(Originally
published 6/7/13)
With the
school year ending, hospitable climes, and daylight to spare, it is June in the
Bronx. It was—once upon a time—a favorite time of year. The month of June supplied
more hours to
play ball—
all kinds of ball. Nowadays, I see very
few kids playing anything on the streets. This sociological observation is why
I was quite surprised to encounter a cardboard tray of rubber hardballs in a
local delicatessen—one run by Arabs. For some reason, rubber hardballs in an
Arab deli called to mind Dr. Zewail, an affable Egyptian professor of mine in Manhattan
College. The man informed his macro-economics students that in his
language—Arabic—there was no “P” as in “Peter” and “B” as in “ball.” And so,
naturally, he always made a “mish, mosh, moosh” out of words with Ps and Bs,
like “rubber hardball.”
A Bronx
deli in the twenty-first century selling rubber hardballs just struck me as
odd. Perhaps I am missing something here and there is a real demand for
them—for some games played in some places unknown to me. They could also be old
inventory from the 1970s and a prior deli owner, which is a possibility.
I do
not know. However, I do know that one, among many things, that we urban
youth did to pass the time in my old neighborhood, Kingsbridge, was play
pitcher and catcher, games of “errors,” or just have a catch in our concrete
backyards and alleyways. Rubber hardballs, which I presume were manufactured for
playing on rough, synthetic surfaces, were the ideal ball. Gradually, though,
even they would wear out with use. This once versatile and robust orb would
eventually be too far-gone—deemed an "egg"—and retired.
While
growing up in that simpler snapshot in time, my family’s front hallway
performed double duty as an equipment room, where our baseball gloves, bats,
and balls were placed and plucked from as needed. The ball selection included
everything from spaldeens to Wiffle balls; hardballs (cowhide and rubber) to
tennis balls. When purchasing one of his stickball bats, I will always remember
“Herman” of Bill’s Friendly Spot on W231st Street lecturing me. “Do not use
tennis balls with it,” he said, “because the bat will break.” In other words,
he would not take back splinters—a broken bat under any circumstances. Of
course, I ignored Herman’s wise counsel, and the bat broke upon a second
contact with a tennis ball.
(Photos
from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)
