Father's Day 2008 at Coney Island/Neighborhood Bully Epilogue

2008 is the last year that the rides at Coney Island will be open. They're tearing down Astroland and most everything else. The only things that will remain from the Coney Island we grew up with are; the Wonder Wheel, Parachute Drop and Cyclone - but they will only be there to remind us, they won't operate. Thank goodness someone had the foresight to designate them as New York City Landmarks otherwise the condo developers would tear them down as well. Can you imagine what the people must be like who have the audacity to rip apart a great American institution that is responsible for embedding untold happy memories into the consciousness of billions of people - to put up beach-front condominiums? Growing up, they must have been very unhappy children. In any case, GET THERE WHILE YOU CAN!

In late May, 2008, my kids told me that they were taking me to Coney Island for Father's Day on June 15. It took a few moments to sink in but when it did, I realized what a great time this was going to be. "I'm in!" I said. Unfortunately my middle son had to work, so there was only four of us, including my wife.

Got a bit of a late start, pulling into a parking spot near the parachute drop at about 2:00 PM. No one had eaten lunch yet so we went directly to Nathan's to grab us some 'World Famous' dogs, corn, etc... Even though it was raining on-and-off, the lines at Nathan's went out the door onto the sidewalk, so we settled for the concession stand across the street from the Cyclone (which I could swear use to be Nathan's - can anyone confirm this?) where we had hot dogs, corn dogs, knishes and fries. Not bad. While we ate, we watched and listened to the people on the Cyclone screaming.

I pointed at the Cyclone and asked my wife, "So... you going up?"

"Have fun," she said. My two sons and I walked across the street and, since it was a raining, on-and-off kinda day, not many people were around and we were able to step right up to the ticket booth. It's now $8.00 to ride on the Cyclone. A re-ride is $5.00. If you ask me, it's worth it. Especially since it's the last time. (For more information on the history of the Cyclone go here)

If you're reading this it's likely that you are familiar with the Cyclone (and possibly the old Cyclone slogan - "HANG ONTO YOUR WIGS AND KEYS!"). You know that it is the world's most thrilling ride. What makes it so thrilling? Is it the fact that it's made of wood and appears rickety as hell? Is it the ratchety clank, clank, clank, clank, clank, clank, clank... sound as the cars slowly make their way up that first hill? Is it the broad white beams that fly by just above your head as you zoom down the first, second, third and fourth drops? Is it the nonchalance of the operator as he carelessly slides the wooden brake handle back without watching what he's doing? Or is it something else? For me I guess it's a combination of all things seen, not seen and sensed during the whole experience. When you crest the first hill and are looking at nothing but the Atlantic Ocean, then a split second later are plummeting straight down that first drop with those damn white beams coming within inches of taking your head off... No wonder there is zero delay between when, at the end of the ride, 'the guy' says, "Re-ride... five dallah," and you say, "Take my money."

Then we hit the Wonder Wheel. The builders of the Wonder Wheel (built from 1918 - 1920) wanted to make sure you understood that it is the "WORLD'S LARGEST WHEEL (WEIGHT - OVER 200 TONS!)" so they devised a unique entrance. You actually have to go down on a ramp through a tunnel, down about 10 - 15 feet below street level, to access the entrance to the Wonder Wheel. Even with this 10 - 15 foot handicap it still rises over 150 feet into the air. In original marketing materials the logan was, "RIDE THE WONDER WHEEL, THE HIGHEST FERRIS WHEEL IN THE WORLD! FROM ITS TOP YOU CAN SEE THE EIFFEL TOWER IN PARIS." In fact the first Ferris wheel was built to rival the Eiffel Tower for the World's Colombian Exposition of 1893 in Chicago. But you can't see Paris from the Wonder Wheel - unless I've always been up there on cloudy days... (For more information on the history of the Wonder Wheel go here)

This time my wife decided to come along. My two sons and I talked her into riding in a red car instead of a white car. You know what that means. The white cars are standard, stationary Ferris wheel cars that turn with the rotation of the wheel. A nice calm ride with a great view. The red and blue cars, however, not only turn with the rotation of the wheel, they also move along tracks from the outer edge of the wheel to an inside hub. So... you step into your car when the wheel has rotated so your car is at the bottom and as the wheel starts rotating again, then passes the point where your car is just over the 90 degree mark, gravity does it's magic and your car starts moving towards the center of the wheel. This is great fun and provides interesting black and blue marks on your arms (from when your wife hit you and said, "Why did you take me on this freakin' ride?"). But the fun has only just begun. Once the wheel is 3/4 of the way done with its first rotation you are are facing nothing but open air when your car passes the 90 degree mark on the other side of the wheel and runs along the track towards the outer edge of the wheel. Now THAT'S exhilarating and provides larger and more defined black and blues marks.

After the Wonder Wheel we cruised around the boardwalk for a while, tried getting into the Freak Show - which was closed - and took some pictures of places I want to remember. Take Cha-Cha's Bar and Cafe for instance. Where else but Brooklyn would you see a sign that offered "Live Entertainment For The Hole family". Who's the Hole family? Courtney Love and Frances Bean Cobain?

It being Father's Day, I was looking forward to a nice meal out too so, after seeing all the sites we wanted to see at Coney Island, we headed over to Buckleys' on Nostrand Ave and Ave T in Marine Park. Great Irish grub and fixin's. I had a funny feeling who I might see at the end of the bar, but didn't say anything to my family until I was sure he was there. Sure enough, at the end of the bar, holding up the wall, was Jimmy C, the neighborhood bully of days gone by. As we waited for our hostess to tell us our table was ready, I pointed him out to my family. My wife said, "No way. That guy's got to be 65/70 years old." So I looked a little harder to be sure. I knew it was Jimmy when his bloodshot eyes did their version of lighting up in recognition. He knew it was me and I knew it was him. I almost sent over a drink, but...

Our table was ready so we sat down back in the dining room to eat a great meal.

Cheers!

Super Skates!

Hey, anybody out there remember Super Skates? Not the RAD new two-wheel, in-line, roller blade models, but the old four-wheel kind?

These were awesome! You didn't need a skate key or anything. Simply make one adjustment with a screw driver or pliers underneath and the spring loaded mechanism inside would wrap any pair of shoes or sneakers you owned, in a cocoon of locomotive splendor. It took about 10 seconds to put these on and you were rolling down the asphalt.

The image above/right shows a pair that had, what looks like, rubber wheels on it. The version I remember had metal wheels. I must have worn out a dozen pairs of these growing up. Sometimes the bearings went first, but sometimes one of the wheels would actually wear through completely. If either of these happened while you were skating down the street at full speed, the skates would stop dead, but you would keep going - usually right down onto your knees and face.

Memories of big ugly scabs are dancing in my head.

Neighborhood Bully - The Fall

... continued from Neighborhood Bully - The Chink in the Bully Armor

As soon as the kids on the block realized that there was life after standing up to Jimmy, he gradually began separating from us. I'm not sure if it was on his part, our part or what. I don't believe it was a conscious thing. I think that as we got older and more mature and physically able, we were interested in and did things that Jimmy couldn't. We were all becoming different from Jimmy.

We each have our 'thing'. The thing that sets us apart. Big Chris' thing was his outstanding athletic abilities. Billy's thing was that he could shoot pigeons - and even robins - with his homemade bow and arrow (but that's a story for another day). Jimmy's thing was his cruelty and intolerance for people that were 'different' from him and his group. He'd always seen himself as the ring leader of 'the Irish kids' on the block. And from the lack of tolerance for 'things different' he had always shown in the past, he began seeing himself as different. Jimmy didn't know how to accept thing that were different - even, as it turned out in later years, himself.

There were times now when, after a day of playing pole to pole, we'd go hang out on Billy's stoop and listen to WABC (W - A - Beatle - C). Jimmy would show up once in a while. Sometimes it would be fine - Jimmy wouldn't insult or try to push anyone around. But other times he would try to recapture a little of that bully edge of his.

One day he did something that really pissed off Little Chris. I don't remember what it was (probably something clever about Little Chris' mother) but I remember Little Chris letting him have it verbally. "Jimmy, You are a big fat idiot," he said. This time he didn't storm away to his house giving Jimmy any satisfaction. He stayed on the stoop with the rest of us, shaking his head as if he felt sorry for Jimmy. And Jimmy didn't do or say anything back.

Then - and I can't remember if it was the same day or a day or two later - Jimmy did something to piss off Billy.

Now... Billy was a quiet Irish guy from Brooklyn who thought he was an American Indian. I told you... homemade bow and arrow..? a story for another day, but I had to give you that background so you would understand that Billy was a patient, stoic, long suffering guy who hardly ever had words with anyone. If you pissed off Billy you must have tried hard.

"Little Chris is right. You really are a big fat idiot, Jimmy. Now get the f' off my stoop."

(These were the days when you mixed your "...big fat idiot..." phrases with your new found curse words like "Get the f' off my stoop," and it sounded tough. Ah, the good old days.)

Jimmy put some effort into a smirk as he walked home alone but we all felt the wind beginning to blow in a different direction.

The homes on my block were two-story, single family, detached homes with garages in the back yards at the furthest part of the property away from the street. They weren't all exactly the same; there were slight variations in the style and width of the houses. Some of the garages were one-car some were two-car. The next block over, Coleman Street, who's properties rear ended the rear ends of our block's properties had the same arrangement of garages in their back yards, but because the properties were identical but back-to-back, the garages alternated position. (Click here to see what I mean.)

As you can imagine, this presented a unique opportunity for garage hopping - running along the rear property lines of homes on Kimball and Coleman Streets, 10 feet up in the air, bouncing from garage roof to garage roof. You tried avoid doing on Saturday night, though, when Mr. Mullins had been drinking.

There was this stretch of garages behind Billy's house that we liked best because there were a few trees there with limbs hanging between garages. We could swing out onto the limbs like Tarzan and land on various garage roofs. One big limb hung over Billy's back yard in plain view of the street via the driveway. One day, soon after Billy and Jimmy's altercation, while on top of Billy's garage, and carving our initials into the trunk of the largest tree, someone had 'a great idea'.

Billy no longer lives at this house. He's since moved on and has his own place now, as we all have. His family's moved down to Florida, and I personally haven't been in the backyard for a long time. But once in a while, after visiting with my mom who still lives on the block, I slow my car down while driving past Billy's driveway to see if I can still make out the words;

"JIMMY C IS A BIG FAT IDIOT"

... carved into the branch in foot-high letters. Sometimes, in the fall, when the leaves have fallen, I can.

I'll never forget the look on Jimmy's face when he saw it for the first - and as far as I know, the LAST - time. Totally defeated. Shoulders hunched over, I saw thoughts flashing across his mind; He couldn't climb fences - forget about trees - and there was no way for him to reach the limb to scratch out the words. None of us were going to take it down; we'd put it up there. For a hundred years, people would know that JIMMY C WAS A BIG FAT IDIOT. He turned and for the last time, I can remember, walked away from us towards his home.

Not long after this time, the guys on the block got older, went to different high schools, colleges, got married, etc... I saw Jimmy once or twice after the events described above, walking down the street, but never saw him again - until Mother's Day 2004.

There's a nice little neighborhood bar/restaurant on the corner of Nostrand Avenue and Avenue T(?) with good traditional Irish food, which my mom loves, so for Mother's Day I took her there for dinner at about 2 in the afternoon.

As we waited to be seated, and our conversation lulled, my eyes drifted around the restaurant and landed in the bar area, where they became locked with a person sitting at the end of the bar. This person had been snickering about something with the bartender but when he saw me he immediately froze. He stared at me with a guilty suspicious stare, his shoulders hunched and he quickly glanced at the floor. I continued looking at him. His appearance was that of someone who had spent a great deal of time in this bar and many others. He was so pale as to be nearly transparent. The only color in his face was provided by broken or dilated capillaries beneath the surface of his skin. His hair was thin and snow white. He was no longer fat, but emaciated. I had heard from Little Chris a few months earlier that there had been a Jimmy siting, and he wasn't looking too good, but I had no idea he was this bad. Jimmy looked half dead.

I don't know what could have been done to make things turn out differently. It's easy to say that Jimmy brought it on himself. He was the older kid and initiated the cruelty and other crap he came up with. It could be a very complicated discussion in trying to figure it out, or you could simply say...

Sometimes bad things happen to bad people.

Neighborhood Bully - The Chink in the Bully Armor

... continued from Neighborhood Bully - The Rise

As I said, Glenn getting hit by the car and Jimmy's reaction was a turning point for me. I've spent many years asking myself, "Why didn't I stand up to Jimmy more when he was; beating up little kids, berating other people, cursing out people's mothers, [insert your own rotten deed here], etc...?" It would have saved Glenn alot of heart ache - not to mention multiple major surgeries, therapy, etc... But better late then never... I started to now.

In the summer of '68 or '69 most of us kids on the block were at the point where sports - particularly baseball, stickball & hockey - were big in our lives. There is a variation of stickball that you need a wall for. You drew a rectangle on the wall with chalk (representing the strike zone) and the batter took his place in front of it. The faithful Spaldeen got pitched in and... In the box - strike. Outside the box - ball. Ground ball caught - out. Caught fly - out, etc... With the previously mentioned specs, it's obvious that the only place you could play this version of stickball was in a school yard. So more rules; Over the fence - home run. Top fence section on a fly - triple. Middle fence section on a fly - double. Bottom fence section on a fly - or a ground ball not caught before it hits the fence - single. The school yard behind PS 207 on Fillmore Avenue was perfect for this game.

The small - to some - obstacle was that the school yard was not always open. The gates were chained up and locked from the end of the regular school year until summer school started up in July, when the kids going to summer school had exclusive rights during the day. At the end of their school day the gates were chained up and locked again until the following school day. Sometimes people would use a bolt cutter to make a small hole in the fence, so you could squeeze through, but that would only work for a day or two. They really took care of the school yard fences in our neighborhood. So the only alternative was - over the 12 foot high fence.

One summer afternoon, someone suggested going up to the school yard to play some stickball. "YEAH!" the chorus replied, except for Jimmy. His reply was "Stickball is for faggots." We looked at him like he had three heads, then grabbed our Spaldeens, broomsticks and bikes and headed up the street.

After arriving at the fence, we all chained up our bikes and began scaling. Big Chris - of course - was the first one over. Then Billy and Eddie, then me and Little Chris - not necessarily in that order. We all landed on the other side of the fence and looked out to see Jimmy still there struggling to get his foot into one of the square-shaped holes of the chain link fence. "These stupid shoes my mother bought me... I can't get my toes in the fence," he said, "the toes are too wide."

"Go get some sneakers, then..." someone replied.

"Who wants to play stickball, anyway," Jimmy said. "Like I said, it's for faggots," and he got back on his bike and rode away.

Looking at each other, we shrugged and forgot all about Jimmy the minute the game began. It was the next day when the whole scene was repeated - this time with Jimmy wearing sneakers - that we started smelling something rotten in Jimmy-land. We didn't discuss it between us until the same thing happened yet again. There was a chink in Jimmy's bully armor. He was afraid or unable to climb over the fence because of his weight.

When the autumn came we started playing street hockey. The Rangers were hot that year (Eddie Giacomin, Rod Gilbert, Brad Park, etc...) and so were we. Naturally Jimmy had all the hockey equipment - goals, goalie stick, pads, etc... Based on our summertime experience with Jimmy not being able to climb over the fence, we realized that Jimmy wanted to play goalie so he wouldn't have to move around. One day we were playing when Jimmy refused to admit that someone had scored a goal on him. He said, "I'm taking in all my stuff if you say that the goal was scored." Almost in unison, we all said, "Go ahead." And he did. We got a couple of garbage cans and - side by side - that became the goal. We set up in front of Jimmy's house and saw occasional movement behind his curtains. He was watching us play.

At some point over the next few weeks, must have been World Series time, Jimmy called for me and asked if I wanted to throw the ball around. I said, "Sure," and met him in the street with my ball and glove. My baseball mitt was something left over from the 1930s/1940s that my dad had used when he was a kid. I wish I still I had it today, but at the time we didn't have the money to get me a new one, and I was always embarrassed by it. It wasn't long before I missed one of the crappy throws Jimmy had thrown to me and instead of taking the blame for throwing a stinker, Jimmy said something like, "If you had a real baseball mitt, instead of that piece of shit, you would have caught that."

A year or two earlier I would have gotten embarrassed and taken it, but since my experience with Glenn combined with the fact that Jimmy was losing credibility with everything in the neighborhood, I told him to shove it where the sun don't shine and went back into my house. He stood there with his mouth open and I felt great. Jimmy had lost his perverted edge.

Then it started getting nasty, and for once, we weren't the victims.

To be continued...

Neighborhood Bully - The Rise

When I first moved into our new neighborhood in "the country" (Marine Park, Brooklyn) I was 9 years old. The block we moved onto (Kimball Street, between Avenue S and Fillmore Avenue, 3 blocks off Flatbush Avenue) had a good number of kids, around my own age, to play with. Even as the new kid, it was apparent early on that there was a definite pecking order with my new friends.

Billy D and Peter C were the 'older kids' - 13 and already in high school. We didn't see much of them on the block. Eddie, Billy, Big Chris and Jimmy C were closer to my age but were indisputably 'the big kids' at 11 years old. I was in the middle at 9. Bobby and Robbie were 8 years old, then ya had your Little Chris, Glenn, Anthony B1 and Anthony B2, who were 7. I could never figure out how old Ralphie was but I think he was 7 or 8 and was Anthony B1's brother.

Jimmy C - one of the 11-year-olds, had lost his dad a year or two before I moved into the neighborhood. It must have been a horrible thing. When I found out, I felt so bad for him. I couldn't imagine what it would be like for your father to die. Jimmy had two older sisters and, now, a widowed, working mom. She was a very nice woman, but apparently Jimmy's dad had been the one who was in charge of discipline in the family, because from the day his father died, Jimmy never received any. His mother and sisters doted over him and never did anything to correct any of the screwy things he did. "Mommy, I know I'm the only one here, but I swear I didn't knock over the antique grandfather's clock. It fell down all by itself." "I know, Honey. You're such a good boy." Jimmy got away with murder.

In addition to the one thing he needed that he didn't get, Jimmy had everything else he didn't need, including every friggin' toy in the universe. Every GI Joe set, every piece of sports equipment, a set of encyclopedias, books, every game you'd ever heard of, air guns & army surplus gear for playing army... He even had a pool in his backyard - which we used to blow up battleships in, with firecrackers, after setting them on fire - much to his mother's chagrin. But she never said a word. Jimmy had it all - almost.

In personality and physical appearance, Jimmy actually reminds me a great deal of Eric Cartman from South Park - pictured above/right - but not quite as cute. He was never any good at the sports he had the equipment for because he wasn't a physically fit kid. Plain and simple, what he was, was a mean and nasty kid. He physically pushed around all the younger kids in the neighborhood, but most of the damage he inflicted was mental. He was so intimidating that you wanted him as a friend just so he wouldn't make you the butt of his jokes. Here's a couple of examples:

Sitting on his stoop one day, when he was 12 or 13 and I was 10 or 11, Jimmy asked each of the kids what their ethnic backgrounds was. The big kids' backgrounds; Eddie, Billy and Big Chris, and mine, was basically the same as Jimmy's - Irish. Little Chris was Italian and German. The Anthonys and Ralphie were Italian and Jewish, Glenn was German. Jimmy got up and went into his house, returning shortly with a few paperback books called Race Riots. These were books filled with seriously hurtful ethnic humor for all occasions. The ones he brought back were especially for Germans, Jews and Italians... Tons of Nazi jokes and other gems like, "How do Italians have picnics? They gather around the sewer with straws." "What's the object of a Jewish football game? To get the quarter back." "Why do Jews have big noses? Because the air is free." There was one that insinuated that Italian women were pigs. Little Chris had had it 'up-to-here' with this and asked, "My mother's Italian. Are you calling her a pig?" I told you he had guts for a 8 or 9 year-old kid. Jimmy's reply was, "Take it anyway you want," or something equally as clever. Little Chris stood up and, fists clenched for a moment, considered doing something physical, but, to his credit, thought better of it. He simply said "f' you" and went home. Jimmy got away with all this, and more, because, if you got on his bad side he'd turn his wrath against you and you would be humiliated.

I could tell you many more stories, some much worse than the above, but here's one more example. This was the turning point for me.

One afternoon I was sitting on Jimmy's stoop with him, when he saw Glenn coming out of his driveway on his bike. Glenn was about 8 at the time. Jimmy said to me, "Watch this," and proceeded to where Glenn was going to pass by on the sidewalk. Jimmy started yelling, "Hey Glenn. What do you think your doing riding on the sidewalk in front of my house?" and began waving his arms threateningly. Glenn, who at 8 was only allowed to ride his bike on the sidewalk, immediately veered his bike between two parked cars out into the street to avoid Jimmy. He was hit by a car 1 second later. Right in front of Jimmy and me.

Jimmy looked at me and shrugged.

Glenn ended up with a plate in his head and spent 6 months wearing a football helmet.

To be continued...

"Bea, you gotta see this..."

This is one of those stories that may not be politically correct to tell, but I believe anyone could see the humor in it. Well, here goes. Who knows? It might elicit comments.

As I've mentioned, my dad was a longshoreman 'down at the docks' in Brooklyn for many years. However, there comes a time in a person's life when carrying 200 pound bags of coffee on your back, all day, takes its toll. Dad saw an opportunity in his late 40s (around 1970) to make a career change that would allow him to stay down at the piers, not lose his ILA (International Longshoreman's Association) union affiliation and would be far less taxing on his body. He could become "A Checker" one of the guys who tally up the cargo coming in and going out via ship and truck 'down at the docks'.

The union thing was big. Not only did it represent stable wages but also was the source for all our medical and dental care. The ILA had so many members that they had their own medical clinic downtown Brooklyn that occupied half a city block. After many years of shaping and struggling to make ends meet, after World War II, longshoremen were finally looked after by the ILA. Not that it was a perfect world, and there weren't questionable 'activities' revolving around the ILA, but the ILA definitely shared its clout with its members.

So dad became "A checker". He knew one or two of the other checkers already on the job but, mostly, he had to make all new buddies. This wasn't a problem for dad. He was always friendly, was always on good terms with everyone - even people he didn't like - and had a kind of open innocence that made people want to talk to him. In no time at all dad was part of the team.

One day at work, sometime in 1978, dad noticed a bunch of his buddies gathered around in a circle, enthusiastically discussing something. Words like "safari", "pyramids", "jungle" and "lions" wafted across the pier. Dad walked over and said, "What's up?"

One of the group replied, "Hi Artie. Well, we're getting a bunch of us together so we can get a group rate on a vacation tour package to Africa. It would be a 10-day guided tour starting off in Egypt and making its way down through the rest of Africa. And if we get enough guys together we'd get a really cheap price." Then he went on to discuss the cost and timing.

Dad replied, "That sounds like a great deal. You need any more for the group? My wife and I might be interested."

"Why... sure! I have some paperwork at home - brochures and such - I'll bring them in tomorrow, so you can take them home to talk it over with your wife."

"Thanks. That'd be great," dad said, then went back to work.

That night dad was very excited. At dinner, he couldn't contain his enthusiasm. "Bea, I'm telling you. It's a chance of a lifetime. Dave graduated college last year, so we finally have some money. I just got a raise. We're still young enough to travel and enjoy it... What do you say?"

Mom replied, "OK. Let's think about it. Bring home the brochures tomorrow night and... we'll see." Mom wasn't too keen on traveling to Africa but it was hard not to catch a dose of dad's excitement.

The next evening, dad came flying in the door after work, "Bea, you gotta see this. Look at these pictures... and there's an overnight cruise down the Nile river... It even includes a safari... not that I could ever shoot anything but just being there seeing wild beasts in their own environment... what a thrill. And it starts off in Egypt and... you know how I've always had a thing for the pyramids..."

Mom took the brochure from dad and began looking it over. "It does seem like a good price... But it says here that the tour will only be in Egypt for 2 days, would you be OK with that..?" Dad nodded that he would. "...the rest of the trip seems to be centered around central Africa... Around, you know... the jungles." Dad smiled and kept nodding. Mom smiled back. "Well... it does sound like a nice package..." then turned the brochure over to look at the back.

At this point, mom's smile expanded. I looked from her to dad and noticed dad noticing her expanding smile. The expression on his face indicated that he thought, 'I've got her!'

Mom kept looking at the back of the brochure and, still smiling, asked, "Hon... are any of the guys that you've been talking about this trip to.... black?"

Dad was a little taken aback. "Why should that matter?"

"I'm just curious."

"Well, let's see... the guy that brought the brochure in... He's black. And... well... one or two of the other guys are black too. But I don't see what you're getting at." Dad was starting to get a little indignant.

"Artie. Think about it... Were they all black?" asked mom.

"Well... I never thought about it... I guess... Now that you mention it... yeah. I guess they all are. How did you know?"

Mom held up the brochure and turned it around so Dad and I could see the back she had been looking at.

ROOTS '78 TOUR
Who are you?
Where do you come from?
Discover your Roots in Africa!

...and underneath was the black power symbol, which can be seen here on Ike Turner's sweater.

Someone was cashing in on the popularity of Alex Haley's book and the 12 hour television mini-series, of the same name, Roots, which had both come out in 1977, the year before.

There was a brief moment of total silence followed by an explosion of laughter. Talk about being where you don't belong - or are not wanted. But, credit to dad, and his friends at work, they never differentiated between him and them - or were just as uncomfortable about bringing up the matter as he might have been - if he had ever noticed.

Next day, dad brought the brochure back to his buddy at work and said, "Well... I don't think my wife and I can make this trip."

His buddy replied, "That's too bad, Artie. It would have been nice having you along."

And that was that.

"No little kids around here got $16 in the bank"

When my family was still living at 275 57th Street, in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, one of the ways
I used to pass a hot summer day was to watch the older kids play stickball.

We moved away from this neighborhood when I was 9 years old, so I was never really old enough to participate in these games. The players were mostly teenage kids of various ethnic backgrounds. Guys with names like "Junior", "Julio", "Henry" and "Paulie". These guys seriously resembled characters out of West Side Story and all wore 'wife beater' undershirts as their unofficial stickball uniforms. I wouldn't have been surprised to find out they were carrying switchblades in their back pockets as well.

Home plate was one sewer cover, first base could have been the front fender of a '55 Chevy, second base was the 'next' sewer cover and third base might have been the rear left tire of a Buick. The foul lines were the sidewalks on each side of the street. The bat was a broomstick which may, or may not, have had electrical tape wrapped around one end (as shown above/right) and the ball was (naturally) a Spaldeen (see also The Boundaries of Street Sports).

In the 50s through 70s stickball was a big game in New York City, particularly in Brooklyn. Sometimes some big leaguers would come out incognito and join the fun, getting back to their roots. Willie Mays was one of those who occasionally turned up to play stickball when he was with the NY Giants, before the Giants left for San Francisco in 1958.

It's not as big as it once was, but there's still a faithful few Brooklynites who still play the game regularly.

As long as I can remember, my mom was one who always stressed the importance of saving money. I must have been 7 or 8 when I received a sum of money for some event (birthday, Christmas, Easter? Who knows?) My mom took me up to Manufacturer's Hanover Trust Bank and we opened up an account with 16 whole dollars. I was very proud to have $16 in the bank. I felt "like Rockafella."

One summer day, one of my little-kid friends and I were watching the older kids play stickball. It was between innings, and nothing really exciting had happened in the last inning of the game to talk about. I figured I would take this opportunity to break the silence by casually mentioning the fact that I, J.P. Morgan himself, had recently made a deposit of the amazing sum of $16.00 into the bank.

My friend's bitter and forceful reply was, "No little kids around here got $16 in the bank".

I was crushed. I don't know why, but it seemed terribly important that he believe that I had a bank account. But the more I pressed the point the stronger he professed his disbelief. Eventually he walked away shaking his head and I don't remember him ever speaking to me again.

I never realized it until recently, but he was probably right. We lived in a very poor neighborhood. It's unlikely that any of the friends I had on that block had bank accounts. But in the past I never really thought about the neighborhood as being poor.

Funny how it takes a long time for some things to register.