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.

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.

Down at the Y

Though this is my pool blog, I have no intentions of making it a chronological presentation. In other words, I’m going to skip around a bit. Still, I thought I might start off by describing my initial contact with the game of billiards.

It occurred in the late 1950’s in Dover, New Jersey, at the old red brick YMCA building which sat on the corner of Bergen and Rt. 46, across from the park known locally as the Dover Commons.

I had never put those four letters – Y-M-C-A – together until I was introduced to the Y by a young friend, Marty Sullivan. Marty lived downtown and because of that he amused himself with a variety of activities that were new to me, a lad who spent most of his free time in seclusion fishing or thinking about baseball. He spoke of the Y with such excitement I couldn’t resist his invitation to join him one day after school.

And he was right. The Y was a great place. The people who worked there were friendly and welcoming. It was nice to have a place to go to where you didn’t have to worry about people lifting their noses at you or ordering you to get lost. If you were a member of the Y, you belonged.

We’d go there everyday after school and amuse ourselves by shooting hoops, playing chess or ping pong, and occasionally by taking our turn at the pool table.

To be honest, I wasn’t terribly gifted as an athlete and little Marty (I call him that because at that stage, when we were in grammar school, I was one of the tallest kids in our class and Marty was one of the shortest) would beat me as often as not. Pool was no different. There is no pool gene. I was later to find out that my Uncle Nicky was one of the best players around. Still, I just plain stunk.

I remember one of the older guys telling us one day that the secret to making a shot when the object ball is froze to the rail is to aim straight through the center of the cue ball to the point where the ball and the cushion make contact. I occasionally resort to this technique, even today.

Anyway, I didn’t have the fever for the game I would later develop – at that stage of my life, playing pool was just something to do.