My daddy was a big league pitcher. Died 
on the mound. Took a returned curveball 
to the forehead he dropped dead right in 
the heart of The Vet way down at the end 
of Broad before they were all named after
banks. I was there. The crack of the bat. 
The silence. I remember it. They tell me I
was too young but I remember everything.
Rosin bags and brown dirt mixed in with 
red egg yoke pourin’ out runnin’ down the
mound. Took a few years for mom to start 
cookin’ again then it was just boyfriends 
and black eyes cryin’ quiet on the phone. I 
was alone. Sat on the stairs listenin’. I was 
scared. Every day. Until I started smokin’. 
Until Ronnie started stealin’ his dad’s pills. 
I learned my lessons after that on 4th near 
Tasker, the blocks between the Blacks and 
Italians. Gina got pregnant. I thought maybe 
a baby could save me but they died on the 
junk I gave ‘em today and I’m writin’ to say I 
never really tried. 


That it’s my fault the way everybody died. I 
coulda been a better man. I knew how. But I 
never really tried.  

Tony Godino has published short fiction with Isele Magazine and poetry with Pluto’s, Olney, and others. He is from Scranton, Pennsylvania and considers the 2022 MLS Cup to be the greatest heartbreak of his entire life. Doop. He can be found on Instagram here: @TonyGodinoDied. Go Phils.