Every summer, our family took special trips to Riis Park and Jones Beach, premium beaches with big waves and white sand.
But our mainstay was Manhattan Beach. It was close: our summer backyard.
It had things we needed. Grills, handball courts, playgrounds, Good Humor men on trikes.
We'd bring food and the radio and papers and meet our whole extended family there, and stay all day, and into the night.
The waves at Jones and Riis knocked you down, great, and half-drowned you with wildness. The waves at Manhattan Beach broke at your ankles. But swim out far enough and float on your back with the sun in your brain and you were anyplace.
A Sun-Dew orange drink carton would float over you and you'd remember where you were.
The carton had a cartoon sun-guy, big round face, big smile, much simpler than you would even draw yourself, which made it a little frightening.
But Sun-Dew was your friend. Here he was, here you are, at the beach again.
Riis Park was Riis Park, Jones Beach was Jones Beach; Manhattan Beach was the beach.
It was the only beach were Sun-Dew went.
If it was good enough for him, it was good enough for me.
Like Brooklyn 3, altogether. There were better places to go, places to be. But there were no better places to know, nor be from. Take it from me.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Meaning To Leave
Everything changes all the time and there's no sense worrying, I thought. Try to sway things, though, into changing right. You could do that by talking or, better yet, my new intention, writing.
After all, what did politicians do but talk? What were laws but words? What was anything but what you said it was?
God started everything with the Word. He talked all this stuff into being. Why not take a shot yourself?
Don't worry, the things that were really good would never change. The beach, bagels, jokes, the library, Christmas, candy, girls.
The things that were bad, maybe you could help.
I didn't like this war in Vietnam, for instance. They said we had to fight it but they couldn't tell you why. I thought of the older Jewish people in my neighborhood, from Europe, with numbers tattooed on their arms from concentration camps. Someone once in Germany said all that had to happen, too.
I didn't like prejudice. It was kind of a new word for an old thing. Once it was slavery.
I knew about it. There were few black people in my neighborhood and there were none in nicer neighborhoods. There were plenty in neighborhoods east of us, with grimy streets, big projects, no stores, no trees.
I didn't like Brooklyn State Hospital. They had hundreds of mental patients - maybe thousands, counting those you couldn't see, but I'd hear screaming through bars, when I'd walk (illegally) through the grounds.
I knew a lot of the patients from the street, but not any of their names. Did they have names anymore? If no one used them?
I saw a lot get worse, but never better.
So, this was a writer's job. To help things get better. Righting a wrong, or trying to. Or, less grand, just artistically, simply writing a good sentence. Or expressing a thought well. Those were also good goals.
A good sentence was like from super-powers. It existed and you couldn't kill it. Walls couldn't hold it. It could fly: fly anywhere. It could be anywhere and everywhere at the same time.
Words could place me where I was. They could also get me out.
I knew my days were numbered in Brooklyn 3: my daytimes, at the very least. I'd have to go somewhere else for high school. Tilden was our high school and had a good baseball field but beyond that you wanted to know about knives to thrive there, and I was not interested in knife fights on a daily basis.
I'd be gone within 5 years, tops. I could and would leave, but I had things to do first. Didn't I have to prove myself to the place, how good I was? And prove it to anywhere else I would go?
The #46 bus ran through the heart of Brooklyn 3. It had the heaviest ridership of any bus line in the city of New York. There was a reason for that. Brooklyn 3 was a place meant to leave.
After all, what did politicians do but talk? What were laws but words? What was anything but what you said it was?
God started everything with the Word. He talked all this stuff into being. Why not take a shot yourself?
Don't worry, the things that were really good would never change. The beach, bagels, jokes, the library, Christmas, candy, girls.
The things that were bad, maybe you could help.
I didn't like this war in Vietnam, for instance. They said we had to fight it but they couldn't tell you why. I thought of the older Jewish people in my neighborhood, from Europe, with numbers tattooed on their arms from concentration camps. Someone once in Germany said all that had to happen, too.
I didn't like prejudice. It was kind of a new word for an old thing. Once it was slavery.
I knew about it. There were few black people in my neighborhood and there were none in nicer neighborhoods. There were plenty in neighborhoods east of us, with grimy streets, big projects, no stores, no trees.
I didn't like Brooklyn State Hospital. They had hundreds of mental patients - maybe thousands, counting those you couldn't see, but I'd hear screaming through bars, when I'd walk (illegally) through the grounds.
I knew a lot of the patients from the street, but not any of their names. Did they have names anymore? If no one used them?
I saw a lot get worse, but never better.
So, this was a writer's job. To help things get better. Righting a wrong, or trying to. Or, less grand, just artistically, simply writing a good sentence. Or expressing a thought well. Those were also good goals.
A good sentence was like from super-powers. It existed and you couldn't kill it. Walls couldn't hold it. It could fly: fly anywhere. It could be anywhere and everywhere at the same time.
Words could place me where I was. They could also get me out.
I knew my days were numbered in Brooklyn 3: my daytimes, at the very least. I'd have to go somewhere else for high school. Tilden was our high school and had a good baseball field but beyond that you wanted to know about knives to thrive there, and I was not interested in knife fights on a daily basis.
I'd be gone within 5 years, tops. I could and would leave, but I had things to do first. Didn't I have to prove myself to the place, how good I was? And prove it to anywhere else I would go?
The #46 bus ran through the heart of Brooklyn 3. It had the heaviest ridership of any bus line in the city of New York. There was a reason for that. Brooklyn 3 was a place meant to leave.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
The World Swirled
Two things most ubiquitous in life in Brooklyn 3 were baseball and newspapers.
In season, there were two home team baseball games a day. You talked about them til the next day's games. Every day we got 2 newspapers, the News and the Post, of the 7 or so available.
Now that I was a seasoned ballplayer, I was ready to take on the other thing, by starting a newspaper at school.
I wanted to learn to write with the same simple impulse I had to learn to play ball: to do something important well.
Writing was important because you could direct people's attention. You could teach them. Entertain them. Annoy them.
(My father to his brother Robbie one afternoon: "Did you read Breslin today?"
Robbie to my father: lips slightly pursed: "I wouldn't read him."
"What do you mean, you wouldn't read him? You mean you didn't read him? Or you don't read him?"
"I wouldn't read him."
My father knew - as I knew - that Jimmy Breslin made fun of cops. Uncle Robbie, NYPD.)
The world swirled, especially New York, so writers were important because they straightened it, or at least held it down for a minute so you could see it.
I saw the world turning and it pleased me.
Brooklyn 3 was now Brooklyn NY 11203. That was modern.
The Mets had a new stadium and it had mod panels on the sides, in team colors of blue and orange, suspended in mid-air on cables. It was hip and the Beatles would play there.
The Mass had been changed from Latin to English, so people could understand it. They turned the priest around on the altar so you could see what he was doing. They said you were allowed to eat meat on Fridays now and not go to hell. Bad news for fish sticks and pizza, but good otherwise.
LBJ was a funny-looking president, and not Irish, but he was doing good things, calling for a war on poverty, and talking about civil rights. It meant all people were equal.
My homeroom teacher in St. Catherine's, Sister Eugenia Joseph, told us that Spanish would someday be a common language in the U.S., and that she asked Father Grady, our pastor, and Sister Superior that we be taught it. It wasn't happening, so Sister was taking a class herself, and would teach it after school to anyone who wanted to learn.
The next day I brought in a notebook with "Espanol" on the cover and said sign me up. She hugged me and kissed me. Nuns were changing too. I asked if I could write a story about the class for a new newspaper I was planning and she put her hands on my shoulders and looked at me misty-eyed. I guessed I was on the right track.
In season, there were two home team baseball games a day. You talked about them til the next day's games. Every day we got 2 newspapers, the News and the Post, of the 7 or so available.
Now that I was a seasoned ballplayer, I was ready to take on the other thing, by starting a newspaper at school.
I wanted to learn to write with the same simple impulse I had to learn to play ball: to do something important well.
Writing was important because you could direct people's attention. You could teach them. Entertain them. Annoy them.
(My father to his brother Robbie one afternoon: "Did you read Breslin today?"
Robbie to my father: lips slightly pursed: "I wouldn't read him."
"What do you mean, you wouldn't read him? You mean you didn't read him? Or you don't read him?"
"I wouldn't read him."
My father knew - as I knew - that Jimmy Breslin made fun of cops. Uncle Robbie, NYPD.)
The world swirled, especially New York, so writers were important because they straightened it, or at least held it down for a minute so you could see it.
I saw the world turning and it pleased me.
Brooklyn 3 was now Brooklyn NY 11203. That was modern.
The Mets had a new stadium and it had mod panels on the sides, in team colors of blue and orange, suspended in mid-air on cables. It was hip and the Beatles would play there.
The Mass had been changed from Latin to English, so people could understand it. They turned the priest around on the altar so you could see what he was doing. They said you were allowed to eat meat on Fridays now and not go to hell. Bad news for fish sticks and pizza, but good otherwise.
LBJ was a funny-looking president, and not Irish, but he was doing good things, calling for a war on poverty, and talking about civil rights. It meant all people were equal.
My homeroom teacher in St. Catherine's, Sister Eugenia Joseph, told us that Spanish would someday be a common language in the U.S., and that she asked Father Grady, our pastor, and Sister Superior that we be taught it. It wasn't happening, so Sister was taking a class herself, and would teach it after school to anyone who wanted to learn.
The next day I brought in a notebook with "Espanol" on the cover and said sign me up. She hugged me and kissed me. Nuns were changing too. I asked if I could write a story about the class for a new newspaper I was planning and she put her hands on my shoulders and looked at me misty-eyed. I guessed I was on the right track.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Hit It And Quit
Kids are the most instantly nostalgic people, but I don't remember any sentiment when Little League ended and I said goodbye to my friend and teammate, Kenny Davis. We probably said something about next season, but a year is a long time for a kid. We exchanged phone numbers and addresses even though neither of us had ever made a phone call, and our neighborhoods were far apart, and unknown by one another.
Our only plan for staying in touch was over James Brown.
We talked frequently about music, although our overlap of tastes was pretty lopsided, mine to his, which made sense, as he followed black acts. Who was he going to like, Paul Anka? Not even white people liked Paul Anka. Of white acts, I primarily liked the Beatles and Rolling Stones, but of course they were largely based on black music, so despite his pleasantries about my enthusiasms, Kenny stuck with the source, his people. We both liked the Supremes (Kenny pronounced their name accenting the first syllable), Marvin Gaye, the Temptations, the Four Tops, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, Little Stevie Wonder (as he was known then), and James Brown.
Kenny had told me that his father knew James Brown, or knew a guy who knew him - worked for him, or something. James Brown stayed near Kenny's house, over the border to Queens.
This was exciting to me, as I was planning a newspaper for my fourth-grade class in the fall, and I asked Kenny if I could get an interview with James Brown. He said he would ask his father.
He didn't fail. Our last day of Little League, he had the phone number of the friend. He wished me luck and told me to call him and tell him what happened.
I don't remember the gentleman's name. I remember he was friendly and polite, if a little surprised about an interview request from a 9-year old journalist. He told me it was certainly possible and he was sure Mr. Brown would love to do it, if his schedule allowed.
It might come as no surprise that Mr. Brown's schedule did not allow; not even for a return call. But I didn't mind. I thought I would catch up with him someday, maybe once a little more seasoned.
That was the first time I ever dialed a phone. I had to climb a high chair to do it. And then again, for my second-ever call, to Kenny, a few weeks later.
He was excited to hear from me, even though it turned out to be about a failure, or at least a setback. But, so what, we tried. He was still excited and expressive by call's end about that simple fact.
I had one funny thing to tell him. The man on the phone messed with me a little ("You're a reporter and a publisher," he asked; yes, I said, not minding the rib). "Tell me," he said, "when you come to interview Mr. Brown, do you have a tape recorder?" Tape recorder. I couldn't afford a battery.
I figured I would test him back. "No, I don't," I said. "Doesn't he?"
This brought a large laugh from the guy, and now from Kenny and me.
It was our last, though we didn't know that then. We expected maybe someday we would go together to James Brown's house and possibly get on the good foot. Instead, we hit it and quit. But we hit it.
Our only plan for staying in touch was over James Brown.
We talked frequently about music, although our overlap of tastes was pretty lopsided, mine to his, which made sense, as he followed black acts. Who was he going to like, Paul Anka? Not even white people liked Paul Anka. Of white acts, I primarily liked the Beatles and Rolling Stones, but of course they were largely based on black music, so despite his pleasantries about my enthusiasms, Kenny stuck with the source, his people. We both liked the Supremes (Kenny pronounced their name accenting the first syllable), Marvin Gaye, the Temptations, the Four Tops, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, Little Stevie Wonder (as he was known then), and James Brown.
Kenny had told me that his father knew James Brown, or knew a guy who knew him - worked for him, or something. James Brown stayed near Kenny's house, over the border to Queens.
This was exciting to me, as I was planning a newspaper for my fourth-grade class in the fall, and I asked Kenny if I could get an interview with James Brown. He said he would ask his father.
He didn't fail. Our last day of Little League, he had the phone number of the friend. He wished me luck and told me to call him and tell him what happened.
I don't remember the gentleman's name. I remember he was friendly and polite, if a little surprised about an interview request from a 9-year old journalist. He told me it was certainly possible and he was sure Mr. Brown would love to do it, if his schedule allowed.
It might come as no surprise that Mr. Brown's schedule did not allow; not even for a return call. But I didn't mind. I thought I would catch up with him someday, maybe once a little more seasoned.
That was the first time I ever dialed a phone. I had to climb a high chair to do it. And then again, for my second-ever call, to Kenny, a few weeks later.
He was excited to hear from me, even though it turned out to be about a failure, or at least a setback. But, so what, we tried. He was still excited and expressive by call's end about that simple fact.
I had one funny thing to tell him. The man on the phone messed with me a little ("You're a reporter and a publisher," he asked; yes, I said, not minding the rib). "Tell me," he said, "when you come to interview Mr. Brown, do you have a tape recorder?" Tape recorder. I couldn't afford a battery.
I figured I would test him back. "No, I don't," I said. "Doesn't he?"
This brought a large laugh from the guy, and now from Kenny and me.
It was our last, though we didn't know that then. We expected maybe someday we would go together to James Brown's house and possibly get on the good foot. Instead, we hit it and quit. But we hit it.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Bubbles
Heeding my mother's teaching, and friend Kenny's sense of sense, I let politics fade, a mere bag of shells, and focused on Little League fun.
One baseball skill I never attained was blowing the chewing gum bubble, despite pounds of trial Bazooka. Kenny was adept and tried to teach me but to no avail.
One distinct time I wished I had the ability - but Kenny filled in for me - was after a particular catch.
Late in a close game, our opponents had two on and two out. We were in a slight jam.
The batter popped one foul of third, way over my head, long and high. I turned and chased it.
I knew it was hit so far I could only reach it by running full-speed, without looking back. I'd have to guess at, not check on, its path. I'd also have to guess at its point of descent.
I ran to the proper co-ordinates, I hoped, and stuck out my glove.
I saw the ball pass in front of me, and into my glove's webbing: a snow cone catch.
I turned and held it up, third out, to far-off moans and cheers.
I met Kenny, who'd been twenty feet behind me, and flipped the ball to him. We trotted in together. He blew a bubble and that was our only expression, non-verbal, verbal, or otherwise, all the way in.
Of course, I had to smile as my teammates met and pounded me and hollered, Whoa, ho shit, this and that. But I sat down in the dugout next to Kenny having said nothing.
Him neither, at least not to me, til he turned to me and said, "Had it all the way?"
"Sure," I said.
"Was your eyes open?"
"Didn't need to be," I said.
"Boy don't need no eyes," he said, leaning back on the bench. He snapped a bubble and looked up in the air. "But can't chew gum."
"You do what you do, and I do what I do," I said, and we looked at each other and tried not to laugh too soon. This was Nice going, this was Thank you, this was teammates, this was fun.
One baseball skill I never attained was blowing the chewing gum bubble, despite pounds of trial Bazooka. Kenny was adept and tried to teach me but to no avail.
One distinct time I wished I had the ability - but Kenny filled in for me - was after a particular catch.
Late in a close game, our opponents had two on and two out. We were in a slight jam.
The batter popped one foul of third, way over my head, long and high. I turned and chased it.
I knew it was hit so far I could only reach it by running full-speed, without looking back. I'd have to guess at, not check on, its path. I'd also have to guess at its point of descent.
I ran to the proper co-ordinates, I hoped, and stuck out my glove.
I saw the ball pass in front of me, and into my glove's webbing: a snow cone catch.
I turned and held it up, third out, to far-off moans and cheers.
I met Kenny, who'd been twenty feet behind me, and flipped the ball to him. We trotted in together. He blew a bubble and that was our only expression, non-verbal, verbal, or otherwise, all the way in.
Of course, I had to smile as my teammates met and pounded me and hollered, Whoa, ho shit, this and that. But I sat down in the dugout next to Kenny having said nothing.
Him neither, at least not to me, til he turned to me and said, "Had it all the way?"
"Sure," I said.
"Was your eyes open?"
"Didn't need to be," I said.
"Boy don't need no eyes," he said, leaning back on the bench. He snapped a bubble and looked up in the air. "But can't chew gum."
"You do what you do, and I do what I do," I said, and we looked at each other and tried not to laugh too soon. This was Nice going, this was Thank you, this was teammates, this was fun.
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