Eastie

East Boston — the city's redheaded stepchild.
It took them 200 years to claim us and about ten minutes to forget us.
Tunnel on one side, runway on the other.
We weren't locked out of Boston; we were locked in.

Southie gave Hollywood Affleck and Damon.
We got jet fuel, two lousy bridges, and mobster lore.
Even the seagulls felt trapped.

None of that meant shit to the people who grew up here.
To us, there was no other place on earth — and we were what made it special.

On a neighborhood level, there were fierce rivalries: the Point, the Projects, the Heights — and whatever my section was called in between. Day Square, maybe. But when push came to shove, the guy you fought yesterday at hockey was the same guy at your side the second you crossed that tunnel or one of those bridges. Outside Eastie, we were one.

Old-timers on the corner telling stories from the old country.
Kids playing stickball until the sun dropped behind the rooftops.
A rhythm that carried through the seasons.

Safety wasn't a concern. Everyone knew each other — or knew someone who did — and that made us accountable.

I drive through and see nothing now. No pulse. No life. Just empty corners where conversations used to live. Kids glued to screens instead of schoolyards. Families indoors instead of on stoops.

Eastie was tough. But friends and family made it worth it, and I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. What I wouldn’t give to wake up on a summer morning, play half-ball all day, and break for an RC Cola and a couple slices of Cucch’s Sicilian.

Back when the streets had a heartbeat — and we were the ones keeping time.