It's not Joe. It's certainly not Jayo, Woh, Wah, Jewy, Chewy, or Juicy. And it's especially not Gay-O, but it is as common as infield dirt where I come from, the Favela do Pantanal in southern Brazil. My name has been butchered, willfully or not, since I arrived in New Jersey in 1972. So repeat after me - Jo-Wow.
As for shoeless, that's an old story.
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"Be ready to run when Paulino gets on" commanded our balding coach Nick Nardello poking a stout finger into my skinny freshman chest.
All I could manage was a gulp and a nod because the varsity coach of the Bound Brook Crusaders scared the crap out of me, as did the thought of actually playing in the game at rival Middlesex High. The much hated Blue Jays had just thinned ranks when all the seniors were dismissed by their hirsute alumnus coach for missing a practice. This was the directionless 1970s when boys who had witnessed both broken U.S. soldiers returning from Vietnam and jubilant hippies enacting a social revolution were often either aimless patriots or equally aimless potheads. Their old school sports coaches were not ready for the latter. The normally taciturn Nickie Nard had offered "We can make it up later as a double header." The Middlesex coach responded "Nah, we'll beat you with our JVs". Nardello countered by calling up some freshmen to inflate the numbers arriving off our bus. In the bustle to board I had forgotten my spikes.
"Here, take mine" offered another freshman sitting next to me, untying the red laces on his white size 11 Riddells.
The call to pinch run came in the top of the 7th and last inning with Middlesex up by a score of 3-2. Our stocky and cocky catcher Paul Paulino led off with a sharp single up the middle.
"What the fuck do you want, Gay-O" he spat as I jogged over to replace him on first base.
"Get in here Paulino" shouted Nicky Nard from the dugout.
Next up to bat was our cleanup hitter, an all-state centerfielder with an equally wicked arm and bat. On the first pitch he ripped a lined drive to deep left center. I took off from first base with the crack of the bat and was rounding second as their centerfielder snagged the ball on the first hop, whirled, and fired a rope to third base catching me halfway there. I skidded to a halt and turned back toward second as the third baseman gave chase and then lobbed the ball over my head to their second baseman. Again I skidded and turned, only this time the too big white shoe slipped off my left foot. The second baseman followed me back toward third and tripped over the shoe as he fired high and wide past the bag. The ball caromed off the fence as I scrambled home barefooted for the tying run.
"Lucky baserunning Shoeless Joe" smirked their bespectacled catcher as I hobbled back to our dugout.
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So now you know my nickname and my modus operandi to stumble into opportunity. It's good to get that out of the way, but it's only the beginning of seizing the day.
