It was 100 years ago, on December 12, 1915, that a baby boy was born to Natalie and Antonino Sinatra, in a cold-water flat on Monroe Street, in Hoboken, New Jersey, just across the Hudson River from Manhattan. It was a difficult birth, one that came close to ending not very well. The baby, a big one at thirteen and a half pounds, looked as if it might not make it. Little Francis Albert did not begin to move at all until his grandmother Rose interceded, carrying the baby to a sink and running water over its seemingly lifeless body until it breathed.
Frank, as he later became known, did not overstay his welcome. He lived to be 82, respectable enough, I suppose, just not long enough, not for me.
For somebody who couldn’t manage his way through high school this Sinatra fellow did better than just all right for himself. Let's face it, he ran the table pretty much anywhere he played. No musician in the history of civilization has ever attained this remarkable man's accomplishment or stature.
Not. Even. Close.
His birth, I would argue, was nothing short of a miracle. That’s right, I said miracle. Just under 3 million babies were born on United States soil the year “Dolly” Sinatra gave birth to her son a century ago. And so Frank wasn’t simply one in a million; he was one in three of them!
Take them odds with you to Vegas, baby.