Memories of growning up in Brooklyn

First manned moon landing; As seen from 92nd St.

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Sun, 12 Jul 2009 12:21:00 +0000

July 20, 1969 was the day man first landed, and then walked, on the moon. The actual moonwalk was loosely scheduled to happen at about 10:30 or 11:00pm. I was somewhat into technology at the time but even so, going into this event the coolest things for me was - getting to stay up late.

We went over to our friends the Selbys' home in Bay Ridge (Bob Selby, Peggy Selby and daughters Donna Selby and Judy Selby) in the afternoon to watch the entire event unfold. Sometime around 4:00 or 4:30pm the astronauts started their descent to the surface of the moon. Suddenly drama began unfolding on the TV and us kids found ourselves lying on the pile carpet, the palms of our hands helping to form tripods under our chins.

Walter Cronkite was explaining that, due to the fact that the descent was taking longer than anticipated, there was a possibility that the astronauts might run out of fuel before they landed. As Uncle Walter put it, "There are no gas stations on the moon".

Uh oh! I was into science enough to know that there was no atmosphere on the moon and that the astronauts would not be able to glide down to make their landing. The craft they were descending in didn't even have wings. It was obvious that if they didn't land soon, they were going to drop like a rock. We were glued to the screen.

After what seemed like hours - but was only 15-20 minutes - we finally heard Neil Armstrong's comforting words, "Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed." Everyone in 'Houston', as well as all occupants of the Selby's living room, burst into applause.

Then came the 6 hour wait for the 'moon-walk' - created by Neil Armstrong, made popular by Michael Jackson. With the excitement we just experienced you couldn't tear us away from the TV with a crowbar. During this interval was when I first learned of JFK's vow to get a man to the moon "...returning him safely to the Earth..." by the end of the decade.

We were all deeply moved by JFK's assassination 5 1/2 years earlier. Walter Cronkite took us through that ordeal with grace, and he was one of us. I remember him choking up at one point on the afternoon of the assassination, when he had to deliver the news that "President Kennedy has died". Now the effects of hard work, strength of will and ingenuity were allowing Americans to fulfill the goal of their fallen leader. Cronkite brought that through time and again in his message. I couldn't imagine having more pride in anything else in all my long 12 years. Even now, 40 years later, there are only 4 or 5 things that can top that moment for me.

Finally, at about 11:00pm, Neil Armstrong climbed down the ladder on the Lunar Module and made that "One Small Step." According to 'Buzz' Aldrin, the part of JFK's vow that was most important to him was the part about "...returning him safely to the Earth". They did that and more.

Looking back on the last 40 years, I cannot think of many more triumphant moments than that. Imagine. Humans walking on another celestial body 221,000 miles away...

...from Brooklyn.

Street luging down 61st Street

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Fri, 07 Nov 2008 18:51:00 +0000

Long before I was aware of the sport of Luging, we used to do our own version of it in Brooklyn.

Take a single roller skate and place a foot-long, 2 x 4 perpendicular across the skate with equal amounts of the 2 x 4 hanging out on either side. Find a street with a decent downhill angle (61st Street between 3rd and 2nd Avenues in Bay Ridge was perfect for this). Place the small of your back down on the contraption and raise your legs in the air. You're flying baby! Use the two sides of the 2 x 4 to steer - and watch out for cars pulling out of parking spots! Your flying below their radar - they can't see you.

The speeds my friends and I attained were well above 30 MPH and it seemed like we were going much faster. Helmets? What's that? Click here for an interesting video of the contemporary sport of Street Luging.

The image above right is really in San Francisco but MAN! Can you imagine rolling down that hill on your back? 50-60 MPH, baby!

Life down 'at the docks'

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Fri, 17 Oct 2008 15:38:00 +0000

As I've mentioned here a few times, my dad was a longshoreman on the Brooklyn waterfront. His dad (my grandpa) was a longshoreman, too. It was sort of a family business for a while. I remember sitting in the backseat of dad's car, along with my little brother the longshoreman's hook (the basic tool of a dockworker) and dad's work shoes. The shoes had 'that look'.

You may have heard stories of corruption, crime and major mafia involvement down 'at the docks' as depicted in the image to the right. Alot of those stories may well have been true but there was another side to life on the piers.

Up until the last few decades, the men who worked down at the docks were un-complicated guys with limited education - partial high school at best - maybe some trade school like my dad. They were trying to provide for families through a tough period of time in our country's history - the Great Depression. But, at this point in time, a longshoreman was only an occupation, not a steady job. They never knew when they were going to be able to work. They would get up hours before dawn, drag their butts down to the 'hiring hall' and "shape", which meant they all tried to physically position themselves in a spot near the 'dock boss' who pointed at random individuals in the crowd and said, "You, you, you, you and you. You're working today. I got no other jobs today, boys. Good luck ta yuz." But it wasn't always random. It helped if you knew somebody.

If you were lucky enough to be hired for the day you had a solid 12 hours of backbreaking labor to look forward to. Tasks like; carrying 200 pound bags of coffee (or an unlimited supply of any other imported commodity) on your back, for hours at a time. Later on, with the introduction of the International Longshoremans Association, the situation got better but not much.

It must have been a vision of desolation; always gray, always dreary, always hard labor. But once in a while something exciting happened.

Dad walked in the door after work one day, and held out his two hands closed with the back sides facing up. "Which hand is it?" he'd ask with that grin on his face. This was one of dad's favorite things, building excitement in his kid then watching the reaction of glee that followed the revelation of the surprise. I picked one, he turned it over and opened it up. Inside was a bright red Superball - those extra bouncy balls first manufactured by Wham-O in the 1960s. As most kids my age, I loved Superballs. When you threw them down, they bounced forever. What's not to like? When my dad opened his other hand it also contained a Superball. Then he began emptying his coat pockets onto the kitchen table and they were filled with Superballs! What had happened was that a crate filled with Superballs had fallen from a crane about 50 feet in the air. When it hit the pier the crate exploded, sending tens of thousands of Superballs flying in all directions. Picture what this must have looked like. It must have been quite a diversion from the normally mundane tasks involved with being a longshoreman.

But the event that must have stuck in dad's memory more than any other was the day one of the guys fell into 'the drink'. Dad said it all happened very quickly, so I'll tell it the same way.

A group of men were up on the deck of the ship, steadying the ropes on a pallet being pulled out of the hold, by a crane. Suddenly, a stray boom arm came around and caught one of the guys in the face, sending him off the side of the ship into the cold waters of the East River. My dad, who, as I've mentioned here before, had won awards for swimming and fancy diving, immediately removed his wallet from his back pocket, handed it to one of the guys standing next to him (we'll call him "Archie") and dove into the river. A few seconds later both heads appeared on the surface. A few minutes later and both the rescuer and rescuee were wrapped in blankets on the dock, sitting beside a fire burning in a 50 gallon drum.

Swarms of longshoreman passed around dad and the guy he rescued, whacking them on the back and offering words of respect and admiration. After they'd dried out a bit, dad remembered that right before he dove in, he'd given his wallet to Archie. The problem was that Archie was now nowhere to be seen. One of the dock bosses saw dad looking through the crowd frantically, and came over to ask him what was up. Dad told him. The dock boss simply grunted and walked away. Dad came home and told us the whole story, with a measure of humble pride, but I could tell that he was disillusioned (not to mention pissed off) at the loss of his wallet.

The next morning, dad showed up at the hiring hall and was immediately given work. In fact, from this day forward, if dad wanted work, he got it. When he got to his spot on the pier, the same dock boss, who dad had spoken with about his wallet, came by and said, "Campbell, I got something for you," and handed dad his wallet. Dad opened it up and saw that it was filled with money; more money than had been in it when he'd passed it to Archie. When he asked how the dock boss came up with the wallet, the dock boss shrugged and gestured at two 'gentlemen' dressed in dark suits and fedoras standing on the other side of the pier. The two gentlemen silently nodded back.

The dock boss looked at dad and said, "I guess we won't see Archie no more."

Club Houses

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 15:51:00 +0000

Back in the day, one of the neatest things we kids on my block did was to build club houses in our backyards. We'd scrounge around the neighborhood looking for bits of lumber and 'what-have-you' lying around in piles of garbage and vacant lots. When we had enough to begin, we'd start hammering away. Not much future planning happening, you understand. The ultimate shape and size of the club house was totally dependent on the scraps we were able to find in the garbage and lots. I remember one of the clubhouses had a white silo/chimney on the side, courtesy of one of the neighbors on Hendrickson Street who threw out an old hot water heater. It didn't have a practical purpose, but man, did it look cool.

When we first moved into the neighborhood, I think Billy R, one of the 11 years olds, built one. Then Big Chris, then Glenn. This was all over the span of a few years. The wheel came 'round and it was my turn.

I didn't have to look far for scrap lumber and other nuggets. My dad saved everything (it's now seven years after he passed away and we're still cleaning crap out of the garage). Little Chris and I began construction with some other guys pitching in here and there, but it was mostly the two of us. The design was similar to the above right picture - only it had a flat roof and a wider doorway, but no door. We decided to put a ladder on one of the sides for easy access to the lookout post on the roof. You never know when bad guys will try'n sneak up on your club house and you want to see them far enough in advance so you can snap into a quick defense mode.

Not having had experience in building a club house before, Little Chris and I didn't know much about cross supports and other structural stabilizing features we might have used in the building of the club house. We simply hammered in as many nails as humanly possible and thought that would hold it together. Before climbing up to the roof for the first time, we gave it the shake test - each of us grabbing a corner of the club house and giving it a hearty shake. Like a ROCK, baby! It was time to check out the view from the lookout post.

Grabbing our binoculars, Little Chris and I climbed up to the top of the club house to survey our domain - my backyard and all the others to the right and left. My mom was in the house on the phone - your could hear her laughing at something someone said on the other end of the line. My dad was doing something which made a loud humming noise in the garage - probably welding. It was a really great summer day.

A few minutes later, while we were taking in the sites and sounds, Little Chris' three-year-old brother Curt came waddling into my backyard. He was a cute and curious little kid. We big kids all looked out for him - especially Little Chris. Curt stopped in front of the club house and leaned way back so he could look up at us. "Watcha doin' up there?", he asked.

"We just finished the club house and now we're looking out for bad guys," we replied. Curt then walked into the club house to inspect our work.

It couldn't have been any more than 30 seconds after Curt walked into the club house that it began to shake. I can't say what caused it - Curt was too little to push against a wall and cause such motion and Little Chris and I were just sitting up there quietly, minding our business. But shake it did, and a few seconds later, the club house totally collapsed.

"CURT!," Little Chris yelled, as we got to our feet and ran around to the front of the club house.

There standing where the doorway had been was Curt - completely surrounded by two-by-fours, nails, shelving and other lumber, and completely untouched. It was like in that old Buster Keaton film; where the house falls down all around him? (Click Here)

Epilogue - Many years later (in 1989) Curt was out in San Francisco on business. While he was there, a tremendous earthquake hit that killed nearly 100 people and injured thousands, destroyed a good part of the city and postponed the World Series for 10 days. Bridges collapsed, highways collapsed... it was a mess. As I remember the story from Little Chris, Curt was staying in a hotel that was pretty much leveled. What saved him was the fact that he stood in a doorway - much like he did that day in my backyard club house.

2 lives down, 7 to go.

The Invisible City

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 19:56:00 +0000

Ever since reading North River, a few months ago, I've been on a Pete Hamill kick. The next book I read was Forever. He continues to blow me away. Unbelievable stuff.

Indisputably "Mr. New York," when it comes to writing of all kinds, Pete Hamill was born in Park Slope, Brooklyn. He's been a reporter, columnist, foreign correspondent, editor-in-chief, journalist, author and more. (As a side note, he also joins many other great thinkers on President Richard Nixon's list of political enemies.) In his writing, Hamill paints pictures of realism that we've all felt about 'our' New York, Brooklyn in particular, but were never been able to put into words.

At the moment, I'm reading one of his books published in 1980 titled, The Invisible City; A New York Sketchbook. It's a collection of short stories, or, what the author calls "sketches". The stories take place in most of the five boroughs but the majority seem to take place in Brooklyn. Particularly the grittier tales.

So.... take a trip don to the local library, pick up a copy and settle down for some Brooklyn memory-inspiring reading. Pete Hamill = great.

Little Africa and the Mets

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Tue, 12 Aug 2008 13:21:00 +0000

Haven't written in a while. Between vacation and work kicking my butt... Here goes.

Once upon a time my 'cousin' (what we used to call 'shirt-tail relative') Charlie and I were off on an adventure to, what, in the neighborhood, was known as, "Little Africa". I suppose many kids had their own Little Africa. Ours was across Avenue U from Marine Park.

Little Africa was an area of marshland consisting of high grass with paths running through it. It was like walking, or riding your bike, through a tunnel of grass because the grass was so high you couldn't see over it. The whole area occupied approximately 20 acres and was partially surrounded by a body of water, which I believe is called Gerritsen Bay. See Here. They've cleaned it up a bit lately. There is a nature conservatory there now.

But back on this particular hot August afternoon, in 1969, Charlie and I were riding our stingrays through the winding paths when we discovered a clearing down by the water. In this clearing lay 30 or 40 HUGE concrete blocks, each about the size of a tractor trailer. The blocks were haphazardly strewn across the sandy landscape and were lying on top and across each other randomly, creating small caves and crevices. Perfect for 12-year-old kid exploration! Safety be damned, we immediately dropped our bikes in the sand and dove right in.

Inside the caves the sounds of traffic on 'the avenue' were gone. All you could hear was wind whipping through and water lapping up against blocks partially submerged in the water. We were in our own little world and it was great.

After exploring the caves for several minutes, we came upon a trail of empty beer cans, and figured, "This has got to lead to something good," so we followed. The trail led us to a room about 20 feet square. Light filtered in between some spaces between the blocks. Through some random positioning coincidence, off in the corner was a 'table' formed by a partially buried block. Upon further examination we found, on top of the table, a collection of what seemed like thousands of girlie magazines. EURKEA! Up until this point the only time Charlie and I had seen a picture of an actual breast was courtesy of that blessed subscription to National Geographic magazine that my parents received monthly. Now we'd hit the big time. We spent the next several hours (it seems like) carefully determining which of the magazines were our personal favorites. The photos and articles (yeah, right) aside, most contained those bizarre ads in the back. The one I remember most clearly was the one with the picture of a uniformed nurse holding a condom between her two hands. The index finger and thumb of one hand pinched the tip of the closed side of the condom and index finger and thumb of the other hand spread on the inside of the other end. The caption reading something like, "These scientifically developed ribbed condoms contain thousands of tiny fingers which will urge her to let go!". Classic.

After carefully selecting our favorites, we rolled 'em up, stuck them in our back pockets, like comic books, and headed back to my house for closer review.

While Charlie and I were getting our hormones charged up, my Uncle Charlie (Charlie's dad) and my dad had been adding a porch to the back of my house, which was positioned directly under my bedroom window. They had already finished the deck and roof, and were in the middle of dragging bundles of shingles up to put on the finishing touches, when Charlie and I returned from Little Africa. If you've ever done roofing you know that it's grueling work - especially in the dog days of summer. Looking back, it must have been so energy-tapping that dad and Uncle Charlie must have been concentrating on the work, and weren't talking. The family car was gone.

Sensing no adult presence in the area, Charlie and I headed up to my room.

Sitting on my, bed we poured over the girlie magazines with gusto. We became totally absorbed in our observations of female anatomy and tuned out the entire world. I'm not sure an explosion out in front of the house would have pried us away from our treasure at this point. When the shadow fell across the floor in front of my bed, we were totally oblivious. I don't know how long we were observed for, but when Charlie and I heard my dad's booming voice say, "What you readin' there boys?" coming through my bedroom window we nearly jumped out of our skin. We immediately looked up, with GUILT written all over our faces in capitol letters, to see my dad leaning in the window watching us. How the? What the? Oh yeah. The porch roof. Busted! It must have taken me 30 seconds to come up with what I thought was the perfect out. "Sports Illustrated," I said.

Dad wasn't stupid. Even if he was, there was no way he didn't know what we were looking at. Still he allowed us to keep face. His reply was more classic than the ad with the nurse. He said...

"Oh yeah? Do they think the Mets will go all the way this year?"

And they did.

Father's Day 2008 at Coney Island/Neighborhood Bully Epilogue

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 19:00:00 +0000

2008 is the last year that the rides at Coney Island will be open. They're tearing down Astroland and most everything else. The only things that will remain from the Coney Island we grew up with are; the Wonder Wheel, Parachute Drop and Cyclone - but they will only be there to remind us, they won't operate. Thank goodness someone had the foresight to designate them as New York City Landmarks otherwise the condo developers would tear them down as well. Can you imagine what the people must be like who have the audacity to rip apart a great American institution that is responsible for embedding untold happy memories into the consciousness of billions of people - to put up beach-front condominiums? Growing up, they must have been very unhappy children. In any case, GET THERE WHILE YOU CAN!

In late May, 2008, my kids told me that they were taking me to Coney Island for Father's Day on June 15. It took a few moments to sink in but when it did, I realized what a great time this was going to be. "I'm in!" I said. Unfortunately my middle son had to work, so there was only four of us, including my wife.

Got a bit of a late start, pulling into a parking spot near the parachute drop at about 2:00 PM. No one had eaten lunch yet so we went directly to Nathan's to grab us some 'World Famous' dogs, corn, etc... Even though it was raining on-and-off, the lines at Nathan's went out the door onto the sidewalk, so we settled for the concession stand across the street from the Cyclone (which I could swear use to be Nathan's - can anyone confirm this?) where we had hot dogs, corn dogs, knishes and fries. Not bad. While we ate, we watched and listened to the people on the Cyclone screaming.

I pointed at the Cyclone and asked my wife, "So... you going up?"

"Have fun," she said. My two sons and I walked across the street and, since it was a raining, on-and-off kinda day, not many people were around and we were able to step right up to the ticket booth. It's now $8.00 to ride on the Cyclone. A re-ride is $5.00. If you ask me, it's worth it. Especially since it's the last time. (For more information on the history of the Cyclone go here)

If you're reading this it's likely that you are familiar with the Cyclone (and possibly the old Cyclone slogan - "HANG ONTO YOUR WIGS AND KEYS!"). You know that it is the world's most thrilling ride. What makes it so thrilling? Is it the fact that it's made of wood and appears rickety as hell? Is it the ratchety clank, clank, clank, clank, clank, clank, clank... sound as the cars slowly make their way up that first hill? Is it the broad white beams that fly by just above your head as you zoom down the first, second, third and fourth drops? Is it the nonchalance of the operator as he carelessly slides the wooden brake handle back without watching what he's doing? Or is it something else? For me I guess it's a combination of all things seen, not seen and sensed during the whole experience. When you crest the first hill and are looking at nothing but the Atlantic Ocean, then a split second later are plummeting straight down that first drop with those damn white beams coming within inches of taking your head off... No wonder there is zero delay between when, at the end of the ride, 'the guy' says, "Re-ride... five dallah," and you say, "Take my money."

Then we hit the Wonder Wheel. The builders of the Wonder Wheel (built from 1918 - 1920) wanted to make sure you understood that it is the "WORLD'S LARGEST WHEEL (WEIGHT - OVER 200 TONS!)" so they devised a unique entrance. You actually have to go down on a ramp through a tunnel, down about 10 - 15 feet below street level, to access the entrance to the Wonder Wheel. Even with this 10 - 15 foot handicap it still rises over 150 feet into the air. In original marketing materials the logan was, "RIDE THE WONDER WHEEL, THE HIGHEST FERRIS WHEEL IN THE WORLD! FROM ITS TOP YOU CAN SEE THE EIFFEL TOWER IN PARIS." In fact the first Ferris wheel was built to rival the Eiffel Tower for the World's Colombian Exposition of 1893 in Chicago. But you can't see Paris from the Wonder Wheel - unless I've always been up there on cloudy days... (For more information on the history of the Wonder Wheel go here)

This time my wife decided to come along. My two sons and I talked her into riding in a red car instead of a white car. You know what that means. The white cars are standard, stationary Ferris wheel cars that turn with the rotation of the wheel. A nice calm ride with a great view. The red and blue cars, however, not only turn with the rotation of the wheel, they also move along tracks from the outer edge of the wheel to an inside hub. So... you step into your car when the wheel has rotated so your car is at the bottom and as the wheel starts rotating again, then passes the point where your car is just over the 90 degree mark, gravity does it's magic and your car starts moving towards the center of the wheel. This is great fun and provides interesting black and blue marks on your arms (from when your wife hit you and said, "Why did you take me on this freakin' ride?"). But the fun has only just begun. Once the wheel is 3/4 of the way done with its first rotation you are are facing nothing but open air when your car passes the 90 degree mark on the other side of the wheel and runs along the track towards the outer edge of the wheel. Now THAT'S exhilarating and provides larger and more defined black and blues marks.

After the Wonder Wheel we cruised around the boardwalk for a while, tried getting into the Freak Show - which was closed - and took some pictures of places I want to remember. Take Cha-Cha's Bar and Cafe for instance. Where else but Brooklyn would you see a sign that offered "Live Entertainment For The Hole family". Who's the Hole family? Courtney Love and Frances Bean Cobain?

It being Father's Day, I was looking forward to a nice meal out too so, after seeing all the sites we wanted to see at Coney Island, we headed over to Buckleys' on Nostrand Ave and Ave T in Marine Park. Great Irish grub and fixin's. I had a funny feeling who I might see at the end of the bar, but didn't say anything to my family until I was sure he was there. Sure enough, at the end of the bar, holding up the wall, was Jimmy C, the neighborhood bully of days gone by. As we waited for our hostess to tell us our table was ready, I pointed him out to my family. My wife said, "No way. That guy's got to be 65/70 years old." So I looked a little harder to be sure. I knew it was Jimmy when his bloodshot eyes did their version of lighting up in recognition. He knew it was me and I knew it was him. I almost sent over a drink, but...

Our table was ready so we sat down back in the dining room to eat a great meal.

Cheers!

Super Skates!

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Fri, 13 Jun 2008 13:22:00 +0000

Hey, anybody out there remember Super Skates? Not the RAD new two-wheel, in-line, roller blade models, but the old four-wheel kind?

These were awesome! You didn't need a skate key or anything. Simply make one adjustment with a screw driver or pliers underneath and the spring loaded mechanism inside would wrap any pair of shoes or sneakers you owned, in a cocoon of locomotive splendor. It took about 10 seconds to put these on and you were rolling down the asphalt.

The image above/right shows a pair that had, what looks like, rubber wheels on it. The version I remember had metal wheels. I must have worn out a dozen pairs of these growing up. Sometimes the bearings went first, but sometimes one of the wheels would actually wear through completely. If either of these happened while you were skating down the street at full speed, the skates would stop dead, but you would keep going - usually right down onto your knees and face.

Memories of big ugly scabs are dancing in my head.

Neighborhood Bully - The Fall

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Sat, 31 May 2008 12:02:00 +0000

... continued from Neighborhood Bully - The Chink in the Bully Armor

As soon as the kids on the block realized that there was life after standing up to Jimmy, he gradually began separating from us. I'm not sure if it was on his part, our part or what. I don't believe it was a conscious thing. I think that as we got older and more mature and physically able, we were interested in and did things that Jimmy couldn't. We were all becoming different from Jimmy.

We each have our 'thing'. The thing that sets us apart. Big Chris' thing was his outstanding athletic abilities. Billy's thing was that he could shoot pigeons - and even robins - with his homemade bow and arrow (but that's a story for another day). Jimmy's thing was his cruelty and intolerance for people that were 'different' from him and his group. He'd always seen himself as the ring leader of 'the Irish kids' on the block. And from the lack of tolerance for 'things different' he had always shown in the past, he began seeing himself as different. Jimmy didn't know how to accept thing that were different - even, as it turned out in later years, himself.

There were times now when, after a day of playing pole to pole, we'd go hang out on Billy's stoop and listen to WABC (W - A - Beatle - C). Jimmy would show up once in a while. Sometimes it would be fine - Jimmy wouldn't insult or try to push anyone around. But other times he would try to recapture a little of that bully edge of his.

One day he did something that really pissed off Little Chris. I don't remember what it was (probably something clever about Little Chris' mother) but I remember Little Chris letting him have it verbally. "Jimmy, You are a big fat idiot," he said. This time he didn't storm away to his house giving Jimmy any satisfaction. He stayed on the stoop with the rest of us, shaking his head as if he felt sorry for Jimmy. And Jimmy didn't do or say anything back.

Then - and I can't remember if it was the same day or a day or two later - Jimmy did something to piss off Billy.

Now... Billy was a quiet Irish guy from Brooklyn who thought he was an American Indian. I told you... homemade bow and arrow..? a story for another day, but I had to give you that background so you would understand that Billy was a patient, stoic, long suffering guy who hardly ever had words with anyone. If you pissed off Billy you must have tried hard.

"Little Chris is right. You really are a big fat idiot, Jimmy. Now get the f' off my stoop."

(These were the days when you mixed your "...big fat idiot..." phrases with your new found curse words like "Get the f' off my stoop," and it sounded tough. Ah, the good old days.)

Jimmy put some effort into a smirk as he walked home alone but we all felt the wind beginning to blow in a different direction.

The homes on my block were two-story, single family, detached homes with garages in the back yards at the furthest part of the property away from the street. They weren't all exactly the same; there were slight variations in the style and width of the houses. Some of the garages were one-car some were two-car. The next block over, Coleman Street, who's properties rear ended the rear ends of our block's properties had the same arrangement of garages in their back yards, but because the properties were identical but back-to-back, the garages alternated position. (Click here to see what I mean.)

As you can imagine, this presented a unique opportunity for garage hopping - running along the rear property lines of homes on Kimball and Coleman Streets, 10 feet up in the air, bouncing from garage roof to garage roof. You tried avoid doing on Saturday night, though, when Mr. Mullins had been drinking.

There was this stretch of garages behind Billy's house that we liked best because there were a few trees there with limbs hanging between garages. We could swing out onto the limbs like Tarzan and land on various garage roofs. One big limb hung over Billy's back yard in plain view of the street via the driveway. One day, soon after Billy and Jimmy's altercation, while on top of Billy's garage, and carving our initials into the trunk of the largest tree, someone had 'a great idea'.

Billy no longer lives at this house. He's since moved on and has his own place now, as we all have. His family's moved down to Florida, and I personally haven't been in the backyard for a long time. But once in a while, after visiting with my mom who still lives on the block, I slow my car down while driving past Billy's driveway to see if I can still make out the words;

"JIMMY C IS A BIG FAT IDIOT"

... carved into the branch in foot-high letters. Sometimes, in the fall, when the leaves have fallen, I can.

I'll never forget the look on Jimmy's face when he saw it for the first - and as far as I know, the LAST - time. Totally defeated. Shoulders hunched over, I saw thoughts flashing across his mind; He couldn't climb fences - forget about trees - and there was no way for him to reach the limb to scratch out the words. None of us were going to take it down; we'd put it up there. For a hundred years, people would know that JIMMY C WAS A BIG FAT IDIOT. He turned and for the last time, I can remember, walked away from us towards his home.

Not long after this time, the guys on the block got older, went to different high schools, colleges, got married, etc... I saw Jimmy once or twice after the events described above, walking down the street, but never saw him again - until Mother's Day 2004.

There's a nice little neighborhood bar/restaurant on the corner of Nostrand Avenue and Avenue T(?) with good traditional Irish food, which my mom loves, so for Mother's Day I took her there for dinner at about 2 in the afternoon.

As we waited to be seated, and our conversation lulled, my eyes drifted around the restaurant and landed in the bar area, where they became locked with a person sitting at the end of the bar. This person had been snickering about something with the bartender but when he saw me he immediately froze. He stared at me with a guilty suspicious stare, his shoulders hunched and he quickly glanced at the floor. I continued looking at him. His appearance was that of someone who had spent a great deal of time in this bar and many others. He was so pale as to be nearly transparent. The only color in his face was provided by broken or dilated capillaries beneath the surface of his skin. His hair was thin and snow white. He was no longer fat, but emaciated. I had heard from Little Chris a few months earlier that there had been a Jimmy siting, and he wasn't looking too good, but I had no idea he was this bad. Jimmy looked half dead.

I don't know what could have been done to make things turn out differently. It's easy to say that Jimmy brought it on himself. He was the older kid and initiated the cruelty and other crap he came up with. It could be a very complicated discussion in trying to figure it out, or you could simply say...

Sometimes bad things happen to bad people.

Neighborhood Bully - The Chink in the Bully Armor

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Mon, 19 May 2008 17:30:00 +0000

... continued from Neighborhood Bully - The Rise

As I said, Glenn getting hit by the car and Jimmy's reaction was a turning point for me. I've spent many years asking myself, "Why didn't I stand up to Jimmy more when he was; beating up little kids, berating other people, cursing out people's mothers, [insert your own rotten deed here], etc...?" It would have saved Glenn alot of heart ache - not to mention multiple major surgeries, therapy, etc... But better late then never... I started to now.

In the summer of '68 or '69 most of us kids on the block were at the point where sports - particularly baseball, stickball & hockey - were big in our lives. There is a variation of stickball that you need a wall for. You drew a rectangle on the wall with chalk (representing the strike zone) and the batter took his place in front of it. The faithful Spaldeen got pitched in and... In the box - strike. Outside the box - ball. Ground ball caught - out. Caught fly - out, etc... With the previously mentioned specs, it's obvious that the only place you could play this version of stickball was in a school yard. So more rules; Over the fence - home run. Top fence section on a fly - triple. Middle fence section on a fly - double. Bottom fence section on a fly - or a ground ball not caught before it hits the fence - single. The school yard behind PS 207 on Fillmore Avenue was perfect for this game.

The small - to some - obstacle was that the school yard was not always open. The gates were chained up and locked from the end of the regular school year until summer school started up in July, when the kids going to summer school had exclusive rights during the day. At the end of their school day the gates were chained up and locked again until the following school day. Sometimes people would use a bolt cutter to make a small hole in the fence, so you could squeeze through, but that would only work for a day or two. They really took care of the school yard fences in our neighborhood. So the only alternative was - over the 12 foot high fence.

One summer afternoon, someone suggested going up to the school yard to play some stickball. "YEAH!" the chorus replied, except for Jimmy. His reply was "Stickball is for faggots." We looked at him like he had three heads, then grabbed our Spaldeens, broomsticks and bikes and headed up the street.

After arriving at the fence, we all chained up our bikes and began scaling. Big Chris - of course - was the first one over. Then Billy and Eddie, then me and Little Chris - not necessarily in that order. We all landed on the other side of the fence and looked out to see Jimmy still there struggling to get his foot into one of the square-shaped holes of the chain link fence. "These stupid shoes my mother bought me... I can't get my toes in the fence," he said, "the toes are too wide."

"Go get some sneakers, then..." someone replied.

"Who wants to play stickball, anyway," Jimmy said. "Like I said, it's for faggots," and he got back on his bike and rode away.

Looking at each other, we shrugged and forgot all about Jimmy the minute the game began. It was the next day when the whole scene was repeated - this time with Jimmy wearing sneakers - that we started smelling something rotten in Jimmy-land. We didn't discuss it between us until the same thing happened yet again. There was a chink in Jimmy's bully armor. He was afraid or unable to climb over the fence because of his weight.

When the autumn came we started playing street hockey. The Rangers were hot that year (Eddie Giacomin, Rod Gilbert, Brad Park, etc...) and so were we. Naturally Jimmy had all the hockey equipment - goals, goalie stick, pads, etc... Based on our summertime experience with Jimmy not being able to climb over the fence, we realized that Jimmy wanted to play goalie so he wouldn't have to move around. One day we were playing when Jimmy refused to admit that someone had scored a goal on him. He said, "I'm taking in all my stuff if you say that the goal was scored." Almost in unison, we all said, "Go ahead." And he did. We got a couple of garbage cans and - side by side - that became the goal. We set up in front of Jimmy's house and saw occasional movement behind his curtains. He was watching us play.

At some point over the next few weeks, must have been World Series time, Jimmy called for me and asked if I wanted to throw the ball around. I said, "Sure," and met him in the street with my ball and glove. My baseball mitt was something left over from the 1930s/1940s that my dad had used when he was a kid. I wish I still I had it today, but at the time we didn't have the money to get me a new one, and I was always embarrassed by it. It wasn't long before I missed one of the crappy throws Jimmy had thrown to me and instead of taking the blame for throwing a stinker, Jimmy said something like, "If you had a real baseball mitt, instead of that piece of shit, you would have caught that."

A year or two earlier I would have gotten embarrassed and taken it, but since my experience with Glenn combined with the fact that Jimmy was losing credibility with everything in the neighborhood, I told him to shove it where the sun don't shine and went back into my house. He stood there with his mouth open and I felt great. Jimmy had lost his perverted edge.

Then it started getting nasty, and for once, we weren't the victims.

To be continued...

Neighborhood Bully - The Rise

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Fri, 16 May 2008 17:33:00 +0000

When I first moved into our new neighborhood in "the country" (Marine Park, Brooklyn) I was 9 years old. The block we moved onto (Kimball Street, between Avenue S and Fillmore Avenue, 3 blocks off Flatbush Avenue) had a good number of kids, around my own age, to play with. Even as the new kid, it was apparent early on that there was a definite pecking order with my new friends.

Billy D and Peter C were the 'older kids' - 13 and already in high school. We didn't see much of them on the block. Eddie, Billy, Big Chris and Jimmy C were closer to my age but were indisputably 'the big kids' at 11 years old. I was in the middle at 9. Bobby and Robbie were 8 years old, then ya had your Little Chris, Glenn, Anthony B1 and Anthony B2, who were 7. I could never figure out how old Ralphie was but I think he was 7 or 8 and was Anthony B1's brother.

Jimmy C - one of the 11-year-olds, had lost his dad a year or two before I moved into the neighborhood. It must have been a horrible thing. When I found out, I felt so bad for him. I couldn't imagine what it would be like for your father to die. Jimmy had two older sisters and, now, a widowed, working mom. She was a very nice woman, but apparently Jimmy's dad had been the one who was in charge of discipline in the family, because from the day his father died, Jimmy never received any. His mother and sisters doted over him and never did anything to correct any of the screwy things he did. "Mommy, I know I'm the only one here, but I swear I didn't knock over the antique grandfather's clock. It fell down all by itself." "I know, Honey. You're such a good boy." Jimmy got away with murder.

In addition to the one thing he needed that he didn't get, Jimmy had everything else he didn't need, including every friggin' toy in the universe. Every GI Joe set, every piece of sports equipment, a set of encyclopedias, books, every game you'd ever heard of, air guns & army surplus gear for playing army... He even had a pool in his backyard - which we used to blow up battleships in, with firecrackers, after setting them on fire - much to his mother's chagrin. But she never said a word. Jimmy had it all - almost.

In personality and physical appearance, Jimmy actually reminds me a great deal of Eric Cartman from South Park - pictured above/right - but not quite as cute. He was never any good at the sports he had the equipment for because he wasn't a physically fit kid. Plain and simple, what he was, was a mean and nasty kid. He physically pushed around all the younger kids in the neighborhood, but most of the damage he inflicted was mental. He was so intimidating that you wanted him as a friend just so he wouldn't make you the butt of his jokes. Here's a couple of examples:

Sitting on his stoop one day, when he was 12 or 13 and I was 10 or 11, Jimmy asked each of the kids what their ethnic backgrounds was. The big kids' backgrounds; Eddie, Billy and Big Chris, and mine, was basically the same as Jimmy's - Irish. Little Chris was Italian and German. The Anthonys and Ralphie were Italian and Jewish, Glenn was German. Jimmy got up and went into his house, returning shortly with a few paperback books called Race Riots. These were books filled with seriously hurtful ethnic humor for all occasions. The ones he brought back were especially for Germans, Jews and Italians... Tons of Nazi jokes and other gems like, "How do Italians have picnics? They gather around the sewer with straws." "What's the object of a Jewish football game? To get the quarter back." "Why do Jews have big noses? Because the air is free." There was one that insinuated that Italian women were pigs. Little Chris had had it 'up-to-here' with this and asked, "My mother's Italian. Are you calling her a pig?" I told you he had guts for a 8 or 9 year-old kid. Jimmy's reply was, "Take it anyway you want," or something equally as clever. Little Chris stood up and, fists clenched for a moment, considered doing something physical, but, to his credit, thought better of it. He simply said "f' you" and went home. Jimmy got away with all this, and more, because, if you got on his bad side he'd turn his wrath against you and you would be humiliated.

I could tell you many more stories, some much worse than the above, but here's one more example. This was the turning point for me.

One afternoon I was sitting on Jimmy's stoop with him, when he saw Glenn coming out of his driveway on his bike. Glenn was about 8 at the time. Jimmy said to me, "Watch this," and proceeded to where Glenn was going to pass by on the sidewalk. Jimmy started yelling, "Hey Glenn. What do you think your doing riding on the sidewalk in front of my house?" and began waving his arms threateningly. Glenn, who at 8 was only allowed to ride his bike on the sidewalk, immediately veered his bike between two parked cars out into the street to avoid Jimmy. He was hit by a car 1 second later. Right in front of Jimmy and me.

Jimmy looked at me and shrugged.

Glenn ended up with a plate in his head and spent 6 months wearing a football helmet.

To be continued...

"Bea, you gotta see this..."

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Sat, 10 May 2008 09:14:00 +0000

This is one of those stories that may not be politically correct to tell, but I believe anyone could see the humor in it. Well, here goes. Who knows? It might elicit comments.

As I've mentioned, my dad was a longshoreman 'down at the docks' in Brooklyn for many years. However, there comes a time in a person's life when carrying 200 pound bags of coffee on your back, all day, takes its toll. Dad saw an opportunity in his late 40s (around 1970) to make a career change that would allow him to stay down at the piers, not lose his ILA (International Longshoreman's Association) union affiliation and would be far less taxing on his body. He could become "A Checker" one of the guys who tally up the cargo coming in and going out via ship and truck 'down at the docks'.

The union thing was big. Not only did it represent stable wages but also was the source for all our medical and dental care. The ILA had so many members that they had their own medical clinic downtown Brooklyn that occupied half a city block. After many years of shaping and struggling to make ends meet, after World War II, longshoremen were finally looked after by the ILA. Not that it was a perfect world, and there weren't questionable 'activities' revolving around the ILA, but the ILA definitely shared its clout with its members.

So dad became "A checker". He knew one or two of the other checkers already on the job but, mostly, he had to make all new buddies. This wasn't a problem for dad. He was always friendly, was always on good terms with everyone - even people he didn't like - and had a kind of open innocence that made people want to talk to him. In no time at all dad was part of the team.

One day at work, sometime in 1978, dad noticed a bunch of his buddies gathered around in a circle, enthusiastically discussing something. Words like "safari", "pyramids", "jungle" and "lions" wafted across the pier. Dad walked over and said, "What's up?"

One of the group replied, "Hi Artie. Well, we're getting a bunch of us together so we can get a group rate on a vacation tour package to Africa. It would be a 10-day guided tour starting off in Egypt and making its way down through the rest of Africa. And if we get enough guys together we'd get a really cheap price." Then he went on to discuss the cost and timing.

Dad replied, "That sounds like a great deal. You need any more for the group? My wife and I might be interested."

"Why... sure! I have some paperwork at home - brochures and such - I'll bring them in tomorrow, so you can take them home to talk it over with your wife."

"Thanks. That'd be great," dad said, then went back to work.

That night dad was very excited. At dinner, he couldn't contain his enthusiasm. "Bea, I'm telling you. It's a chance of a lifetime. Dave graduated college last year, so we finally have some money. I just got a raise. We're still young enough to travel and enjoy it... What do you say?"

Mom replied, "OK. Let's think about it. Bring home the brochures tomorrow night and... we'll see." Mom wasn't too keen on traveling to Africa but it was hard not to catch a dose of dad's excitement.

The next evening, dad came flying in the door after work, "Bea, you gotta see this. Look at these pictures... and there's an overnight cruise down the Nile river... It even includes a safari... not that I could ever shoot anything but just being there seeing wild beasts in their own environment... what a thrill. And it starts off in Egypt and... you know how I've always had a thing for the pyramids..."

Mom took the brochure from dad and began looking it over. "It does seem like a good price... But it says here that the tour will only be in Egypt for 2 days, would you be OK with that..?" Dad nodded that he would. "...the rest of the trip seems to be centered around central Africa... Around, you know... the jungles." Dad smiled and kept nodding. Mom smiled back. "Well... it does sound like a nice package..." then turned the brochure over to look at the back.

At this point, mom's smile expanded. I looked from her to dad and noticed dad noticing her expanding smile. The expression on his face indicated that he thought, 'I've got her!'

Mom kept looking at the back of the brochure and, still smiling, asked, "Hon... are any of the guys that you've been talking about this trip to.... black?"

Dad was a little taken aback. "Why should that matter?"

"I'm just curious."

"Well, let's see... the guy that brought the brochure in... He's black. And... well... one or two of the other guys are black too. But I don't see what you're getting at." Dad was starting to get a little indignant.

"Artie. Think about it... Were they all black?" asked mom.

"Well... I never thought about it... I guess... Now that you mention it... yeah. I guess they all are. How did you know?"

Mom held up the brochure and turned it around so Dad and I could see the back she had been looking at.

ROOTS '78 TOUR
Who are you?
Where do you come from?
Discover your Roots in Africa!

...and underneath was the black power symbol, which can be seen here on Ike Turner's sweater.

Someone was cashing in on the popularity of Alex Haley's book and the 12 hour television mini-series, of the same name, Roots, which had both come out in 1977, the year before.

There was a brief moment of total silence followed by an explosion of laughter. Talk about being where you don't belong - or are not wanted. But, credit to dad, and his friends at work, they never differentiated between him and them - or were just as uncomfortable about bringing up the matter as he might have been - if he had ever noticed.

Next day, dad brought the brochure back to his buddy at work and said, "Well... I don't think my wife and I can make this trip."

His buddy replied, "That's too bad, Artie. It would have been nice having you along."

And that was that.

"No little kids around here got $16 in the bank"

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Fri, 02 May 2008 19:34:00 +0000

When my family was still living at 275 57th Street, in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, one of the ways
I used to pass a hot summer day was to watch the older kids play stickball.

We moved away from this neighborhood when I was 9 years old, so I was never really old enough to participate in these games. The players were mostly teenage kids of various ethnic backgrounds. Guys with names like "Junior", "Julio", "Henry" and "Paulie". These guys seriously resembled characters out of West Side Story and all wore 'wife beater' undershirts as their unofficial stickball uniforms. I wouldn't have been surprised to find out they were carrying switchblades in their back pockets as well.

Home plate was one sewer cover, first base could have been the front fender of a '55 Chevy, second base was the 'next' sewer cover and third base might have been the rear left tire of a Buick. The foul lines were the sidewalks on each side of the street. The bat was a broomstick which may, or may not, have had electrical tape wrapped around one end (as shown above/right) and the ball was (naturally) a Spaldeen (see also The Boundaries of Street Sports).

In the 50s through 70s stickball was a big game in New York City, particularly in Brooklyn. Sometimes some big leaguers would come out incognito and join the fun, getting back to their roots. Willie Mays was one of those who occasionally turned up to play stickball when he was with the NY Giants, before the Giants left for San Francisco in 1958.

It's not as big as it once was, but there's still a faithful few Brooklynites who still play the game regularly.

As long as I can remember, my mom was one who always stressed the importance of saving money. I must have been 7 or 8 when I received a sum of money for some event (birthday, Christmas, Easter? Who knows?) My mom took me up to Manufacturer's Hanover Trust Bank and we opened up an account with 16 whole dollars. I was very proud to have $16 in the bank. I felt "like Rockafella."

One summer day, one of my little-kid friends and I were watching the older kids play stickball. It was between innings, and nothing really exciting had happened in the last inning of the game to talk about. I figured I would take this opportunity to break the silence by casually mentioning the fact that I, J.P. Morgan himself, had recently made a deposit of the amazing sum of $16.00 into the bank.

My friend's bitter and forceful reply was, "No little kids around here got $16 in the bank".

I was crushed. I don't know why, but it seemed terribly important that he believe that I had a bank account. But the more I pressed the point the stronger he professed his disbelief. Eventually he walked away shaking his head and I don't remember him ever speaking to me again.

I never realized it until recently, but he was probably right. We lived in a very poor neighborhood. It's unlikely that any of the friends I had on that block had bank accounts. But in the past I never really thought about the neighborhood as being poor.

Funny how it takes a long time for some things to register.

Pizza for Valentines Day

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Thu, 01 May 2008 12:54:00 +0000

Life seemed much simpler in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn in 1965.

Take Valentines Day for instance. These days it seems like every other guy you come across is spending a fortune to buy his best girl diamonds, pearls or some other extravagant expression of --- what? 'I used to have alot of money'? Don't get me wrong, I think there's a place for bling - as long as there's thought behind it.

There was an Italian restaurant/pizza place called Frank's on 4th Avenue between 58th and 59th streets in Bay Ridge. It was an Italian family-owned and run place that had the round tables in the middle of the floor and a few booths along the wall. All the tables had red and white checkered table cloths. There were glass jars of oil, parmesan cheese and dried peppers and dishes of olives sitting in the center of each table. The mouth watering smells of tomato sauce, cheese and roasted garlic permeated the air. Frank's was very much like Louie's, the Italian restaurant in The Godfather, where we heard the following exchange:

Capt. McCluskey: How's the Italian food in this restaurant?
Sollozzo: Good. Try the veal, it's the best in the city.

Once in a blue moon, my family would walk up to 4th Avenue to treat ourselves to a Saturday night out at Frank's. Spaghetti and meatballs - $.85. Sometimes my dad would "go pick us up a pie" and we'd eat at home while watching Get Smart on TV. It's a given that Brooklyn pizza is the best and, in my family's opinion, Frank's rated up there as some of the best pizza in Brooklyn.

In 1965, Valentine's Day happened to fall on a Saturday. Out of the blue, my dad suggested that he go pick us up a pie at Frank's. While he was gone, the rest of us set up the tables, chairs and plates, the whole time anticipating sinking our teeth into a couple of slices of Frank's finest.

After a while, mom became concerned that dad was taking so long. It usually only took him 20 or 25 minutes to pop up to 4th Avenue pick up the pie and return home. It had been over an hour since he left to go up to Frank's. We lived in a rough neighborhood, but my brother and I were confident that dad - being a body builder and longshoreman - could handle himself. Still...

Just as we were about to call the police, we heard dad coming up the stairs of our apartment building. Phew! The door opened and there stood dad with a pizza box in his hands and a mischievous grin on his face. "What?" mom asked. "You'll see", dad replied. We all moved into the living room.

Dad made a big production of placing the pizza box on the living room coffee table. Then slowly and deliberately, and with as much flourish as possible, he opened the box. "TA DA!" he said, gesturing towards the box with outstretched hands. We all leaned forward to see what was up.

Inside was a heart shaped pizza. "Happy Valentine's Day", dad told mom, then gave her a big kiss. Mom exclaimed, "Ohhhhhhh!" in the way some women do, and kissed him back. "That's so clever. I've never seen one of these before. How did you get him to make it in the shape of a heart? But what took you so long, hon?"

Dad then explained that he'd been thinking about giving mom a heart-shaped pizza for Valentine's Day for some time but when he tried describing what he wanted to the pizza guy at Frank's (was it Frank? we'll never know) he couldn't. The barrier, of course, was the fact that dad didn't speak any Italian and the pizza guy could speak only enough English to take the typical customer's order. "Two slice. One Coke." But dad found a solution.

Joe Coco owned a little Italian grocery store on the street level of the apartment building dad's mom (my grandmother) lived in. It was only a couple of blocks away from Frank's. Dad ran over to Joe Coco's store and caught him just as he was closing shop for the night. Joe was a quiet, nice, gracious, generous and helpful Italian gentleman who also happened to have a crush on dad's aunt Flory - my grandmother's sister. I don't know which one of those traits was responsible for him helping out, but when dad asked Joe if he would do him a favor, Joe didn't hesitate.

Joe and dad went back to Frank's, dad told Joe what he wanted and Joe translated to the pizza guy.

And mom got a heart-shaped pizza for Valentines Day.

And a couple of years later Joe Coco became Uncle Joe when he married Aunt Flory.

Angry Cubans

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Sat, 19 Apr 2008 10:45:00 +0000

At the time of my birth in 1957 until I was 9 years old my family lived at 275 57th Street between 2nd and 3rd Avenues in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, NY. (or as it was called back in the day of the two-digit zip code, Brooklyn 20, NY). Bay Ridge was a Brooklyn within a Brooklyn - sort of a melting pot inside the melting pot. Within a 10 block radius of my apartment building, there were enclaves of Norwegians, Swedes, Irish, Puerto Ricans, Finnish, Italians, African Americans, Jews, Poles, West Indians, Asians, Cubans and more. The smells of different kinds of food cooking in that neighborhood on a hot Sunday afternoon when all the windows were open... Beautiful.

A tangible dividing line was the extension to the elevated Gowanus Expressway that ran outside our 3rd floor apartment windows, along 3rd Avenue. If you lived on the high side of the Gowanus (3rd Avenue and up) the dwellings you lived in were nice looking brownstones and some were actually houses owned by the people who lived in them.

On the other side of 3rd Avenue, the low side, where we lived, the families who lived there were mostly apartment renters and worked 'on the docks' that were only a block and a half away (as you can see from this map). People who had jobs 'on the docks' were either longshoremen - like my dad - checkers, talliers, fork lift operators, truck drivers, etc... Anyone involved in shipping and related businesses. These people were hard working first or second generation immigrants that broke their back so their kids could have a better life. I've got some good long shoreman stories for you, but that will be for another day.

Meanwhile back to the angry Cubans...

As I mentioned above, there were a significant number of Cuban immigrants in my neighborhood. Some had come there to live before, but most were refugees who had escaped Cuba just after, the January 1959 revolution led by Fidel Castro which succeeded in overthrowing the government of Batista.

I don't remember the exact year of the event I'm about to describe - I was very young and this is one of my first memories. It could have been immediately following the revolution or around the time of the Bay Of Pigs Invasion. Whatever the event, it caused a lot of Cubans to be very pissed off.

It was about 10:00 PM on a Sunday night and we had just driven home from a weekend of visiting friends upstate in Sloatsburg, NY. I was pretending to be asleep, stretched across the backseat of the car (Car seat? What's a car seat?) so my dad would carry me up the three flights of stairs to our apartment. My view was obscured by the front seat so I didn't see what my parents saw when they turned the corner. But I remember hearing a low roar coming in through the car windows. After my father reached in to grab me and threw me over his shoulder, I felt it was safe to open my eyes to see what all the hubbub was.

From every telephone pole, on both sides of the street, for as far as I could see down the block, Fidel Castro had been hung in effigy and set on fire. Have a look at the image above/right and imagine what the block looked like if one of these was hanging from every telephone pole. There had to be fifty of them. This image is one I will never forget. Anyone else ever experience anything like this?

It was at this point when either my mom or dad said, "We gotta get outta this neighborhood." This may have been the catalyst which made them begin saving money to move out to 'the country', Marine Park, Brooklyn.

P.S. Castro just retired this past February 2008, with nearly 50 years under his belt as the ruler/dictator/leader of our uncomfortable neighbor. He outlasted 10 U.S. Presidents - if you count W's presidency(s).

Subway Adventure - Part 3

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 20:13:00 +0000

---- continued from Subway Adventure Part 2

Lowel and I looked at each other and said something like "holy crap."

We picked up the pace as fast as we could without falling off the ledge, but knew that it was hopeless; if the train was coming from behind us, it would certainly get to us before we got to the Atlantic Avenue station.

As we moved along we kept stealing glances behind us. The sound of the train had diminished some, but if indeed it was behind us, that was probably only because it had stopped at the Dekalb Avenue station to leave off and take on more passengers. No doubt it would start up again very soon.

As I mentioned earlier, Lowel and I had occasionally passed rectangular openings in the tunnel walls to our right, about the size of small doors. We hadn't been able to see too far into them, due to the darkness. We thought that now might be an ideal time for us to investigate. When we got to the next one I reached my arm in, to gauge the depth, and found that it was only about a foot deep and two feet wide. That wasn't large enough to shelter the both of us so we took a gamble and moved on ahead in hopes of finding another. After we had moved forward about 20 paces, the sound of the train started up again.

The sound started as a low rumble, then built. Lowel and I nearly tripped over ourselves, and off the side, as we now ran as fast as we could go on the ledge. Suddenly the headlights from the train rounded the bend behind us and our worst fears were confirmed. In a matter of seconds the train would be upon us.

Talk about terror. Here we were; two 12 year old kids having made a horrible mistake by venturing into a subway tunnel. Now we were screwed. In a split-second, various thoughts ran through my mind; If we were to simply turn sideways on the ledge, what would happen? Well, the train would pass by us by inches - barely missing our noses. It might be OK, but... Coincidentally, we had recently learned about the Venturi effect and Bernoulli's principle in science class. This lesson suddenly popped into my mind. Is it posible that we would get sucked off the wall right into the side of the train? Meanwhile the train was getting closer. "Holy Crap!"

The closer the train got, the louder it became. It was LOUD and getting louder by the second. Another thing that happened as the train got closer was that the headlight on the train got brighter. As the headlight became brighter, it was uncomfortable to look at, so Lowel and I reluctantly turned away from the train and towards the Atlantic Avenue station again. It's never good to have 'bad' at your back but...

To our surprise, the headlight from the train served a positive purpose too; to illuminate the way ahead. There, only a few feet in front of us, was another rectangular opening. With the headlight shining from behind us we were able to see that this opening was deeper than the last. It would hold Lowel and I, if only we could get there in time.

Just then, the train horn blew. As if it wasn't loud enough already... But this was a bad sign. It meant that the engineer piloting the train had seen us. If we didn't get killed at least we could look forward to being in trouble - great. But judging by the sound building behind us, he was too close now to slow down.

Miracles do happen - even to stupid and mischievous 12-year-olds. With the combined sounds of the steel wheels grinding against the rails and the train horn screaming behind us, Lowel and I managed to reach the opening in the wall right before the train reached us. We got ourselves into the opening and turned to face the train, while holding onto the frame of the doorway, to avoid being sucked out.

Talk about an assault on the senses. We were totally deafened, and nearly blinded by the flashing lights from the train windows contrasting with the darkness of the tunnel. Luckily neither the Venturi effect or Bernoulli's principle manifested themselves against us, probably because we were holding on so tight that we were virtually frozen to the wall.

The train was moving so fast that it was all over in about 10 seconds and the engineer never stopped the train. Lowel and I managed to extract our fingers from the walls and moved back out onto the ledge, just in time to see the rear end of the train stop in the Atlantic Avenue station ahead. With all the looking behind us we didn't realize that we were almost there.

Before we got to the Atlantic Avenue station, the train pulled out, leaving a deserted station behind it. With our hearts still beating a-mile-a-minute, Lowel and I stepped over the "Do Not Cross" chain and entered the platform area. No police waited for us. No transit employees. We were alone. We stepped back onto the platform and waited for the next train.

Every time I have ridden in a subway since then, and have had the pleasure of being in the front car, I look out the front window.

So far I haven't see anyone out there on the ledge - as stupid as Lowel and I were that day after school in the 7th grade.

Subway Adventure - Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 14:37:00 +0000

---- continued from Subway Adventure Part 1

With our flattened pennies securely in our pockets, (see the actual penny from the story here) Lowel and I walked along the tracks towards the maintenance access ladder at the end of the platform. It seemed like it would be much easier than wriggling up onto the platform the way we did it before - grabbing the edge of the platform and, with a jump, pulling ourselves up. Easier on the shirt-front too.

When we got up onto the ledge we found it to be about shoulder-width; plenty wide enough for two seventh-grade kids to walk along for any distance.

"Are you sure about this," I asked Lowel one last time.

"What are you, scared?"

"No. I mean yeah, a little. What if another train comes by?"

"Well, if you're scared..."

"OK. Let's go," and we started into the tunnel.

You'd be surprised how quiet it is in these tunnels. And the further in you go, the quieter it becomes. We were about 30-50 feet in when all we could hear was water trickling into a puddle somewhere off in the dark, the loose cement grinding under our shoes as we walked and a low rumble from trains running off in the distance.

The tunnel we entered was different than the image shown above/right. First, the walls were vertical and the ceiling was horizontal and significantly lower - only a couple of feet above our heads - just enough room for the subway cars to fit through. There was no fancy arched ceiling. Second, not only did it get quieter the further we went into the tunnel but it got very dark as well. Every so often we'd come across a low wattage bulb that was covered with what seemed like a quarter inch of soot so that it didn't give off much more than a faint glow. Occasionally we would pass a rectangular opening in the wall to our right, about the dimensions of a small door, but it was way too dark to see anything beyond a few inches. We couldn't tell how deep these openings went.

The tracks between the Dekalb Avenue and Atlantic Avenue subway stations do not move straight ahead but rather in a curve so that the proverbial 'light at the end of the tunnel' was not yet visible. We had kept glancing back behind us to keep our eyes out for the next train, but so far the coast was clear. Having the Dekalb Avenue station still visible behind us had been a comfort, as well.

With the sound and darkness being what it was, we began to see things in the tunnel. On more than one occasional both Lowel and I thought we saw people walking towards us, on the tracks, out of the shadows. We definitely saw either small cats or large rats scampering around down on the tracks. Without having to say anything to each other, we increased our pace.

About this time, we heard a train coming from somewhere and the sound was steadily growing in volume. Glancing behind us we could still make out the lights of the Dekalb Avenue station, so we knew the train wasn't behind us. We figured it must be coming from the direction of the Atlantic Avenue station. Sure enough, a few seconds later, rounding the bend in front of us were the lights from an on-coming train.

The sound grew to such a level that Lowel and I had to cover our ears. Granted the train was across the tracks and on the other side of the tunnel, but when it was even with us the sound was deafening - even through our hands. In the dark tunnel, the light from the windows of the train passing by, blinked with the frequency of the panes of the windows and vertical steel support girders for the tunnel, with the effect being that of a strobe light. Crazy!

After the train finally passed by us, the sound and light show slowly diminished as the distance increased. Our pace, however, quickened even more.

For the last couple of minutes our attention had been focussed on the possible dangers lurking around us and dealing with the assault on our senses that the passing train had provided. We hadn't looked back towards the reassuring light from the Dekalb Avenue station in a while. When we finally did, there was no station in site. We then realized that we must have reached the mid-way point between stations. There was no light in front of us and no light behind. There was only the dim light of the soot encrusted bulbs to guide us. It was very dark.

This was about when we heard the next train coming. And this time it sounded as if it was coming from behind us.

To be continued------

Subway Adventure - Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 14:23:00 +0000

Once upon a time, back in the late 60s/early 70s, my friend Lowel Consuegra and I were on our way home from school and looking for some excitement. We decided that laying some pennies on the subway tracks at the Dekalb Avenue station would provide that, plus we were always curious what would happen anyway so... "Let's do it!"

We climbed down off the platform (ever conscious of the ominous THIRD RAIL) and I was immediately hit by that eerie 'I'm somewhere over the edge, in some place I'm not supposed to be and what if I can't get back in time' feeling. It was exhilarating. We laid our pennies down on the track as quickly as possible.

Fortunately we were able to scramble back up onto the platform by the time the next train arrived. We were at the 'front' of the station, a minute later, when the old D train pulled in and came to a stop. The fact that we were just standing there and not getting on the train made the engineer give Lowel and me a very suspicious look. Nevertheless, after a moment, the train pulled out of the station.

Lowel and I scrambled back onto the tracks and grabbed our flattened pennies. "Cool. A new guitar pick." Figuring we had plenty of time now, because the last train had just pulled out of the station, Lowel and I took our time looking around. What we saw was similar to the image above/right.

Lowel, being the troublemaker my mother always warned me to stay away from, said, "Hey, I wonder if that ledge on the right goes all the way to the next station?"

"Uh... I don't know."

"Let's check it out."

"I don't know, man."

"Come on. It'll be cool."

"OK. Let's go, but we better hurry. I just don't want to get caught in there when the next train comes through."

"The last train just left. It won't be a problem. Come on..."

To Be Continued------

Ode To Brooklyn

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 15:37:00 +0000

This post is brought to you by an old friend - James Gershon - who received it from his sister Jeannie (I think that may actually be her in the picture of Jahn's "Kitchen Sink" below...). Thanks guys! Some of these memories are from before my time (even) but most I remember. You may too.

1. The subway, bus, and trolley were only a thin dime to ride, and if you are really old, you'll remember a nickel a ride.

2. Schools were the showcase for the whole country.

3. Tuesday night was fireworks night in Coney Island put on by Schaefer Brewing Company.

4. There was very little pornography.

5. There were the bath houses: Stauches, Bushman Baths, Steeplechase Baths, Washington Baths, Ravenhall, and Brighton Beach Baths.

6. There was respect for teachers and older people in general.

7. There was almost no violence.

8. The theme of the music of the times, even when it became rock and roll, was love not anger.

9. A great day was going to the beach at Coney Island or Brighton Beach.

10. People made a living and, rich or poor, most people knew how to have a good time no matter of status.

11. There was no better hot dog than the original at Nathan's in Coney Island. And no better French fries than the Nathan's thick ripple cuts.

12. There were very few divorces and few "one parent" families.

13. There were little drugs or drug problems in the lives of most people.

14. The rides and shows of Coney Island were fantastic: Steeplechase Park the horses, the big slide, the barrels, the zoo (maze), the human pool table, the Cyclone Roller Coaster, the Tornado Roller Coaster, the Thunderbolt Roller Coaster, the Bobsled, the Virginia Reel, the Wonder Wheel, the Bumper cars, the Tunnel of love, Battaway, the loop the loop, the bubble bounce, miniature golf, the whip, the many merry-go-rounds, the penny arcades. Lu na Park, the Thompson Roller Coaster, the Parachute jump, Fabers Sportsland and Fascination, toffee and cotton candy stores, custard stands, Pokerama, Skeeball, prize games, fortune tellers guess games, hammer games, the Harlem revue, the freak shows, the house of wax, the animal nursery, restaurants, rifle ranges, push cart rides and parades.

15. The fruit man, the tool sharpener, the junk man and the watermelon man all with the horse and wagon.

16. Sheepshead Bay was Lundy's Restaurant and fishing.

17. Only place for pizza and only whole pizzas was Joe's Bar and Grill on Ave U. Then in the mid-50's, a pizza explosion: you could buy it by the slice for a dime at many places. By the late 50's it was a whole 15 cents a slice! A tuna fish sandwich or a BLT were 45 cents. A small Coke was 7 cents, a large Coke was 12 cents. Remember Vanilla Cokes when they pumped real vanilla syrup into the glass before adding the Coke?

18. There were many theaters where every Saturday afternoon you could see 25 cartoons and two feature films. The Highway, the Avalon, the K ingsway, the Mayfair, the Claridge, the Tuxedo, the Oceana, the Oriental, the Avenue U,the Kent, the Paramount, the RKO Tilyou, the Mermaid, the Surf, the Walker, the Albemarle, the Alpine, the Rugby, the Ambassador, the People's Cinema, the Canarsie, the Marlboro, the Avon, and the Globe.

19. Everybody knew all the high schools in Brooklyn.

20. Big eating and coffee hangouts: Dubrow's on Kings Highway, also on Eastern Parkway/Utica Avenue, Famous on 86th Street, and Garfield's on Flatbush Avenue.

21. Ebinger's was the great bakery ... loved the chocolate butter cream with the almonds on the side, Boston Cream pie, and the Blackout cakes! Bierman's was terrific also.

22. Kings Highway stores had their own ornate glitz as far as style goes.

23. There were many delicatessens in the 50's -- very few today. The best? Adelman's on 13th Avenue and Hymie's on Sutter Avenue. The food was from heaven!

24. Big night clubs in Brooklyn were the Ben Maksiks' "Town and Country" on Flatbush Avenue and "The Elegante' " on Ocean Parkway.

25. There were no fast food restaurants in the 50's and a hamburger tasted like a hamburger.

26. There was Murray the K , rock and roll concerts at the Brooklyn Fox and the Brooklyn Paramount. You had to go the night before to get good seats.

27. Quick bites at Brennan and Carr, Horn and Hardart Automat, Nedick's, Big Daddy's, Chock Full o' Nuts, Junior's, Grabsteins, or Joe's Delicatessen. Junior's, you'll be glad to know, is still in the same place, and their cheesecake is still fabulous.

28 . Knishes were great at Mrs. Stahl's in Brighton or at Shatzkin's Knishes. Remember the knish guy on the beach with the shopping bags? Mrs. Stahl's Knishes is now a Subway.

29. People in Brooklyn took pride in owning a Chevy in the 50's; there was nothing better than General Motors then. The cars would run and run and run, no problems.

30. You bought sour pickles right out of the barrel -- for a nickel -- and they were delicious. By the 60's, they cost a whole quarter. Anyone remember Miller's Appetizing, on the corner of 13th Avenue and 50th Street?

31. The Brooklyn Dodgers were part of your family. The Duke, the Scoonge, Pee Wee, Jackie, the Preacher, Campy, Junior, Clem, Big Don, Gil. They were always in a lot of our conversations. Remember Ebbet's Field and Happy Felton's Knothole club? For a nickel, you got into Ebbet's Field and saw the Dodgers play. For Brooklynites it was -- and will always be -- a shrine.

32. You come from Brooklyn but you don't think you have an accent. To you Long Island is one word which sounds like "Longuyland."

33. You played a lot of games as kids. Depending on whether you were a boy or a girl, you could play: ringaleaveo, Johnny on the Pony, Hide and Seek, three feet off to Germany, red light-green light, chase the white horse, kick the can, Buck, Buck, how many horns are up?, war, hit the penny, pussy-in-the-corner, jump rope, double-dutch, Stories, A-My Name Is, box ball,stick ball, box baseball, catch a fly, dodge ball, stoop ball, you're up, running bases, iron tag, skelly, tops, punch ball, handball, slap ball, whiffle ball,stick ball, poison ball, relay races, softball, baseball, basketball, horse, 5-3-1, around the world, foul shooting, knockout, arm wrestling, Indianwrestling. And then there were card games like canasta, casino, hearts, pinochle, war, and the unhappy game of 52-card pickup.

34. You hung out on people's stoops or in the Courtyard.

35. You learned how to dance at some girl's backyard or house.

36. You roller skated at Park Circle or Empire Blvd. skating rinks in skates with wooden wheels. You had roller skates at home with metal wheels for using on the sidewalks, and you needed a skate key to tighten them around your shoes. Those metal wheels on concrete were deafening!

37. The big sneaker was Converse. Also Keds and P-F Flyers.

38. The guys wore Chino pants with a little buckle on the back, peg pants, and the girls wore long wide dresses. Remember gray wool skirts with pink felt poodles on them? The poodles had rhinestone eyes.

39. In the 50's rock and roll started big teen styles for the first time.

40. Everyone went to a Bar Mitzvah even if you weren't Jewish.

41. Everyone took their date to Plum Beach for the submarine races.

42. There were 3 main nationalities in Brooklyn in the 50's: Italians, Irish and Jewish. Then there was a sprinkling of everyone else. The Scandinavians and Greeks in Bay Ridge, the African Americans in Bedford Stuyvesant and the Polish of Green Point.

43. The only way to get to Staten Island was by ferry from the 67th Street pier in Brooklyn. It was a great ride in the summer time for a dime.

44. In Brooklyn, a fire hydrant is a "Johnny pump."

45. Rides on a truck came to your neighborhood to give little kids a ride for a dime. The best one was the "whip," which spun you around a track. You got a little prize when you got off, sometimes a folding paper fan, sometimes a straw tube that you inserted two fingers into, that tightened as you tried to pull your fingers out again.

46. As a kid you hit people with water balloons from atop a building, you shot linoleum projectiles from a carpet gun, you shot dried peas from pea shooters, and you shot paperclips at people with a rubber band.

47. You shopped at EJ Korvettes, Robert Hall, Woolworth's, Mays, McCrory's, Packers, A&P, Bohack, A&S. Barney's was Barney's Boys Town back then, and not a luxury store. You bought your shoes at National and Miles, A.S. Beck. When you got married you bought your dishes at Fortunoff's under the "el".

48. NBC main production studio was on Avenue M. and East. 16th St. The Cosby show was made there.

49. Everybody lived near a candy store and a grocery store.

50. The first mall comes to Brooklyn at Kings Plaza - (opening in 1970).

51. Bagel stores start popping up everywhere in th e 60's.

52. Went to Jahn's Ice Cream Parlor with a big group and had the "Kitchen Sink." If it was your birthday - you had to bring your birth certificate - you would get a sundae free.

53. Everybody knew somebody who was a connected guy.

54. We used the word "swell"; that's passé today.

55. In the summer we all waited for the Good Humor, Bungalow Bar, Mister Softee o r Freezer Fresh man to come into our neighborhood to buy ice cream. In the early to mid 50's, the Good Humor man pushed a cart instead of driving a truck. Remember the bells? Soda was 15 cents. A large cup was 15 cents, a small cup was a dime. And a sundae -- remember licking the chocolate off the back of the cardboard top? -- was a quarter. (Movie stars pictures on bottom of the Dixie cup lids). As a kid growing up in the 1950s we would spend our money on bubble gum baseball cards, candy and ice cream. A pack of baseball cards (complete with a stick of bubble gum) and full-size candy bars were 5 cents each or six for a quarter.

In those days there were lots of interesting coins still in circulation. Dimes and quarters we still made of silver. The oldest Roosevelt dimes were not yet 15 years old. It was not uncommon to find Mercury dimes or worn out Standing Liberty quarters; and Buffalo or Indian Head nickels were common too. Most pennies were wheat-backs; they didn't get the familiar Lincoln Memorial on the reverse until 1959. With luck it was even possible to find an occasional Indian Head penny in your change. But the most coveted find (for us kids, anyway) was the unusual 1943 steel penny.

56. Many of us would sneak cigarettes and hide them when we got home.

57. When we talked about "the city" everyone knew we meant... Manhattan.

58. The Mets in the 60's became our substitute for the Dodgers. But they never did, and never will, make up for the Dodgers leaving.

59. In the 60's we were ready to drive and hit the night life scene. With the car came the girls.

60. We are all in a select club because we have roots in BROOKLYN.

"Buck Buck...

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 01:46:00 +0000

...How any fingers are up?" When I was growing up, this refrain was heard all over Brooklyn. It came from those who were playing Buck Buck, also known as Johnny On the Pony. The game has apparently been around for hundreds of years. I have to confess, I never played with girls (especially girls who looked like the one pictured in the above/right) and therefore I never really got the game.

Buck Buck was played by two teams consisting of three, four, five or six players on each team. The first team would take the pole (another telephone pole game) or a car bumper, stoop, etc... and the second team would prepare to 'jump'. The 'anchor man' (DAMN that's manly) of the first team would bend over at the waist and put his shoulder into the telephone pole - body parallel to the ground, legs parallel to the pole - and hug the pole. Then the second player on the first team would get behind him and either put his shoulder into the Anchor Man's butt, wrapping his arm around the anchor man's legs, or would get right up behind him, bend over and hug him around the waist. And so on until you had a line of guys bent over hugging each other from behind, looking mighty uncomfortable.

The second team would position themselves directly behind the last member of the first team. The first member of the second team would back up as far as he needed to get a good running start, then take off towards the pile of bent over bodies. His goal was to jump as far as possible towards the front of the line of bent-over opponents and land on top with as much force as possible. He had to get as far in towards the pole as possible so the maximum amount of second team players could 'mount' the pony, adding as much weight as possible and making it difficult for the first team to support their weight.

If they managed to support the first team's weight, the first team captain would hold a number of fingers in the air and yell, "Buck Buck how many fingers are up?" The first team would try to guess the number.

I don't even know how this game was won or lost, because no one ever played long enough to reach the conclusion. Something didn't feel right.

Maybe we were playing it wrong? Maybe we should have gotten Eva May involved?

Anyone have any clarification?

The Boundaries of Street Sports

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 07:52:00 +0000

The use of "Boundaries" doesn't refer to the limitations of playing sports in the street. If anything it was much more challenging than playing on a field or court. Not only were you outrunning your opponent, but you also had to outrun cars, crazy dogs - and sometimes girls running you down with 26" bikes (Eva May) who wanted to kiss you. Eeeewww!

The way we played street sports would be impossible to play on a field or court. This was due to the boundaries and obstacles we used to define the ins and outs, the plays, the lines of scrimmage, sidelines, lines for singles, doubles, triples, home runs, etc...

90% of street sports owe their existence to the invention of the Spalding Hi-Bounce pink ball (pictured above/right), traditionally known as the "Spaldeen". They cost 15 cents at Murray's candy store and lasted only up to a couple of weeks at best (before splitting or going dead) but they were great. When you first bought one they had this reddish/pink line around the seam (indicating newness) and a smell I will never forget. But don't fall for imitations (Pensie Pinkies) or - God forbid - the pink sponge balls, or you'll get laughed off the block! When they went up to 25 cents each, my life changed.

Ya had your stoop ball, box ball, pole-to-pole, laying a patch (see Skid Marks and Blood Brothers from April 4), crack top, buck buck, bottle caps (were those last three games or sports?) and more.

Stoop ball was a simple game that was played using rules similar to baseball. But instead of having the ball pitched to the batter, the batter hitting the ball with a bat into the field and the fielders fielding the ball, what would happen is this... The guy who was "up" (we'll call him the 'batter') stood facing the stoop about four steps away. The fielders (you could have one, two or three fielders) played 1) behind the batter on the sidewalk, 2) middle of the street and 3) across the street on the opposite sidewalk (when you were playing one-on-one the fielder would play the middle of the street position). The batter would then throw the Spaldeen against the stoop. If it came off the stoop as a grounder, bouncing before the street and was caught - one out. If it was bobbled or missed - Error; man on base. If the ball managed to get into the street on a fly and bounced once without being caught - single. Twice - double. Three times - triple. If the ball made it onto the other side of the street without bouncing - HR. The ideal shot would be for the batter to throw the ball and have it land on the point of one of the steps. That sucka would take off! If thrown hard enough, the ball could end up in the neighbor's back yard - across the street.

Box Ball. The 'boxes' are the forms of concrete laid out in squares which make up sidewalks all over New York and other urban settings. There were, at least, two versions of Box Ball that I know of:

1) 2 boxes separate you and an opponent in a straight line. The object is for you to hit the Spaldeen into the opponent's box using the palm of your hand as a paddle. You scored points only when serving, and when the opponent missed a return. There is also a 4 box variation for 4 players. The boxes being adjacent, making up a square.

2) 5 boxes separate you and an opponent in a straight line. One player begins the game by throwing the Spaldeen into the 'first box', directly in front of his opponent. Whether the player gets it into the box or not, it's then the opponent's turn. Once you are able to get the ball into the first box, you then try to throw the ball into the box that is two boxes away from your opponent, the 'second box', and have it bounce in both the second box and again in the first box, once each, then so on... The first person to bounce the Spaldeen successfully in all 5 boxes between him and the opponent once, wins.

Pole-to-pole was our version of football. Without goal posts, side lines or yard lines we used the boundaries the environment presented us with. The side lines were the curb of the sidewalks - that's easy. You touch the curb - you're out of bounds. The length and 'yardage' associated with the playing field was determined by the distance between telephone poles. One telephone pole was considered one end, or goal-line, of the field. Go one more (the middle pole) - that was the 50 yard line. Get past that before going 4 downs and you get a first down. One more pole and you're at the opposite end or goal-line. From play to play, lines of scrimmage were marked by spitting into the street at the point of the last tackle or where you went out of bounds. Yes. I said tackle, and with all the spitting going on between plays, to mark scrimmage, it got slippery and messy out there.

Typical plays were the 'button hook', 'out and in', 'over and out', 'out and over', 'the bomb' and 'the flea-flicker'.... "and I'll hit you" ... 'behind the red Chevy', 'by Mrs. Silverman's garbage cans', 'on the manhole cover in front of the Billy Ryan's house'.

We also played stick ball, punch ball, roller and foot hockey, basketball and other sports, between our block and others, but those are stories for another day...

Skid Marks and Blood Brothers

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Fri, 04 Apr 2008 12:25:00 +0000

Gimme a sting ray bike, with a banana seat, on a sunny, summer morning in 1968 and I'm set.

I waited a long time for my first bike. Our block on 57th Street between 3rd and 2nd Avenues in Bay Ridge (basically a demilitarized zone from the late 50s until sometime in the 90s when gentrification hit) was not conducive to bike riding. Narrow streets and constant traffic. Also my parents (a longshoreman and an Avon lady) were struggling to save up to buy a house out in Marine Park, Brooklyn - 'the country'. A bike was not edible therefore not necessary.

After the move, I had access to an old, rusty, two-wheeler but had to wait until Christmas 1967, when I got my first 'cool' bike. There was no holding me back after that.

One of my buddies in the new neighborhood - 'Big Chris' Mussig (not to be confused with 'Little Chris' Sippel) was known for his athletic prowess and other amazing talents. One of these was the ability to 'leave a patch' - or black tire skid mark - on the asphalt when he braked his bike real hard. You had to have a foot brake to do this. Wimpy hand brakes need not apply.

So we decided to begin a competition. Who could leave the longest patch? It's always about size isn't it?

The idea was this - go down to one end of the block (Avenue S), turn around and start peddling towards the other end of the block (Fillmore Avenue) like a madman. When you reached the designated telephone pole, you'd jam on the brakes. Whoever left the longest patch won. This competition would last for years.

Being blood brothers with someone was a serious and sacred ceremony that took place between best friends. You know the story; two friends would cut themselves, press their wounds together (thereby exchanging bodily fluids and their spirits, of course) and swear eternal allegiance to each other. In practicality this allegiance would last only as long as he would let you play with his GI Joe. In these days of air and, especially, bloodborne pathogens, I'm not sure this serious rite of brotherhood has survived. But still...

To refuse someone's offer of becoming blood brothers was a serious insult, but purposely cutting one's self with the ever faithful pen knife wasn't my idea of fun either. Luckily it was early enough in my career in the new neighborhood that no one had yet asked me, but I secretly dreaded the day when it would happen.

One perfect summer afternoon, we were having one of our 'leave the longest patch' competitions. It was my turn to rocket down Kimball Street towards Fillmore Ave. About half way down the block with my eyes on the goal, and not on the street in front of me, my front tire hit a large acorn that had fallen from one of the big trees lining the street. Before I knew what had happened I was sailing through the air towards Mr. Cavanaugh's Buick. I put up my arms to protect my face but the next thing I knew I was laying in the street bleeding from both elbows.

The guys all ran back up the block to gauge the damage. "You OK, Campbell?," one of them asked. After the initial shock wore off I answered, "Yeah". Assured that I was still breathing they were now free to each ponder the sudden opportunity this situation presented to them. One less opponent in the 'leave the longest patch' competition. Most of them went back down the block to get their bikes. Only 'Little Chris' stayed behind to make sure I was OK.

I was still reeling slightly when an idea hit me. I'm bleeding and I didn't have to cut myself. Now was the perfect time to offer to become blood brothers with someone. I immediately said to Little Chris, "Hey, want to be blood brothers?" Little Chris was a little younger than the rest of us - probably two years younger than I was - but he was a gutsy guy. After only a slight hesitation he said, "Uh... OK," and set about rubbing the side of his hand against the curb until it began to bleed. We pressed our wounds together and...

40 years later, Little Chris is still one of my best friends.

Handball

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Wed, 02 Apr 2008 21:03:00 +0000

Claims have been made that the first official handball court was constructed in Brooklyn in 1877. There have been disputes over this fact (get a life. All good things come from Brooklyn) but it is indisputable that handball was a large part of the culture while I was growing up and remains so today, thanks to our great public parks system. Scenes similar to the one above/right have been typical for decades; people playing while others are lined up on the fence waiting for the next game.

I suppose in part, my interest had a great deal to do with the fact that my dad had been handball champion of Brooklyn for two years in a row during the thirties. Family legend has it that he beat Chuck Conners (The Rifeman) in the finals one year. I went with him every weekend, and sometimes after he came home from work, I'd follow him up to the playground. My dad played in all seasons - loved the game. In fact he played his whole life, until he was about 70 years old, and I was never able to beat him once. Put us in a racquetball court, however... but that's a different story.

Back in the late fifties/early sixties, on the court on 65th Street between 3rd and 2nd Avenues, in our neighborhood in Bay Ridge, there were living legends of the game with names like; "The Mouse" (a small very quick man), "Mr. Slick" (a sweaty guy who never wore a shirt so you slid right off him) and of course, "The Killer" - who was regularly able to make killer shots - seemingly on demand. A 'killer' is a shot wherein the ball is hit by a player and lands so close to the bottom of the wall that, when it comes off the wall, there is no bounce produced - the ball simply rolls away from the wall - and the opponent cannot return it.

Handball can be played in 'singles' - one player against another - or in 'doubles' - two players on each of two teams. With four players on the court it can get a little crowded, but it's still alot of fun and a good workout.

One day during school - must have been in the 3rd grade - my teacher, Mrs. Gorenson, asked the class if anyone had any sports or games they would like to introduce to the class. Presented with this opportunity to brag about my dad and teach the kids something that I knew about, my hand was the first to shoot up. Mrs. Gorenson picked me and I began telling them about handball.

After I described the basic rules Mrs. Gorenson agreed that we would all try it during gym class, outside in the school yard. I went to a very small elementary school. There were only about 20 kids in my classroom and that encompassed 1st through 4th grades. Of the 20 kids in the class, about 10 of us were in the higher grades - 3rd or 4th - and possessed enough eye-hand coordination to participate. Probably the same crew of ruffians who played 'crack-top' and 'buck-buck' or 'Johnny on the Pony' at recess.

When Mrs. Gorenson said "all", she meant all. There was only one wall area in the school yard large enough to consider playing handball against, and no one was to be left out. I tried to explain to her that playing doubles makes it crowded enough. To have 5 people on each team - for a total of 10 people running around trying to stay out of each others way, in an area 20 feet wide by 30 feet long - was insane. But there was no reasoning with the white haired Mrs. Gorenson. "No one is to be left out, David."

So how do you alter the rules to play handball with 10 kids at the same time? Normally, when you play doubles, there are 2 outs per side - one for each player on the team. When one team reaches 2 outs the serve switches to the other team, where they serve until they have reached two outs. When you complete the cycle; 2 outs for one team, then 2 outs for the next, you have completed one 'inning'. The only logical approach seemed to be to have each of the players on a team serve until they're out, then the next player and the next until 5 outs are reached. Then switch serves and follow the same approach. Logical, right?

To show everyone how it worked, I was selected to make the first serve. Immediately 9, 8 and 9 year old kids rushed the ball - including the kids from my own team. Big collision.

Long story short; by the time we were done with one inning of 5 on 5 handball, the score was 35 - 3 (handball is typically a '21 points wins' game), 5 kids were sitting off to the side crying, with bloody knees and elbows or black eyes, and recess was over. Mrs. Gorenson pronounced it the worst sport ever invented and I was forbidden to play it - or to even mention it - again at school.

Trip(s) to Steeplechase Park

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 11:39:00 +0000

Steeplechase Park was located on Coney Island from 1897 through 1964. My dad took me there a few times the summer before it closed - 1963. Right before Kennedys started dropping and the Beatles rescued us. The stories I have are a composite from all the memories I have from those visits. Steeplechase Park was one of the most fun (as well as bizarre, scary and sinister) places I have ever experienced. Certainly a place to leave indelible marks on many a young mind.

Even before you entered the grounds - as you approached the front gates - you faced an over-the-top image of 'the steeplechase face'. If The Joker and Groucho Marx had a son together, and they fed him daily doses of LSD, this is what their progeny would look like. "Steeplechase - Funny Place"

The first (funny) place you visited was the ticket booth where for two different prices (5 cents for a small or 35 cents for a large) you could purchase the ticket card. Ticket cards were about 3 or 6 inches in diameter respectively (see the image of the large ticket card, above right). The deal, as I remember it, was this... when you passed through the turnstiles to get on a ride the ticket puncher punched a single hole in the ticket. For as long as there was space left on the card for the puncher to punch holes, you could ride on rides. I remember my dad saying, "There's still plenty of space on that card. Let's save it for next time." And we would. Imagine getting two visits to an amusement park for 35 cents?

Next stop was the giant rotating barrels. These barrels were about 6 feet in diameter and about 15 feet long, situated on their sides with the ends opened, on motor driven rollers, causing the barrel to rotate slowly. The object was to enter each barrel and pass through to the other side, sort of crab walking while trying to avoid falling down. Those visitors who weren't six years old - and could reach the top rim or surface of the barrel by raising their arms and spreading out their arms and legs - could support themselves as the barrel rotated and, as a reward, received a slowly rotating upside-down view of the world (like the virtuvian man - with clothes on, of course). The rest of us tried to remain mobile, if not vertical, but ended up falling all over ourselves, rolling around on the bottom of the barrel, laughing our butts off. There were several of these barrels to pass through before we made it to our ultimate destination and the journey was hilarious.

Having successfully passed through the gauntlet of rotating barrels we were then able to enter the Pavilion of Fun! The Pavilion of Fun was a completely indoor, rectangular, steel and glass building about the size of Shea stadium with inside dimensions similar to that of an airplane hangar. At least that was the view through the eyes of a six year old. To keep things in perspective, more recent (actual) research shows that the Pavilion of Fun covered about five acres of Steeplechase Park.

Paradise. More excitement, rides and bizarre attractions than you could shake a stick at - and all indoors. I was too small to go on some of the rides, but it was just as much fun watching adults get thrown off the Human Roulette Wheel as it was going on the rides themselves. They had everything from giant slides and tilt-a-whirls to flea circuses and freak shows. The soundtrack was men, women and children screaming, maniacal laughter, whirring mechanical wonders and carnival barkers. The 'scent track' was peanuts and popcorn and, vaguely, horses. The floor was covered in sawdust. Clowns were everywhere, and I've come to find out recently that they actually rented clown costumes to patrons to wear while exploring the wonders of the Pavilion of Fun.

The most vivid memory I have of Steeplechase Park - one that I will never forget - is that of the actual steeplechase ride itself. The steeplechase ride was a full-sized simulated horse race that took place on a eight-lane 'track' which wrapped around the outside of the Pavilion of Fun building. The track was suspended between about 20 - 30 feet in the air, depending on if the track was going over a hill or not (again, see the pictures on this link). You sat atop a wooden (carousel-like) horse which glided along the track at what seemed like speeds of up to 60 miles per hour - the theme of the ride was "Half a Mile in Half a Minute - And Fun all the way!" All there was in terms of safety was a thin, worn leather strap that wrapped around your waist and clipped to the horse's mane. The kicker is that sometimes you were suspended over open tracks and could see directly down onto the paths below. It was hair raising. When the ride was over, there was a winner - who everyone cheered - and all riders then dismounted their steeds and made their way to the winners circle or - as we liked to call it - 'the arena'.

In the arena was where it happened. The arena was an old circus ring with sawdust and peanut shells coating the floor. There were high walls all around it, with one way in (from the steeplechase ride) and one narrow way out. There was crazy laughter coming from somewhere above us. As my dad and I were making our way towards the exit across the arena, I looked over to the other side of the ring and noticed a clown hassling a woman. They looked like they were having fun so I didn't give it much thought. I turned my attention forward again, but before more than two seconds had passed (the ring was not that large) I felt a tap on my shoulder. As I turned, I found myself face-to-face with the clown. Not more than one inch separated my nose from the bulbous red schnozz between his evil eyes. Have you seen the clown from Stephen King's IT? Now you have an idea what I was facing. For a moment, his nose filled my entire field of view.

I immediately jumped back in terror and noticed the clown was carrying something shaped like a miniature baseball bat in his right hand. I don't remember if the clown actually spoke or not but in a flash he lunged forward and touched the miniature baseball bat to my butt. It wasn't a miniature baseball bat. It was an electrical cattle prod, which sent a bunch of volts shooting through my pants. This whole scene was way too much for me to process. I yelped, jumped back again and immediately began to cry.

My dad was torn between embarrassment and wanting to rip the clown's head off. 'Everyone's looking at my wimp kid' and 'Shock my son, will ya?' He settled for a humble exit. Grabbing me by the hand, we quickly left the arena.

Post Script - To leave the arena you exited through a narrow passageway through the high walls surrounding the ring. This passage led to a ramp that wrapped around and followed the circular shape of the arena up around clockwise. By the time my dad and I reached the top of the ramp I had just about stopped crying. We entered an open area where the hysterical laughter, we had heard hovering above our heads earlier in the arena, was coming from. A man sold peanuts off to one side and, on the other, a crowd of people was leaning over a wall, looking down at something and laughing hysterically. Dad took me over to the wall and lifted me up so I could see what the people were laughing at down below; the riders exiting the steeplechase ride getting hassled by the clown in the arena. I laughed with everyone else, but at the time I sensed it was a pretty sick thing.

Incidentally, I've heard it said that this place was the original Peanut Gallery ("...no comments from the peanut gallery, please..."). It makes sense. They sold peanuts and it was a kind of gallery. Some say the term originated with the 'cheap seats' in vaudeville, but they both developed at the same time - mid 1880s - so who really knows for sure?

Any of you ever make it to Steeplechase Park? How about Coney Island? I know you've got some stories about The Cyclone.

In the beginning...

noreply@blogger.com (Dave Campbell) — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 14:00:00 +0000

Memories of Brooklyn

In the beginning there was Brooklyn.

Well maybe it wasn't that dramatic, but Brooklyn has had its hand in the formation of the culture of America and, one could even argue, the world.

Statistics provided by the Brooklyn Information & Culture Service state that one in seven Americans can trace their roots back to good ol' BKLYN. People like; Lou Reed, Jackie Gleason, Woody Allen, The Beastie Boys, Barry Manilow, Alyssa Milano, Eddie Murphy, Mary Tyler Moore, Al Sharpton, Barbara Streisand, Mae West, Mel Brooks, Michael Jordon and... you and I.

Welcome to the Memories of Brooklyn blog.

I've got some great memories of growing up in Brooklyn. Among the best of my life. I've put this forum together to share those memories with those of you who have some of your own. I want to hear your memories too.

Ever get zapped by the clown coming off the steeplechase ride at Steeplechase Park? How about catching a burger, fries and a coke (for under a dollar) at Nedicks, then hitchhiking up Flatbush Ave on a Sunday to Riis Park? Remember the time we peed off the roof of the, then under-construction, Kings Plaza shopping center, not knowing the security guard was directly beneath us? Whatever happened to 'Candy Stores', like Murray's?

Come on. You've got answers to these question. You must have some memories of Brooklyn. Let's hear them.