YOU CAN'T ROLLER SKATE WITH A BUFFALO HERD

Roller skating was my passion during my grade school years. In this story, I describe some of my most glorious (and inglorious) skating moments while growing up, and my life-long ambition.

YOU CAN’T ROLLER SKATE IN A BUFFALO HERD

I never competed at the Olympics despite my impressive credentials as a skater. The governing board snubbed my sport, roller-skating on city streets. Instead of having name recognition right up there with the 1994 Winter Ice Skating Olympians, Bonnie Blair and Johann Olav Koss, prejudiced bureaucrats denied my rightful standing in the athletic world. My youthful skating records have faded into obscurity.

My first roller skates were the proverbial "steelies," the kind that had no bearings and whose wheels would not turn even to allow me to chase a Hollywood starlet. They did foster self-confidence. In no time at all, I advanced to the conventional two-piece skates that everyone wore during the ‘30s. The front part had adjustable clamps that gripped the sides of your shoe or sneaker while the rear portion had a curved heel. A leather ankle strap kept your foot in place. A bolt-and-nut assembly clamped the two pieces together. The skate’s length could be adjusted to allow for growth, but my wheels wore out long before my shoe size changed.

The good old U.S.A. helped hone my skating skills. In 1935, the W.P.A. tore up the road bed of the trolley line that ran past my apartment building and paved the street with asphalt. The job lasted all summer. At the end of each day, when the crews had left, kids flocked to the worksite, playing on the construction equipment and skating on the new surface. The complete absence of traffic made this playground completely safe for city kids and more fun than Central Park.

My skating regimen lasted from dawn to dusk. Racing out the door, skates already donned, I would slide down the banister, swish along the hallway, and proceed in like manner until reaching the street level, four floors below. Upon my return, the skates remained on my feet while I climbed the stairs, oblivious to the noise they made. This practice ended when I tripped and tumbled down an entire flight of stairs, spilling a bottle of milk in the process.

Asphalt is ideal for roller-skating. It combines a smooth surface with just the right amount of friction, making it almost impossible to slip, slide or fall down. As a result, my bravado increased proportionately with every passing summer, as new daring and acrobatic stunts became integrated into my repertoire. By the eighth grade, my boyhood chums crowned me the fastest skater they had ever seen, having witnessed me fleeing from a Hoboken cop one day. Had there been such an event, the Olympic record for “Fright” skating would have been mine.

Skating left me with two injuries. The first one came shortly after receiving a new pair of skates on my thirteenth birthday. Over my parents’ objections, nothing could stop me from zooming off to try them out. Within minutes, my new wheels had me heading for the nearby high school just in time to join an ongoing Snap-the-Whip skating game.

A line of some 20 kids, each holding the waist of the person in front, skated in unison toward the corner of the school property. Once there, the leader grabbed hold of a steel fence post and hung on. This allowed everyone else in the chain to whip around the corner at great speed including me, last one on line. I released my hold and zipped down the sidewalk like a particle in an electron accelerator.

Suddenly, danger approached in the form of a boy on a bicycle riding toward me. I zigged. He zigged. I zagged. He zagged. We crashed. The front wheel of his bike intersected my legs. My mouth hit the handlebar, and a piece of my front tooth flew off, exposing a nerve. The pain was excruciating.

A few months later, my former eighth grade nun, Sr. Edwardine, met me and said, “Your front tooth is turning black. Go see a dentist immediately.”

If chipping a tooth can be said to be painful, words cannot describe how it felt to have this dentist repair my tooth. I wince even now, just thinking about that visit. Thank goodness, he saved my tooth.

My other injury was even more painful; it zinged my ego. While attending a roller rink on my fourteenth birthday, wearing the white linen suit jacket I had worn at my sister's wedding, I casually stepped onto the waxed wooden floor, eager to impress the girls with some debonair twirls, but instead, flopped on my duff in a state of shock. This slippery surface tripped me up. Where had my skating skills gone? This was not my venue. Turns out I was a black tar street specialist. Regrettably, time and traffic doomed my days of roller skating in this urban arena.

My dream of winning an Olympic medal still burns within. Having petitioned the Olympics Committee, asking that they add roller-skating to next summer’s competition, and in anticipation of a favorable response, I bought a pair of inline skates and began training. Fright remains my primary incentive. Every evening I head for the city library, taunt the security guard, and then skate like the blazes for home. He hasn’t nabbed me yet.

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