-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 1975,

Albert 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,

Eyes wide as baseballs.

Had he lived.

Had his Son been born.

Had he ducked.

Had the ball dropped an inch

To break his jaw.

Had his girl pressed closer

For another moment

Behind the Billboards

Causing him to be late for the game

Causing him to run to the Park

Spikes flung over his shoulder

Causing the Coach

To bench him for his tardiness;

For his irresponsibility

To his teammates.

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 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, keep him with his friends,

His teammates and with his Mother.

Now his Grandmother

Wails in grief at the grave,

Standing limply, held by attendants;— 

"Albert, don't leave your Mother!"

“Albert, don’t leave your Mother!”

Now his Teammates grieve at the grave,

Silently inside themselves.

With Father Vincent Diafario assisting,
Monsignor Joseph Pannoni measured his cadence

Through the written passage of the antiphon.

Casket is sprinkled with water.

Casket is perfumed in smoke.

The silence creaks like a clearing in the woods.

More poignant are the muffled sobs and clearing

Throats at the somber grave.

There are whispers to his Mother's ear.

They shelter her palms in their hands.

We linger not knowing what to do.

Then we went to breakfast.

It’s where the ballplayers belonged,

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 of the Diner, Paul Pieroni’s eyes

Looked like the baseballs he pitched, floating

Like slow almond-clouds in a wind.

The stitches roll 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 had his son.

There's a deep hole in life.

On second, “Ducky” Carvalho

Once dropped a popup,

To lose a game in extra innings,

Now falling silently in the clanking Diner,

Far in the distance;

The booth 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. Couldn't hit.

But ran fast and bunted with 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 community of friends

Which required speed and an ability to jump,—

Peggyball, Bowl-a-Wicket, Buck-Buck,

Was mined from the pick-ups like he was gold.

Now he sat to my right in the booth

Trying like hell to talk to Pieroni.

“Albie was hit by a pipe when he was a kid,

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.

Had there been a pipe to temper our guilt.

Paul Pieroni, Knuckleballer, will cling to it.

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 spin in her dress, bare-footed.

She'd pause when he'd pause in the warm

Embrace, goodnight sweetheart, and slip

Her foot on the hard-wood floor, pulling his foot

To follow in his lead.

There's a deep hole in life.  

John “Pappy” Tacovelli was the consumate Catcher.

Rough, hard-skinned and constantly bruised.

His Mother, Carmella, chain-smoked Camels

Which hung with a wet duck’s-ass from her mouth.

The fast-ball was favored by Gino DiNucci

As the pitch of preference to Pieroni’s

On-going consternation.

Smart, right-minded,

Uncompromising in his devotion to his team.

Like a Baseball Coach.

For the Holy Rosary baseball team of the 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 in 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.

There's a deep hole in life.

He leaves behind,—

A glove, olive-

Oiled, hand-rubbed and ready,

Threaded through the handlebars.

He leaves behind,—

This singular romance of him:

Bernard, Albert, “Albie.”

In Fall River. All Star.

Shortstop.

Bats right.

Throws right.

Quequechan