Boys of Summer
“Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Tulle fog closes Highway 99! Extra! Extra!”
We had earned our way as top street-peddlers of the town's pillar-post,
Merced Sun-Star and rode to the Hunter's Point District of San Francisco
In a red station wagon driven by our manager for a baseball game
Between my beloved Giants and the Milwaukee Braves.
As we approached Candlestick Park a kid in the back seat began reading aloud:
“Post-game curb lane only.”
“What?” questioned the lot-of-our non-driving-selves.
“Post-game curb lane only.”
It held rhythmic beat but no meaning, this: Post-game curb lane only.
The contest was classic Hall of Fame—a scoreless pitcher's duel
In which the high-kicking, hard-throwing, right-handed, Dominican dandy,
Juan Marichal and the old, sly, lefty, Warren Spahn tamed all batters
Until the bottom of the ninth when Willie Mays took Spahnie deep
With a bullet against the wind that got out of the park in a hurry.
We walked merrily back uphill to our car—its wheels properly crimped—joyfully singing:
“Post-game curb lane, only Giants one, Braves none.
Post-game curb lane, only Giants one, Braves none.
Post-game . . .
Confession
I sold newspapers every day after school for 3 years. One day Nick Adams, supervisor of
street-sellers inquired, “GT, are you on a Little League team?” Nick had two sons.
“Little League?” I asked.
“Yes, baseball. You like baseball don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you don’t play on a sports team?”
“No, sir.”
“You need to play organized ball with teammates. It’s good for you, Little League try-outs
are Saturday morning 9 o’clock at Hoover Junior High. You should go.”
So, I went and was selected by a losing franchise in the late rounds of an Every Boy Must
Be Chosen draft. I played one season of A Minors, the next year I moved up to the Majors on a
team that included Marlon Whitmore and Jim Holt. Both were left-handed. Jim was a pitcher and
threw shutouts. Marlin swatted prodigious home runs that flew beyond the park, still rising as
they disappeared into evening sky headed toward the distant railroad tracks and its swift moving
train lights.
There was league-wide enforcement of the Participation Rule. Each team member had to
play at least one inning and have at minimum one at-bat. Our manager usually used me in the
late innings, hiding me in out-of-the-way right field. There, in the final game of the regular
season, I became an unlikely hero, making a game-ending, shoe-string, diving catch that won our
team the division pennant.
Boys from ages 9 to 12 were eligible to play in the Little Leagues of America. The official
cut-off of August 1st restricted participation to only boys turning 13 after that date. Born on July
25th , that final year I was six-days too old, but by then, was a member of Troop 99 and had
adopt its version of the Boy Scout Oath recited: On my honor I will do my best; to take what
they give me and steal the rest. I played the entire season under a crenellated mental cloud and
have carried the secret six decades.
Wanting to Belong
Yoshi, who did not speak a word of English
Had been misplaced into my 7th grade
Honors Lands and Peoples class and it took
The counsellors so long to correct their
Enrollment error a grading period lapsed,
And I issued an undeserved FUE (FOOL?).
The administrators finally moved the lad
And over the next two years I watched
Him blossom; an always smiling boy he
Bid me a daily Good Day.
Back then when Los Angeles Unified operated
Year-round they rotated the Middle School
Summer site, some years it was at King, others
Nightingale, Burbank or on my campus, Irving.
That summer following his eighth grade year
Yoshi attended the summer school at Irving
And on the penult day of the school session
Wore a Miami Dolphin's team jacket unaware
Of the color and mascot affiliation to a Filipino
Street gang.
A former Irving (OT) Opportunity Transfer
Who supposedly was never to attend Irving
Again was attending the summer hub classes.
He was being raised by an over-stressed
Single mom who lamented her inability
To reach her rebellious son who resented
His father’s recent departure and was now
At war with the world.
He had gone from loner Gothic black garb
To a totally disrespectful skateboard-tagger
And had been suspended and transferred
After spitting in a teacher's face. That summer
He’d morphed into an Avenue-Wanna-Be.
On that next to last day of summer school
He saw Yoshi wearing the Miami Dolphin
Team colors and threatened, “You're dead!”
Oh, how I cry I did not work that summer!
So the last day of classes Yoshi went to Dr.
Dave Sell instead; and repeated the threat.
Sell, a 30-year veteran took the frightened
Boy to the Main Office and informed the
Staff and acting principal David Casas of
The incident and expressed a desire to drive
Yoshi home.
But Casas, acting principal only because he
Had been fast tracked to increase LAUSD
Latino staff was totally unfit for such life
And death decisions, declared the ride home
Without parental signature inappropriate
According to written school district policy.
Sell, however, did receive permission to grant
Yoshi an early release from school. Alone, Yoshi
Left school walking home, but from his classroom’s
Window the transferee saw Yoshii leave schoolyard.
It was the last day and in no way a surprise the class
Had a substitute from whom the Wanna-be asked
For a pass to the restroom; free, went to the place
On school grounds he had stashed his loaded firearm,
Then hastened to catch Yoshi as the boy walked west
On Fletcher Boulevard.
Later, the gang recruit told authorities he was
Going to kill Yoshi at the four corner intersection
At San Fernando Road and Fletcher but too many
People were there so they continued to the tunnel
Bridge on Fletcher where the Wanna-be put three
Bullets in little Yoshi's brain. To this day, the law
Protects the USA born killer's identity from Yoshi's
Grieving green card immigrant parents.
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