I grew
up in Eastie during the '60s when
baseball reigned supreme in Bean
Town. Rightfully so, the city was
in the grip of pennant fever with
the Red Sox, the Impossible Dream
Team. In left field was the over
achiever and future hall of famer
Carl Yastrzemski, and in right
was an up and coming local home
town hero named Tony Conigliaro.
My friends and I
all harbored dreams that some day
we too could grace the emerald
grass of Fenway Park and one day
be the next Yaz, Tony C, or Rico.
We
played ball at local park named
Wood Island. For those too young
to remember, Wood Island served
as a recreational haven for the
residents of Eastie, offering the
chance for solitude, a chance to
get off the streets in the heat
of the summer. There were woods
for hiking, ball fields,
playgrounds, and best of all it
rested alongside the ocean. It
was a great place to go swimming
or to take a dip as
my father would often say on a
muggy summer evening.
But in
the late 60s Wood Island
was dying. It was suffocating.
The park was being devoured by a
hunger to create a larger and
bigger airport. Little by little
chunks of the park were seized
and fenced off. It was sad to
watch especially for my
fathers generation who had
spent their youth there and had
grown up to truly love the place.
Gradually
the Mass Port Authority would
swallow all of the park as well
as an adjoining neighborhood, to
accommodate the expanding
airport. Homes were taken by
eminent domain and families were
forced to relocate.
By early
summer the entire park had been
consumed by the Port Authority
with the exception of two lone
Little League fields. As kids we
were oblivious to all the
politics. All we knew was that we
were losing our ball field, our
field of dreams.
As I
look back I will always cherish
those summer days when life was
simple and nothing else seemed to
matter except having a glove, a
ball, a bat and a field to play
on.
For the
kids on my street getting to the
ball fields meant walking. Like a
small army platoon carrying their
weapons, twenty-eight and twenty
nine ounce Tommy Harper
autographed Adirondack bats we
marched. Down Lexington Street to
Brooks Street. Brooks across
Princeton, across Saratoga to
Bennington. Down the block to
Rileys Roast Beef. Across
Bremen Street to the train tracks
and over the bridge to the dirt
road. We referred to it as the
dirt road because it was just
that, dirt - hot, dusty,
yellowish dirt.
The road
was constructed by Mass Port. It
ran parallel to the newly
expanded Logan Airport. While the
remaining residents fought to
save their homes, the dirt road
offered Eastie residents their
only entrance to their once
beloved sanctuary.
My
friends and I thought the dirt
road was ten miles of the
hottest, arid, most
uncompromising pieces of earth
this side of the Mojavi. Actually
it was only about a half of mile.
But to eight and ten year legs,
on a sweltering July afternoon it
was ten miles. As we trudged
along, massive construction
trucks carrying land fill rumbled
passed us generating clouds of
the dry yellowish dust forcing us
to cover our faces until the dust
clouds subsided.
"I
hate this road."
"Its
so long."
"It's
so boring."
"It
takes forever to walk this."
All our
complaining just added to our
anguish.
Often
times we walked with heads down ,
bats perched on shoulders. The
only noise was the crunching
sound of our worn sneakers
against the hard sun baked stone
coated ground. Every so often,
glancing up momentarily to gauge
our snail like progress. Followed
by complaining. Followed by
silence.
Other
times the trip down the dirt road
inspired some passionate debate
whos the greatest
ball player of all time, was it
the Babe, Willie Mays, or the
Splendid Splinter, Ted Williams.
Or whos the toughest kid on
the street or what new movie was
playing at the Seville Theater.
After
what seemed like eternity we
arrived at Wood Island or what
was left of it. It was a welcome
sight after the oppressive heat
of the road. Freshly inspired
with the end in view, we ran to
the ball fields. We hurtled
through the waist high grass and
weeds, wielding bats and gloves
while disrupting yellow
butterflies, grasshoppers, and
Japanese beetles.
Our ball
playing always started with great
exuberance and optimism. But the
rising afternoon temperature,
several misplayed balls, and a
few arguments, gradually whittled
away at our enthusiasm. Our
attention span and patience
shortened. In between the missed
pitches there was some rock
throwing or airplane watching or
butterfly chasing.
Around
this point in time my friend Tom
would decide he had had enough. A
ball hit in his direction went
unplayed. The ragged brown and
grass stained baseball skipped
past him and into the cover of
the over grown outfield grass.
"Get
the ball"! His brother Chris
would shout.
"I
quit", Tom would respond.
"Get
the ball"! Chris would
demand.
"I
quit, I said"! and Tom would
walked away.
Chris
would fling his glove at Tom. Tom
would whip it back. Chris would
chase him across the infield. The
two would wrestle and roll around
second base, kicking up a cloud
of the dry infield dust.
Invariably Tom would end up in
tears. He would head off by
himself into the outfield and
then out of sight.
This
outburst generally shattered what
flow we had achieved during our
play. The group would split off.
Some played catch while others
sat on the bench and concentrated
on working up wads of spit which
we released on the ground between
our dangling legs. We waited for
the decision makers to make a
decision.
"Cmon
lets getoutta here"! they
would declare. The boys of summer
calling it a day.
Towards
the tail end of my last Little
League season the Port Authority
became lax about maintaining the
two ball fields. With several
games left to play the outfield
grass was as high as a twelve
year old's knee. My father called
the Authority and complained. It
was soon cut and we finished out
the season. I think it was his
attempt at adding some dignity to
the park during its final
dying days.
When I
played my last game, Wood Island
Park was forever closed and
became but a memory. Today where
the park once existed there
probably lies a runway or a
terminal where planes taxi back
and forth. Truck loads of black
hard top now cover what were once
our ball fields. The homes long
gone. Families relocated. A harsh
reminder of the steep cost of
progress.
In my
heart and mind the fond memories
of Wood Island endure. I will
never forget those care free
summer days when life was simple
and nothing else in the world
seem to matter except having a
glove, a ball, a bat, and a field
to play on.
Joe
DeLuca, formerly of Everett
Street and Lexington Street, now
lives in Westford, with his wife
and two children. DeLuca attended
Sacred Heart School and East
Boston High School.
©
1999, Joseph DeLuca, All
rights reserved.
posted on 12/6/99
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