What's the Buzz?

(Originally published 8/24/19)

As I was wandering around this morning, I heard the harmonious buzz of cicadas. Cicadas by day and crickets by night can only mean one thing: another summer's swan song. While the sounds of crickets have thus far been faint, I nevertheless associate the somber chirping of these melodious insects with the incoming dread of that first day of school.

Happily, for me, my schooldays are distant memories. So, I thought I’d tie up some loose summer ends in the here and now. Recently, my nephew e-mailed me a link to an article, which quoted former baseball players Rich “Goose” Gossage and Lou Piniella. They each spoke of the contemporary game of baseball in very unflattering terms. To them and many others—including yours truly—professional baseball has become unwatchable. And there are a host of reasons why. It’s just not the same game that we once knew and loved—not by a long shot.

After completing four books this summer—timely published to coincide with the fiftieth anniversary of the 1969 “Miracle Mets” season—I feel grateful that I experienced baseball as a fan when it was the American pastime, a game steeped in tradition and rich in history. I was a fan before analytics, home run-derby strategy (for lack of a better description), replay umpiring, and five-inning starting pitchers.

My nephew, who came around to baseball and the Mets decades after my sworn allegiance, admitted that even he is finding today's games almost unwatchable. But as the 2019 Mets have suddenly come alive—and are in contention—he’s swallowing hard and praying for another miracle. I’ve seen clips of today's Mets’ game-ending antics—players ripping off their uniform shirts—and can’t help but wonder: “What would Gil Hodges say about all that?” Once upon a time, third baseman Ron Santo of the 1969 Chicago Cubs, managed by none other than Leo Durocher, performed a bit of theater after every Cubs’ win. As he exited the field, he leaped high in the air and clicked both his heels. It was considered poor sportsmanship by most everybody in opposition back then—certainly by Gil Hodges and the Mets—and it eventually ceased as the Cubs imploded.

If nothing else, this summer also resurrected my interest in 1970s New York City politics. What an interesting time to be alive and a kid. With the Tappan Zee Bridge renaming in the news—as the Mario M. Cuomo Bridge—I purchased a couple of old books from that bygone era. When Mario Cuomo was mayoral timber. One book chronicled the fiscal crisis when my fair city very nearly declared bankruptcy. Yes, New York City was down for the count back then, but I didn't notice. After all, I was a boy and living through what turned out to be the last of the old urban childhoods, where all kinds of street games were played in the great outdoors and young and old alike hung out on stoops without phones. The stoop supplied a box seat to countless cricket serenades. Their plaintive denouements to summer were repeat performances that were never quite welcome. But they were just doing their jobs.

A Summertime Sense of Humor

(Originally published on 7/21/17)

It’s officially a heat wave here in New York City—several days in a row of ninety-plus degree temperatures—and I’m not a fan. Yes, I romanticize the summertime of my youth every now and then—outdoors much of the time and playing the games that little people played for generations, which, by the way, they don’t play anymore. Admittedly, the one-two punch of summer’s heat and humidity was never something coveted and rarely, if ever, appreciated. My father always said that the discomforting clamminess and sordid air quality was a figment of our imaginations. He was a Buddhist at heart, I guess. Mind over matter.

Growing up in a seven-person household on the top floor of a three-family home with no air conditioning in July and August was—in retrospect—brutal. In the 1960s and 1970s, we also experienced recurring electrical brownouts. During the high-consumption months of summer, utility Con Edison’s answers to averting widespread blackouts were periodic brownouts. On the warmest of warm nights, the lights would flicker, which was no big deal. But brownouts were especially unforgiving when it came to ice cubes. Heat, humidity, and half-frozen ice cubes with a foul taste were an all-too-familiar summertime three-fer.

Nevertheless, those were the days my friend, I thought they’d never end. Regardless of the temperature or relative humidity of a summer’s day, stoop sitting was a hallowed evening ritual as well as—for a spell—a Good Humor truck passing by. These daily occurrences provided fleeting respites from the heat, particularly if something icy was purchased like a watery, cola-flavored Italian ice, lemon-grape rocket pop, or Bon-Joy swirl.

First there was Larry the Good Humor Man, who drove the classic little truck that required him to step outside and pluck the ice cream from its side-of-the-cab freezer. And then there was Rod the Good Humor Man, who conducted business in a stand-inside vehicle. Rod lived in the neighborhood. He would see us playing during the Good Humor off-season—parts of fall, spring, and the entire winter. Focusing on grocery sales alone, Good Humor sold off its fleet of trucks in 1976. And that was the end of that! The present owners of the brand recently resurrected the ice cream truck, I see, and—along with it—the ice cream man and woman. I suspect now they are stationed at parks and events, where ice cream peddlers are still spotted. But chumming for business on neighborhood side streets? I doubt it. If a Good Humor Man materialized around these parts, he would find few kids playing outside in the warmest of weather. And as for off-duty sightings, like Rod's, during the winter recess—fuggeaboutit!

Epilogue: Larry the Good Humor Man was last seen driving a New York City yellow cab. Oh, but that was more than forty years ago. And Rod the Good Humor Man suffered a heart attack in the mid-1970s and lived to tell. Rod told us at some point. Oh, but that, too, was more than four decades ago. Larry, as I recall, was on the younger side as a Good Humor Man, so he might still be among the living, but he would be pushing eighty. If he’s still extant, I pray he’s in good humor. Rod, I fear, is more likely among the angels. With any luck, he’s ringing the celestial equivalent of his Good Humor truck bells, an inviting sound for countless living and dead souls who bought ice cream on steamy New York City nights a long, long time ago.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

A Present for You

(Originally published 5/17/15)

Trust me, I am living in the present. Even though I post a lot of pictures from the past and sometimes wax nostalgic for the “simpler times” of my youth—when a New York Mets’ game and the warm and reassuring voices of Lindsey Nelson, Bob Murphy, and Ralph Kiner were otherworldly—I am fully present in the present. Okay, so I think the present isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. In fact, it stinks in too many ways to count. Suffice it to say, people walking around the streets with their heads buried in their iPhones and obliviously yakking on their cells is disconcerting, rude, and—really—dangerous. But this familiar contemporary grievance has become a cliché. Yada…yada…yada.

So, I thought I’d look on the bright side of the here and now for a change and underscore some of the things I think are better today than in those simpler times of my youth. For starters, recycling is a major step forward. Once upon a time, everything from ketchup to prescription cough medicine to peanut butter came in glass bottles, which were just heaved into the regular trash when empty. How many Hawaiian Punch and Hi-C heavy aluminum cans did we toss into the garbage that weren’t recycled? Plenty. Of course, what and how much actually gets recycled is a question for another day.

While I don’t like the trend of human beings being replaced by technology, I am nonetheless happy there are ATM machines. They are convenient and I use them for virtually every banking transaction. Withdrawals the old-fashioned way—with a flesh-and-blood bank teller at the other end—always make me feel guilty, as if I’m doing something wrong. I’ve never seen you before. What exactly are you trying to pull with this withdrawal?

I’m pleased, too, that my high school alma mater—Cardinal Spellman in the Bronx—has cast asunder “lunchtime sponge duty,” where the unlucky and the unwashed were compelled to clean dirty lunch tables with filthy, bacteria-laden sponges and pick refuse off the floor as well. No rubber gloves were issued, and no extra time was allotted to get to our next classes. We didn't even have time to wash our hands. If we were late for a class, an unsympathetic teacher could set the “detention” wheels in motion—and a few of them did—even if we had the very legitimate “sponge-duty” excuse. There are no students who are “sponge-worthy” in the present and this is a step forward.

As far as diagnosing and treating diseases, our healthcare is considerably better than its equivalent back in the day. I’m old enough to remember a neighborhood family doctor making house calls. And when my paternal grandfather was diagnosed with leukemia, nuns in the Catholic hospital where he lay dying remained at his side 24/7. Still, the disease he succumbed to came attached to a prompt death sentence. While the Marcus Welby, M.D.-doctoring and nursing approaches are sorely missed, one still must appreciate the advances in modern medicine. If living and longevity count for something, the present rules.

If the Hudson River is representative of waterways everywhere, I suppose Iron Eyes Cody would have less to tear up about nowadays. My father swam in the river in the 1940s and recalled pushing an unremitting stream of excrement away. As a boy, I recollect the river smelling more of garbage than salty sea. Currently, the Hudson’s odor in lower Manhattan is of a pleasing brine and not raw sewerage. That said, Iron Eyes, I’m certain, would still need a Kleenex or two.

Then there’s the Internet. I couldn’t have authored the books that I have without it—and certainly not in the brief time afforded me. I wouldn’t be writing this blog, either. At some point in the 1970s, I penned a lengthy missive to TV Guide asking the folks there an extensive roster of questions. Most of them were of the “Whatever Became Of?” variety. For some reason, I was fixated on death and who in the celebrity world had passed away. I remember asking, “Whatever became of character actor Larry Keating, who played neighbor Roger Addison on Mister Ed and, before that, Harry Morton on The George Burns and Gracie Allen Show?” and “why was he replaced on the former by Leon Ames?” I was a curious kid. Now, all I’d have to do is Google “Larry Keating” to acquire the answers to such burning questions. Someone at TV Guide—it should be noted—personally answered my letter and supplied me with potential resources—books of all things—that could help me find answers to my many questions. Larry Keating, by the way, was diagnosed with leukemia and—like my grandfather—died from it in short order.

YouTube and Netflix have been gifts in the present. I don’t think I’d ever have watched shows like Rawhide, Wagon Train, and Stagecoach West without them, not to mention countless other television classics and historic moments, which might otherwise be buried in the archives at the Museum of Television & Radio. While on the subject, I recently watched several episodes of Adam-12, a Dragnet-esque show from the past created by Jack Webb, on Netflix. It didn’t hold up! I found it interesting that they played for laughs a domestic abuse call, like it was a complete waste of the police’s time. With smirks on their faces and exasperated meaningful glances, Officers Malloy and Reed asked only that a wife-beater—fittingly festooned in a wife-beater—be a little bit nicer. One more plus for the present. Drunks, too—even behind the wheels of cars—weren’t taken all that seriously on television and on the streets. Now they are.

Finally, I must say the present has at long last put a lid on smokers—as best that it could—who have literally taken our breaths away and stunk up our clothes, hair, and skin for far, far too long. Courtesy of riding in a packed-like-sardines bus, I began every single day of high school reeking of cigarette smoke. It cannot be denied: The present has its place.