-There's a deep hole at Short-
When his son singled on a grounder
Through the hole between third and short
In the Pee-Wee League of Columbus Park
In the Summer of 1969,
Albert Bernard would have smiled broadly,
Clapping his hands with exuberant pride.
Had he lived. Had the child been born.
Had he lived,
His son would have looked his way,
Standing on the bag at first,
Uniform a full-size too big,
Helmet half-way down his face,
Helmet half-way down his face,
Eyes wide as baseballs.
Had he lived.
Had his Son been born.
Had Albert simply ducked.
Had he seen it coming.
Had the ball dropped an inch
To simply bruise his jaw.
Had his girl pressed closer
For another moment
Behind the Billboards
Causing him to be late for the game
Causing him to pedal fast to the Park
Fast from the street,
Spikes flung over his shoulders,
Glove threaded through the handlebars,
Glove threaded through the handlebars,
Causing the Coach
To bench him for his tardiness;
For his irresponsibility
To his waiting teammates.
Had he just been late.
Had he just been late.
In the Summer of 1958,
Albie Bernard got beaned at Ruggles Park.
But he shook it off.
He walked it off and we patted him on the ass
For being a ballplayer, for staying in the game,
Unaware of how briefly
We were spared his death by a baseball.
But he died the next day in an early
Morning ambulance
Whining loud and fast down Bedford Street
Toward Union Hospital in a quest
To keep him with us; with his friends,
His teammates and with the girl
Who danced with him on Friday nights.
Who danced with him on Friday nights.
Now his Grandmother
Wails grief-sick at the grave
Held limply standing by attendants:
Held limply standing by attendants:
"Albert, don't leave your Mother!"
“Albert, don’t leave your Mother!”
Now his teammates grieve at the grave,
Silently beside themselves.
Silently beside themselves.
With Father Vincent Diafario assisting,
Monsignor Joseph Pannoni
Measured his cadence
Monsignor Joseph Pannoni
Measured his cadence
Through the written passage of the antiphon.
Casket is sprinkled in water.
Casket is perfumed in smoke.
The silence creaks like a clearing in the woods.
More poignant are the sobs and clearing
More poignant are the sobs and clearing
Throats of the grieved.
There are whispers to his Mother's ear.
They shelter her palms in their hands.
We linger not knowing what it is we should do.
There are whispers to his Mother's ear.
They shelter her palms in their hands.
We linger not knowing what it is we should do.
So we wait. And we wait.
And then we went to breakfast.
And then we went to breakfast.
It’s where the ballplayers belong,
Crowded into the Diner’s booth,
Pressed together as one body
Replaying the moment in our heads,—
The moment the ball struck Albie’s.
The baseball is pushed from the knuckler's
Fingertips and it floats to the batter hypnotically.
In the quiet booth, Paul Pieroni’s eyes
Looked like the baseballs he pitched;—
The stitches advance nearly without movement
When the Knuckleball floats.
It wouldn't have hit him.
It comes in too slow.
Albie's too quick.
I quietly wished a Knuckler had thrown the ball.
A Knuckleballer like Pieroni.
But someone's inshoot, high, fast and tight
Tailed-in to find its mark.
There's a deep hole at Short.
Frankie Teixeira played Third Base
Thinking he was Frank Malzone;—
Tough and smart and slow. Great glove.
Talked the infield like a poet:
“Hum baby, hum you kid, hum baaaabe.”
Homered in a win against Saint Anthony of Padua,
The Church three blocks down the street
But on another Planet.
Albie danced the way we danced,
Right arm wrapped around her waist,
Left hand opened for her hand,
Mouth to her cheek,— she floated on air
Like the knuckleball floats.
His young wife has the eyes of the girl;
Is cradling his son in her ams,
Kissing him goodbye in the morning.
Time for work. Time to support his family.
Had he lived.
Had his girl become his wife and given him his son.
There's a deep hole in life.
On second, “Ducky” Cavalho
Once dropped a popup,
To lose a game in extra innings,
The ball still falling silently, far in the distance.
The diner's booth is closing in on us.
Teddy “Blue” Dicorpo held down First.
From Albie to Ducky to Blue.
There’s a deep hole at Short.
Albie wasn’t College material.
Not many of us were.
We heard of a kid from Holy Name
They said was invited to try-out for the Red Sox.
I played Left Field.
I couldn't hit with power
I couldn't hit with power
But ran fast and bunted
With reasonable accuracy.
With reasonable accuracy.
When they chanted “No batta, No batta..”
They weren’t thinking bunt.
There's a deep hole at Short.
Lionel Morrais was our Center Fielder.
Long and lanky, “Leaping Lee-Lee”
In any street-game played
By the neighborhood of friends
By the neighborhood of friends
Which required speed and an ability to jump,—
Peggyball, Bowl-a-Wicket, Buck-Buck,
Lionel was mined from the pick-ups
Like he was gold.
Like he was gold.
Now he sat to my right in the Diner's booth
Trying like hell to talk to Pieroni.
“Albie was hit by a pipe when he was a kid,
Remember? Paulie,.. remember?"
This was an invention used to assuage
Our collective sorrow, as if something else,
Anything else but a baseball caused Albie’s death;
As if something else, anything else
Would make some sense.
Oh, had there been the fantom pipe
To temper our guilt
To temper our guilt
But Paul Pieroni, Knuckleballer,
Will cling to it through life.
Will cling to it through life.
When Tommy Curry wasn’t playing Right Field,
He pitched in the rotation behind Paul.
He twice struck out the mighty “Chicker” Machado
In a close loss to Immaculate Conception.
I always found it strange that Tommy
Didn’t hang-out on the corner with the rest of us,
Believing that anybody who could, would.
She'd glide in her dress, bare-footed.
She'd pause when he'd pause in the warm
Embrace of the dance: "Goodnight Sweetheart," and slide
Her foot on the hard-wood floor, pulling his foot
To follow in her lead.
There's a deep hole in life.
John “Pappy” Tacovelli was the consumate Catcher.
Rough, hard-skinned and constantly bruised.
His Mother, Carmella, swore like a trooper, and
Chain-smoked Camel cigarrettes
Chain-smoked Camel cigarrettes
Which hung with a wet duck’s-ass from her mouth.
The fast-ball was favored by coach Gino DiNucci
As the pitch of preference to Pieroni’s
On-going consternation.
Smart, right-minded,
Uncompromising in his devotion to his team,
Like baseball coaches used to be,
Although Pieroni and his knuckleball
Held fast to the starting rotation with the bestWon/Lost record two years running.
For the Holy Rosary baseball team
Of the city's CYO League,
Of the city's CYO League,
There's a deep hole at Short.
In the Summer of 1958,
Albert Bernard, “Albie,”
In Fall River, by cause of a baseball,
Died after being hit
On the right temple of the head.
On the right temple of the head.
He leaves behind
A loving Mother,
A Brother and Sister,
His Grandmother, grief-sick.
He leaves his Teammates.
He leaves behind
The girl of his arms,
His wife and their child,—
Had that he lived.
Had that he lived.
There's a deep hole in life.
He leaves behind
An infielder's glove, olive-oiled,
Hand-rubbed and ready,
Hand-rubbed and ready,
Threaded through the handlebars.
He leaves behind
This singular romance of himself:
Bernard, Albert, “Albie.”
In Fall River.
All Star.
All Star.
Shortstop.
Bats right.
Throws right.
Quequechan
