July 2, 2007--Hey, Ralphie Boy

In my old neighborhood, none of our parents drove us to afternoon or weekend “activities” such as team sports. One reason was that there weren’t any. The other—hardly anyone had enough money to own a car.

So what did we do with ourselves when school was out? There were no video games. In fact, there was pretty much no video anything. The D____’s were the only ones who had a TV and we were not allowed to go over there, especially after dark, because it was whispered that Mr. D____’s money came from selling French playing cards and making dirty movies.

My father offered the following advice—“If you’re bored, go bang your head against the wall.” Since this had limited appeal, in the absence of organized activities we were left to our own devices, which meant street games.

Kids would pour out onto the streets in front of their houses and the younger ones would on their own organize games on the sidewalk that involved marbles, baseball cards (they were not viewed at the time as collectables), used rubber heals from shoes, and even bottle caps. Older kids would vie for possession of the “gutter” with the cars, peddlers, and Good Humor trucks so that they could organize their Ring-A-Levio (don’t ask), Johnny-On-The-Pony (really don’t ask), Three-Feet-Off-To-Germany (for sure restrain your curiosity), and especially their punch and stickball games.

For these latter games, sewers would become home plate and front and rear tires of parked car would stand in as first and third. The fattest kid on the block, who couldn’t catch a ball of swing a cut-off broom stick bat, would stand in the middle of the street and serve as second base. We were very democratic in that way—there was a role for everyone and everything.

But all of this is pretty much gone. In some neighborhoods it’s not safe any more to be out on the street playing in traffic. In other, meaner situations, assuming anyone would be interested in organizing a game of touch football, kids would have to dodge stray bullets as well and defensive ends. It is only street-game nostalgia nuts who today get out their old Spaldeens and stickball bats for a last hurrah. (See NY Times article linked below.)

Any kids who manage to pry themselves away from .kkrieger or can look up for a moment from their new iPhones would be less surprised to see dinosaurs roaming the streets than to spot 66 year-old Stephen Swid stepping out again onto his field of dreams, Sheridan Avenue up in the Bronx, for his annual stickball reunion. He remembers how Mickey Mantle used to stroll over to join in after a game at Yankee Stadium. And I remember Jackie Robinson, no kidding, coming out to play on my East Flatbush streets.

Swid tells great stories about the “old days”—and isn’t much of this really more about the stories than the actual playing of the games? He recalls how one day the Mick hit one so high and far that they never found the Spaldeen. And how on another day a team from around the corner came by to challenge the one from his block. That in itself was not so unusual, but since everyone was poor it was unheard-of that anyone would be outfitted in uniforms—uniforms when no one could afford even a new pair of Keds? They were black and gold and very spiffy. Swid learned there were designed by the unfortunately-named, very unathletic Ralphie Lifshitz. Though he couldn’t catch a bouncing ball, after Ralphie became Ralph Lauren he nonetheless turned out pretty good.