Spindle is an online literary magazine with a twist, featuring creative non-fiction, poetry and short fiction by, for and about New Yorkers -- literal and spiritual. Showcasing emerging writers, artists, musicians and other notable New Yorkers, it offers a multi-faceted look at New York City and the world beyond through the eyes of both those who love it and hate it, and in many cases, a peek inside the minds of the people themselves.
Like New York City, Spindle is best experienced with an open mind and a healthy dose of intellectual curiosity. There are no tour guides here, so readers are encouraged to take their time and casually explore the site, whether a section at a time, via the "related article" links, or by doing a keyword search.
Thanks for reading!
Guy LeCharles Gonzalez Publisher & Editor-in-Chief
The House that Ruth Built by Liz Dolan His once slender waist now bulges like the Babe’s, too many center-cut pork chops and home-grown spuds. On his forearm, a tattoo,
POETRY
Gehrig's Grace by Skip Shea The luckiest man on the face of the earth has turned ghost and carries a Jacob Marley mourn
Cool by Robert Ross But I had no more an idea how to be cool than to hit home runs like Mickey Mantle. Cool was something about the way she wore makeup now and slouched, hopeful,
Brisbane, 1975 by Roger Bonair-Agard In the stands, the sea of faces burned to a pink under their wide-brim hats is quiet and confused pretending they haven’t heard
Running Bases by Guy LeCharles Gonzalez the house that Jackson, Nettles, Randolph and Dent built less than a mile away beamed into 12-inch black and white mirrors
Pinstripe Suits by Larry Jaffe But all I wanted was to wear a Yankee uniform, put spikes on my feet, run the infield, slide into home, Grace the house that Ruth built, DiMaggio reigned and Mantle owned.
Watching Baseball with My Son and Grandson by Wayne Scheer While Jess and I spit statistics, like two ten-year-olds with a little knowledge, Conley babbles something about his kindergarten teacher and the number seventeen. He completes his discourse with the word, "pineapple," as he often does. It's his favorite word. He doesn't particularly care for the fruit, but he loves the word.
REVIEWS
The Bronx is Burning by Jonathan Mahler As its back cover states, Ladies and Gentlemen, the Bronx Is Burning is literally "a kaleidoscopic portrait of New York City in 1977," as Jonathan Mahler ambitiously weaves together New York City's major stories of that surprisingly pivotal year into a dizzying collage of information and insight that is ever-so-slightly less than the sum of its parts.
In the shadow of Claremont Park where years later I’d see my first dead body I mastered the art of running bases.
In that not-quite ghetto section of the Bronx where gloves and bats and balls were only seen on TV
the house that Jackson, Nettles, Randolph and Dent built less than a mile away beamed into 12-inch black and white mirrors when pinstriped dreams didn’t have to be cable-ready and you played for the love of the game
I ran back and forth between selected squares of concrete skinned knees bleeding from enthusiasm
back and forth avoid the tag fake left head down slide right SAFE!!!
my mother’s plea to wear long pants rang in my ears as the blood ran into my socks.
One summer I tried to run from home and my mother caught me at the front door thoughtlessly packed bag stashed behind it smiling inside because I didn’t really want to go.
A few summers later we moved the first in her never-ending quest for a better place always whiter never greener each time further from home.
Twenty years later without realizing I follow her footsteps…
In Virginia where the Civil War is called the War of Northern Aggression and is still being fought her memory fails her
convinces her the Bronx was a country girl’s bad dream
convinces me the color of the grass depends on the tint of your glasses.
In the shadow of fallen skyscrapers and bankrupt dreams underneath starless skies thick with second guesses
I wander the streets that raised me testing the tainted air with my tongue
looking for a place where I can feel safe again looking for a place that I can call home.
Guy LeCharles Gonzalez is a Mets fan from the Bronx, and has a beautiful wife and two amazing kids. He won some poetry slams, founded a reading series, co-authored a book of poetry, and still writes when the mood hits him and he has the time. He prefers Pumpkin and India Pale Ales or Skyy Vodka with cranberry, still reads comic books, and hasn't completely let go of his plans for world domination.
All morning, this blistering heat, oppressive even for one black as me, and accustomed to Carribean sun.
My tail is up, and even off a short run-up, I am a rainbow of fire and movement.
Still, not a wicket. My in-swinger is hostile and I haven’t even rolled my sleeves up yet. The batsmen can’t touch me. I have them beaten – all ends up.
In the stands, the sea of faces burned to a pink under their wide-brim hats is quiet and confused pretending they haven’t heard a fine edge, or detected the trapped stance in the thud of an L.B.W.
(ii) Umpire
I couldn’t care less how much this savage hoots and points his finger, how many screamed howzats?! at what he thinks is an out. If this boy thinks he will win an appeal from me with anything less than licking the stumps clean out of the ground, then this black fool must be more stupid than I first thought
This is our game. We taught these monkeys how to be dignified how to play the gentleman’s sport, how to be civilized. They’d still be in trees if not for us.
Now they want to change the game, embarrasing our batsmen, coming to the wicket top buttons undone, trying to frighten us with their shiny black chests.
I will show them. We are still their patrons in this game. Good white wickets are not this nigger’s, for the taking.
(iii) Bowler – just before noon
So apparently, even an obvious top edge is not enough to give me my due.
I’m going back to the long run-up To hell with strategy and field placement. I’m not even looking for the L.B.W. or the catch amongst the slips and gullies.
This next delivery will be pressure, short-pitched in-swinger from wide in the crease up and in at the hapless right-hander Let me show these fuckers who is Man here.
If I can’t get the wicket, I’ll take the white’s boy’s head.
Roger Bonair-Agard is a native of Trinidad and Tobago, a Cave Canem fellow and author of two collections of poetry; tarnish and masquerade (Cypher Books 2006) and GULLY (Cypher Books 2009). He is co-founder and Artistic Director of the louderARTS Project. He lives in Brooklyn.
You see, what it is is God loves baseball. Every summer He shows up on a real hot day, calls me to meet Him in the Battery. I pull up, shut down the meter, and we head out. Up Broadway through Harlem over the river to the Bronx. You ain’t surprised to find out God’s a Yankee fan, are ya? He always says, Jack, it’s a beautiful day. And I always says, Yeah, but a scorcher. Someday, I’m gettin’ air conditionin’ in this heap. ‘Course, I won’t. Too much moola and I’d miss the noise, the smells. And God? He’d switch to another cab. I’ve got old bones, Jack, He says. I like the heat. Then we change the subject. After all, this is God’s Day of Rest. I go to the game with Him. Didn’t at first, but He likes to have someone to talk to who’s kind of a pal, so to speak. Baseball’s a sharing sort of game. Back Upstairs, He tells me, Him and His Kids and some of the angels swap stories and argue friendly-like. Jesus is a Red Sox fan; Mohammed likes the Orioles, and lately, Buddha’s been for the Tigers. American Leaguers, all of ‘em -- ever since the Braves left Boston and the exodus from Brooklyn. But none of ‘em like the designated hitter rule neither, so there’s warm feelin’s for the Cardinals, the Mets, an’ the old Cubbies. Be that as it is, on the day God comes to the Bronx, everything’s Yankees, and they’re beautiful. You’d think they know Who’s there, Him hollerin’ and whistlin’ just like anybody. Though always polite, of course, and never sayin’ nothin’ ‘bout the umpire. He says He knows too well the hell of that job. After the game, we grab a beer; I drive Him back down to the Battery. We rest on a bench for a bit. Then I leave. Can’t stay out too late. Would be hard to explain to the missus.
Janet A. Shainheit lives in Worcester, Massachusetts surrounded by citizens of Red Sox Nation. Her husband is a lifelong Yankee's fan. Quite possibly, this living on the edge is what caused her to turn to poetry.
This poem was selected for an Honorable Mention in the 2008 "Play Ball" Writing Contest.
I made it to first base, a crack in the curb near the tree where Monica stood watching us play baseball in the street. She had taken herself out of the game we played with cracked bats and baseballs coming unstitched with every whack. As I waited for a chance to steal second she sized me up like she was scouting me for another team and said, “You could really be cool if you tried,” something between a taunt and a plea, the tone in her voice making me think I could be cool or wish I wanted to be enough for her to like me. But I had no more an idea how to be cool than to hit home runs like Mickey Mantle. Cool was something about the way she wore makeup now and slouched, hopeful, near teenagers I was afraid of, something about growing up and turning my back on the cat-chasing, can-kicking, fence-jumping, doctor-and-nurse-playing childhood we shared until she went someplace way beyond first base. The major league was pulling her away but there was nothing we could do or say and it was not cool for either of us to beg.
Robert Ross is editor of The Leader, a magazine published by Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University in Daytona Beach, Fla. He spent one eternal day in New York City's echoing canyons with a girl from Nutley, N.J.
My son, grandson and I are watching the Red Sox and Yankees battle it out on television. Now, admittedly, Jess and I have to explain a good deal of the game to five-year-old Conley, but he's a fan. You can tell by the way he jumps up and down as we cheer Derek Jeter for doubling in the first two runs. I should mention that we're Yankee fans. Although Jess was born in Atlanta, my Brooklyn roots keep him values focused on New York baseball.
Conley appreciates the essence of the game. His reactions are honest, offering none of the forced grunting or cheerleader-leering of football. He simply sucks down his favorite beverage--chocolate milk--and imitates the players by swinging his yellow plastic bat as if swatting flies. We try showing him a two-handed grip, but decide it's dangerous messing too much with a man's natural stance. . While Jess and I spit statistics, like two ten-year-olds with a little knowledge, Conley babbles something about his kindergarten teacher and the number seventeen. He completes his discourse with the word, "pineapple," as he often does. It's his favorite word. He doesn't particularly care for the fruit, but he loves the word.
The game progresses in its thoughtful, take-your-time-and-wait-for-your-pitch manner. It's a close one. Sometimes the Sox are ahead and sometimes the Yanks. Despite the score, I doze. But out of that corner of the mind that's always awake during a game, I hear Jess patiently explaining to his son why the infielders are playing in, just as I had done many times with him.
And my father had done with me.
The batter bunts. A-Rod charges the third base line and throws out the lead runner.
"Your daddy called that one," I say, opening my eyes.
"Wow," he says. "You wake up, Papa."
"I wasn't asleep," I tell Conley. "A man has to learn to pace himself for the last few innings."
Jess laughs and cracks wise about my age. I recall my father falling asleep in front of the game, mouth open, snoring, smelling of sweet pipe tobacco. He'd use the same excuse I did about pacing himself.
We watch the Yankees put runners on first and third with no out. "This is where it pays that they went so deep into the count early on," I say. "What's Beckett up to? 100 pitches? And it's only the sixth inning. The Yankees can blow this game open. But they have to get to him now before Boston calls in the bullpen." With that, Giambi blasts one into the upper deck in right field.
We both jump to the edge of our chairs and clap our hands at the same time. "Yes!" We say in unison. "Nice call, Dad," Jess shouts.
"Yes!" Conley repeats, clapping his little hands. "Pineapple!"
Impressed with myself as a student of the game, I imagine I'm the new Yankee manager. I once fantasized playing centerfield after Mantle retired. Now I'm willing to accept managerial duties.
The next inning, Ortiz negates Giambi's homer with his own three-run shot and ties the game. Ramirez follows with a go-ahead, opposite field shot.
"Damn those two. You know the Yankees could have had them both, but they passed thinking they were defensive liabilities. Boston was trying to give away Ramirez. The Yankees should have signed him just so they don't have to play against him."
Our moods have changed. Even Conley chanting, "Pineapple! Pineapple! Pineapple!" doesn't help. Boston is in first place by two games. We have to listen to the announcers remind us that if the Red Sox win this one, they put some daylight between themselves and New York.
"Where's the curse when you need it?" Jess asks.
Speaking of curses, after a slow inning in which neither team scores, we watch Johnny Damon beat out an infield grounder to lead off the ninth. He steals second. Jeter singles him home to tie the score. The Red Sox go to their bullpen and A-Rod promptly lines a single to left. Jeter rounds second, never stopping, and slides into third base headfirst.
"If he's thrown out," I say, "that would have been the stupidest play of the season. But he made it, so add it to the Jeter legend as heads-up base running."
An out later, Matsui brings Jeter home on a sacrifice fly. The Yankees have the lead. As Jeter is congratulated by his teammates, I tell Jess that's why Jeter will be in the Hall of Fame someday.
"And you would have held him at second," Jess reminds me.
We laugh. "Okay, maybe I'm not ready to manage. But the Yankees still have to get through the bottom of the ninth. You can't take this game for granted."
"Maybe you can," Jess says. "Rivera's coming in."
It's almost anti-climactic as Rivera secures the last three outs with his easy, efficient motion. Just seven pitches net him a strikeout, a broken bat easy bouncer to second and a comebacker to end the game. Jess and I exhale for what seems like the first time since the sixth inning.
Conley has fallen asleep on my chest and Jess and I talk about taking him to a game. Jess worries how Conley will deal with the height since we usually get cheap bleacher seats. I remember watching the Brooklyn Dodgers at Ebbets Field with my dad from deep right field. As a child, Jess had no problem with our cheap bleacher seats.
"He'll do fine. As long as you ply him with hot dogs and peanuts the way I did you and grandpa did me."
With that, Conley wakes up and says he's hungry. "I thought you were sleeping," I say.
"I never sleep during baseball. Like you, Papa."
Wayne Scheer made the journey from Brooklyn to Atlanta, where he's still searching for a stickball game. Nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net, his stories have appeared in Notre Dame Magazine, The Christian Science Monitor, Pedestal Magazine, Eclectica and flashquake.
This essay was selected for an Honorable Mention in the 2008 "Play Ball" Writing Contest.
I learned to fall in love at a young age with everything capable of being broken. But a color blind child didn’t know anything better than static, some square box and its black fuzz. That television could barely stand on Grandma’s kitchen table, perhaps drunk off the volume
or drunk off the scent of her burning bagels. I turned the knob to fight for visible Giants jerseys,
proud of that in-the-stadium feeling. Last section seats without binoculars. Grandma in the background buttering
what I’d later throw at the wall on fourth and inches but they couldn’t convert. Suicide squeezes for the scoreboard.
Soon I’d be expected to know real disaster— Grandma’s eyes would give out and to her I’d become those little black dots
that even the strongest whiskey won’t block out. The anger of knowing she couldn’t formulate an image
of me, now at twenty-four, wearing jerseys too small on those Sundays I hid from what I’ve taught myself is unbearable— a world made for punching walls since I can’t punch those who claim to protect her, since I can’t punch everyone
who thinks I don’t know how to escape from anything. I’ve tried saying I’ll believe in God for a second in case it helps, but end up settling on the pride I gained through the torture of that New York 2001 Super Bowl loss.
How I trained myself to fixate on footballs instead of faces. How I became selfish and fell asleep, fists clenched
over the kitchen table and how Grandma carried me to bed after gently prying them apart, whispering there’s always next year while I selfishly ignored her own struggle for happiness.
Caroline Depalma is a poet living in the East Village. She will be completing her MFA in Poetry at New School University in May, and samples from her thesis can be found at her blog.
This poem was selected for an Honorable Mention in the 2008 "Play Ball" Writing Contest.
The streets are gray with sand and salt dirty artillery for winter's defense
the harshest winter birthed one early September that has yet to relinquish to spring
And I am looking for Gehrig’s Grace
Giants may fall either, entering through golden gates or at the hand of HGH syringes and Home Depot box cutters
Not to return by Presidential bullhorns congressional hearings or concerts for New York
And I am looking for Gehrig’s Grace
The luckiest man on the face of the earth has turned ghost and carries a Jacob Marley mourn
An echo that carries a haunting paralyzed moment of what it means to be a man staring down death in the dawn of this new century like a juiced Clemens fastball
And I am looking for Gehrig’s Grace
Skip Shea is an actor, artist, performer and poet. His one man show Catholic (Surviving Abuse & Other Dead End Roads) made its debut at the Bowery Poetry Club and his artwork has been shown at chezTGN Gallery in Brooklyn.
This poem was selected for an Honorable Mention in the 2008 "Play Ball" Writing Contest.
