Robert Windorf


I recently heard from someone
about his memories of growing-up in
Harlem and how Willie Mays and
other sluggers would come on
late Sunday afternoons and
hit three-sewer shots to the
delight of their hordes of
deserving young fans.

That was 1950s Harlem.
But soon after, those sluggers
moved out west, some lured by
the beaming stars of
Hollywood Boulevard.

My thoughts take me to
1960s Bensonhurst, where
we ran the streets each day
forever inventing games to
chase the blues away.

There was no Say-Hey Kid
who came to amaze us,
like those Harlem fellas.
But we had Tommy,
our local version of the Babe,
who could hit one
two sewers down the block –
even one-handed!

The other day while crossing
the school yard,
that once familiar object
happily bounced past me.
As I stooped to retrieve it,
my student ran over and
suddenly asked –
“Hey, isn’t this the one you
told us about yesterday?”

Yes, he was correct –
the scuffed, small, red ball
that once made heroes of us all.

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