The Selma Of The North

I grew up in the 1960s on the South Shore of Boston. Only two African-Americans lived in my hometown. The Red Sox star pitcher Luis Tiant and the esteemed US Senator Edward Brooke. My neighborhood friends opened their hearts to reveal the incurable hatred in their souls. I never spoke to them again without saying why. One young boy from Roxbury attended my Catholic high school. We studied German together. I was a D+ student. Booker was an A scholar.

I can't imagined how he suffered at that school.

Alone, but he never complained about anything to anyone.

After college I taught at South Boston High School during the Bussing Riots.

The city was pure evil and I fled to New York in 1976.

That was over forty years ago, but the hatred against African-Americans is as strong as ever and this week various athletes revealed the vile behavior of sports fans at Fenway Park. Kevin Youklis said, "There was one incident where a fan came running down and was being extra harsh towards one of our black players, and I just got fed up and I stood up and told him to 'Shut the fuck up, and if you don’t like it get out of here.'

"I will never forget that moment because I was boiling. You could see the tension, and it wasn’t the same tension that was towards a white player. For the most part, I’d like to say too, though, with Red Sox fans, it’s not the majority it’s a minority of people that act like that. But the minority is too big, and you have to eliminate that."

One night at Frank's Lounge a Brooklyn Detective of African descent told me how he and two friends went to Fenway and bought tickets off a scalper. Two Irish cops confronted them and my friend showed his badge.

"That don't mean nothing to us here. Not for you."

Then the cop unleashed his racist heart.

I apologized to my friend and he said, "It isn't you. It's just where you were born. Welcome to Brooklyn."

"Thanks."

To my people in Boston.

Enough was enough a long time ago.

And I am happy to be here.

A Walk On A Bridge

On a grey November afternoon I was not in the best of moods. I hid my sadness with smiles and buried my sorrow with alcohol.

Life was hardly worth living.

I hadn't seen my children for over a year. I missed them more and more with each passing day.

Especially little Fenway.

And Angie.

They were growing up without me.

The hurt wouldn't go away. An inner voice spoke a dangerous language. It only had one word.

I looked out my window. Condos along Fulton Avenue blocked my view to the west. Thailand and my family lay on the other side of the world. I hadn't left my room in three days.

My phone rang.

I answered hoping it was a job lead.

Instead it was Shannon, my old basketball friend. We hadn't played in a long time.

My legs were gone.

"You wan to join me for a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. We can have lunch in Chinatown."

"I don't know."

"My treat."

Shannon knew my weakness for a free meal and agreed to meet at the Masonic Temple in Fort Greene.

"Ten minutes." We lived close to each other. Shannon with his wife. Me all alone.

Seeing a friendly face was a good thing.

"So we were walking across the bridge?" I pointed up. The sky was darker than before.

"You scared of a little rain?"

"No." We were both dressed for the weather, although I was wearing sandals instead of boots.

"Then let's go."

"How's work?"

"I don't have any work." I had been laid off from the Plaza store. "No one's buying jewelry."

"Any idea why?"

Millions of dollars of diamonds and gems sat in the window.

"My old profession is dying in the new century, but enough talk of business, let's walk."

The Brooklyn Bridge was thirty minutes from Fort Greene. Shannon and I spoke of the past.

Basketball games, fights, and long-gone loves, then he broached a forbidden subject.

"When are you going to Thailand?"

"No time soon." I was living on food stamps and all my money went to my family. I was lucky to spend $40 a day. "I don't know when I'll get there."

"One day you will."

He knew how much I loved my kids.

Shannon had suggested the name 'Fenway' for my son. I had checked online for Fenway Smith. Surprisingly I found none.

"You know I was walking down Lafayette the other day and ran into a guy with a dog wearing a Red Sox hat. I asked him his dog's name. He said, "Fenway." Now I realized why people don't call their kids 'Fenway'. They call their dogs 'Fenway'.

"Sorry." Shannon was a Yankee fan, but a good friend and I said, "I still like the name."

We had reached the pedestrian pathway and climbed onto the bridge.

Few tourists braved the damp mist. Shannon was a faster walker. I lingered at the railing. The height of the wooden walkway was 132 over the water. A thick obscured the city's inner harbor. Its thick grey matched the color of my heart. The dangerous language repeated the only word in its vocabulary, as the wind strummed the steel cables and the grated roadway hummed with traffic.

I thought of Hart Crane's poem about the wind and struggled to recall The Bridge.

One line stuck in my head.

"Under thy shadow by the piers I waited Only in darkness is thy shadow clear."

Darkness was my only friend.

Hart Crane had jumped or drunken sailors had thrown the gay poet off the bow of Orizaba. He drowned in the Caribbean, confirming his prediction.

"The bottom of the sea is cruel."

The height of the bridge was ruthless and the tide said the word.

"Jump."

Shannon looked at me. He read my eyes and said, "The fog leans one last moment on the sill. Under the mistletoe of dreams, a star — As though to join us at some distant hill — Turns in the waking west and goes to sleep.

Shannon had read Crane too.

The poetry mirrored my soul, but Shannon was too far away to stop me other to say, "Fenway."

I didn't budge.

He said another name.

"Angie."

My mother was an Angie.

She was in after-life, but my daughter was here now.

Thousands of miles away, but there same as Fenway.

Shannon shrugged.

He was not playing fair.

Not with my life on the line.

We were standing underneath City Hall.

Are you okay?"

"Better."

"Just remember you have something to live for?"

"I know."

"Bringing Fenway to Fenway Park".

"I'm sure he'd like that."

"Tough getting swept by the Indians in the playoffs." Shannon really was a Yankee fan, but they hadn't been to the World Series since 2009.

"I really touched by your concern."

"Shall we have a drink at your bar."

"The 169."

I was friends with the afternoon bartender.

"We deserve a beer after that walk."

"It'll be good to be off the bridge."

Because I still had places to go.

We had more than one beer.

The 169 had pretty lights.

And pretty lights kept away the darkness.

For sleep and dreams of jumping off a low bridge into the Charles River.

The Charles

THE NAME IS FENWAY by Peter Nolan Smith

I was born in Boston. My childhood, teenage years, and college career were spent within the confines of New England. My heart belonged to the Celtics and Red Sox and these sports allegiances were never challenged by my decades of living in New York or anywhere else in the world.

When the Red Sox came back to defeat the Yankees in 2004, I was sitting in a bar in Thailand, cheering on my team on the other side of the world. The other farangs at the bar were finishing off a night of go-go bars. They tried to change the channel. I was sober and they were drunk. I got my way and celebrated the ending of the Curse of the Bambino by buying everyone at the bar a drink. After my explanation of the history of the red Sox, we toasted the long-awaited victory. Few of them cared, although the Brits understood the pain, because England hasn't won anything in soccer since 1960.

Four years later my Thai wife Mam announced that she was pregnant with a boy and I consulted my overseas friends for a name. Jesse James Smith sounded good, until someone said that the Missouri outlaw had owned slaves. Malcolm X Smith was a little too heavy a name to carry through his life. My favorite runner as a teenager had been Tommie Smith. He had raised his fist on the medal podium at the 1968 Summer Olympics in Mexico City, but Tommie Smith Smith was too much Smith.

"What about Fenway?" suggested Shannon Greer. He's a New York fan. We are good friends.

"Fenway Smith." I liked it and googled Fenway Smith. None showed up on the search for Smith, Jones, Williams, Lee, Sanchez, Miller, or Martin. I explained the origins of the name to Mam.

"Can not name your son Fenway Park Smith."

"Why not?"

"Everyone think he Korean not Thai with name Park."

She was right and we have a loving son Fenway.

His middle name is Superstar.

I had to leave Thailand four years ago.

Now I travel back and forth every 3-4 months. Fenway is always in my mind as are the rest of my children; Fluke, Noi, and Angie. My younger sister disapproved of naming my son 'Fenway'.

She's a lawyer. They have strong opinions.

"You'll see why it's stupid."

She's has a funny way of being right, but Fenway has many names; Wey-wey, One-way, and always Superstar.

Now I live in Brooklyn. It's more Mets territory than Yankee land. My friends at Frank's Lounge appreciate the name and on many occasions I proudly tell people, "My son's name is Fenway."

I'm still a Red Sox fan, even if they sucked this season under fucking Bobby V and collapsed like the World Trade Towers last September.

Last week I bought a Red Sox t-shirt for Fenway.

back to my brownstone and saw a young man with a small dog. He was wearing a Red Sox cap. We spoke about our faith and I asked him, "What's your dog's name?"

"Fenway."

I didn't tell him about my son, but several days later I ran into another young Red Sox fan with a dog. Once again the mutt's name was Fenway and I understood the reason that parents don't name their kids 'Fenway' was that young men name their dogs after the Bosox park.

But I'm not a young man.

My father took me to see the KC As at Fenway in 1961. I sat on the steps of the 3rd base line for the 1975 World Series. 2004 I was halfway around the world and I'm Red Sox fan to the core and my son is Fenway Superstar Smith.

One day I'll take him to the temple and that is written in the stars.