I want to talk about
Frankie. It was difficult to write this, I think, funny baseball passage. Some
may recognize Frankie, Bubs and me, but the essence of the tale is true. I
mentioned our families were close. He
was very much like me, he needed leadership. Bubs always had direction, esp.,
if it came from Big Bubs, but he knew how to get to where he wanted to go. For Frankie and me to trust each other when
the bottom fell out on step one was expected in some sort of weird way. Both
Bubsies were, and are, eternally in our lives. We walked over to the bus stop
11400 S Western onward to 4000 N Addison.
Frankie and I learned to trust each other in our
formative/lost years. We weren’t the
stand outs athletically; our brotherhood was to pass each other the basketball
no matter what Coach Big Bill had to say. Our connection was beyond these
yahoos we called our classmates. Esp., because I wanted to doink his cousin
Colleen so bad, it was really royally announced – but no one noticed. Some
Marine got in the way…
… Frank and I, others from the Southside, and his cousin
Dennis training thoroughbreds spent a meet at the Fairgrounds, New Orleans, La…
circa 1976. We lived together, we survived together. We enjoyed pancakes in the
track kitchen, as soon as the ‘storm’, a.k.a.
‘fucking hurricane’ slows down… go out and calm those horses down’… it
was a crazy carnie lifestyle… We always watched each other’s’ backs…
As in life Coach Dikta, Frankie’s’ and my life
diverged. He unraveled, had his issues.
I avoided him near the end; I feel he needed me most, to my regret. People in
my life, I refer to them often.
These recollections are homage
to Frankie,
a Distinctive, Questioning and
Loving friend, and Sox fan
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