Congratulations to Neil, Buzz, and Mike

(Originally published 7/17/14)

It was forty-five years ago this week that Apollo 11 astronauts Neil Armstrong, Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin, Jr., and Michael Collins touched down and then cavorted on our planet’s sole satellite, the Moon. “That’s one small step for a man; one giant step for mankind,” Neil Armstrong intoned upon first touching the Moon’s surface. I don’t remember all that much about this obviously newsworthy goings-on—I was only six years old at the time—except that my mother composed a makeshift banner from a rather large scroll of yellow paper that my uncle had purloined from his place of employment, the “phone company.” Yes, people back then worked for the “phone company” because there was only one of them. The paper banner proudly flew above our front door—fortunately, it didn’t rain that day—and read, “Congratulations to Neil, Buzz, and Mike.”  

I recall, too, a neighbor—the local rabbi’s wife—querying a group of us playing on my front stoop as to whether we were related to the “Banner Woman.” I proudly answered in the affirmative. She appreciated the fact that my mom, without fail, recognized both holidays and historic national events with decorations and, in this instance, a somewhat crude banner celebrating the achievement of three trailblazing astronauts. After Neil, Buzz, and Mike's mission was a fait accompli, President Richard Nixon said, “As a result of what you’ve done, the world has never been closer before.” That may, in fact, have been true—for one brief shining moment at least.

In retrospect, though, what I find most fascinating about July 1969—and growing up in the Bronx’s Kingsbridge—is the evident duality. My youthful memories are of a gritty urban lifestyle organically commingling with a small town charm. The late-1960s and early-1970s were tumultuous times in the country at large and, to a great extent, in Kingsbridge as well: the Vietnam War, social unrest, drugs—the whole bit. I, though, was spared all of the above. Three men actually walking on the surface of the Moon—and my mother commemorating it—is just one of many fond recollections from my childhood. I don’t think there is anything that could occur today that would generate a banner of congratulations in the old neighborhood. A leisurely walk on Mars wouldn’t even do it; wouldn't come near capturing that singular Apollo 11 snapshot in time.

No Specific Location

(Originally published on 7/17/11)

Parish Day was an annual event at my high school. On this one afternoon set aside each year, the various Catholic parishes throughout the Bronx dispatched priests to speak with their teenage congregants who also attended Cardinal Spellman High School. As a graduate of St. John’s grammar school, and a parishioner of St. John’s Church (more or less), I assembled with my Kingsbridge peers.

In what was always advertised as an informal give-and-take with one of our very own men of the cloth, Father Borstelmann assumed the honors during sophomore year. He was a hip clergyman who nobly endeavored to connect with skeptical youth like us—a good idea and certainly better than the condescending, scolding approach employed by his boss, Monsignor Doherty.

When Father Borstelmann first arrived at St. John’s in the early 1970s, it's fair to say that he got off on the wrong foot with some people. At a faculty versus students’ basketball game, the new priest on the block removed his warm-up jacket and revealed a T-shirt that read, “Bitch…bitch…bitch.” Needless to say, this bit of public theater generated quite a fuss. But it was such a groovy snapshot in time that Father Borstelmann's colorful antics were tolerated. In fact, the old stodgy clergy of the past just didn’t jibe as well with the folk masses, female altar boys, and the "sign of peace" hand shaking that were becoming the rage. When my fifth-grade homeroom teacher, the benevolent Sister Lyse, took up a collection to buy Father Borstelmann a well-earned Christmas gift, she bought him a carton of his favorite smokes—Marlboro—from all of us.

At his Cardinal Spellman appearance—for reasons that now escape me—Father Borstelmann, the Marlboro Man, wanted to know where each one of us hung. No, not how it hung, but where we hung out in the neighborhood?

“Where do you hang?” he asked, going up and down the rows of students.

I recall being the first one questioned—or very close to it—and felt the weight of the world thrust upon me.

“I don’t really hang out anywhere,” I said, embarrassed that I hadn’t come up with anything more profound.

“So, when you’re home…you’re pretty much home?” Father Borstelmann countered.

“Yes.”

It fast became apparent that my St. John’s alumni were similarly perplexed by this hanging interrogation. Soon after my response—honest, if nothing else—some kid named the street where he lived, Corlear, as his preferred hanging spot. Hey, why didn’t I think of that one! And once the remaining lemmings in the room realized this response was copacetic with Father Borstelmann, out came all the street names on the neighborhood map: "Irwin...Naples Terrace...West 230th Street."

Finally, Father Borstelmann posed the same question, which he had asked at least a couple of dozen times, to a friend of mine.

"Where do you hang, Jim?” he queried.

“No specific location,” Jim replied to laughter and a few snickers from his schoolmates.

Most of his peers enjoyed this clever rejoinder to a question that had long since become a colossal bore and less than edifying. But there were a few detractors in the room, who didn’t appreciate what they considered a haughty answer to an inoffensive query from a well-intentioned priest. Oh, I don't know, but perhaps authority figures merit a wee bit of disrespect every now and again. Thank you, Jim.

I’m With Stupid: Life in the Here and Now

Several weeks ago, fate moved its huge hand, and I found myself at a scrap metal yard in the East Bronx. The business was not too far from where I attended high school many moons ago. Naturally, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to return to the hallowed grounds of Cardinal Spellman for a look-see, perhaps for the final time. While the building’s exterior footprint was largely unchanged from my time there, the facade appeared seedier. Forty-five years and counting will do that. Some of the school’s brickwork was painted over—a slap-job white, probably to mask graffiti. Even the school’s special-occasion-entry bronze doors had lost their luster. And, alas, the little chapel and convent out back looked forlorn. Once upon a time, the nuns who taught at Cardinal Spellman lived there. They were Sisters of Charity, an order which announced in 2023 the end of new memberships and thus its death knell.

The world has certainly changed since I rode the not-so-special “special busses” to and from high school. When I picked up my diploma after graduating in the waning days of June 1980, Mr. Cleary, dean of discipline, shook my hand and wished me well. Jimmy Carter was the president then and not anticipating losing his reelection bid to Ronald Reagan in November. And, I daresay, not anticipating living to be one hundred. Carter passed away in December. 

During my school years, I was an inveterate collector of countless things, including autographed photos of politicians—members of Congress, governors, mayors, and more. Typically, I would write a brief letter of praise—often faux praise—to a public servant and climax with a request for an autographed picture. I was absolutely non-partisan in my collecting. At the time, I could have named every United States Senator and every state’s governor. Nowadays, I can’t make that claim, largely because I’ve zoned out and lost respect for most office holders. The men and women that I do know are often infamous in my eyes for one reason or another. Hanging a photo of Josh Hawley, Chris Murphy, or J.B. Pritzker on my wall is the last thing I’d want to do. I even wrote to Jimmy Carter’s National Security Advisor, Zbigniew Brzezinski, and got an autographed photo back. Marco Rubio’s John Hancock? I’ll pass on that.

We live in stupid times now. I wish I could say otherwise. In 1980, I couldn’t imagine the world of today, nor would I have wanted to. Every day brings something new and stupid. In fact, the roster of stupid defies belief sometimes, but it’s the gift that keeps on giving. Today’s leading idiocy is courtesy of Taylor Lorenz, who was recently employed by the New York Times—the "paper of record." She tweeted: “‘You don’t have enough respect for the sanctity of 9/11’ is such a ridiculously out of touch and frankly boomer ass take in 2025. 9/11 has been a punchline for over a decade, ppl are having 9/11 themed parties and there are 9/11 parody t shirts and memes all over.” Well, this boomer ass take of mine thinks you are pathetically uninformed, vile, and in need of major psychological help. Does anybody know of anyone who has thrown a 9/11 themed party? A punchline? Sadly, this woman speaks for a lot of dunderheads out there.

Okay, so maybe Joe Biden wasn’t one of the worst presidents of all time—because he wasn’t actually functioning as president. Yes, the Biden family has fed from the influence-peddling trough for a long, long time. But many of the same folk who rightfully cited the Biden brood corruption think it’s peachy keen for Donald Trump to accept an airplane from a foreign country that sponsors Islamic terrorism. Not a peep about the peddling of pardons of no-goods for cash. It’s out in the open for sure, but corrupt and unethical just the same. I won’t mention the sale of worthless meme coins with Trump’s scowling image on them, which will enrich his family and few others. You can’t make this stuff up.

On the local scene in these incredibly stupid times: I just voted by absentee ballot in the New York City Democratic mayoral primary. We have rank-choice voting now—one through five. The candidates running who I knew something about, I deemed—by and large—unacceptable. Brad Lander, Scott Stringer, and Zohran Mamdani didn’t rank with me. The latter—a state assemblyman from Queens—is a card-carrying socialist proposing a series of unrealistic and ridiculous freebies, including a rent freeze, eliminating bus fares, city-run grocery stores, and raising the city minimum wage to $30/hour! In lieu of additional policing, Mamdani believes public safety can be enhanced by “dignified work, economic stability, and well-resourced neighborhoods.” Yada, yada, yada—where have I heard that progressive pablum before? I never thought it possible that I’d say this, but the disgraced Andrew Cuomo is the pick of a very bad litter. At least he understands the basics of governing. And to think when I was in high school, the 1977 Democratic mayoral primary featured bona fide heavyweights like Ed Koch, Mario Cuomo, incumbent Abe Beame, Herman Badillo, Percy Sutton, and Bella Abzug. Talk about a real choice.

What stupidity will tomorrow bring? It’s hard to top the Homeland Secretary being unaware of the meaning of habeas corpus, or the latest kooky conspiratorial podcaster getting an administration job. Love this headline: “GOP Bill Would Force D.C. to Call Its Metro the ‘Trump Train’.” Rest assured, the sun will rise tomorrow and further stupidity with it.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Lazy Hazy Crazy Days of Summer

(Originally published on 6/6/21)

When we have a cup of coffee in the afternoon, it doesn’t taste quite the same as that coveted morning brew. It’s something akin to the unforgettable, evocative, and ubiquitous hazy, hot, and humid nights of summers during our youths. The uncomfortably stuffy evenings of our adulthoods just don’t pack the same allure. Once upon a time, being a kid in summertime had its benefits—school being out for starters—and we expected and more-or-less embraced the inevitable heat and humidity one-two punch. And, of course, there was baseball, the quintessential summer game—both the professional variety and the personal variations of the sport that we played with abandon in the warmest of warm and sticky air masses.

There, too, was nothing quite like attending a baseball game at night during the hottest of dog days. Dog days and hot dogs at the ballpark—who could ask for anything more? In the grips of pre-game exhilaration—days before as a matter of fact—a friend of mine would proclaim, “First round of hot dogs is on me!” The frankfurter in that singular time and place mattered. And as our sneakers stuck to Shea Stadium’s concrete stands, runways, and bathrooms as we exited into the soupy nights—courtesy of countless spilled watery beers and flat sodas—fond memories were made. I never minded coming home from a ballgame reeking of second-hand cigarette smoke. On the other hand, beginning and ending each day of high school stinking like a dirty chimney—from smoking teens on sardine-packed school busses—elicits no such nostalgia.

Recently, I watched the Netflix documentary The Sons of Sam: Descent Into Darkness. The series of murders and shootings by David Berkowitz—and probably others—occurred in 1976 and 1977, when the latter’s New York City summer also featured a brutal heatwave, blackout, and widespread looting and vandalism. The serial crimes were recurring headlines in the local tabloids and young people—who fit the targeted profiles—were understandably apprehensive to be out and about at night. When Berkowitz was finally apprehended, I was in Boston with an older neighbor and brother. We spied the front-page story on a newspaper in a then commonplace sidewalk machine and had to secure one to commemorate our trip and the huge news from our hometown—the “Son of Sam”capture.

The prior night—the night of the arrest, August 10, 1977—the three of us attended a game at Fenway Park, a slugfest in which the home team Red Sox eked out a victory, 11-10, over the visiting Angels. It was a night to remember, for sure, appropriately hazy, hot, and humid. And, yes, our footwear stuck bigtime to Fenway Park’s stands, runways, and bathrooms—the antiquated men’s bathrooms where one and all urinated into a long trough at our feet. But such once-in-a-lifetime experiences are the stuff of lasting memories. The “Son of Sam” denouement was colossal news and our trip to Beantown—from our perspectives at the time—was also a big deal. I was only fourteen during the adventure and Boston seemed far, far away from the world I knew in the Big Apple, which was then a mess but with a certain character and charm that it very definitely lacks in the here and now. The Democratic mayoral primary race in 1977—a heated affair in that sultry summer—featured the likes of Ed Koch, Mario Cuomo, Bella Abzug, Percy Sutton, Herman Badillo, and embattled incumbent Abe Beame. There were a few political heavyweights in that lineup vying to be mayor in what were troubled times. Fast forward forty-four years and troubled times are back with a vengeance. But where are the heavyweights? Perhaps they have gone the way of those hazy, hot, and humid nights—the ones we used to know.

All Hail, Cesar!

(Originally published 4/18/16)

Once upon a time, I was a collector of many things, including autographs. As a teen, I wrote letters to individual baseball players care of their teams and requested their signatures. I even bought mailing lists with players’ home addresses and sent them baseball cards to sign, which most of them eventually did. Asking for autographed pictures, I sent fan letters, too, to politicians in Congress and in state houses, and almost always got them. Granted, some of the John Hancocks were the work of autopens and, the worst of them all, rubber stamps. And there were even some very high-quality secretary forgeries in the mix.

However, most of the autographs were real and many of them personalized to me. As both a young man and a collector, I was completely non-partisan in this endeavor. I received autographs from everyone from Ted Kennedy to Jack Kemp; Henry “Scoop” Jackson to Tom Bradley. New York Governor Mario Cuomo personally inscribed a photo to yours truly, and so did Vice President George Herbert Walker Bush, although he misspelled my name as “Nick Negro.” The Bush autograph was authenticated and—courtesy of financially hard times sometime later in the adult world—I sold it at auction for $175.

In the early 1980s, Louie, our cigar-chomping neighborhood mailman, used to open our unlocked front door in the Bronx, walk into the hall, and place the mail on the bottom step of the staircase leading to our upper-floor apartment. Aside from leaving his cigar bouquet calling card, he would sometimes cry out: “You got another letter from the government!” My autographed pictures typically arrived in 9”x 12” official manila envelopes with a piece of cardboard in them, so that Louie and his P.O. brethren would avoid their natural inclinations to bend and batter mail. I think Louie came to believe we were a family of spies or secretive government agents. My father, a veteran post office man himself, eventually assuaged Louie's worst fears.

Beyond baseball players and pols, I also purchased a mailing list of celebrity home addresses one time and was excited to send a couple of “Joker cards" from the “Bat Laffs” series to none other than Cesar Romero on San Vincente Boulevard in Los Angeles. I was quite surprised to receive a postcard a week or so later from Maria Romero, Cesar’s older sister. She informed me that her brother was doing dinner theater in Texas but would be more than happy to sign my "Joker cards" when he returned. Now this was going beyond the call of duty, I thought. And a couple of months later, I not only found the signed Joker cards in my mail, but two more autographs of Cesar as well—one a photograph of him as the Joker inscribed “To Nick Nigro, A big hello from The Joker” and another of Cesar as Cesar. And it was all in an envelope the man personally addressed himself. He paid the postage and affixed, too, a “Cesar Romero” return address label on the envelope—one he probably got as a "thank you" for contributing to a favorite charity. He also alerted the post office minions they would be handling a photo, which was to be treated accordingly. Of course, Cesar being Cesar said, "Please." I had always heard Cesar was a class act and liked by just about everyone—and the proof was in the Joker cards signing. All hail, Cesar!

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Rocky's Road

(Originally published 9/2/11)

I had a teacher in the sixth grade affectionately known as— courtesy of his surname—“Rocky.” The school year was 1973-74, and Rocky stood out from the pack in this parochial grammar school of mine for several reasons. For starters, there were very few men teaching in grades one through six back then. This, too, must have been his first teaching job. He was quite young and occasionally showed up for work on the disheveled and scruffy side, like he’d been out late the night before doing what some people do in the wee hours. And no, I don’t think he was moonlighting as a cab driver or a night watchman.

But there was something really right about Rocky, even if he didn’t always make time for the morning shave. Clear-eyed or bleary-eyed, it didn’t matter; he was the genuine article—a dedicated teacher. The school had its fair share of dedicated old schoolteachers, including Sister Camillus, who only a year before publicly humiliated me when I misspelled the word “paid” as “payed.” “Imagine a fifth grader who doesn’t know how to spell the word ‘paid’!” she bellowed in her less than dulcet tones. Rocky didn’t embarrass students in front of his or her peers over a spelling error. Private consultations were more his style. So, no, there was never an “Imagine a sixth grader who doesn’t know how to spell the word ‘paid’!” moment in Rocky’s classroom.

And Sister Camillus was also not the sort of educator to accompany her class to the park down the street after a late winter snowstorm. Rocky not only did but commanded our attention at the park’s entrance. “Since this is probably going to be the last snowstorm of the season,” I recall him saying rather earnestly, “I thought we should assemble here to have our last…SNOWBALL FIGHT!” With these fighting words, Rocky proceeded to swipe snow off of a parked car’s front hood onto his momentarily startled students. Really, I just couldn’t see old Sister C initiating a snowball fight. Innocent as it all was, Rocky just couldn’t get away with throwing snow in the faces of eleven- and twelve-year-old boys and girls in the twenty-first century.

Rocky’s last hurrah involved a class trip to Bear Mountain State Park on the Hudson River Day Line, which back in the 1970s sailed north from Manhattan’s West Side. I remember only a few snippets from this trip. Foremost, I almost fell to my death—or so it seemed at the time—while mountain climbing, or whatever the peewee-equivalent of that is called. If my memory is correct, we went off with our friends—rather loosely supervised—to wherever we wanted to go and were instructed only to return to the dock area at a prescribed time. Imagine a school trip like that today. I remember, too, a couple of kids passing around a lit pipe on the boat, which wasn’t burning tobacco. They were also brandishing assorted pills, which weren't Tylenols. Simpler times in the sixth grade of a Catholic grammar school when Richard Nixon was the president. I may have been rather innocent at the time, but it appeared some others were a lot less so.

Thanks to the sprawling Internet, and Rocky’s atypical last name, I tracked the man down in the virtual ether. He’s still a teacher. It’s been his life’s work. And, wow, he must be sixty by now. While there are likely no more snowball fights, or minimally supervised field trips, in Rocky’s profession today, it appears he’s adapted nicely to both teaching’s new world order and the world we live in.