(Originally
published 12/5/12)
When
Kingsbridge’s “Stickball Boys of Summer” assembled this past week for a long
overdue reunion, I unearthed a treasure trove of the mostly crude scorecards
that chronicled our exploits. I came upon one dated June 18, 1978. What was
most intriguing to me about this day and game was not the temperature or the
final score, but rather Commissioner Meatball’s admonition to us to “WATCH THE
OLD LADIES.” Our game’s quasi-imaginary commissioner was referencing a prior
incident.
Occasionally,
when we arrived at John F. Kennedy High School all gung-ho for a stickball
game, we would be unpleasantly surprised to discover that someone else occupied
our field, or that the school was hosting an after-hours or weekend event of
some kind. The latter entailed cars pulling into a parking area—an essential
part of our playing field—and people getting out of them and ambling through Tennis
Ball Fallout Territory. As I recall, playing under these conditions was nerve-racking
but—come hell or high water—we always did. The game meant that much to us.
Anyway, a
few days prior to June 18, the high school hosted a pre-graduation gathering,
which seriously complicated our early evening stickball game. Automobiles en
masse filled the parking lot at an unnerving clip. We kept playing, though, as
folks of all ages paraded in between pitcher and fielder. Chasing after fly
balls in our designated double and triple zones were now hazardous
undertakings. So, when the senior member of our stickball contingent ripped a sizzling
line drive, which had double written all over it, into a senior citizen’s
mid-section, our game unceremoniously ended.
The old
lady cried out, “Woo…woo!” when the airborne tennis ball struck her. We uttered
a “so sorry” or two to the woman and her companion—probably her daughter—as
they contemplated their next move. The victim did not appear worse for wear— a
bit startled perhaps—as the pair at last started walking in the direction of
the school’s entrance. However, they kept stopping, pivoting, and casting us
dirty looks.
Observing
this stop-and-go, our fearless leader, nicknamed “Cheese,” said without missing
a beat, “Follow me.” We made a beeline to the back of the school and away from
his nearby and visible-to-all parked car. “Where are we going?” I asked. You
see, Cheese was a far-thinking Head Cheese. He was making certain that the duo did
not see us getting into his car—with his license plate.
This is
precisely why Commissioner Meatball advised us on that mid-June day to keep our
eyes peeled for old ladies when playing our favorite summer game on Manhattan
asphalt—the northern-most tip, several blocks from our Bronx abodes. The
scorecard from this day in 1978 identifies our foursome by our nicknames:
Cheese, Met, Geek, and Fish. Fast forward a year to 1979 when I determined that
our scoring ways and statistic-keeping merited a little more professionalism
and class. We were thereafter referred to by first name initials and surnames.
Commissioner Meatball, nonetheless, was back and continued to offer us sage and
practical advice on playing the game like fine gentlemen, good neighbors, and
patriotic Americans.
(Photos
from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)
