The Time of Your Life

(Originally published 3/12/19)

Once upon a time, I could switch on the family’s black-and-white television set—with my youthful adrenalin flowing—and hear these immortal words: “Meet the Mets…Meet the Mets…Step right up and greet the Mets…Bring your kiddies…Bring your wife…Guaranteed to have the time of your life.” They were lyrics to the catchy tune that opened—along with a fast-paced montage of action shots—1970s New York Mets’ games on WOR-TV, Channel 9.

Listening to games on the radio in those days was as satisfying as turning on the TV. Even more so because so much was left to the imagination as broadcasters Lindsey Nelson, Bob Murphy, and Ralph Kiner effortlessly painted the word picture. Sadly, now, they are all gone as is the long-time home of the Mets, Shea Stadium. Believe it or not, it was considered a state-of-the-art ballpark when it first opened in 1964 in the shadow of the New York World’s Fair. It did not take long, though, for the place to sink into utter disrepair and earn a reputation as a sorry spot to both play and watch America’s favorite pastime.

Despite its obvious flaws, I loved Shea Stadium. It was an incomplete circle in design—open beyond the outfield—and in the flight path of nearby LaGuardia Airport. Drafty and noisy, it seemed—on some days—that you could almost reach out and touch the passing jets. Listening to planes’ crackling engines from such a front row seat may have annoyed some spectators—and ballplayers on the field—but I thought it was all rather cool and added to the game’s suspenseful ambience. The passion of youth has a knack for turning lemons into lemonade.

A kid could really lose himself in baseball back then. He could immerse himself in the reality of what was occurring on the field and let his imagination take it from there. It was certainly a less complicated time—an era before over-analyzing broadcasters, boorish sports talk radio, and social media forever altered the landscape. Ballplayers, too, were not cossetted, mega-millionaire celebrities. Somehow, we fans identified with them and there were still vestiges of a thing called team loyalty.

Well, that was then and this is now, 2019, the fiftieth anniversary of the 1969 World Champion Mets—the “Miracle Mets.” It is hard to believe so much time has passed. Its passage has surely done a number on people, places, and things. Both the 1969 Mets and my favorite team of all-time, the 1973 National League Champion Mets, featured Bud Harrelson, Ed Kranepool, and Tom Seaver on their rosters. “Tom Terrific” was my childhood idol, the only one I ever had. Naturally, the games in which he pitched assumed an even higher meaning. I proudly wore my “Property of the New York Mets” gray T-shirt, with the number 41 on its back, around my Bronx neighborhood of Yankee fans. There was only one local kid—with an adjoining backyard on the next street—who, like me, was a bona fide Met fan. I am sure it annoyed those in earshot, but he and I would sometimes yell back and forth in the cover of night after an exciting Mets’ victory. And we both revered Tom Seaver and worried about his ERA. If he gave up three runs, it was considered a bad outing for him. This Hall of Fame pitcher once completed twenty-one games in a single season and amassed 231 of them in his career. It ain’t the same game today.

In what was a competitive world of competing baseball fans, I remember my older brother telling me that I was a Tom Seaver fan and not a Met fan. Well, the unfolding long-term picture proved that comment off-the-mark. For when my idol was traded away in what came to be known as the “Midnight Massacre” of June 15, 1977, I remained ever loyal to the Mets. It was not easy watching a pompous, parsimonious patrician named M. Donald Grant, who was calling the shots by then, run a once lucrative and respected franchise into the ground—and in short order, too.

But how can you mend a broken heart? Bring Tom Seaver back—as new ownership did in 1983—to finish out his career on the team and in the place he never, ever should have left. That reunification was an incredibly exciting time for me. But when management mystifyingly left him unprotected—in a free-agent compensation pool—at the end of the season, Tom Seaver was snatched away from us once more.

This past week, the Seaver family announced that Tom has been diagnosed with dementia and would be retiring from public life. It was sad news all around and a real gut punch. This was news in the wake of scrappy shortstop Bud Harrelson’s revelation that he is suffering from Alzheimer’s disease and Ed Kranepool publicly seeking a kidney donor. Once upon a time, I imagined my ashes being sprinkled over Shea Stadium—tossed out of one of those spewing airliners. It would be fitting ending, I surmised. But Shea Stadium is not there anymore, and neither am I.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro

The IJ Network and My Marbles

(Originally published 9/3/18)

From the perils of social media file: You wake up in the morning, log on to Facebook, and visit one of the groups that you have joined. And, lo and behold, there it is: a crude, dismissive, quasi-literate comment to something positively benign. Case in point from a group devoted to my boyhood hero, a Baseball Hall of Fame pitcher: In a colorful Facebook box, a guy recounted how fortunate he was to have had said pitcher’s “MIL” as a grammar schoolteacher a half century ago. Why? Because she let her students watch baseball games. MIL stood for mother-in-law.

To make a long story short, this post did not sit well with an individual who responded to it with: “Whoop de do. Who cares?” This pithy put-down, however, was not enough for him. He added an acerbic aside, which claimed that people make up “ridiculous acronyms” to “feel superior.” He, by the way, did not use the word “people” but something vulgar beginning with “ass” and ending with “hole.” He also misspelled “ridiculous.”

Speaking of acronyms, I checked out this person’s profile and determined that he was an “IJ"—an Idiot...Jerk—and part of the expansive IJ Network. What makes an IJ an IJ? First, it has nothing to do with income, occupation, or geography. Rather, it is a mindset: aggressive, coarse, and arrogant. IJs are men and women who confuse boorishness with being clever. More than anything else, they love to pontificate. Where they are concerned, there are never, ever two sides to a story. The “IJ” marriage of the words was consummated forty years ago at a neighborhood swimming pool in the Bronx. Splashed with water, an angry youth exacted his revenge on the splasher by writing "Idiot...Jerk" in BIC pen on his locker.

It is because of the vast and growing IJ Network that I am typically loath to post on public groups. Recently, I had an inconsequential encounter with a fellow who obviously considered himself Joe New York. He thought what I posted would be of no interest to real New Yorkers, whom he deemed to speak. The man employed all caps at one point and concluded his loutish comment with “lol.” When the IJ Network comes calling, I promptly take my marbles and go someplace else. Like here:

For those considering visiting America and wondering what culinary delights to sample...

One cannot go wrong with tacos, burgers, and tossed salads washed down with refreshing Bud Lights. They are as American as apple pie.

I thought so...but now I know for certain...the Golden Age is no more...

New York may be the "city that never sleeps," but its bathrooms often do.

A remnant of old New York...

For some reason I thought of the game show: Can You Top This?

Everyone who is anyone rides around on a Citibike nowadays.

While growing up, my favorite pizza guy, George, would make a dozen or more pizzas before he even opened his shop. Ordering a slice later in the day was sometimes a crapshoot.

The Karate Kid of Kingsbridge...

This restaurant briefly appeared on my Grubhub roster of culinary possibilities. Since I have had a run of good luck of late when ordering via this online facilitator, the last thing I wanted was a Fiasco.

For a moment there I thought this was a yellow school bus.

I would like to toast a marshmallow in something like that...

Now this is American gourmet food...

All alone in the last subway car afforded me a catbird seat. With fellow passengers on the scene, taking such a picture might have prompted a see something, say something moment.

Some people have seen Him on burnt toast, in cloud formations, and in a window's condensation. I have seen Him riding a bicycle.

And He said, "Let there be light!"

If anyone deserves Labor Day off, it is Edy!

When veteran newsman David Brinkley was asked about the iconic closing of NBC's Huntley-Brinkley Report with co-anchor Chet Huntley—"Good night, Chet...Good night, David"—he said that the pair initially found the notion corny. But then Brinkley wryly added, "You had to end the show with something." So, why not? And the rest is history...

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Questions, Comments, Observations

(Originally published 10/17/21)

Once upon a time, a college history professor of mine repeatedly queried his students during lectures, “Any questions, comments, observations?” Invariably, there would be none. Despite it being an interesting course, “Great Issues in European History,” the class consisted of mostly engineering, business, and other non-history majors enrolled in it as an elective. It did not matter that the prof had stellar teaching credentials and a background that complemented the intriguing subject matter, the get-togethers had a zombie-like feel to them. My outwardly indifferent peers were always somewhere else. Come to think of it, there were more than few classes like that.

However, I do not remember any of my glassy-eyed peers being “triggered” by something said during the history lectures. And speaking for myself only, I never felt “unsafe.” The school had a Campus Ministry, which served, I suppose, as a 1980s version of a “safe space”—safe space lite. In my four years of higher education, I never dropped by.

I am glad that I grew up in a time without the Internet, social media, and smartphones. Men and women are now losing their jobs and having their reputations ruined because of something somebody unearthed in their all-encompassing virtual trail. It is pathetic and scary at the same time. People are wielding power with these big reveals. Small people. God forbid you tweeted something five years ago, sent a private e-mail, or liked a Facebook post that offends someone who could do you harm. You could be toast in a New York minute. Guess what? Nobody is perfect and everybody is a hypocrite at one time or another. It is human nature. And now for some further questions, comments, and observations…

What is it with McDonald's now-you-see-it, now-you-don't McRib sandwiches? Perhaps the chain appreciates that we always need something to look forward to in life.

Believe or not, there are even reports of employee shortages in the Metropolitan Transportation Authority (MTA). This would have been unheard of several years ago when waiting lists were the rule.

Canada geese heading from a blue state to a red state for the winter?

I saw this on a subway car floor last week. A "punk" is what we called them in my youth. We bought them in local candy stores.

May I say right now that it is not your grandfather's subway car advertising anymore...

Definitely not!

In this age of branding, subway car advertising often features one or two products or services in the entire car. This uplifting product ads covered half the car.

In these tough times for the hospitality industry, I hope this restaurant has found someone to man its phone, a trying, stress-filled position no doubt.

Recently, I read this lengthy article featuring former restaurant employees explaining why they left the industry. One recurring theme was how poorly they were treated by the customers. The consensus was that things got increasingly ugly as the pandemic took hold. This does not speak well for the public at large. Seems to me that these folks deserved a better fate.

I have eaten inside multiple pizzerias in New York City this past month. Only one time was I asked to show my vaccination card.

There are outstanding pizza places in the city, but most of them are mediocre at best. This slice fits the bill, but because it was fresh out of the oven it was not half-bad.

Par for the course near Penn Station. But for tired and hungry tourists...who knows?

It could be a slice to remember.

Every now and then I encounter something on the sidewalk with a story to tell. Seems that whoever purchased, or stole, these Memory Foam Boot Slippers could not wait to put them on and discard her old footwear. Right then and there!

The American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) is now arguing that the First Amendment's free speech clause has been interpreted "too broadly" by courts. It is not your grandfather's ACLU anymore, an organization I once had the utmost regard for. 

Atlas is more than shrugging at that news. He is also unmasked as Rockefeller Center readies for the holiday season.

I know that New York City's considerable rat population suffered during the worst of the pandemic. How did the local seagulls fare?

In my last visit to a favorite diner, I noticed that the coffee mugs were smaller. It is the sign of the times. Inflation, shortages, and general nuttiness. Regardless of the size of the coffee cup, I say, "God bless the servers."

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro.)

The Scent of a Postman

(Originally published 3-14-14)

In the late 1970s and early 1980s, the Nigro family's local mail carrier was a fellow named Louie. Never without a cigar in his mouth as he made his appointed rounds, he was a memorable postman from a bygone era. His cigar was his calling card and how we—fortunate enough to be among his route—knew that the day’s mail had arrived.

In fact, our front door was typically unlocked during the waking hours, and Louie would enter the hallway leading to the upstairs apartment and place the mail on the bottom step. In his wake there was always that distinctive cigar bouquet. Occasionally, he would ask to use the toilet. Our family dog, Ginger, did not care much for company of any kind, especially mailmen, but Louie’s fearlessness won the day. As he delivered the mail, he could regularly be heard exclaiming, “Shut up!” to the loudly barking Ginger. Eventually, Ginger accepted Louie’s familiar cigar wafts and cries of “Shut up!” as par for the course. Louie the mailman was not an unwelcome intruder after all and received a tepid wag of the tail from her as he made his presence known.

Recently, I thought about Louie and our past open-door policy. The late 1970s were a high crime time in New York City, my Bronx neighborhood included. Yet, vestiges of the mentality from a more neighborly past endured. As a little kid, I do not ever remember using a key, because the door was always open. Neither Louie nor I needed one.

Back in the Louie the Mailman era, nobody could ever have envisioned the post office would one day be on the rocks. It seemed that post offices and mail carriers were eternal, and that generation after generation would covet taking the post office test for a job with security and good benefits. It is where my father plied his trade for a quarter of a century. But this tax season revealed once more why Louie and his vaunted employer face uncertain times. While I still mail tax returns to the IRS, I did not get the tax package in the mail, which once upon a time was the norm for everybody. Courtesy of technology, there is so much lost postal business in too many places to count. I fear the scent of a cigar-chomping postman may one day be only a smell memory. Fortunately, Louie retired to Florida in the early 1980s when the going was still good. I am sure he is delivering mail now—with his old aplomb and cigar in hand—somewhere beyond the Pearly Gates.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Lots for Less

(Originally published 12/29/17)

On January 1, 1971, New York City—as measured in Central Park—received over six inches of snow. Thanks to the wealth of information on the Internet, I was able to confirm my memory of that very snowfall. There was enough of the white stuff for my best friend and I to build a snowman in what we in the neighborhood affectionately called “the lot.” We got out the sled, too, and descended a hill into what was a filled-in portion of the once visible and meandering Tibbetts Brook. That swampy snapshot was before my time, but at least I got to experience the lot.

In the early 1970s, there were still a smattering of empty lots in the Bronx and the other boroughs of New York City. However, their days were numbered. Most of the remaining lots would be built upon—and sooner rather than later. In the name of progress, the lot and an adjoining victory garden were plowed under and fenced in several months after our snowman-building adventure. That snowman was therefore history in the making. For never again would a Frosty rise on that hallowed ground, which in time would be a parking garage for a six-story building.

The snowman-building story would not be complete without mentioning the neighborhood tough who materialized and assisted us with our task. My friend and I were on tenterhooks in the company of this uninvited visitor. With good reason, we feared he might cause trouble and—very possibly—knock down our snowman. But life is full of surprises. Without an entourage to encourage destruction and mayhem, the punk from the next block pitched in and the fledgling moments of New Year 1971 were peachy-keen.

Forty-seven years have since passed. My then best friend is not my friend anymore. No acrimonious breakup to report. Childhood friends are just not always keepers. The passage of time sees to that. Recently, I have seen the bully boy as an adult, and we said hello to one another. I really should have thanked him for not knocking down the snowman. I do not see him on Facebook but see plenty of his peers from the past. In their adult incarnations, a fair share of them relish recounting blasts from the past, like knocking down someone else’s snowman.

A year ago—on New Year’s Day 2017—I visited Manhattan in the early morning and waded through the remains of the previous night’s New Year’s Eve celebration. There were concrete barriers everywhere and the area mailboxes were all padlocked. It is not only going to be frigid when the ball drops at Times Square a couple of nights from now, but security will be even tighter than last year. I read where two million people are going to be in attendance. Being there on the last night of the year has never been on my to-do list. It is not on my bucket list, either.

On January 1, 2017, I spied a sign in a shuttered Manhattan eatery window. It read: “We are closed for Happy New Year.” The Wishful Thinking Department, I daresay. In the waning days and hours of 2017, I cannot help but note the movie in the theaters about Winston Churchill called Darkest Hour. Mike Huckabee recently compared Donald Trump to Churchill. And Senator Orrin Hatch thinks the Trump presidency may be the “greatest ever.” Churchill, Washington, and Lincoln—to name just a few—are no doubt rolling over in their graves. When I was eight years old and building that snowman at the start of a new year, it was a simpler time—for me at least. It was not so simple for those fighting in Vietnam or those receiving draft notices in the mail. Darkest hours are in the eyes of the beholder, I guess. So, what will 2018 bring? A Happy New Year? I cannot say. I can say there will not be any snowman building in the lot.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Endings and Beginnings

(Originally published 12/31/18)

Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping into the future. As I type these words, the year 2019 is several hours away. And it is 2019 in some places already! Time. Today, for some reason, I thought of this psychotic local businessman, whom I regularly patronized, saying to me on the eve of the new millennium: “Remember when we were kids and would calculate how old we would be in the year 2000?” Indeed, 2000 then seemed more the stuff of science fiction than an eventual reality. As I traversed the ever-changing metropolis that I call home yesterday, the passage of time was—not surprisingly—foremost on my mind...

All roads may lead home...but tracks?

Mr. Lundberg is going to be in for a big surprise the next time he rides the subway. I hope he is wearing a mask when he does. And he just might want to designate a new favorite daughter in the New Year.

A dearly departed older friend of mine used to mimic a youthful crony of his who salivated at the prospect of a night out. "Tonight, we drink!" he would exclaim with anticipatory glee. Stay inside tonight.

It is not your grandfather's pizza parlor anymore...

As a youth in the oh-so-colorful 1970s, I helped a neighbor brainstorm a name for a potential restaurant business that sold salads and only salads—a trailblazing idea at the time. The consensus choice was “Salad King,” with the runner-up “Land of a Thousand Salads.” I would really like to know what the runner-up was here…

When in Rome...or in this instance hipster New York City...

The vanishing old of old New York...

How long can this building survive? I wonder...

t is destined to be shuttered up—just like its neighbor to the south, I fear—and then demolished.

And there used to be a deli where the sandwiches were large and tasty...Now the children try to find it…and they can't believe their eyes…Yes, there used to be a deli—the A & A—right here.

Gentrification...

Even dog breeds are getting hipper...

Looking at least to break this glass ceiling in 2019...

"H" marks the spot...

Take the road less traveled, I say...

Baby, it's cold outside...

When you come to a fork in the road, take it...

Be it ever so crumble, there is no place like home...in 2018 and 2019.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)