flashback

Flashback:

In bed, under a heavy quilt, Matt twisted between sweat-dampened sheets, dreaming
feverishly of the time when he was twelve and a group of teen-agers from Elizabeth
Street asked him to play a rough and tumble game of Johnny-on-the-pony. It was an
honor he couldn’t refuse.
On that sweltering August evening, Matt and his three best buddies had watched
the older guys, heroes and paragons at the time, take turns leap-frogging their full weight
onto the other team’s wavering column of bent backs, chain-linked together by arms
around waists and heads against hip bones. Volleys and single shots of groans, curses,
threats, and taunts echoed off the tight tenements surrounding the small, parochial
school yard. Adding to the significance of the brute competition was a group of local
Mafiosi who had gathered to watch and place bets on the outcome.
The wiseguys wore white sleeveless T-shirts and draped expensive Italian knits
over their forearms. Like major league scouts, they evaluated the up and coming talent.
Some were looking for hijacking crews, others for future hit-men. It was the early
sixties, the economy was booming and the Mafia was recruiting. Most of the players
had aspirations of joining the Mob and knew the big-shots were watching. For them this
was more than a game. It was a time to shine, to be on the winning team.
Mikey Tan’s group had just taken the prone position, when Bobbie Spinello’s
father, his face flushed with ire, ran into the school yard. What Matt noticed even more
than Mr. Spinello’s complexion was the Louisville Slugger clutched in his hand. Bobbie
unhitched himself from the line and took off like a world-class sprinter. He scrambled
up the 12-foot cyclone fence, spiraled his wiry body over the top, and vanished from
the street like a startled cockroach.
The story was some cops had come by the apartment to question Bobbie about
a break-in at Sy’s Haberdashery on Allen Street. Bobbie’s old man gave them an
earful, defending the integrity of his son. The cops left unconvinced. Apparently,
Bobbie’s father wasn’t convinced either. He tore up Bobbie’s room and found three
dozen Ban-lon shirts still in plastic.
Bruno Segretti’s team whooped it up, celebrating victory by way of forfeit, but
Mikey Tan, with his made-guy father looking on, wasn’t about to be humiliated. He
spotted Matt and his three pals in the crowd and walked over to them. Matt’s stomach
churned, an acid mix of fear and excitement, as Mikey approached. Frankie Mazzarino,
one of Matt’s three friends, stepped forward, puffing out his chest, letting Mikey know
he was ready to play. But Mikey ignored him. His eyes were on Matt all the way.
Mikey Tan got his name because he was a lighter version of his father, Mikey
Brown, the most vicious and feared button in the neighborhood. Mikey junior had
acquired the intimidating mannerisms of Mikey senior, including his way of asking. He
stepped in front of Matt. “The word is you got balls. You gonna take Bobbie’s place or
what?”
As if a greater force had mugged his free will, Matt nodded.
Mikey’s impatient scowl turned into a flinty grin. He slapped his hand onto Matt’s
shoulder. “You’re all right, kid. Come on.”
Mikey turned, leading the way for Matt to follow. But before he did, Matt looked
to his friends for support.
Eddie and Lou flashed encouraging smiles.
“Show’em what you got,” said Eddie.
“You can do it, Matty,” added Lou.
Frankie, however, burned him with a hateful glare. It was a roundhouse punch to his
pride that the older guys considered Matt to be tougher than he was. As Matt moved
away to join the teenagers, he kept a wary eye on Frankie. He’d seen that look before.
It often preceded a fist-swinging attack.
Though best of friends, they sometimes fought like the worst of enemies, Frankie
always starting the confrontation to prove he was the pack leader, and Matt always
kicking his ass, guaranteeing a future skirmish. Matt had even considered throwing one
of the fights to give Frankie’s conceit some relief, but Matt’s competitive side wouldn’t
allow him to do so. Besides, he reasoned, it would be a greater insult to Frankie to let
him win. This was the Lower Eastside, Little Italy’s mean streets. Frankie had to earn it.
Matt took the lead position. Folding at the waist, he wrapped his arms around
Fat Butchy’s gelatinous gut. Butchy always played the pillow against the wall because
he couldn’t bend over. The action resumed when Freddy Fly, the other team’s best
jumper, sailed over four backs to land hard on Robby Zip, the guy gripping Matt’s
waist. Freddy continued to inch forward, ignoring the pony team’s protests, and settled
on Matt’s vulnerable spine.
Four more jumpers came in quick succession, each landing hard then illegally
pulling themselves forward, provoking more condemnation from Mikey’s team until
Tiny Chaz’s two hundred plus pounds lumbered forward. Everyone fell silent. The
players from both teams braced themselves. When Tiny launched himself, the outcome
was unpredictable. He could easily knock one of his own team members to the concrete
as crumble the back of an opposing player.
The big-shots elbowed one another, guffawed, and gestured, anticipating Tiny’s
effect. They placed additional bets on who would cave first. Matt was the odds-on
favorite to be the weakest link.
True to form, no one could’ve predicted Tiny’s jump. As he struggled to gain
momentum, his flab bounced wildly under his stretched and sopping T-shirt. Closing
in on the bent rump he would use to catapult himself, he grimaced, gritted his teeth,
and loudly farted. Surprised by the sudden, boisterous ripple, Tiny tripped. He never
gained an inch of vertical lift and crashed belly-first into the hapless pony team. The
wicked crunch forward was too much for Matt. His knees buckled, and Freddy rode
him to the ground, pulling Fat Butchy on top of them. The whole line, jumpers and all,
began a riotous pile-on. Matt was at the very bottom, crushed by the rolling weight of a
dozen bodies. He gasped for breath.
Matt struggled to push himself from the ground, fighting for the half-inch his chest
needed to expand for a gulp of oxygen. But the weight on top of him was too great, and
he remained pressed to the cement. He wheezed asthmatically, surviving on threads of
air. Then things got worse. Suddenly, he was breathing water.
Farther up the street, another group of kids had opened a fire hydrant, and the
ensuing torrent jumped the curb and flowed freely into the school yard. To the others in
the stack of players, it was a hilarious way to cool off, but to Matt, with his face
mashed to the ground, it was a life and death struggle. He gurgled and choked in the
shallow stream, unable to free himself and too proud to cry for help. He envisioned the
next day’s Daily News headline - Kid Drowns In Four Inches Of Water. His death
would sell lots of papers. People all over the city would shake their heads and feel sorry
for his mother. He was losing consciousness and about to die, but he couldn’t scream -
only girls scream.
Fortunately, someone else screamed for him. Frankie Mazzarino rushed to the
pile-on, yelling holy murder. He pushed, pulled, and kicked until every last teenager was
thrown clear of Matt. Frankie lifted Matt’s head out of the water. They locked eyes in a
way they had never done before. Matt owed him. Frankie knew it. After that, they
never fought again.

h ome