went. I did not know what was going to happen. Louie was a big person, and Karl was standing there, watching, and laughing that crazy laugh of his.

About five minutes later, there was a tap on the door. It was open. Louie walked in with a plumber’s wrench and a bucket. He began to fiddle with some nuts and the valve the steam was coming out of. He managed to slow it down a bit and said he needed parts and would have to talk to the landlord.

Paul had been standing in the doorway most of the time. When Louie left, Paul walked in, looked at the radiator and said, I’ll be right back. He came back with some tools and in about five minutes, it was fixed. My father said, Thank you, could I give you something for your trouble? Paul’s answer was, Why don’t you and Josie come over for coffee and cake now. They did. That was the kind of relationship, which existed between our family and theirs.

Sadie was very kind to my mother. They talked a lot, stopping when I came in the room. Natalie would be sitting in the corner of the room and heard everything. One time I asked her, What were they talking about? She shrugged her shoulders and said, I don’t know. She knew, but she wasn’t going to tell me. There would come a time, patience, good things come to those who wait.

So that was our crew, Natalie was there but she wasn’t, and didn’t play in any of the games we played. One day I said to my mother, Why does Natalie stay with us? My mother’s answer, She has no friends. There are no girls her age around here. She has nothing else to do. I felt sorry for her after that day and tried to bring her into some of the things we did. She had no interest. She just stood there and watched.

So that was it, the four of us and Natalie. Being Natalie lived in the front of the building, when her mother was looking out the window in the front, she was allowed to go out of the courtyard and play on the sidewalk. I hinted at my mother, since Sadie was watching Natalie, she could watch us too. Then we could go on the sidewalk too. That worked and we had a little more freedom.

It was now October, and was getting cold out. We didn’t go out as much. I think I was driving my mother crazy. I even took the plates off the wall sockets using a butter knife. I got a terrible shock. My mother saw me and screamed, You’re going to burn the house down or kill yourself. The old, Wait until your father gets home wasn’t working. One day the weather had warmed up a little and my mother said I could call for Billy and we could go out front and play. She would come down