Joey Nicoletti
To Sal Fasano
Sal, you wore many uniforms
in your career
in The Show:
Royals. Phillies.
Yankees, A’s,
And Blue Jays,
to name a few.
You rocked your tapered tendril
moustache; you called
a good game,
and you and your spouse named
your sons Santino,
Angelo, and Vincenzo.
You took one deep
in a game I saw
in Kansas City:
the smile on your face
as you rounded the bases
was as sweet and delightful
as my mother’s Tiramisu.
To Rick Bosetti
Dear Mr. Bosetti:
has anyone enjoyed being
a Toronto Blue Jay
more than you?
This can’t be measured
by any statistic
or with any known technology.
But when I see a picture
of you online, I’m taken
with the mischievous look
in your eyes; your toothy smile,
and your bushy moustache,
all of which reminds me
of my father, on a hot afternoon
at his place of work,
when he filled the air conditioner
in his boss Mr. C’s office
with talcum powder,
earlier in the day.
We watched Mr. C walk
into his office. My father told me
to wait outside with him.
A minute or so passed.
Mr. C yelled
my father’s name.
Then he emerged
from his office,
covered in powder.
My father asked him
if something was wrong
with the air conditioner.
Mr. C growled like a tiger
and chased him down
a stairwell, leaving a trail
of powder in the air.
That you had a vowel
at the end of your surname;
that you once had more assists
than any other centerfielder
in the American League;
that you sipped Labatt’s Blue
as you talked to reporters;
that you claimed to have urinated
in every stadium outfield
you played in—during games—
made you seem familiar,
like a crazy uncle or cousin:
as if you and my father
would entertain each other
with your workplace banter,
as well as everyone else
gathered for Sunday dinner
or a summer cook-out;
spits of laughter
flooding the grill,
two fireflies
flickering in crab grass.
To Tony Lazzeri
(1903—1946)
Mr. Lazzeri, my Grandfather Joe told me:
his pride in being a first generation Italian
American was never greater,
never more swollen
than when you hit two grand slams; “two
salamis” in a game; the first
person to do so in The Show,
and you also had another round-tripper
that day in May
of 1936; and he met Mary,
his future wife,
my grandmother that night,
who made his jaw drop
like a fire escape ladder
on an Arthur Avenue walk-up.
To Frank Catalanotto
Dear Mr. Catalanotto:
you are the Sultan
of Smithtown Swat.
You played left field,
first, and third base
as adroitly
as Mike Massimino spacewalked.
You hit the ball
with determination,
as if you were grinding
through traffic on the L.I.E.;
the shooting stars of line drives
crashing in Arlington alleyways
and gaps, nebulas of dust
and dirt rising
as you run and slide,
Long Island Sound water
streaming through
your San Margherita veins.
To Vince DiMaggio
(1912—1986)
Dear Mr. DiMaggio,
I wish I could have heard you sing
when guests asked you to do so
at your family’s restaurant. Your swing
had a hole, but you smacked
125 homers during your stay
in The Show. Fans packed
Forbes Field to watch you play.
You and the Pirates fought
over money spent on a steak,
which is why you sought
a trade; a clean break.
You went down swinging.
You never stopped singing.
Bio:
Joey Nicoletti was born in New York City. He works in Buffalo.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 