"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.

In the beginning...

Memories of Brooklyn

In the beginning there was Brooklyn.

Well maybe it wasn't that dramatic, but Brooklyn has had its hand in the formation of the culture of America and, one could even argue, the world.

Statistics provided by the Brooklyn Information & Culture Service state that one in seven Americans can trace their roots back to good ol' BKLYN. People like; Lou Reed, Jackie Gleason, Woody Allen, The Beastie Boys, Barry Manilow, Alyssa Milano, Eddie Murphy, Mary Tyler Moore, Al Sharpton, Barbara Streisand, Mae West, Mel Brooks, Michael Jordon and... you and I.

Welcome to the Memories of Brooklyn blog.

I've got some great memories of growing up in Brooklyn. Among the best of my life. I've put this forum together to share those memories with those of you who have some of your own. I want to hear your memories too.

Ever get zapped by the clown coming off the steeplechase ride at Steeplechase Park? How about catching a burger, fries and a coke (for under a dollar) at Nedicks, then hitchhiking up Flatbush Ave on a Sunday to Riis Park? Remember the time we peed off the roof of the, then under-construction, Kings Plaza shopping center, not knowing the security guard was directly beneath us? Whatever happened to 'Candy Stores', like Murray's?

Come on. You've got answers to these question. You must have some memories of Brooklyn. Let's hear them.