Angry Cubans

At the time of my birth in 1957 until I was 9 years old my family lived at 275 57th Street between 2nd and 3rd Avenues in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, NY. (or as it was called back in the day of the two-digit zip code, Brooklyn 20, NY). Bay Ridge was a Brooklyn within a Brooklyn - sort of a melting pot inside the melting pot. Within a 10 block radius of my apartment building, there were enclaves of Norwegians, Swedes, Irish, Puerto Ricans, Finnish, Italians, African Americans, Jews, Poles, West Indians, Asians, Cubans and more. The smells of different kinds of food cooking in that neighborhood on a hot Sunday afternoon when all the windows were open... Beautiful.

A tangible dividing line was the extension to the elevated Gowanus Expressway that ran outside our 3rd floor apartment windows, along 3rd Avenue. If you lived on the high side of the Gowanus (3rd Avenue and up) the dwellings you lived in were nice looking brownstones and some were actually houses owned by the people who lived in them.

On the other side of 3rd Avenue, the low side, where we lived, the families who lived there were mostly apartment renters and worked 'on the docks' that were only a block and a half away (as you can see from this map). People who had jobs 'on the docks' were either longshoremen - like my dad - checkers, talliers, fork lift operators, truck drivers, etc... Anyone involved in shipping and related businesses. These people were hard working first or second generation immigrants that broke their back so their kids could have a better life. I've got some good long shoreman stories for you, but that will be for another day.

Meanwhile back to the angry Cubans...

As I mentioned above, there were a significant number of Cuban immigrants in my neighborhood. Some had come there to live before, but most were refugees who had escaped Cuba just after, the January 1959 revolution led by Fidel Castro which succeeded in overthrowing the government of Batista.

I don't remember the exact year of the event I'm about to describe - I was very young and this is one of my first memories. It could have been immediately following the revolution or around the time of the Bay Of Pigs Invasion. Whatever the event, it caused a lot of Cubans to be very pissed off.

It was about 10:00 PM on a Sunday night and we had just driven home from a weekend of visiting friends upstate in Sloatsburg, NY. I was pretending to be asleep, stretched across the backseat of the car (Car seat? What's a car seat?) so my dad would carry me up the three flights of stairs to our apartment. My view was obscured by the front seat so I didn't see what my parents saw when they turned the corner. But I remember hearing a low roar coming in through the car windows. After my father reached in to grab me and threw me over his shoulder, I felt it was safe to open my eyes to see what all the hubbub was.

From every telephone pole, on both sides of the street, for as far as I could see down the block, Fidel Castro had been hung in effigy and set on fire. Have a look at the image above/right and imagine what the block looked like if one of these was hanging from every telephone pole. There had to be fifty of them. This image is one I will never forget. Anyone else ever experience anything like this?

It was at this point when either my mom or dad said, "We gotta get outta this neighborhood." This may have been the catalyst which made them begin saving money to move out to 'the country', Marine Park, Brooklyn.

P.S. Castro just retired this past February 2008, with nearly 50 years under his belt as the ruler/dictator/leader of our uncomfortable neighbor. He outlasted 10 U.S. Presidents - if you count W's presidency(s).

Subway Adventure - Part 3

---- continued from Subway Adventure Part 2

Lowel and I looked at each other and said something like "holy crap."

We picked up the pace as fast as we could without falling off the ledge, but knew that it was hopeless; if the train was coming from behind us, it would certainly get to us before we got to the Atlantic Avenue station.

As we moved along we kept stealing glances behind us. The sound of the train had diminished some, but if indeed it was behind us, that was probably only because it had stopped at the Dekalb Avenue station to leave off and take on more passengers. No doubt it would start up again very soon.

As I mentioned earlier, Lowel and I had occasionally passed rectangular openings in the tunnel walls to our right, about the size of small doors. We hadn't been able to see too far into them, due to the darkness. We thought that now might be an ideal time for us to investigate. When we got to the next one I reached my arm in, to gauge the depth, and found that it was only about a foot deep and two feet wide. That wasn't large enough to shelter the both of us so we took a gamble and moved on ahead in hopes of finding another. After we had moved forward about 20 paces, the sound of the train started up again.

The sound started as a low rumble, then built. Lowel and I nearly tripped over ourselves, and off the side, as we now ran as fast as we could go on the ledge. Suddenly the headlights from the train rounded the bend behind us and our worst fears were confirmed. In a matter of seconds the train would be upon us.

Talk about terror. Here we were; two 12 year old kids having made a horrible mistake by venturing into a subway tunnel. Now we were screwed. In a split-second, various thoughts ran through my mind; If we were to simply turn sideways on the ledge, what would happen? Well, the train would pass by us by inches - barely missing our noses. It might be OK, but... Coincidentally, we had recently learned about the Venturi effect and Bernoulli's principle in science class. This lesson suddenly popped into my mind. Is it posible that we would get sucked off the wall right into the side of the train? Meanwhile the train was getting closer. "Holy Crap!"

The closer the train got, the louder it became. It was LOUD and getting louder by the second. Another thing that happened as the train got closer was that the headlight on the train got brighter. As the headlight became brighter, it was uncomfortable to look at, so Lowel and I reluctantly turned away from the train and towards the Atlantic Avenue station again. It's never good to have 'bad' at your back but...

To our surprise, the headlight from the train served a positive purpose too; to illuminate the way ahead. There, only a few feet in front of us, was another rectangular opening. With the headlight shining from behind us we were able to see that this opening was deeper than the last. It would hold Lowel and I, if only we could get there in time.

Just then, the train horn blew. As if it wasn't loud enough already... But this was a bad sign. It meant that the engineer piloting the train had seen us. If we didn't get killed at least we could look forward to being in trouble - great. But judging by the sound building behind us, he was too close now to slow down.

Miracles do happen - even to stupid and mischievous 12-year-olds. With the combined sounds of the steel wheels grinding against the rails and the train horn screaming behind us, Lowel and I managed to reach the opening in the wall right before the train reached us. We got ourselves into the opening and turned to face the train, while holding onto the frame of the doorway, to avoid being sucked out.

Talk about an assault on the senses. We were totally deafened, and nearly blinded by the flashing lights from the train windows contrasting with the darkness of the tunnel. Luckily neither the Venturi effect or Bernoulli's principle manifested themselves against us, probably because we were holding on so tight that we were virtually frozen to the wall.

The train was moving so fast that it was all over in about 10 seconds and the engineer never stopped the train. Lowel and I managed to extract our fingers from the walls and moved back out onto the ledge, just in time to see the rear end of the train stop in the Atlantic Avenue station ahead. With all the looking behind us we didn't realize that we were almost there.

Before we got to the Atlantic Avenue station, the train pulled out, leaving a deserted station behind it. With our hearts still beating a-mile-a-minute, Lowel and I stepped over the "Do Not Cross" chain and entered the platform area. No police waited for us. No transit employees. We were alone. We stepped back onto the platform and waited for the next train.

Every time I have ridden in a subway since then, and have had the pleasure of being in the front car, I look out the front window.

So far I haven't see anyone out there on the ledge - as stupid as Lowel and I were that day after school in the 7th grade.

Subway Adventure - Part 2

---- continued from Subway Adventure Part 1

With our flattened pennies securely in our pockets, (see the actual penny from the story here) Lowel and I walked along the tracks towards the maintenance access ladder at the end of the platform. It seemed like it would be much easier than wriggling up onto the platform the way we did it before - grabbing the edge of the platform and, with a jump, pulling ourselves up. Easier on the shirt-front too.

When we got up onto the ledge we found it to be about shoulder-width; plenty wide enough for two seventh-grade kids to walk along for any distance.

"Are you sure about this," I asked Lowel one last time.

"What are you, scared?"

"No. I mean yeah, a little. What if another train comes by?"

"Well, if you're scared..."

"OK. Let's go," and we started into the tunnel.

You'd be surprised how quiet it is in these tunnels. And the further in you go, the quieter it becomes. We were about 30-50 feet in when all we could hear was water trickling into a puddle somewhere off in the dark, the loose cement grinding under our shoes as we walked and a low rumble from trains running off in the distance.

The tunnel we entered was different than the image shown above/right. First, the walls were vertical and the ceiling was horizontal and significantly lower - only a couple of feet above our heads - just enough room for the subway cars to fit through. There was no fancy arched ceiling. Second, not only did it get quieter the further we went into the tunnel but it got very dark as well. Every so often we'd come across a low wattage bulb that was covered with what seemed like a quarter inch of soot so that it didn't give off much more than a faint glow. Occasionally we would pass a rectangular opening in the wall to our right, about the dimensions of a small door, but it was way too dark to see anything beyond a few inches. We couldn't tell how deep these openings went.

The tracks between the Dekalb Avenue and Atlantic Avenue subway stations do not move straight ahead but rather in a curve so that the proverbial 'light at the end of the tunnel' was not yet visible. We had kept glancing back behind us to keep our eyes out for the next train, but so far the coast was clear. Having the Dekalb Avenue station still visible behind us had been a comfort, as well.

With the sound and darkness being what it was, we began to see things in the tunnel. On more than one occasional both Lowel and I thought we saw people walking towards us, on the tracks, out of the shadows. We definitely saw either small cats or large rats scampering around down on the tracks. Without having to say anything to each other, we increased our pace.

About this time, we heard a train coming from somewhere and the sound was steadily growing in volume. Glancing behind us we could still make out the lights of the Dekalb Avenue station, so we knew the train wasn't behind us. We figured it must be coming from the direction of the Atlantic Avenue station. Sure enough, a few seconds later, rounding the bend in front of us were the lights from an on-coming train.

The sound grew to such a level that Lowel and I had to cover our ears. Granted the train was across the tracks and on the other side of the tunnel, but when it was even with us the sound was deafening - even through our hands. In the dark tunnel, the light from the windows of the train passing by, blinked with the frequency of the panes of the windows and vertical steel support girders for the tunnel, with the effect being that of a strobe light. Crazy!

After the train finally passed by us, the sound and light show slowly diminished as the distance increased. Our pace, however, quickened even more.

For the last couple of minutes our attention had been focussed on the possible dangers lurking around us and dealing with the assault on our senses that the passing train had provided. We hadn't looked back towards the reassuring light from the Dekalb Avenue station in a while. When we finally did, there was no station in site. We then realized that we must have reached the mid-way point between stations. There was no light in front of us and no light behind. There was only the dim light of the soot encrusted bulbs to guide us. It was very dark.

This was about when we heard the next train coming. And this time it sounded as if it was coming from behind us.

To be continued------

Subway Adventure - Part 1

Once upon a time, back in the late 60s/early 70s, my friend Lowel Consuegra and I were on our way home from school and looking for some excitement. We decided that laying some pennies on the subway tracks at the Dekalb Avenue station would provide that, plus we were always curious what would happen anyway so... "Let's do it!"

We climbed down off the platform (ever conscious of the ominous THIRD RAIL) and I was immediately hit by that eerie 'I'm somewhere over the edge, in some place I'm not supposed to be and what if I can't get back in time' feeling. It was exhilarating. We laid our pennies down on the track as quickly as possible.

Fortunately we were able to scramble back up onto the platform by the time the next train arrived. We were at the 'front' of the station, a minute later, when the old D train pulled in and came to a stop. The fact that we were just standing there and not getting on the train made the engineer give Lowel and me a very suspicious look. Nevertheless, after a moment, the train pulled out of the station.

Lowel and I scrambled back onto the tracks and grabbed our flattened pennies. "Cool. A new guitar pick." Figuring we had plenty of time now, because the last train had just pulled out of the station, Lowel and I took our time looking around. What we saw was similar to the image above/right.

Lowel, being the troublemaker my mother always warned me to stay away from, said, "Hey, I wonder if that ledge on the right goes all the way to the next station?"

"Uh... I don't know."

"Let's check it out."

"I don't know, man."

"Come on. It'll be cool."

"OK. Let's go, but we better hurry. I just don't want to get caught in there when the next train comes through."

"The last train just left. It won't be a problem. Come on..."

To Be Continued------

Ode To Brooklyn

This post is brought to you by an old friend - James Gershon - who received it from his sister Jeannie (I think that may actually be her in the picture of Jahn's "Kitchen Sink" below...). Thanks guys! Some of these memories are from before my time (even) but most I remember. You may too.

1. The subway, bus, and trolley were only a thin dime to ride, and if you are really old, you'll remember a nickel a ride.

2. Schools were the showcase for the whole country.

3. Tuesday night was fireworks night in Coney Island put on by Schaefer Brewing Company.

4. There was very little pornography.

5. There were the bath houses: Stauches, Bushman Baths, Steeplechase Baths, Washington Baths, Ravenhall, and Brighton Beach Baths.

6. There was respect for teachers and older people in general.

7. There was almost no violence.

8. The theme of the music of the times, even when it became rock and roll, was love not anger.

9. A great day was going to the beach at Coney Island or Brighton Beach.

10. People made a living and, rich or poor, most people knew how to have a good time no matter of status.

11. There was no better hot dog than the original at Nathan's in Coney Island. And no better French fries than the Nathan's thick ripple cuts.

12. There were very few divorces and few "one parent" families.

13. There were little drugs or drug problems in the lives of most people.

14. The rides and shows of Coney Island were fantastic: Steeplechase Park the horses, the big slide, the barrels, the zoo (maze), the human pool table, the Cyclone Roller Coaster, the Tornado Roller Coaster, the Thunderbolt Roller Coaster, the Bobsled, the Virginia Reel, the Wonder Wheel, the Bumper cars, the Tunnel of love, Battaway, the loop the loop, the bubble bounce, miniature golf, the whip, the many merry-go-rounds, the penny arcades. Lu na Park, the Thompson Roller Coaster, the Parachute jump, Fabers Sportsland and Fascination, toffee and cotton candy stores, custard stands, Pokerama, Skeeball, prize games, fortune tellers guess games, hammer games, the Harlem revue, the freak shows, the house of wax, the animal nursery, restaurants, rifle ranges, push cart rides and parades.

15. The fruit man, the tool sharpener, the junk man and the watermelon man all with the horse and wagon.

16. Sheepshead Bay was Lundy's Restaurant and fishing.

17. Only place for pizza and only whole pizzas was Joe's Bar and Grill on Ave U. Then in the mid-50's, a pizza explosion: you could buy it by the slice for a dime at many places. By the late 50's it was a whole 15 cents a slice! A tuna fish sandwich or a BLT were 45 cents. A small Coke was 7 cents, a large Coke was 12 cents. Remember Vanilla Cokes when they pumped real vanilla syrup into the glass before adding the Coke?

18. There were many theaters where every Saturday afternoon you could see 25 cartoons and two feature films. The Highway, the Avalon, the K ingsway, the Mayfair, the Claridge, the Tuxedo, the Oceana, the Oriental, the Avenue U,the Kent, the Paramount, the RKO Tilyou, the Mermaid, the Surf, the Walker, the Albemarle, the Alpine, the Rugby, the Ambassador, the People's Cinema, the Canarsie, the Marlboro, the Avon, and the Globe.

19. Everybody knew all the high schools in Brooklyn.

20. Big eating and coffee hangouts: Dubrow's on Kings Highway, also on Eastern Parkway/Utica Avenue, Famous on 86th Street, and Garfield's on Flatbush Avenue.

21. Ebinger's was the great bakery ... loved the chocolate butter cream with the almonds on the side, Boston Cream pie, and the Blackout cakes! Bierman's was terrific also.

22. Kings Highway stores had their own ornate glitz as far as style goes.

23. There were many delicatessens in the 50's -- very few today. The best? Adelman's on 13th Avenue and Hymie's on Sutter Avenue. The food was from heaven!

24. Big night clubs in Brooklyn were the Ben Maksiks' "Town and Country" on Flatbush Avenue and "The Elegante' " on Ocean Parkway.

25. There were no fast food restaurants in the 50's and a hamburger tasted like a hamburger.

26. There was Murray the K , rock and roll concerts at the Brooklyn Fox and the Brooklyn Paramount. You had to go the night before to get good seats.

27. Quick bites at Brennan and Carr, Horn and Hardart Automat, Nedick's, Big Daddy's, Chock Full o' Nuts, Junior's, Grabsteins, or Joe's Delicatessen. Junior's, you'll be glad to know, is still in the same place, and their cheesecake is still fabulous.

28 . Knishes were great at Mrs. Stahl's in Brighton or at Shatzkin's Knishes. Remember the knish guy on the beach with the shopping bags? Mrs. Stahl's Knishes is now a Subway.

29. People in Brooklyn took pride in owning a Chevy in the 50's; there was nothing better than General Motors then. The cars would run and run and run, no problems.

30. You bought sour pickles right out of the barrel -- for a nickel -- and they were delicious. By the 60's, they cost a whole quarter. Anyone remember Miller's Appetizing, on the corner of 13th Avenue and 50th Street?

31. The Brooklyn Dodgers were part of your family. The Duke, the Scoonge, Pee Wee, Jackie, the Preacher, Campy, Junior, Clem, Big Don, Gil. They were always in a lot of our conversations. Remember Ebbet's Field and Happy Felton's Knothole club? For a nickel, you got into Ebbet's Field and saw the Dodgers play. For Brooklynites it was -- and will always be -- a shrine.

32. You come from Brooklyn but you don't think you have an accent. To you Long Island is one word which sounds like "Longuyland."

33. You played a lot of games as kids. Depending on whether you were a boy or a girl, you could play: ringaleaveo, Johnny on the Pony, Hide and Seek, three feet off to Germany, red light-green light, chase the white horse, kick the can, Buck, Buck, how many horns are up?, war, hit the penny, pussy-in-the-corner, jump rope, double-dutch, Stories, A-My Name Is, box ball,stick ball, box baseball, catch a fly, dodge ball, stoop ball, you're up, running bases, iron tag, skelly, tops, punch ball, handball, slap ball, whiffle ball,stick ball, poison ball, relay races, softball, baseball, basketball, horse, 5-3-1, around the world, foul shooting, knockout, arm wrestling, Indianwrestling. And then there were card games like canasta, casino, hearts, pinochle, war, and the unhappy game of 52-card pickup.

34. You hung out on people's stoops or in the Courtyard.

35. You learned how to dance at some girl's backyard or house.

36. You roller skated at Park Circle or Empire Blvd. skating rinks in skates with wooden wheels. You had roller skates at home with metal wheels for using on the sidewalks, and you needed a skate key to tighten them around your shoes. Those metal wheels on concrete were deafening!

37. The big sneaker was Converse. Also Keds and P-F Flyers.

38. The guys wore Chino pants with a little buckle on the back, peg pants, and the girls wore long wide dresses. Remember gray wool skirts with pink felt poodles on them? The poodles had rhinestone eyes.

39. In the 50's rock and roll started big teen styles for the first time.

40. Everyone went to a Bar Mitzvah even if you weren't Jewish.

41. Everyone took their date to Plum Beach for the submarine races.

42. There were 3 main nationalities in Brooklyn in the 50's: Italians, Irish and Jewish. Then there was a sprinkling of everyone else. The Scandinavians and Greeks in Bay Ridge, the African Americans in Bedford Stuyvesant and the Polish of Green Point.

43. The only way to get to Staten Island was by ferry from the 67th Street pier in Brooklyn. It was a great ride in the summer time for a dime.

44. In Brooklyn, a fire hydrant is a "Johnny pump."

45. Rides on a truck came to your neighborhood to give little kids a ride for a dime. The best one was the "whip," which spun you around a track. You got a little prize when you got off, sometimes a folding paper fan, sometimes a straw tube that you inserted two fingers into, that tightened as you tried to pull your fingers out again.

46. As a kid you hit people with water balloons from atop a building, you shot linoleum projectiles from a carpet gun, you shot dried peas from pea shooters, and you shot paperclips at people with a rubber band.

47. You shopped at EJ Korvettes, Robert Hall, Woolworth's, Mays, McCrory's, Packers, A&P, Bohack, A&S. Barney's was Barney's Boys Town back then, and not a luxury store. You bought your shoes at National and Miles, A.S. Beck. When you got married you bought your dishes at Fortunoff's under the "el".

48. NBC main production studio was on Avenue M. and East. 16th St. The Cosby show was made there.

49. Everybody lived near a candy store and a grocery store.

50. The first mall comes to Brooklyn at Kings Plaza - (opening in 1970).

51. Bagel stores start popping up everywhere in th e 60's.

52. Went to Jahn's Ice Cream Parlor with a big group and had the "Kitchen Sink." If it was your birthday - you had to bring your birth certificate - you would get a sundae free.

53. Everybody knew somebody who was a connected guy.

54. We used the word "swell"; that's passé today.

55. In the summer we all waited for the Good Humor, Bungalow Bar, Mister Softee o r Freezer Fresh man to come into our neighborhood to buy ice cream. In the early to mid 50's, the Good Humor man pushed a cart instead of driving a truck. Remember the bells? Soda was 15 cents. A large cup was 15 cents, a small cup was a dime. And a sundae -- remember licking the chocolate off the back of the cardboard top? -- was a quarter. (Movie stars pictures on bottom of the Dixie cup lids). As a kid growing up in the 1950s we would spend our money on bubble gum baseball cards, candy and ice cream. A pack of baseball cards (complete with a stick of bubble gum) and full-size candy bars were 5 cents each or six for a quarter.

In those days there were lots of interesting coins still in circulation. Dimes and quarters we still made of silver. The oldest Roosevelt dimes were not yet 15 years old. It was not uncommon to find Mercury dimes or worn out Standing Liberty quarters; and Buffalo or Indian Head nickels were common too. Most pennies were wheat-backs; they didn't get the familiar Lincoln Memorial on the reverse until 1959. With luck it was even possible to find an occasional Indian Head penny in your change. But the most coveted find (for us kids, anyway) was the unusual 1943 steel penny.

56. Many of us would sneak cigarettes and hide them when we got home.

57. When we talked about "the city" everyone knew we meant... Manhattan.

58. The Mets in the 60's became our substitute for the Dodgers. But they never did, and never will, make up for the Dodgers leaving.

59. In the 60's we were ready to drive and hit the night life scene. With the car came the girls.

60. We are all in a select club because we have roots in BROOKLYN.

"Buck Buck...

...How any fingers are up?" When I was growing up, this refrain was heard all over Brooklyn. It came from those who were playing Buck Buck, also known as Johnny On the Pony. The game has apparently been around for hundreds of years. I have to confess, I never played with girls (especially girls who looked like the one pictured in the above/right) and therefore I never really got the game.

Buck Buck was played by two teams consisting of three, four, five or six players on each team. The first team would take the pole (another telephone pole game) or a car bumper, stoop, etc... and the second team would prepare to 'jump'. The 'anchor man' (DAMN that's manly) of the first team would bend over at the waist and put his shoulder into the telephone pole - body parallel to the ground, legs parallel to the pole - and hug the pole. Then the second player on the first team would get behind him and either put his shoulder into the Anchor Man's butt, wrapping his arm around the anchor man's legs, or would get right up behind him, bend over and hug him around the waist. And so on until you had a line of guys bent over hugging each other from behind, looking mighty uncomfortable.

The second team would position themselves directly behind the last member of the first team. The first member of the second team would back up as far as he needed to get a good running start, then take off towards the pile of bent over bodies. His goal was to jump as far as possible towards the front of the line of bent-over opponents and land on top with as much force as possible. He had to get as far in towards the pole as possible so the maximum amount of second team players could 'mount' the pony, adding as much weight as possible and making it difficult for the first team to support their weight.

If they managed to support the first team's weight, the first team captain would hold a number of fingers in the air and yell, "Buck Buck how many fingers are up?" The first team would try to guess the number.

I don't even know how this game was won or lost, because no one ever played long enough to reach the conclusion. Something didn't feel right.

Maybe we were playing it wrong? Maybe we should have gotten Eva May involved?

Anyone have any clarification?

The Boundaries of Street Sports

The use of "Boundaries" doesn't refer to the limitations of playing sports in the street. If anything it was much more challenging than playing on a field or court. Not only were you outrunning your opponent, but you also had to outrun cars, crazy dogs - and sometimes girls running you down with 26" bikes (Eva May) who wanted to kiss you. Eeeewww!

The way we played street sports would be impossible to play on a field or court. This was due to the boundaries and obstacles we used to define the ins and outs, the plays, the lines of scrimmage, sidelines, lines for singles, doubles, triples, home runs, etc...

90% of street sports owe their existence to the invention of the Spalding Hi-Bounce pink ball (pictured above/right), traditionally known as the "Spaldeen". They cost 15 cents at Murray's candy store and lasted only up to a couple of weeks at best (before splitting or going dead) but they were great. When you first bought one they had this reddish/pink line around the seam (indicating newness) and a smell I will never forget. But don't fall for imitations (Pensie Pinkies) or - God forbid - the pink sponge balls, or you'll get laughed off the block! When they went up to 25 cents each, my life changed.

Ya had your stoop ball, box ball, pole-to-pole, laying a patch (see Skid Marks and Blood Brothers from April 4), crack top, buck buck, bottle caps (were those last three games or sports?) and more.

Stoop ball was a simple game that was played using rules similar to baseball. But instead of having the ball pitched to the batter, the batter hitting the ball with a bat into the field and the fielders fielding the ball, what would happen is this... The guy who was "up" (we'll call him the 'batter') stood facing the stoop about four steps away. The fielders (you could have one, two or three fielders) played 1) behind the batter on the sidewalk, 2) middle of the street and 3) across the street on the opposite sidewalk (when you were playing one-on-one the fielder would play the middle of the street position). The batter would then throw the Spaldeen against the stoop. If it came off the stoop as a grounder, bouncing before the street and was caught - one out. If it was bobbled or missed - Error; man on base. If the ball managed to get into the street on a fly and bounced once without being caught - single. Twice - double. Three times - triple. If the ball made it onto the other side of the street without bouncing - HR. The ideal shot would be for the batter to throw the ball and have it land on the point of one of the steps. That sucka would take off! If thrown hard enough, the ball could end up in the neighbor's back yard - across the street.

Box Ball. The 'boxes' are the forms of concrete laid out in squares which make up sidewalks all over New York and other urban settings. There were, at least, two versions of Box Ball that I know of:

1) 2 boxes separate you and an opponent in a straight line. The object is for you to hit the Spaldeen into the opponent's box using the palm of your hand as a paddle. You scored points only when serving, and when the opponent missed a return. There is also a 4 box variation for 4 players. The boxes being adjacent, making up a square.

2) 5 boxes separate you and an opponent in a straight line. One player begins the game by throwing the Spaldeen into the 'first box', directly in front of his opponent. Whether the player gets it into the box or not, it's then the opponent's turn. Once you are able to get the ball into the first box, you then try to throw the ball into the box that is two boxes away from your opponent, the 'second box', and have it bounce in both the second box and again in the first box, once each, then so on... The first person to bounce the Spaldeen successfully in all 5 boxes between him and the opponent once, wins.

Pole-to-pole was our version of football. Without goal posts, side lines or yard lines we used the boundaries the environment presented us with. The side lines were the curb of the sidewalks - that's easy. You touch the curb - you're out of bounds. The length and 'yardage' associated with the playing field was determined by the distance between telephone poles. One telephone pole was considered one end, or goal-line, of the field. Go one more (the middle pole) - that was the 50 yard line. Get past that before going 4 downs and you get a first down. One more pole and you're at the opposite end or goal-line. From play to play, lines of scrimmage were marked by spitting into the street at the point of the last tackle or where you went out of bounds. Yes. I said tackle, and with all the spitting going on between plays, to mark scrimmage, it got slippery and messy out there.

Typical plays were the 'button hook', 'out and in', 'over and out', 'out and over', 'the bomb' and 'the flea-flicker'.... "and I'll hit you" ... 'behind the red Chevy', 'by Mrs. Silverman's garbage cans', 'on the manhole cover in front of the Billy Ryan's house'.

We also played stick ball, punch ball, roller and foot hockey, basketball and other sports, between our block and others, but those are stories for another day...

Skid Marks and Blood Brothers

Gimme a sting ray bike, with a banana seat, on a sunny, summer morning in 1968 and I'm set.

I waited a long time for my first bike. Our block on 57th Street between 3rd and 2nd Avenues in Bay Ridge (basically a demilitarized zone from the late 50s until sometime in the 90s when gentrification hit) was not conducive to bike riding. Narrow streets and constant traffic. Also my parents (a longshoreman and an Avon lady) were struggling to save up to buy a house out in Marine Park, Brooklyn - 'the country'. A bike was not edible therefore not necessary.

After the move, I had access to an old, rusty, two-wheeler but had to wait until Christmas 1967, when I got my first 'cool' bike. There was no holding me back after that.

One of my buddies in the new neighborhood - 'Big Chris' Mussig (not to be confused with 'Little Chris' Sippel) was known for his athletic prowess and other amazing talents. One of these was the ability to 'leave a patch' - or black tire skid mark - on the asphalt when he braked his bike real hard. You had to have a foot brake to do this. Wimpy hand brakes need not apply.

So we decided to begin a competition. Who could leave the longest patch? It's always about size isn't it?

The idea was this - go down to one end of the block (Avenue S), turn around and start peddling towards the other end of the block (Fillmore Avenue) like a madman. When you reached the designated telephone pole, you'd jam on the brakes. Whoever left the longest patch won. This competition would last for years.

Being blood brothers with someone was a serious and sacred ceremony that took place between best friends. You know the story; two friends would cut themselves, press their wounds together (thereby exchanging bodily fluids and their spirits, of course) and swear eternal allegiance to each other. In practicality this allegiance would last only as long as he would let you play with his GI Joe. In these days of air and, especially, bloodborne pathogens, I'm not sure this serious rite of brotherhood has survived. But still...

To refuse someone's offer of becoming blood brothers was a serious insult, but purposely cutting one's self with the ever faithful pen knife wasn't my idea of fun either. Luckily it was early enough in my career in the new neighborhood that no one had yet asked me, but I secretly dreaded the day when it would happen.

One perfect summer afternoon, we were having one of our 'leave the longest patch' competitions. It was my turn to rocket down Kimball Street towards Fillmore Ave. About half way down the block with my eyes on the goal, and not on the street in front of me, my front tire hit a large acorn that had fallen from one of the big trees lining the street. Before I knew what had happened I was sailing through the air towards Mr. Cavanaugh's Buick. I put up my arms to protect my face but the next thing I knew I was laying in the street bleeding from both elbows.

The guys all ran back up the block to gauge the damage. "You OK, Campbell?," one of them asked. After the initial shock wore off I answered, "Yeah". Assured that I was still breathing they were now free to each ponder the sudden opportunity this situation presented to them. One less opponent in the 'leave the longest patch' competition. Most of them went back down the block to get their bikes. Only 'Little Chris' stayed behind to make sure I was OK.

I was still reeling slightly when an idea hit me. I'm bleeding and I didn't have to cut myself. Now was the perfect time to offer to become blood brothers with someone. I immediately said to Little Chris, "Hey, want to be blood brothers?" Little Chris was a little younger than the rest of us - probably two years younger than I was - but he was a gutsy guy. After only a slight hesitation he said, "Uh... OK," and set about rubbing the side of his hand against the curb until it began to bleed. We pressed our wounds together and...

40 years later, Little Chris is still one of my best friends.

Handball

Claims have been made that the first official handball court was constructed in Brooklyn in 1877. There have been disputes over this fact (get a life. All good things come from Brooklyn) but it is indisputable that handball was a large part of the culture while I was growing up and remains so today, thanks to our great public parks system. Scenes similar to the one above/right have been typical for decades; people playing while others are lined up on the fence waiting for the next game.

I suppose in part, my interest had a great deal to do with the fact that my dad had been handball champion of Brooklyn for two years in a row during the thirties. Family legend has it that he beat Chuck Conners (The Rifeman) in the finals one year. I went with him every weekend, and sometimes after he came home from work, I'd follow him up to the playground. My dad played in all seasons - loved the game. In fact he played his whole life, until he was about 70 years old, and I was never able to beat him once. Put us in a racquetball court, however... but that's a different story.

Back in the late fifties/early sixties, on the court on 65th Street between 3rd and 2nd Avenues, in our neighborhood in Bay Ridge, there were living legends of the game with names like; "The Mouse" (a small very quick man), "Mr. Slick" (a sweaty guy who never wore a shirt so you slid right off him) and of course, "The Killer" - who was regularly able to make killer shots - seemingly on demand. A 'killer' is a shot wherein the ball is hit by a player and lands so close to the bottom of the wall that, when it comes off the wall, there is no bounce produced - the ball simply rolls away from the wall - and the opponent cannot return it.

Handball can be played in 'singles' - one player against another - or in 'doubles' - two players on each of two teams. With four players on the court it can get a little crowded, but it's still alot of fun and a good workout.

One day during school - must have been in the 3rd grade - my teacher, Mrs. Gorenson, asked the class if anyone had any sports or games they would like to introduce to the class. Presented with this opportunity to brag about my dad and teach the kids something that I knew about, my hand was the first to shoot up. Mrs. Gorenson picked me and I began telling them about handball.

After I described the basic rules Mrs. Gorenson agreed that we would all try it during gym class, outside in the school yard. I went to a very small elementary school. There were only about 20 kids in my classroom and that encompassed 1st through 4th grades. Of the 20 kids in the class, about 10 of us were in the higher grades - 3rd or 4th - and possessed enough eye-hand coordination to participate. Probably the same crew of ruffians who played 'crack-top' and 'buck-buck' or 'Johnny on the Pony' at recess.

When Mrs. Gorenson said "all", she meant all. There was only one wall area in the school yard large enough to consider playing handball against, and no one was to be left out. I tried to explain to her that playing doubles makes it crowded enough. To have 5 people on each team - for a total of 10 people running around trying to stay out of each others way, in an area 20 feet wide by 30 feet long - was insane. But there was no reasoning with the white haired Mrs. Gorenson. "No one is to be left out, David."

So how do you alter the rules to play handball with 10 kids at the same time? Normally, when you play doubles, there are 2 outs per side - one for each player on the team. When one team reaches 2 outs the serve switches to the other team, where they serve until they have reached two outs. When you complete the cycle; 2 outs for one team, then 2 outs for the next, you have completed one 'inning'. The only logical approach seemed to be to have each of the players on a team serve until they're out, then the next player and the next until 5 outs are reached. Then switch serves and follow the same approach. Logical, right?

To show everyone how it worked, I was selected to make the first serve. Immediately 9, 8 and 9 year old kids rushed the ball - including the kids from my own team. Big collision.

Long story short; by the time we were done with one inning of 5 on 5 handball, the score was 35 - 3 (handball is typically a '21 points wins' game), 5 kids were sitting off to the side crying, with bloody knees and elbows or black eyes, and recess was over. Mrs. Gorenson pronounced it the worst sport ever invented and I was forbidden to play it - or to even mention it - again at school.

Trip(s) to Steeplechase Park

Steeplechase Park was located on Coney Island from 1897 through 1964. My dad took me there a few times the summer before it closed - 1963. Right before Kennedys started dropping and the Beatles rescued us. The stories I have are a composite from all the memories I have from those visits. Steeplechase Park was one of the most fun (as well as bizarre, scary and sinister) places I have ever experienced. Certainly a place to leave indelible marks on many a young mind.

Even before you entered the grounds - as you approached the front gates - you faced an over-the-top image of 'the steeplechase face'. If The Joker and Groucho Marx had a son together, and they fed him daily doses of LSD, this is what their progeny would look like. "Steeplechase - Funny Place"

The first (funny) place you visited was the ticket booth where for two different prices (5 cents for a small or 35 cents for a large) you could purchase the ticket card. Ticket cards were about 3 or 6 inches in diameter respectively (see the image of the large ticket card, above right). The deal, as I remember it, was this... when you passed through the turnstiles to get on a ride the ticket puncher punched a single hole in the ticket. For as long as there was space left on the card for the puncher to punch holes, you could ride on rides. I remember my dad saying, "There's still plenty of space on that card. Let's save it for next time." And we would. Imagine getting two visits to an amusement park for 35 cents?

Next stop was the giant rotating barrels. These barrels were about 6 feet in diameter and about 15 feet long, situated on their sides with the ends opened, on motor driven rollers, causing the barrel to rotate slowly. The object was to enter each barrel and pass through to the other side, sort of crab walking while trying to avoid falling down. Those visitors who weren't six years old - and could reach the top rim or surface of the barrel by raising their arms and spreading out their arms and legs - could support themselves as the barrel rotated and, as a reward, received a slowly rotating upside-down view of the world (like the virtuvian man - with clothes on, of course). The rest of us tried to remain mobile, if not vertical, but ended up falling all over ourselves, rolling around on the bottom of the barrel, laughing our butts off. There were several of these barrels to pass through before we made it to our ultimate destination and the journey was hilarious.

Having successfully passed through the gauntlet of rotating barrels we were then able to enter the Pavilion of Fun! The Pavilion of Fun was a completely indoor, rectangular, steel and glass building about the size of Shea stadium with inside dimensions similar to that of an airplane hangar. At least that was the view through the eyes of a six year old. To keep things in perspective, more recent (actual) research shows that the Pavilion of Fun covered about five acres of Steeplechase Park.

Paradise. More excitement, rides and bizarre attractions than you could shake a stick at - and all indoors. I was too small to go on some of the rides, but it was just as much fun watching adults get thrown off the Human Roulette Wheel as it was going on the rides themselves. They had everything from giant slides and tilt-a-whirls to flea circuses and freak shows. The soundtrack was men, women and children screaming, maniacal laughter, whirring mechanical wonders and carnival barkers. The 'scent track' was peanuts and popcorn and, vaguely, horses. The floor was covered in sawdust. Clowns were everywhere, and I've come to find out recently that they actually rented clown costumes to patrons to wear while exploring the wonders of the Pavilion of Fun.

The most vivid memory I have of Steeplechase Park - one that I will never forget - is that of the actual steeplechase ride itself. The steeplechase ride was a full-sized simulated horse race that took place on a eight-lane 'track' which wrapped around the outside of the Pavilion of Fun building. The track was suspended between about 20 - 30 feet in the air, depending on if the track was going over a hill or not (again, see the pictures on this link). You sat atop a wooden (carousel-like) horse which glided along the track at what seemed like speeds of up to 60 miles per hour - the theme of the ride was "Half a Mile in Half a Minute - And Fun all the way!" All there was in terms of safety was a thin, worn leather strap that wrapped around your waist and clipped to the horse's mane. The kicker is that sometimes you were suspended over open tracks and could see directly down onto the paths below. It was hair raising. When the ride was over, there was a winner - who everyone cheered - and all riders then dismounted their steeds and made their way to the winners circle or - as we liked to call it - 'the arena'.

In the arena was where it happened. The arena was an old circus ring with sawdust and peanut shells coating the floor. There were high walls all around it, with one way in (from the steeplechase ride) and one narrow way out. There was crazy laughter coming from somewhere above us. As my dad and I were making our way towards the exit across the arena, I looked over to the other side of the ring and noticed a clown hassling a woman. They looked like they were having fun so I didn't give it much thought. I turned my attention forward again, but before more than two seconds had passed (the ring was not that large) I felt a tap on my shoulder. As I turned, I found myself face-to-face with the clown. Not more than one inch separated my nose from the bulbous red schnozz between his evil eyes. Have you seen the clown from Stephen King's IT? Now you have an idea what I was facing. For a moment, his nose filled my entire field of view.

I immediately jumped back in terror and noticed the clown was carrying something shaped like a miniature baseball bat in his right hand. I don't remember if the clown actually spoke or not but in a flash he lunged forward and touched the miniature baseball bat to my butt. It wasn't a miniature baseball bat. It was an electrical cattle prod, which sent a bunch of volts shooting through my pants. This whole scene was way too much for me to process. I yelped, jumped back again and immediately began to cry.

My dad was torn between embarrassment and wanting to rip the clown's head off. 'Everyone's looking at my wimp kid' and 'Shock my son, will ya?' He settled for a humble exit. Grabbing me by the hand, we quickly left the arena.

Post Script - To leave the arena you exited through a narrow passageway through the high walls surrounding the ring. This passage led to a ramp that wrapped around and followed the circular shape of the arena up around clockwise. By the time my dad and I reached the top of the ramp I had just about stopped crying. We entered an open area where the hysterical laughter, we had heard hovering above our heads earlier in the arena, was coming from. A man sold peanuts off to one side and, on the other, a crowd of people was leaning over a wall, looking down at something and laughing hysterically. Dad took me over to the wall and lifted me up so I could see what the people were laughing at down below; the riders exiting the steeplechase ride getting hassled by the clown in the arena. I laughed with everyone else, but at the time I sensed it was a pretty sick thing.

Incidentally, I've heard it said that this place was the original Peanut Gallery ("...no comments from the peanut gallery, please..."). It makes sense. They sold peanuts and it was a kind of gallery. Some say the term originated with the 'cheap seats' in vaudeville, but they both developed at the same time - mid 1880s - so who really knows for sure?

Any of you ever make it to Steeplechase Park? How about Coney Island? I know you've got some stories about The Cyclone.