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Cricket Ain’t Canarsie


by Caz Dolowicz. Let’s keep this light, or at least not swerve unto our real feeling about Yankee Stadium (fuck it), George or Hank Steinbrenner (fuck them) or Rudy Giuliani, Mike Bloomberg and most of the City Council— fuck all ya’ll, hard, & without satisfying release for giving away public monies like that and continuously lying about it. I remember the other Yankee Stadium. I remember Phil Rizzuto. I remember Billy Martin, & all the pizza places that would happily— giddily even— tape up the latest Post or News cover after he got in another fight in some Detroit hotel elevator, a Boston night club, a Kansas City hash joint with a so-called fan when they realized the dress, the jeans, the terry cloth robe the beloved Yankees manager had his hands under was being worn by their mom. Hi Mom! There were no MILFs then, at least not by name, only the BMT, the IRT, the IND, a couple RBIs once in a while, “The Literature of Brooklyn: From Slave Narrative to Sorrentino” twice a week down at KCC (Kingsborough Community College) & … The list goes on, & if George “I Wear Stripes” Steinbrenner deserves some credit for being the convicted felon who made some of it happen, fine. Otherwise, all he did was hold New York City hostage, for decades, just waiting for the right combination of jock sniffing whores to give him what he wanted. The Yankees contribute nothing— repeat, nothing— to the Bronx, save a few sports bars & few more long fares for taxi & car service drivers. This is historical fact & I, Caz Dolowicz of Sands Street (but with a Bronx ex-wife & many friends there), defy anyone to explain it differently. The Yankees leaving? The 1970s, the 1980s, the 1990s: see ya’ schmucks, don’t forget to send a fucking postcard. The address is Caz, c/o Fuk Wall St, NYC. Now that it’s 2008, it’s long past time the people drop Randy Levine a nice little present in the mail—  maybe a box of dirt from Macombs Dam Park? look for it Randy, you vile, fatuous creep. (Too bad the team sucks now also, oops.) Come back Sandy Koufax— come back Dick Young— come back Art Rust, Jr—come back “Baseball Altamont”—come back Melle Mel, the game still needs ya’ll.

Thankfully, in Brooklyn we have other sports: handball, hoops & of course, cricket, from the heart of East New York to the head of Canarsie, with shouts to all my Marine Park family over yonder. This isn’t quite the place to explain the difference between a batsman, seen below, & a batty man,  both of whom I love, so don’t waste time on silly prejudice: it’s power & those who abuse it that need the Baseball Furies beat down.


Caz Dolowicz was born on Sands Street in 1923. A retired New York City Transit Authority Tower Operator, he lives with his wife— a Knicks fan, as trying as that is & two cats in Bay Ridge. He thinks Don DeDillo’s Underworld is pretty good, but that Joel Oppenheimer’s The Wrong Season is better.


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