Black and White Baseball
I’m on the phone
with one of my only
4 black friends
and we’re talking
baseball. I was born
into it. My father
preached Joe DiMaggio,
worshipped his steady,
quiet grace in hushed
tones as we watched
games on our black
and white TV. Willie
picked the winning
NY team, didn’t know
why his neighborhood
rooted for the Mets
until a father figure
explained the Yankees
first black player
didn’t show up
until a decade after
Jackie. But Willie
was hooked on Mickey
Mantle and we both,
pictured being Al Downing,
a black, flame throwing
lefty strike out artist
when we pitched Little
League. Today, Willie’s
complaining about
the Yankee announcers,
3 old white guys-man
I miss Ken Singleton-going
on and on, moaning
about Randy Arozarena’s
home run trot, a 40-second
parade around the bases,
coming to a full stop
before reaching third
base, crossing his arms
across his puffed-up
chest, like a conquering
hero winning the 7th game
of the World Series
instead of a .235 batter,
hitting a windblown
homer in the late innings
to avoid a lopsided
shutout. Willie wants
to know why they can’t
shut up and let the guy
enjoy it, celebrate, who’s
he hurting anyway.
But, it pisses me off
too. It’s no big deal
and why rub it in,
it’s not like he found
a cure for loneliness,
did anything game
changing. I hope next
time he steps in the box,
the pitcher plants
a fastball in his ribs.
Willie’s old school
enough to go along
with that, but points
out times change,
sometimes you got
to go with the flow
and says you know
it’s kind of racist
and I almost blurt
out don’t give me
any of that shit,
but stick to nah man
while thinking how much
I hated Reggie, his home
run posing, Ozzie back
flipping on his way
to play shortstop, Willie
White Shoes Johnson
dancing across end zones.
Damn, all of them black.
Maybe I am a mother
fucking racist piece of shit.
But then I remember
Willie Randolph, Chris
Chamblis’ pennant winning
homer against the Royals,
how he put his head down
plowed through hordes
of onrushing, ecstatic fans
to touch home plate, Bernie
Williams, Mariano, Matsui
and Tanaka, Elgin Baylor,
Wes Unseld, Earl The Pearl,
Julius with his ABA afro
swooping in for a dunk,
all non-white athletes
I adored, the majestic
Jim Brown scoring another
touchdown and matter-
of-factly handing the ball
to the ref like no big deal,
he’s been there before,
knows he’ll be back soon
and Willie, who hasn’t
called me a racist,
at least not yet,
checking next month’s
calendar to meet
for lunch, this time
my choice, Dominican,
near the group home
we worked together
for over 40 years.
Group Home Verdict
It was the day the all white jury in L.A. found the cops not guilty of beating the crap out of Rodney King on camera, face down, curled in a ball. They took turns whacking him with nightsticks, kicking him in the ribs as he stirred in pain, tried to crawl away. We were starting the afternoon shift meeting, making plans for the weekly swimming outing, who’s going who’s staying behind this time. Liz said we better keep everyone home. Some shit’s gonna start downtown. Good idea, in-house bingo instead?
Being the one white guy, I kept quiet, wondering how much of it they thought was my fault. I don’t remember how long we sat there, whose rage was loudest, whose tears formed or fell. But no one seemed at all surprised with the verdict. Cookie ended it, sounding like she was in charge, not me. Tony get your stuff I’ll Tupperware your dinner. You want salad with it? JJ, walk him to the subway and wait on that platform, make sure you get his white ass on the first train back to Queens in one piece.
Tony Gloeggler is a life-long resident of NYC who managed group homes for the mentally challenged for over 40 years. His most recent collection, What Kind of Man with NYQ Books, was a finalist for the 2021 Paterson Poetry Prize and Here on Earth is forthcoming on NYQ Books.