Finding the Cash

by Charlie Sacchetti

I’m sure that my first baseball coach, Charlie D’Amico, rests in peace. He was a hard-working father of about a dozen kids who held a full-time job as a truck driver and devoted most of his spare time to the Southwest Colts baseball team back in the late 50s. Charlie always stressed that it was important for a team to be and look “organized.” And we were. We had nice uniforms, “Louisville

Slugger” bats and “Spalding” or “Reach” brand baseballs. It goes without saying that a man who had the responsibility to feed all those hungry mouths back in those days had very little extra cash to spread around. He’d spring for water ice and soft pretzels after every victory and even though it came to about 25 cents a kid, it added up – especially the year we won 40 games, playing in two leagues! In the big picture, the team had to come up with the money to buy the uniforms and equipment. Since we couldn’t expect Charlie to pay for everything and the rowhomes of Southwest Philly housed very few families of affluence, we had to find the money to pay for all these necessities.

Ergo, the annual neighborhood “Collection.”

It usually took place on a Friday evening in the late spring about a month before the season started. By then it was daylight savings time, and we officially had a few hours to charm our neighbors. About 10 teams of 2 guys each, all wearing our clean “SW Colts” uniforms, would be assigned several blocks to knock on doors, smile and ask the people to part with a buck or so of their hard-earned money. If at all possible, the player’s own block would be part of his territory. This could be a double-edge sword. If you were the kind of kid who all the neighbors liked, you would do very well. But if you were a pest who caused trouble on your street, the most you’d get was a scowl and the door slammed in your youthful face.

I would usually be paired up with a kid from across the street. Our block had several guys on the team, so it was a pleasure going up and down our street and most neighbors were nice enough to give us something. It’s important to note that each block contained at least 50 homes, so by the time you finished your territory, you knocked on several hundred doors.

The whole Collection strategy was well thought out. They took place on Friday evenings because most of the fathers worked in the factories, usually GE or Westinghouse. The men were paid on Friday so after they cashed their checks, they had money in their pockets. We all dressed up in our uniforms because most of the ladies thought we were adorable, looking all spiffy and smiling when they opened the doors. Most of the kids did ok and most teams would contribute about $50 to the coffers. These guys made it a point to stay in their area and only solicit homes.

A few others would “take a walk on the wild side.”

After most of the kids handed in their money and darkness descended, a few daring lads would venture into a place that could possibly be a bust or a bonanza.

Eddie’s Café on the corner of 65th and Dicks Avenue was just two blocks away from Charlie’s house. Eddie’s was the neighborhood watering hole where many men would venture to have a beer or two on a typical Friday night. If you walked in when they were in a bad mood or had a tough day at work, you might be booted out in 10 seconds. However, if the guys were in a celebratory mood, for whatever reason, you could hit the jackpot. I usually did okay at Eddie’s, 10 bucks or so, but there was one time that stands out in my mind and was the largest single contribution I ever received. About 8 o’clock, my buddy and I walked into the bar, and I immediately saw a guy who was laughing and whooping it up. As I perceived this to be friendly territory, I approached and learned that he had just found out that he hit the “daily number.” Of course, this contest was not sanctioned by the state of Pennsylvania. It was, instead, the enterprise of the local “bookie.” Nonetheless, the cash was still green, and the guy hit for several hundred. He was a pretty happy patron. By now, he had downed several bottles of Schmidt’s, a favorite Philadelphia beer of that time, and was a little wobbly but still upright in his stool. When I uttered my tagline, “Would you like to make a donation to the Southwest Colts baseball team?” He looked at me and said, “Oh yea. My son plays for the Bolts.”

Now, to this day, some 65 years later, for the life of me, I can’t ever remember a neighborhood team called the Bolts. Nor did I recall one at the time he uttered his answer to me. But I figured everyone is entitled to a slip of the tongue.

I thanked him for the 20-dollar bill and “bolted” out the door.

Charlie Sacchetti is the author of three books: It’s All Good: Times and Events I’d Never Want to Change; Knowing He’s There: True Stories of God’s Subtle Yet Unmistakable Touch; and his newest, Savoring the Moments: True Stories of Happiness, Sadness and Everything in Between. Contact him at worthwhilewords21@gmail.com.