Nonno Gino Bats a Thousand by Nick Di Carlo

We buried Nonno Gino today. Gave him one helluva sendoff. Mourners came from thirteen states. Others flew in from Italy. Even New York’s August weather, out of respect for the old man, showed up in perfect summer attire: sunny and warm; low humidity; and a gentle breeze to whisper him farewell. 

​The procession to the cemetery tied up traffic for miles. On the drive home in the undertaker’s limo, my dad said over and again, “Oh, if Papa could’ve seen this.”

“Oh, he’s looking down on us, smiling that sweet smile of his,” my mom said.

​I stared out the limo window, thinking how Nonno Gino’s final destination—the eternal one, not the hole in the ground with the massive headstone waiting to cover it—might be cause for debate. Most everybody knew, or thought they knew, what Grandpa did for a living, and I don’t mean running a construction company. Others wouldn’t suspect, ‘cause Grandpa was the most gentle, sweetest man to walk this earth. I never heard him raise his voice in anger. Maybe God—but definitely the other guy—knew what fires blazed inside the man that early in his life earned him the nickname “Bats.” Then, men spoke it with respect, reverence. Later in Nonno Gino’s life, people knew not to speak it at all. 

Afterwards, I stood outside Dad’s house, bidding visitors, “Saluti. Grazie di essere venuti,” and guiding them to the backyard where a feast had been set out on long linen-covered tables, with men and women in white jackets and black ties serving food onto china plates. The waitstaff circulated with trays of champagne in crystal flutes. In a corner of the yard, a combo played jazz. Nonno loved jazz, believed Coltrane was Apollo incarnate.

As afternoon faded into evening, and only family and Nonno’s closest friends remained, we pulled a few tables together. Servers brought trays of pasticcini—Italian pastries—strong coffee and the ubiquitous anisette. Storytelling began, recollections of how Nonno Gino had helped this person or that, or once saved a child from drowning in Lake George, or how he always knew just the right person if some difficult thing had to get done. 

“See how Judge Steward and Police Chief Gallegher came? Made no secret of it,” someone said. 

“They’re both gentlemen,” my mother said. “They played golf with Gino almost every weekend.”

“And the Monsignor,” Dad piped in. “The man loves his champagne.”

As darkness fell, my mom and the other wives went inside to their own gossip and secrets. 

At their leaving I sighed in relief that none of the women had asked, “So, Michael, when are you gonna get married? How old are you now?” 

I’d put off marriage for the Army, then college and graduate school. Recently, I’d found someone I thought just right for me, but I didn’t say anything to that crowd, afraid doing so might bring mal’occhio or other bad luck upon us.

In the darkness, the men gathered closer and spoke in low voices as they told of “Bats’” darker exploits. Tales of men who’d crossed Nonno Gino in some way, and soon either totally disappeared, or got dumped in some semi-public place where the carcass would send a message.

Eventually, only my dad and I sat at the table, each of us adrift with our thoughts and memories. Then, Dad said, “Mikey, why not stay the night?”

After I left home, they’d converted my bedroom into a guest room, and did a fine job of it, including an en suite—you know, an adjoining bathroom. 

I showered and settled into an armchair, sipping Dad’s fine single malt, remembering when as a high school senior, I’d stayed with my Nonna Chiara while Nonno Gino went away on business. Late that Saturday night, I heard some commotion downstairs, like someone had broken into the house. I rushed to Nonna’s room and warned her to stay quiet. I crept downstairs and saw four enormous goombahs turning over furniture, ripping paintings off the walls, smashing anything that would shatter. 

“What the fuck are ya doing?” I ran to tackle one of the intruders. I’d been in a few tussles, and could handle myself, or so I thought, but those mothers were gigantic, and one guy made quick work of me. 

One of them ran upstairs and dragged my Nonna down to us. I tried to help but got coldcocked. 

Throwing Nonna onto a chair, the goombah said, “You tell your batshit, lunatic, scumbag husband to mind his own fuckin’ business, or this ain’t nothing to what he’ll get.”

I drove Nonna to the hospital and explained she’d fallen down the stairs. Doctors said she’d be okay, so I took her home. I cleaned up a bit and waited until Nonno Gino came home next day.

Nonno looked around, said nothing. Just nodded his head. He made two phone calls, walked up to Nonna Chiara. 

He came down when the phone rang. “Give me an hour,” he said. Went upstairs to his wife again. When he returned, he said, “Let’s go.”

We drove to the waterfront, to a derelict warehouse. Inside, two of Nonno’s associates nodded, and pointed to the four naked thugs hanging by their wrists from a water pipe, their toes inches off the floor. 

One of Nonno’s men handed him a Louisville Slugger. Nonno removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and approaching the hanging men, he said softly, “One of you is gonna tell me who put hands on my wife.” He took a couple swings with the Louisville Slugger, like a batter in the on-deck circle. “I’m gonna go down the line, one-by-one until somebody talks.”

Three voices in chorus identified the thug.

Nonno began with the feet. Worked his way up, swing after swing, toes to head. Then, he worked on the next two, the bat whooshing through air, followed by bone-shattering thuds. Reaching the goon who had beaten me, he handed the bat to me.

​© 2026 Nick Di Carlo

About the author:

Nick Di Carlo has taught writing in universities, colleges, and in New York State’s Maximum Security Correctional Facilities. 
 
Of Di Carlo’s prison work, Lawrence R. Reis, Wolf Masks: Violence in Contemporary Poetry author noted: “The men in Dr. Di Carlo’s classes recognized many similarities between their experiences and his. Those experiences, often dark and sometimes violent, inform and power Dr. Di Carlo’s own writing.”