LET THE GOOD TIMES ROLL

My boyhood chums played many street games. This yarn describes some of the them, and ends with a spinning conclusion. 02/07/2016

LET THE GOOD TIMES ROLL

My one block long boyhood playground, Eighth Street between Hudson and Washington Streets, grew smaller with time. As a pre-teen, it easily accommodated my neighborhood pals who played all manners of games therein. The absence of automotive traffic made this possible.

The game of “Stickball” fit the dimensions of this arena perfectly. A team consisted of five players: Pitcher, catcher, and three fielders. We used either a tennis ball or one made of rubber. Lacking a broom handle, we used our fists and converted the game to “Punchball.” The hitter tossed the ball and hit it using the same motion as a tennis player does when serving. The walls of a Lutheran church and Dr. Kiley’s house bounded the field. We hit the ball uphill towards Hudson Street where stood the “Green Gate,” an imposing arch that spanned the distance between a fraternity house (one I would later join) and the campus of Stevens Institute of Technology. One day, Junior Byrnes hit a ball over the arch. This prodigious blast caused me to turn my attention to a game more suitable to my skill level and tiny physique called “Hittin’s Out.”

This game, a highly compressed version of baseball, required only two players. A “batter” who remained stationary, threw a rubber ball against the edge of a four-inch high slate coping of an apartment building causing it to head toward an apartment building on the other side of the street. The wall-to-wall distance of our ballpark measured about forty feet. The “fielder” stood near the opposite sidewalk. You recorded an “out” if he caught a grounder or a line drive. We called it a “single” if the ball eluded him. A fly ball that landed on the opposite sidewalk we deemed a “double.” If the ball happened to land on the fly in the narrow space between the iron fence railing and the apartment building, you had yourself a “triple.”  A home run occurred if the ball hit the apartment building’s wall on the fly - unless it ricocheted and your opponent caught it. Then, you were “out.”

If our one and only ball happened to find its way into the nearby sewer, the game halted until someone could retrieve it. Not even Huck Finn would enjoy this challenge: Lift up the large round iron street sewer plate; suspend the smallest of our gang head first into the drain; pray he’d grab it before we lost our grip on him. We were desperate lads and these were desperate times.

   During the many years I played this game, Ray Asti displayed the most talent. He had a harelip, smelled of garlic, and weighed far too much. He routinely made impossible catches, turning my home runs to “outs” by snatching rebounding balls with effortless ease.

Tenants rarely complained or chased us away. Once cars began parking alongside the curb, our game faded into memory.

“Boxball,” another version of baseball, required more space and five players: A pitcher and four fielders. In grade school years, we played this game on the wide sidewalk that fronted the Knights of Columbus building located on Hudson, midway between Seventh and Eighth Streets. Our concrete infield had a rectangular shape. The pitcher and first baseman stood on the sidewalk; all other players positioned themselves beyond the curb, standing in the middle of the street, defying traffic.

A pitcher one-bounced a tennis or rubber ball toward the hitter who tried to swat it with an open palm. A batter could slap the ball anywhere, but it had to land on the sidewalk first to be in play. Some pitchers could put a spin on the ball causing it to bounce up crookedly toward the hitter, but most of us could put the ball in play regardless of how crazily it hopped up.

During my grade school years, I excelled at this game. My skills diminished with age. In my senior year of high school, I made two errors on the same play, bobbling and throwing the ball wildly to first base. My athletic ego deflated, I decided to stop playing this stupid game and concentrate on girls.  

Eighth Street also provided a great place to play “Bottle Caps,” a variant of marbles. Players stomped on an orange peel placed over the cap, filling the space and giving it weight. We shot these caps with great skill and accuracy, using the same grip as we did for marbles. We played along on any city street whose curbs were not occupied by cars. I played many games while coming home from school along a four block stretch of Hudson Street. But the majority of the time, my pals and I played up and down Eighth Street, our home park.

   One summer day in 1940, Red Burke showed up with an old worn out auto tire. He curled himself into it and asked me to give him a push. Off he went, merrily spinning his way down Eighth Street from Hudson towards Washington, the main drag, me chasing after him, cheering him on. He zoomed across that major intersection, miraculously avoiding traffic, and continued for another block or so before he toppled over, grinning from ear to ear.

In my mind’s eye, I see him still, rolling along forever. Some kids had all the fun.

   ▄     

  

             

.