Five Small Legends from a Long Summer
Preface
Lincoln Street was the whole world once -
cracked asphalt for outfields,
maples for scoreboards,
and porch fans humming like crowds in the stands.
We were kings with gloves for crowns
and pockets full of gum and luck.
Every bruise was a medal,
every laugh a victory parade.
These poems remember that world -
not just the games, but the friendship stitched between them.
The way we faced down winters with courage,
and each other with grins.
The way one missed catch could become a myth.
The way a single word...trouble spot! -
could hold a whole neighborhood’s heart.
I. Trouble Spot
summer fun on Lincoln Street
I was just a goofy kid,
with a heart stitched like a baseball -
scuffed, soft at the seams,
living on Lincoln Street
where the world smelled like cut grass
and could fit in the palm of a glove.
Baseball ruled everything.
Cards in rubber bands,
names we whispered like spells...
Duffy Dyer - my first,
a Mets man by fate
and ten cents at the corner store.
Beside me, Anthony held Ron Cey,
swearing Dodgers were the best.
We were loyal as dogs...
until the trade.
Dyer to the Pirates?
That day, I became a Yankee.
But the truest game we played
wasn’t in any park,
it was right there in front of 812.
We called it Trouble Spot.
A game of catch,
but with danger on purpose -
low at the ankles,
high at the nose,
fast to the belt,
and someone always shouting:
“Trouble spot!”
We fumbled, yelped,
laughed ourselves sore.
No score, no end, no mercy.
Only friendship
flung from one glove to another.
Now the street’s gone quiet,
the gloves boxed away.
But sometimes, in a warm breeze,
I still hear the call -
and without thinking,
I lift my hands,
ready for whatever comes.
II. Winter on Lincoln Street
The bats were sleeping in the shed,
our breath made ghosts above our heads.
The maple by Hogan’s stood alone,
a frozen ump with bark and bone.
The snow was deep, but we still played,
our mittened hands a poor charade.
We pitched packed snow at maple’s side,
and each white burst was purest pride.
“Strike three!” I’d shout, and fall right through
a drift that cheered, “You missed it too!”
We’d laugh till lips were blue and numb,
till moms yelled out, “Come get you some
hot cocoa now, before you freeze!”
We never called those games defeats.
They were winter’s quiet tries -
our way to keep the dream alive.
And when the world lay cold and neat,
summer waited...on Lincoln Street.
III. When Anthony Missed the Catch
It was the perfect throw -
the kind that spins a whisper low,
a comet stitched in leather.
Anthony reached -
too late.
The ball rolled right through forever.
It thudded off the curb,
escaped the game,
and cracked the Grays’ new windowpane.
We froze...like statues in the sun,
and Anthony whispered, “Guess we’re done.”
But Mrs. Gray just shook her head.
“Next time,” she said, “try left instead.”
Then smiled, like saints or angels do
and handed back our scuffed-up “boo-boo.”
That night we swore we'd never tell,
that single crack our holy shell.
But still, sometimes, when shadows stretch,
I hear the sound of that missed catch,
and see him grin, all teeth and fear,
and know that’s why we’re still right here.
IV. Center Street Park
There was no grass quite like that grass -
patchy, stubborn, thin as glass.
But we called it sacred ground,
where summer’s magic could be found.
We’d chew Big League Chew like pros,
wipe dust from our heroic nose,
and dream that scouts from faraway towns
would see our dives, our triple crowns.
The park was nothing much to see -
a field, a fence, one lonely tree.
But in our eyes it might as well
have been where all the legends dwell.
We played till dark, till mothers called,
till fireflies rose and dusk enthralled.
And though our swings have slowed a bit,
those sparks still glow where we once hit.
V. The Last Game
Years spun fast as foul balls fly.
The boys grew tall. The gloves grew dry.
One by one, we drifted wide -
down different streets, with different strides.
Yet sometimes, when I pass that bend -
812, where time won’t end,
I hear the echo, sharp and sweet,
of kids who ruled old Lincoln Street.
And if you listen close, you’ll hear
their laughter lingering, year to year -
a sound that says what words forgot:
We never lost. We just grew up.
Afterword
The games are gone, but not the grace -
of sunlight on a younger face.
Of hands that caught more than a ball -
they caught a life. They caught it all.
GBS
1996
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