First Impressions
True Love
Blink doesn't remember when he first saw Mush. He supposed it was when he first came to the lodging house, Mush was already one of the guys. Just someone else whose name he didn't know.
But Mush remembered meeting Blink. He remembered Blink's grin, which seemed so huge it was almost wider than his face; he remembered the twinkle in Blink's eye and how the light of the sun through the window almost seemed to give Blink a halo.
He remembered what love at first sight felt like.
Blink never did. But he understood that love could come from friendship.
Brooklyn Bridge
He first saw the Brooklyn Bridge on Christmas Eve, 1895. He was only thirteen when his family moved to the city, and he'd planned on hating it. But then he saw the Bridge, rising majestically over the rest of the skyline, like some great tribute to human strength and will.
He had strength and will, and desire.
His parents worried that the streets of Brooklyn would make him into a hooligan.
On Christmas Eve, 1987, Spot Conlon washed the blood off his hands in the freezing water at the docks, and looked up at the Bridge. It was his now.
Babysitting
"Medda," he said, "this is my son, Francis, like me, but we call him Jack."
"Hello, Jack," she greeted him, ruffling his hair in what would eventually become a familiar gesture.
"Hello, miss." His voice was high pitched and nervous.
"Can you watch him tonight?"
"Of course."
He turned to Jack. "You behave for Miss Larkson tonight, and when I finish my work, we'll finally be able to move out west, Jack." He took the cowboy hat off his own head and dropped it on to his son's. So Jack promised to behave.
Francis Kelly never made it home.
Poker Game
When he thought of Race in later years, he always pictured that first card game. That was how he'd met Racetrack; he was at a poker game in Midtown and Spot had though he was pretty good at cards.
And at the table sat this slick looking Italian kid with crooked teeth, a knowing smirk, and a pile of cash. So Spot sat down at the table and joined the game.
Three hours and five dollars of debt later, he bowed out and acknowledged he'd been outplayed.
After that, when he thought of Racetrack, he always thought of poker.
First Time
He was panting, his body covered in sweat and his mind not quite able to form a coherent thought. He groped for Race's hand and found it next to him; Race gave it a quick squeeze.
Blink had been with girls before. But never a boy. And girls had never felt like that.
It was confusing and a little scary. He felt dizzy when he thought about it, and didn't move for awhile, even after Racetrack got up and started looking for his clothes.
"You okay?"
"I'm... great." Blink smiled.
Race nodded. "Yeah, you were. See you tomorrow, Kid."
Santa Fe
The sun beat down furiously. It was the first thing he noticed when he stepped off of the train onto the platform. He raised his eyes to look up at it, blocking most of the light out with his old, beat up cowboy hat, and nodded with satisfaction. It did look bigger.
He shouldered his bag of possessions and pushed thoughts of his old life out of his mind. The images of people he'd never see again were replaced with new ones, new sights, sounds and sensations. Everything felt different here, but for the first time he felt at home.
Nobody
So this was Jack Kelly. This was the poor, uneducated street ruffian who had caused so much trouble, who repeatedly escaped the police and had cost him thousands of dollars. Pulitzer glared through his glasses.
This was a nobody, with bruises on his face and dirt on his clothes.
This was not an enemy who should be able to hurt him; this was not someone who held any power.
This was not someone who provided an intellectual challenge; he could probably barely read or write.
So this was Jack Kelly, the trouble making strike leader.
He was a nothing.
Sheepshead
The sights, the sound, the smell of sweat and beer and animals... It was almost overwhelming. People yelling, cheering, cursing at the top of their lungs like there was no tomorrow, shouting things that could get them arrested anywhere else.
This wasn't anywhere else, though; this was Sheepshead Bay and this was the racetrack. These people were gamblers and sportsmen, and the rules for them were very different. And a young Italian newsboy just stared in awe, clung tightly to the papers he carried on his shoulder, and wondered where to begin.
Within a week, his name would be Racetrack.
Dutch
"Mush, why'd you bring him home, huh?"
"I dunno, he was starving. He don't speak English."
Jack inspected the new kid. Slightly short, unkempt blond hair, wire rimmed glasses and a very blank expression. He was clearly confused, but when Mush had offered him half his sandwich and gestured that he should follow, the blond had done so.
This wasn't the first time someone in the lodging house didn't speak English; several of the kids were immigrants who didn't know the language. Kloppman eventually taught them. It took a long time, though.
"Where's he from?"
"I dunno. He looks Dutch."