To Mookie Wilson
Mr. Wilson, I have been a fan of yours
since I saw your name
on the scoreboard of Big Shea
with my Uncle Michael, back in the day
when he was still alive, before
anyone knew the full extent
of the damage that was done to him
by Agent Orange.
We loved your wheels and
your hustle, which made us jump
out of our seats, when Hubie Brooks
drove you home
to win a game against the Dodgers,
which made it rain
peanut shell shrapnel
in the right field upper deck,
the basepaths of my family history
dotted with spike prints.
To John Pacella
Mr. Pacella, Johnny P,
as my father called you
when he watched you pitch on TV
in your big league debut,
your passion for the game, for playing
in New York, your home
state, was palpable. You fired
throw after throw
as hard as you could.
You weren’t a Metsie for long,
but you made my father ecstatic,
knowing that an Italian guy
from Long Island:
The Guyland could make it
to The Show, like you did
when you were 21,
your hat falling off
after every pitch.
To Rusty Staub
(1944-2018)
Dear Mr. Staub:
if I could cook
half as well as you;
If I could hit
one tenth as well as you,
I would be happier
than any man or woman
drunk on Hurricanes
during Mardi Gras.
You learned French
when you played
for the Montreal Expos
so you could converse
with the city’s fans
and reporters.
You showed
new Mets teammates
around New York City
and helped them find
places to live. I didn’t have
the chance to eat
at your restaurant,
but getting to see some
of the 500 knocks you had
with four different teams;
hearing your kind voice
during telecasts, and
hearing others
speak of you as they do:
the meals you served
to people without homes,
the support you gave
to the widows and children
of 9/11’s first responders
makes my heart grow
like grass
emerging through snow;
streetlights ripening
like grapes
in the vineyard of night.
Joey Nicoletti was born in New York City; he works in Buffalo.