If you ever threw a ball onto a roof, or hit one up in stickball, that was the end of that ball, and time for a new one.
Even though you knew where it was, and it was a good, live ball, and rubber balls were a major expense, it didn't matter. Retrieval was ill-advised, as roofs were forbidden terrain.
Of course, in private houses they were inaccessible. You might get a homeowner to throw a ball back from a yard. If they liked you. Which was unlikely. No adult liked any kids playing ball by their house. You sure didn't even want to tell an adult you got a ball on their roof. That means it could have been their window.
Apartment house roofs could be reached, but this was as close to felonious behavior as a kid could get.
We all understood the rationale. No one could see you up there. A kid on a roof meant trouble.
Every once in a while, a crazy kid would start a fire on a roof. Young lovers would get caught up there. Kids threw bottles (non-deposit) and rocks down onto look-out-below.
Cops hated people on roofs more than anything. My father had a brother and friends on the job. I knew from trade talk that when cops arrived on a scene of trouble, one would emerge from the squad car eyeballing the street, and the other the roofs. The roofs were considered the bigger threat. A psycho up there is harder to see, chase, or shoot.
Once in a while, though, you had to take a chance. Say you hit it up there, and it wasn't your ball. If the owner of the ball had the presence of mind to holler "Chips on that ball" on its way, you are financially responsible. If you don't have the coin to replace it, you are either entering a debate (You found that ball; It was half-dead anyway), or going on a vertical journey.
The bad part, besides what is already described, is that one of the kids in the game might decide to have fun as you are sneaking up, and start shouting "Hey, super!," hoping to alert the caretaker of the building. "Kid going up that roof!"
This usually didn't happen, as it would bust up the game, but it might, if everyone was tired of playing anyway.
The good part - if no one rats you, and you have a safe trip - was that there were usually a number of good balls up there to come back down with.
If you are lucky, and the super isn't standing by the front door waiting for you, you hit the street with a trove of treasure.
If he is, and quick begging for mercy doesn't help ("They made me!"), you need those balls to pitch at him to unblock your pathway out. Ping-ping-ping, balls ricocheting off the big guy, then a couple of quick feints from you, then out the door, and run like hell.
You might yell to your friends, "The super!," though this is really unnecessary, to any observant parties. You all run, and by a block away laugh, though you will make like John Dillinger for a few days. This week's games will be somewhere else.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
The Home Team
What set Earth apart as a living planet was air, light, water, and baseball.
In spring, baseball came like buds on the trees. It stopped in fall like colorful leaves.
In the meantime, it was all around, every day.
It was on TV, the radio, in newspapers, gigantically. Everybody talked about it. Kids played it.
Baseball equipment was one of the first things you saved for in life. I had hand-me-down stuff, but I looked forward to buying my own glove someday. That would be great, like buying a suit or a car.
Good gloves were modeled after major league players' and had the player's signature etched in them. You wanted a good guy, not some stiff. That was as important as the fit.
You could pick a player from any team. That was considered sophisticated and genteel. It didn't have to be a player from your own favorite team.
In my case, it couldn't be from my own team, because my team was the Mets, and they didn't have any guys good enough to name a glove after.
The Mets were lousy, but beloved. Neither word is too strong.
The Mets were sort of a replacement team for the Dodgers, who left Brooklyn for Los Angeles in 1957.
The New York Giants left for San Francisco at the same time. Both teams were in the National League. New York went from being the only city with two National League teams, to having none.
New York still had the Yankees, which counted, kind of. But the Yankees were from the slow league, the American League. They won a lot of games and championships and were famous, but dull.
New York needed a National League team and got one, the Mets, beginning the 1962 season.
The Mets were made up of players the other teams were willing to give up in a draft, a funny word for getting rid of garbage. Of course, we did not think of the Mets in these terms. We thought about potential.
It didn't matter that they lost more games their first season than any team ever had: a lot more. We were happy to have them. The newspapers called them the Amazin' Mets. That was purposely ambiguous, jokingly so, because they did not mean amazingly good.
Their legacy team, the Dodgers, were also not very good, for a long part of their history. Their nickname was the Bums.
The Bums thrived on daffiness and fatalism, both major traits in Brooklyn at all times.
One game, the Dodgers had two guys sliding into a base where a third guy was already standing. This is not supposed to happen.
It took the Dodgers decades to get good, and that really only happened because they were the first team to hire black players - reason enough to like them.
The Mets, sadly, did not have players like Jackie Robinson, black or white. They had players like Choo-Choo Coleman, black and white.
It didn't matter. We rooted hard for Choo-Choo, and all the Amazin's.
A nice part of having two teams in town - two very different teams - was being able to dislike the other one close up.
The Yankees were good, in fact the best, but thought who they were, so forget them.
For some reason, the Jewish kids I knew liked the Yankees. I couldn't reckon out why. At least it made things more varied when we'd choose up a game, and pretend to be our favorite players.
It was hard to have a favorite Met player based on merit. I liked Warren Spahn, a pitcher who was once great, but by then old, in his forties. I liked him for his history, and his exotically plain name, but also because he looked exactly like Satch from the Bowery Boys. But this didn't make you want to be him.
In 1965, the Mets brought up a guy named Ron Swoboda. He was young and athletic, though raw. He used to get hit in the head by fly balls from time to time. He was known as Rocky, I think for those catching abilities, and maybe that noggin.
He was cool. "Swoboda" was a good baseball name. He was from Baltimore, and had a Chinese grandfather.
His first year, he hit 19 home runs, great for any Met, but phenomenal for a rookie.
I wrote him a letter predicting his place someday in the Hall of Fame. That reflected my enthusiasm rather than measured judgment, but he seemed to appreciate it. I got back an autographed photo. I'm sure I still have it.
In spring, baseball came like buds on the trees. It stopped in fall like colorful leaves.
In the meantime, it was all around, every day.
It was on TV, the radio, in newspapers, gigantically. Everybody talked about it. Kids played it.
Baseball equipment was one of the first things you saved for in life. I had hand-me-down stuff, but I looked forward to buying my own glove someday. That would be great, like buying a suit or a car.
Good gloves were modeled after major league players' and had the player's signature etched in them. You wanted a good guy, not some stiff. That was as important as the fit.
You could pick a player from any team. That was considered sophisticated and genteel. It didn't have to be a player from your own favorite team.
In my case, it couldn't be from my own team, because my team was the Mets, and they didn't have any guys good enough to name a glove after.
The Mets were lousy, but beloved. Neither word is too strong.
The Mets were sort of a replacement team for the Dodgers, who left Brooklyn for Los Angeles in 1957.
The New York Giants left for San Francisco at the same time. Both teams were in the National League. New York went from being the only city with two National League teams, to having none.
New York still had the Yankees, which counted, kind of. But the Yankees were from the slow league, the American League. They won a lot of games and championships and were famous, but dull.
New York needed a National League team and got one, the Mets, beginning the 1962 season.
The Mets were made up of players the other teams were willing to give up in a draft, a funny word for getting rid of garbage. Of course, we did not think of the Mets in these terms. We thought about potential.
It didn't matter that they lost more games their first season than any team ever had: a lot more. We were happy to have them. The newspapers called them the Amazin' Mets. That was purposely ambiguous, jokingly so, because they did not mean amazingly good.
Their legacy team, the Dodgers, were also not very good, for a long part of their history. Their nickname was the Bums.
The Bums thrived on daffiness and fatalism, both major traits in Brooklyn at all times.
One game, the Dodgers had two guys sliding into a base where a third guy was already standing. This is not supposed to happen.
It took the Dodgers decades to get good, and that really only happened because they were the first team to hire black players - reason enough to like them.
The Mets, sadly, did not have players like Jackie Robinson, black or white. They had players like Choo-Choo Coleman, black and white.
It didn't matter. We rooted hard for Choo-Choo, and all the Amazin's.
A nice part of having two teams in town - two very different teams - was being able to dislike the other one close up.
The Yankees were good, in fact the best, but thought who they were, so forget them.
For some reason, the Jewish kids I knew liked the Yankees. I couldn't reckon out why. At least it made things more varied when we'd choose up a game, and pretend to be our favorite players.
It was hard to have a favorite Met player based on merit. I liked Warren Spahn, a pitcher who was once great, but by then old, in his forties. I liked him for his history, and his exotically plain name, but also because he looked exactly like Satch from the Bowery Boys. But this didn't make you want to be him.
In 1965, the Mets brought up a guy named Ron Swoboda. He was young and athletic, though raw. He used to get hit in the head by fly balls from time to time. He was known as Rocky, I think for those catching abilities, and maybe that noggin.
He was cool. "Swoboda" was a good baseball name. He was from Baltimore, and had a Chinese grandfather.
His first year, he hit 19 home runs, great for any Met, but phenomenal for a rookie.
I wrote him a letter predicting his place someday in the Hall of Fame. That reflected my enthusiasm rather than measured judgment, but he seemed to appreciate it. I got back an autographed photo. I'm sure I still have it.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Talking To Strangers
Like many things I heard, I held in low regard two of the most common bromides taught to kids to keep us safe in public.
"Don't talk to strangers" was one. The other, related, was "Don't take candy from strangers."
What nonsense. Who is a stranger, after all? Everyone you don't know? Everyone you know was once someone you didn't.
Out on the street, you might eyeball 200 people a day. They all live around here. So they're probably alright.
Are they strangers because I don't know their names?
Well, guess what, I don't want to know their names.
But if they talk to me, I am going to talk back. What am I, an imbecile? Are they going to outwit me into doing something I don't want to do? There was not a single outwitting candidate around, that I had ever seen.
The warning about candy I considered more heavily, but only because I misunderstood it.
I didn't realize it was a follow-up to the first warning, that someone might use candy - like talk - as a lure to abduct you.
I thought it was a warning against being poisoned.
I knew there were a lot of adults who didn't like kids. "Hey, you kids! Go play where you live!," was perhaps the single most common comment from adults to children you could hear. Who knows how many times you heard that, screamed from an apartment window above your game.
So, I didn't know. Maybe the next step for a window-screamer like that would be to come outside with a bowl of candy they secretly stuck with poison, give, go back upstairs, and watch you drop dead on the street.
This I considered possible, so I did keep it in mind to at least check out any candy given by strangers: scrutinize it, don't just pop it down.
It was not a frequent issue. I can remember only once in my life being offered candy on the street.
It was from an old guy named Ice Cream Cone Joe. I knew him, so I wasn't too worried. He had no reason to kill me.
It was a piece of chocolate. It was wrapped in gold foil. I took it and said thanks.
When he looked away, I looked it over. No pin-pricks from a syringe? No problem. Now eat it before it melts.
"Don't talk to strangers" was one. The other, related, was "Don't take candy from strangers."
What nonsense. Who is a stranger, after all? Everyone you don't know? Everyone you know was once someone you didn't.
Out on the street, you might eyeball 200 people a day. They all live around here. So they're probably alright.
Are they strangers because I don't know their names?
Well, guess what, I don't want to know their names.
But if they talk to me, I am going to talk back. What am I, an imbecile? Are they going to outwit me into doing something I don't want to do? There was not a single outwitting candidate around, that I had ever seen.
The warning about candy I considered more heavily, but only because I misunderstood it.
I didn't realize it was a follow-up to the first warning, that someone might use candy - like talk - as a lure to abduct you.
I thought it was a warning against being poisoned.
I knew there were a lot of adults who didn't like kids. "Hey, you kids! Go play where you live!," was perhaps the single most common comment from adults to children you could hear. Who knows how many times you heard that, screamed from an apartment window above your game.
So, I didn't know. Maybe the next step for a window-screamer like that would be to come outside with a bowl of candy they secretly stuck with poison, give, go back upstairs, and watch you drop dead on the street.
This I considered possible, so I did keep it in mind to at least check out any candy given by strangers: scrutinize it, don't just pop it down.
It was not a frequent issue. I can remember only once in my life being offered candy on the street.
It was from an old guy named Ice Cream Cone Joe. I knew him, so I wasn't too worried. He had no reason to kill me.
It was a piece of chocolate. It was wrapped in gold foil. I took it and said thanks.
When he looked away, I looked it over. No pin-pricks from a syringe? No problem. Now eat it before it melts.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
We Welcome Fab Four
Our dad ran the print shop at Pan Am - a pretty big job. They generated a lot of paper at the biggest airline in the world.
Along with all the other copying, they created a memo packet each morning that amounted to a daily newspaper. Trucks ran it out to LaGuardia and Idlewild every weekday. The Pan Am building itself was a town, going up instead of out.
So, father - who had started working for the company at age 16 - knew (and cared) a lot about the place.
One winter day, he came home with a record album in a Pan Am bag. "Ever heard of these guys?," he asked.
It was four guys called The Beatles. They looked strange.
Never, we said.
"You will soon," our father said.
They were from England, which we associated with wars, not music. But apparently they were popular there, and coming to America. They would be flying on Pan Am.
They would be on the Ed Sullivan Show, our father said, and if they became as popular in America as in England, it would be good publicity for Pan Am, having carried them.
That seemed strange to us, that Pan Am would care about publicity from flying four guys in weird suits and haircuts, but our father said so.
"Listen to it and see what you think," he said.
They didn't look like musicians. Musicians had straight teeth and hair piled up high. Like the Everly Brothers. That's who we liked.
Apparently, though, the Beatles liked them, too. That's what we found out when we listened.
They sang like the Everly Brothers. Those kind of harmonies. Except louder.
It was all loud, but we liked it. Every song on the record was good.
Soon, you started hearing the Beatles on the radio. The two songs they played the most were the ones we liked the least. But they were as good as anything else on the radio, or better.
Before you ever heard them on the radio, you would see bumper stickers on walls, saying "The Beatles Are Coming." Who?, kids asked. We knew, but failed to generate much interest when we explained they were a music group from England who were flying on Pan Am.
When they arrived in New York, two days before the Ed Sullivan show, they were met and interviewed at Idlewild by a mob of reporters and photographers. The Pan Am logo was behind them, on the wall above their heads. Job well done, somebody.
Along with all the other copying, they created a memo packet each morning that amounted to a daily newspaper. Trucks ran it out to LaGuardia and Idlewild every weekday. The Pan Am building itself was a town, going up instead of out.
So, father - who had started working for the company at age 16 - knew (and cared) a lot about the place.
One winter day, he came home with a record album in a Pan Am bag. "Ever heard of these guys?," he asked.
It was four guys called The Beatles. They looked strange.
Never, we said.
"You will soon," our father said.
They were from England, which we associated with wars, not music. But apparently they were popular there, and coming to America. They would be flying on Pan Am.
They would be on the Ed Sullivan Show, our father said, and if they became as popular in America as in England, it would be good publicity for Pan Am, having carried them.
That seemed strange to us, that Pan Am would care about publicity from flying four guys in weird suits and haircuts, but our father said so.
"Listen to it and see what you think," he said.
They didn't look like musicians. Musicians had straight teeth and hair piled up high. Like the Everly Brothers. That's who we liked.
Apparently, though, the Beatles liked them, too. That's what we found out when we listened.
They sang like the Everly Brothers. Those kind of harmonies. Except louder.
It was all loud, but we liked it. Every song on the record was good.
Soon, you started hearing the Beatles on the radio. The two songs they played the most were the ones we liked the least. But they were as good as anything else on the radio, or better.
Before you ever heard them on the radio, you would see bumper stickers on walls, saying "The Beatles Are Coming." Who?, kids asked. We knew, but failed to generate much interest when we explained they were a music group from England who were flying on Pan Am.
When they arrived in New York, two days before the Ed Sullivan show, they were met and interviewed at Idlewild by a mob of reporters and photographers. The Pan Am logo was behind them, on the wall above their heads. Job well done, somebody.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Radio
We probably already felt it, but from radio stations we knew that teenagers were a big thing.
Teenagers were almost adults (independent; tall), but not serious. They had money, from allowances or jobs, but didn't have to spend it on food or housing, or give it to school or church; therefore they could have fun with it. This is where the radio came in.
There were radio stations for adults, of course, and for news, and sports, but the loudest and liveliest were for teenagers. WINS, WABC, and WMCA were the big ones.
Teen radio was full of commercials: for cola, clothes, Clearasil, concerts, batteries, cameras, the Navy, the Daily News, Palisades Amusement Park, Thunderbird, and much more. One learned from Thunderbird's ad that it was The Word, and that the price was thirty twice. Lots of ads had good jingles, which could blur the line between ads and songs.
That reinforced the point that everything was for sale. Of course, the songs themselves were for sale, at record stores. The Hot List changed every week, so it kept listeners spending money to keep current and cool.
Everything was a brand. Every station had a swingin' name for its announcements for time and temperature. The DJs had nicknames or names that sounded like nicknames. They even had team names. WMCA was the Good Guys. WABC was the All-Americans.
And you were branded, too. You were a Cousin of Cousin Bruce Morrow. You were Kimosabe to Danny Dan Daniels, the Tall Talented Texan.
As a kid, I didn't care too much about the reasons why. I didn't have money to buy anything. I didn't covet anything. I just enjoyed the tumult of it all. It was a sonic Mad Magazine, something entertaining that your parents didn't like, which of course lent appeal. And even though it seemed to be a lot about spending money and getting things, itself it was free, and fun, all day.
Teenagers were almost adults (independent; tall), but not serious. They had money, from allowances or jobs, but didn't have to spend it on food or housing, or give it to school or church; therefore they could have fun with it. This is where the radio came in.
There were radio stations for adults, of course, and for news, and sports, but the loudest and liveliest were for teenagers. WINS, WABC, and WMCA were the big ones.
Teen radio was full of commercials: for cola, clothes, Clearasil, concerts, batteries, cameras, the Navy, the Daily News, Palisades Amusement Park, Thunderbird, and much more. One learned from Thunderbird's ad that it was The Word, and that the price was thirty twice. Lots of ads had good jingles, which could blur the line between ads and songs.
That reinforced the point that everything was for sale. Of course, the songs themselves were for sale, at record stores. The Hot List changed every week, so it kept listeners spending money to keep current and cool.
Everything was a brand. Every station had a swingin' name for its announcements for time and temperature. The DJs had nicknames or names that sounded like nicknames. They even had team names. WMCA was the Good Guys. WABC was the All-Americans.
And you were branded, too. You were a Cousin of Cousin Bruce Morrow. You were Kimosabe to Danny Dan Daniels, the Tall Talented Texan.
As a kid, I didn't care too much about the reasons why. I didn't have money to buy anything. I didn't covet anything. I just enjoyed the tumult of it all. It was a sonic Mad Magazine, something entertaining that your parents didn't like, which of course lent appeal. And even though it seemed to be a lot about spending money and getting things, itself it was free, and fun, all day.
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