One Bandage Over Another

(Originally published on 1/30/16)

As kids growing up in the Bronx’s Kingsbridge in the early 1970s, we played a game—among countless others—called “Red Light…Green Light.” This youthful diversion required no ball or any accoutrement. To begin the game, some lucky soul was officially “it.” The odd finger is it. It was often the booby prize in urban street games but not in “Red Light…Green Light.”

It is what the game’s participants aspired to be, because the Anointed One got to periodically bellow, “Red Light…Green Light…1, 2, 3...1, 2, 3” with his or her eyes covered and back turned to everyone else. Immediately after this rapid-fire recitation, however, it promptly pirouetted to hopefully catch advancing players in the act—those still in motion while endeavoring to reach the coveted finish line. The rules permitted movement only during the “Red Light…Green Light…1, 2, 3...1, 2, 3” clarion call. If detected moving forward by it—the judge and jury—players would be sent back to the starting position and forfeit all their prior gains. The it mantel was passed on to the first player to cross the finish line.

But this game is not the only one I played forty-plus years ago with a red-and-green-light theme. There was another—an on-the-spot creation and one night only affair. As darkness set in on a chilly, pre-Christmas December evening just before suppertime, I was nine years old and outside with my six-year-old brother. We did that sort of thing in the 1970s—remained outdoors as much as physically possible, unsupervised, even in cold weather and absent the light of day.

True, the 1970s were a high crime time here in the Bronx and everywhere else in New York City. There were plenty of muggings, break-ins, and the like. Still, I don’t think my mother and father were remotely culpable of parental negligence. Anyway, this “Red Light…Green Light” derivative involved a literal, working traffic light on Kingsbridge Avenue, a street a couple of blocks away and up a steep hill from where I called home.

In essence, it was a frenetic running game—a beat the clock sort of thing—that found my brother and I up and down alleyways, over a short backyard wall, and through a narrow space that bordered a low wrought iron fence with spikes atop it. Slithering through there—X marks the spot—is where one could catch a glimpse of that traffic light. Red meant stop and green meant go—simple enough. Energized bunny youths running at full tilt and stopping on a dime—for a red light in this instance—what could possibly go wrong?

Yes, I got a spiked that night—beneath my chin—and the blood freely flowed. Without delay, Mom took me to our family doctor on Kingsbridge Avenue, a block away from the notorious red light. The old sawbones stitched me up—I have the scar to this day as exhibit A—and informed my mother and his patient that a half inch or so to the left and I would have been impaled. Ouch! The following day, my good friend in grammar school, Mark, mockingly pointed out to our peers that I was sporting “one bandage over another” under my chin. What are friends for? This, in fact, is how I can remember how old I was when the close call occurred. I’ve got a signed report card envelope with Mark’s ‘John Hancock” on it.

Postscript: I've noticed that modern-day fences of the kind that bloodied me on that December eve from the past are sans spiked tops. They're flat now, which is a good thing. I’m glad, though, that I was permitted to go outside and play a game conceived in the moment for the moment. I’m happy, too, that there was a family doctor still in his office to stem the red tide without any fanfare, one bandage over another.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)