Red Light...Green Light

(Originally published on 1/30/16)

As kids growing up in the Kingsbridge section of the Bronx in the early 1970s, we played a game—among so many others—called “Red Light…Green Light.” In this youthful diversion of ours, somebody was It. More times than not, being It in an urban street game was the booby prize. But not in “Red Light…Green Light.” It is what the game’s myriad players aspired to be, because the Anointed One got to cry out, “Red Light…Green Light…1, 2, 3...1, 2, 3” with It's eyes covered and back turned to all others. And right after this rapid-fire recitation, It promptly pirouetted in an attempt to catch advancing players in the act. That is, the game's players endeavoring to reach the coveted finish line. Players who could not—under any circumstances according to the rules—be caught in motion. We were permitted to advance only during the “Red Light…Green Light…1, 2, 3...1, 2, 3” clarion call. If caught moving forward by the All Mighty It, we would be sent back from whence we came—the starting line, actually, and a long, long way from being the game’s impresario. That’s the way “Red Light…Green Light” was played—if that makes any sense. And, believe me, it was a lot of fun being It and not It, too.

But this blog is not about the game just described, which I played forty-five years or so ago—and one, by the way, that withered on the vine with just about every other street game after my generation, the baby boomers, retired their spaldeens. No, this “Red Light…Green Light” game that I played some forty-five years ago was a One Night Only affair, an on-the-spot creation of yours truly as darkness set in on a chilly, pre-Christmas December evening just before suppertime. I was nine years old and playing outside with my six-year-old brother. We did that sort of thing in the 1970s. We were outdoors as much as physically possible, even in cold weather and without the light of day.

True, the 1970s were a high crime time here in the Bronx and just about everywhere else in New York City. There were plenty of muggings, break-ins, and the like. Still, I don’t think my folks were even remotely guilty of parental negligence. Anyway, this “Red Light…Green Light” derivative involved a literal, working traffic light on Kingsbridge Avenue, a street a couple a blocks away from where I called home. My younger brother and I participated in a frenetic running game that took us down alleyways, over a short backyard wall, and through a curious nook and cranny—a small space to slither through that bordered a low wrought iron fence with spikes atop it. It was there—X marks the spot—where one could catch a glimpse of that traffic light. Red meant stop and green meant go—simple enough. But for an energized nine year old, stopping on a dime—for a red light in this instance—could augur trouble, especially with a spiked fence in the vicinity.

So, yes, I got a spiked that night—beneath my chin—and the blood flowed. Without delay, Mom brought me to our family doctor up the hill on Kingsbridge Avenue, a mere block away from the notorious red light. The old sawbones stitched me up—I have the scar to prove it—and informed my mother and me that a half-inch or so to the left and I might have been impaled. The following day, my best friend in grammar school at the time—a kid named Mark—mockingly pointed out to my peers that I was wearing “one bandage over another” on my chin. What are friends for? This, in fact, is how I can remember how I old I was when the near-impaling incident occurred. I’ve got a signed report card envelope to prove it. 

Postscript: I've noticed that modern-day fences of the kind that nearly impaled me are sans spiked tops. They're flat.  And this flatness is a good thing. I’m glad, though, that I was permitted to go outside and play a game—for lack of a better word—that I conceived in the moment. I’m happy, too, that there was a family doctor still in his office to patch me up—one bandage over another—without any fanfare. Kids with their smartphones just don’t know what they’re missing.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Steaks Are High

As we embark on yet another presidential primary season—God help us—it’s worth noting how absurd and pathetic our politics have become. And it’s not just politics, sad to say, but seemingly everything else in the culture at-large. A few notes on the omnipresent madness: The price of beef is off the charts—the steaks are high, really. Two orders of hamburgers and fries at my favorite diner tallies up to $30 before the tip. Inflation may be leveling off from its peak, but I’m not seeing the prices of orange juice, coffee, and cereal trending south. The state of the economy should be the defining issue in 2024. In the good old days, it was the economy, stupid—always. However, now the two major parties appear more interested in raving on and on and on about cultural issues, which matter, of course, but not at the expense of the bread-and-butter issues. The sky is forever falling, and democracy is ever hanging in the balance, but recently a bag of Frito’s corn chips cost me over $5—“Ay, ay, ay!”

Honestly, the mere thought of a Joe Biden versus Donald Trump rematch is profoundly depressing. What, pray tell, has happened to us? Old Joe is one slip and fall away from crumbling into dust. And The Donald is under indictment for retaining classified documents, making false statements, and obstructing justice—let me count the ways—not to mention that January 6th thing. Serious business, folks. I’m all for the return of selecting candidates in smoke-filled backrooms. The end-results were typically better than what the primary process regurgitates nowadays. Smoking, though, is outlawed in all rooms in 2023, and the party bosses just ain’t what they used to be. So, I won’t hold my breath awaiting vape-filled backrooms restoring some sanity to the body politic.

On another front closer to home: Life in the big city has taken a very wide turn for the worse. Mayor Adams blames the media for obsessing on crime stories. Maybe it’s because there are so many of them! What I see with my own two eyes in my little snippet of the world is an obvious decline in the quality of life. Speed Racers are ubiquitous on the residential backstreets where I call home. With their revved up, popping engines, they shake, rattle, and roll residents morning, noon, and night—accidents waiting to happen. Oh, and then there’s the countless scooters and electric bicycles traversing the roads—stop signs and red lights be damned—and the sidewalks, too. The demoralized police turn a blind eye, and I can’t really blame them in this depraved age where up is down and down is up.

I’ve also noticed an uptick of individuals discarding their lunch remains and spent lottery ticket stubs and scratch-offs outside their vehicles. Exiting their cars and walking several yards to a garbage can is too much to ask, I guess. Often, I’m called upon to clean up dozens of “Win 4” stubs blowing in the wind—not an enviable task and dispiriting as well.

And another thing: The multiple pot and smoke shops—most of them unlicensed and unregulated—plying their trades on the main thoroughfare and throughout the city. In April, it was estimated that there were 1,500 shops in town and only seven were legal operations. It just seems odd that the city fathers and mothers, who would shutter a place that was selling alcohol without a license, or cigarettes for that matter, in a heartbeat, permit so many illegal businesses in this field to go on their merry way.

To add one further quality of life issue, accompany me to my local drugstore chains, where most merchandise is under lock and key. Patrons must ring a buzzer to get everything from Werther’s Original candies to Preparation H to Tide Pods laundry detergent. Once upon a time, I regularly shopped at a local Rite-Aid, but buzzer shopping just isn’t for me. Amazon is a lifesaver. Still, I’d like to believe that there is light at the end of the tunnel, but I fear that it is Bud Light.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

 

 

 

Fourth of July Numerology

(Originally published 7/4/13)

In addition to it being Independence Day, yesterday was also the thirtieth anniversary of Yankees’ pitcher Dave Righetti’s no-hitter against the reviled Boston Red Sox. Admittedly, for Yankee fans, that must have been a moment to savor. But since I passionately loathed that haughty franchise from the South Bronx with its bombastic, egotistical owner, I hardly appreciated Righetti’s accomplishment. I did my best to give the feat short shrift.

Except for an ESPN retrospective, I would not have remembered this event occurred on the Fourth of July. Nevertheless, I vividly recall being at home in the Bronx and watching an afternoon baseball game that very day. I was twenty years old and tuned into the cross-town rival Mets on the television in my bedroom. Meanwhile, my father, a Yankee fan extraordinaire since the Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio days, watched his favorite team in the family’s living room. My beloved Mets weren’t doing very well in July 1983. In fact, their manager at the opening of the season, George Bamberger, had abruptly retired, literally fearing for his health and well-being. Big Frank Howard, a team coach, took over on an interim basis. Despite their not-too-impressive 30-50 record on July 4, 1983, I remained ever-loyal to my team. 

When Righetti reached the latter innings with his no-hitter still intact, my father apprised his Met fan son on multiple occasions of what was transpiring at Yankee Stadium, approximately three-and-a-half miles away from where we called home. Even though I was a mere college student, our Mets versus Yankees rivalry had, what seemed to me at least, a very long and contentious history. Granted, in 1983, the Mets were a dreadfully bad team and had been for several years. During that exasperatingly unhappy spell for Met fans, the Yankees experienced a few glorious seasons. But despite the Mets’ recent cellar-dwelling descent, the pendulum was slowly but surely swinging the other way. I felt it. Only weeks before the Mets acquired Keith Hernandez and the team boasted hot prospects aplenty. What really mattered, though, was that my anti-Yankees’ bona fides were solid. So, I wasn’t about to turn the channel on my bedroom set to watch the Yankees’ game or, God forbid, join my father in the living room, which, come the ninth inning, he really expected me—a devoted baseball fan like him—to do. How could I possibly bypass sports history in the making? I could somehow and my obstinacy infuriated him.

In retrospect, I probably should have watched the top of the ninth inning of the Yankees versus Red Sox game on that Fourth of July three decades ago. My father would have definitely watched the flip side and rooted against any Mets' pitcher with all his heart. But I was different. One should never underestimate a passionate sports rivalry between father and son. Ours began when I was just eight years old. And while it had its ups and downs, victories and defeats, it was always intense and defining

The final score in Righetti's no-hitter was 4-0. And thanks to the Internet and its treasure trove of easily retrieved information, I discovered the Mets lost to the Phillies at Veteran’s Stadium in Philadelphia by the very same score that day. Fourth of July numerology meets a father and son battle of wills. It seems like only yesterday, but also a very, very long time ago.

Swinging the Bat

(Originally published 11/10/15. It was a simpler time for sure.)

I swung a baseball bat an awfully lot as a boy. I didn’t even have to be involved in an organized game of any kind to do it. In fact, for a few years running—I’d say from the ages of eight to ten or eleven—most of this swinging of mine was done all by my lonesome. For the record, I never swung the Louisville Slugger that I received at a New York Yankees’ “Bat Day” promotion—with its Jake Gibbs facsimile signature on it—at anyone’s head or any such thing. Rather, I played a singular version of fantasy baseball—it would seem—in the alleyway that separated my house from a next-door neighbor’s. And I wasn’t pretending to be Cleon Jones, Tommie Agee, or Ed Kranepool. No, what I did in that alleyway all those years ago was completely original and a figment of my imagination—imagine that.

I would just go out and “swing the bat”—period and end of story—for anywhere from several minutes to a couple of hours. I remember alerting my mother as to where I could be found. “I’m going out to swing the bat,” I’d say. And that’s not only what I said but what I did. The time of day didn’t matter a whit, either, but it was a seasonal thing. I’d swing that piece of lumber morning, noon, and night, too, in the summertime by and large. An older neighbor of mine—an affable dullard of a teen as I recall—was positively bewildered when he witnessed me one summer’s eve exiting the house with my bat in hand. “He’s going to play baseball in the dark!” he exclaimed. And the doofus was right. I didn’t need the light of day to play whatever it was I was playing.

Recently, I thought about “going out to swing the bat” as a kid, and wondered how that sort of thing might be received today. First of all, a kid in a Bronx alleyway with a bat in his hand—most especially at night—would be frowned upon. After all—just as they shouldn’t play with fire—kids shouldn’t play with baseball bats, either. That is, unless they are being swung under the supervision of an adult in good standing. 

I also don’t know how the act of swinging a baseball bat for hours upon hours—all alone—would be perceived on the contemporary psychiatric front. My behavior might very well be judged as aberrant, and my parents alerted to this noxious bat-swinging compulsion of mine. I’d quite possibly be prescribed some drug du jour to calm me down. You know: to take that unhealthy desire to swing the bat away from me. No more fantasy baseball. Just be a lump, stay indoors as much as possible, stare into a smartphone…and everything will be hunky-dory.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)