To Joe Sambito
Dear Mr. Sambito,
When my father heard your name
called by the always-enjoyable Joe
Garagiola in the All-Star Game,
he sipped his can of Schaefer
beer, and asked me what I knew
about you as a person and player.
I told him that you threw
a filthy slider; you were born
in Brooklyn: a paesano raised
in Long Island. We munched corn
chips: Fritos. My father was amazed
by your skills; our shared heritage made us cheer
for you. My father drank another beer.
To Dom DiMaggio
(1917—2009)
Dear Mr. DiMaggio,
you were incredibly underrated.
You made your mark in The Show
with your bat, which serrated
pitchers; your speed, and lethal
arm in centerfield. You wore glasses.
You were short. You were called the Little
Professor, which made the masses
go to ballparks and watch you play,
especially in Beantown; in Fenway
Park. You also fought in World War Two:
this convinced my nonni to root for you.
To John Cangelosi
Dear Mr. Cangelosi:
when I was a teenager,
the only thing cooler
than watching you
steal a bag
was meeting you
at Shea Stadium.
When I asked you
how it felt
to be back
in New York,
where you were born,
you said, “Not too
bad, Paesan. Thanks
for asking.”
Then you flashed
a scraggly-toothed smile
and dashed
into left field.
You sprinted
to centerfield
and back
to left field
almost as fast
as the airplanes
coming and going
from LaGuardia
in the fierce Flushing sky,
my second generation
Italian American heart
pounding through
my cannoli gangster chest.
To Sal Bando
Dear Mr. Bando: Captain Sal,
you could give a ball a ride.
You helped the A’s win
three World Series Championships
in a row. You also played
for the Brewers, and you made
my cousin Billy cheer your
name when he saw you play
in person and on TV,
which was a big deal for him,
seeing as how you never wore
New York Yankees pinstripes.
But having a knack
for launching moonshots;
for being big, strong, talented,
diligent, persistent,
loyal and Italian
American goes a long way
with most of my family’s
low, loud, opinionated,
thick-necked men.
To Aurelio López
Dear Mr. López: Señor Smoke, your nickname, your fastball, your leg kick, your open mouth:
your look of concentration on your 1984 card inspired me to go to the schoolyard and throw a
baseball at a chipped brick wall. This felt better than worrying if my grandmother would needle
me relentlessly, like she did to my uncle—she got so angry at him that she said that she never
wanted him to be conceived, much less born. My uncle reacted by hurling a knife into the wall of
her dining room before he stormed out of our house and slammed the scratched white metallic
door off its hinges. Your card kept me calm that afternoon. This continues to be the case.
Whenever someone goads me, I see you in my mind, standing on Tiger Stadium’s hill. I take
deep breaths, all of which are stones skipping across muddy water.
Joey Nicoletti‘s latest book is Fan Mail (Broadstone, 2021). He teaches in the College Writing Program at SUNY Buffalo State.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 