My Buddy, Billy Johnson, Gone

We were kids together, Billy Johnson and me. We drank beer, chased girls, laughed and joked, sported around town - we had fun.

We grew up, but we stayed in touch. We fished, we bowled, we shot a little bar pool up at Hunky Hall.

One time we were out in a boat up in Lake Hopatcong, drifting with live bait, herring, when I hooked into a good one. It was one of those fish that you don't realize you have on the line until you start reeling in. When it got close to the boat, we both saw that it was a huge rainbow trout. Billy grabbed the landing net and got ready to net the fish, but as soon as it saw the boat it turned and ran and snapped my line. Over the years, whenever I recalled that day, I would tell Billy it was his fault I lost the fish. He'd swear at me, but I'd claim that he had deliberately sabotaged my attempt at making angling history. Of course, eventually, I'd reluctantly admit that it was my fault the line had snapped because I had the drag set too tight. A fact I'd conveniently forget the next time I brought the subject up. I like to kid him like that and make him laugh.

But, seriously, when it came to being a friend, he was one in a million. Whenever I moved, I called Billy. Yeah, he used to work for a mover but that didn't obligate him to supervise all my moves. Still, he never said no, never complained that his back was sore, never made any excuses, he just showed up.

One time, we were in pretty desperate straits without a place to live. Billy took us in. He didn't have a lot of room, not with him, his wife and kids already sharing a small apartment, but that didn't matter. He gave us shelter.

Billy left us last week. Cancer. It was much too soon. He deserved more time on earth. More time with his family, his friends, with me.

I miss him.

I set up a Giving Page with the Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in his Memory. 

Farewell to Uncle Franky

First my Uncle Nicky, and, now, three months later, I get word that my Uncle Franky, a/k/a Deuce Ricciotti, passed away this past Thursday. Uncle Franky loved a lot of things, like boxing, OTB, and, yes, even pool. There was a time when we would meet at the Peanut Shack, a small neighborhood gin mill on the outskirts of Dover, NJ, for the express purpose of shooting a little pool. Though Uncle Nicky was the legendary pool player, I heard from more than one source that Uncle Franky had been pretty good, too, in his day. Of course, he was much more widely known for his fighting abilities. When he was in his prime, and long afterward, no one would mess with him – NO ONE. Being Deucey Ricciotti’s nephew carried with it a lot of respect and prestige. And, in a way, even if he wasn’t standing there next to me, he was always offering me his protection. This has really been a sad year for me and my family up north. I’m glad that I did get to visit with Uncle Frank and talk to him a little bit when I ventured north for the 4th of July family get together, but right now it’s little consolation. Though gone, he will live on in my mind and my heart, and, now, on the internet. Feel free to leave a comment.

Last Time I Saw Uncle Nicky

During my recent 4th of July trip to New Jersey, Bobby and I ran into Uncle Nicky at Rockaway Billiards. The proprietor was nice enough to snap this picture for us.



Then I snapped one of the Ricciotti brothers, Bob and Nick.



Bobby took one of Nick and me.



And Nick manned the camera for an artistic shot of me and Bob.



Though he was widely known for years as the best pool player in town, family and friends also appreciated his artistic talents. He could draw and paint, and in recent years he had taken up wood carving. On this particular day, while Bobby and I banged the balls around playing nine ball, Uncle Nicky amused himself by going through his repertoire of masse and trick shots. Sort of funny that nowadays this kind of play is referred to as “artistic” pool. In the midst of his routine, I managed to get a shot of him at the table. He liked performing for an audience, so I watched him for a while. He told me that he went down to Carmine's (a playground in Dover) every morning and hit golf balls. He was practicing his wedge shots. Can you imagine - 80 years old and still working on his game, still improving.



A few days later, I saw him again at the family picnic. Everything seemed okay. At one point, I went inside and found him in front of the tv agonizing over another frustrating Yankee game. When I got back to Florida, I remembered I had promised him a Sniper tip for his cue, so I stuck one in an envelope along with a short note and mailed it out. It seems that while I was wondering if he had received the tip and if he had put it on his cue, he was falling ill. Out of the blue, I heard he had been hospitalized. And then, suddenly, after a good day, things made a turn for the worse.

Uncle Nicky will be laid to rest this Friday. He will be sorely missed by those who counted on him, including his three children, several grandchildren and great grandchildren, his brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews and many friends, all of whom loved him very much.

Remembering One Vet

He lived in a township 20 miles southwest of Dover, NJ, the town I grew up in, and for the longest time I knew him only by name – Mickey DeMatteo. A weight lifter, wrestler, and high school football player, he was widely known as a tough guy. Though I can’t recall his face, exactly (it’s been more than 40 years), I do remember the first time I met him. I was standing outside Teasdale’s poolroom when he approached.
“Hey, you’re Ace, aren’t you?” he said.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Thought so. I saw you play once. You’re good.” Then he added, “I’m Mickey DeMatteo.”
“Lookin’ for someone to play?” I asked.
“No thanks,” he answered. “You’re way too good for me.”
He was a solid dude, but not as fierce looking as I had imagined. We stood there together for several minutes, watching traffic and spitting on the sidewalk, before he spoke again.
“Ever try to spit like this?” he asked. I watched as he opened his mouth, curled back his tongue, and flexed his chin. Out, from under his tongue, squirted two little streams of water. “See that?”
“Yeah.”
“Come closer,” he beckoned. He wanted me to look into his mouth.
“No way!” I said. I wasn’t an idiot.
“I won’t gob on you,” he said. “Swear to God.”
So I moved closer. He wanted me to see these two little holes that were in the watery area under his tongue. I did.
“That’s where it comes out. Watch.” Squirt, squirt. “See? Neat, eh?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. I was somewhat awestruck, not because he was shooting saliva out of those two little holes, but, rather, because here he was in the flesh, Mickey DeMatteo, mythical tough guy, talking to me as if we’d been best friends forever.
I never saw or spoke to Mickey again after that day, but I never forgot the lesson he taught me about the unreliability of preconceptions. I was saddened when a few years later I learned of his death. He’s remembered on The Wall by his proper name – Mario Frank DeMatteo. Look up his name for me next time you visit DC.

Bowling for Dollars

First, here’s a picture, taken on my trip north, of me and Uncle Nicky. Like I said, Nick Ricciotti was the best player in town when I was a kid, the guy the road players always played. He held his own sometimes, and other times he was out-matched, like when Miami came to town and beat everybody playing jacked-up one-handed. What a player he was! Still, Uncle Nicky was good and, though he doesn’t play often, he still is.



Tuesday night, I passed up the big money down the line and returned to the bowling alley. Frankly, there are a nicer bunch of guys at the bowling alley. Besides, they don’t let you draw numbers down on Hwy 19, and that kind of crap always makes me suspicious, especially when I wind up getting matched up against the best players. Anyway, I came out on top on the loser’s side and might have won the whole thing if it wasn’t for some bad luck in the finals. The bad luck was that my balls were tied up and I couldn’t get a shot.

Last night was two and out in Tarpon Springs. But all wasn’t lost – on the long drive home I conceived another of my little pool stories. It’s called Remembrance of Ignominious Things Past.