Saturday, March 27, 2010
Sunday, March 14, 2010
He was born while Central Park was still a flower pot. You’ve heard the story before: kid drops out of school in the 8th grade to support his family. Poppie always said it’d be scary what he could’ve done with an education; it’s scary what he did without one.
He was a man’s man, a woman’s kinda man, a real gentleman. He was cool and tough; handy and earnest. He boxed, played baseball, golfed. He was a marine, a butcher; he ran a luncheonette, spanned nearly a century, produced educated kids, and used to send pigeons home from Yankee stadium with a piece of paper bearing the score tied around their foot.
He was awesome. I felt awesome having the same blood as him coursing through my veins. He was Italian. He was American. He was vibrant. He was strong. He loved life. Sure, everyone says that, but from his lips to God’s ears: “If I had to do it all over again, kid, I’d do it the exact same.”
Well, Poppie - I wouldn’t have changed a hair on your head, full as it was till the end.
This is the hand that shook the hand that shook the world.