Hitting Some Out

(Originally published 9/24/21)

A few miscellaneous thoughts on a variety of unrelated things beginning with a blast from the past. As a boy in a pre-smartphone, pre-Internet age, a group of us would assemble on a summer’s day or early eve and one among us would pose the immortal question: “What do you want to do?” This would invariably prompt a follow-up query that on occasion would be: “Do you want to hit some out at Vanny?” I thought about that summer pastime the other day—and the peculiar phraseology, too—when I passed the very ballfields at Van Cortlandt Park where we, once upon a time, hit some out.

One of the main protagonists in this youthful adventure of ours has since met his maker. And time has done a considerable number on the rest of us. It was both a long time ago and not long at all—certainly not in the grand scheme of things. Hitting some out was a simple pleasure that required baseball mitts, bats, and balls—and that’s the long and short of it. It was simultaneously a vigorous workout and good old-fashioned fun—no state-of-the-art devices needed.

I remember one June evening while hitting some out, this kid I went to high school with turned up with a bunch of his friends. They wanted to play on the field we occupied. The ensemble asked us to move to another one nearby. Our fearless leader—older than the rest of us—refused the request as a matter of principle. My secondary school peer informed me the next day—in no uncertain terms—that we should have moved. He believed that his summer escapade—a planned game with more bodies involved—should have taken precedence over four individuals hitting some out. You see, the adjoining two baseball fields in Van Cortlandt Park were worse for wear—it was during the city’s fiscal crisis—and their outfields bled into one another, which created a unique set of additional problems. However, utilizing these mangy ballfields were on a first-come, first-serve basis. No reservations were required. And we were there first and got the pick of the not-so-impressive litter.

Fast forward to the present. While we were hitting some out all those years ago, climate change was not an issue, although In Search Of… hosted by Leonard Nimoy, aired an episode on an impending Ice Age. Exhibit A: Buffalo, New York had an awful lot of snow in 1977. Those were simpler times indeed when we accepted the results of elections, even the ones that didn’t turn out in our favor. And we felt free to offer contrary opinions and utter words like “woman” and “he” and “she” without fear of censorship and condemnation.

Did you see what the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) did to a quote from the late Ruth Bader Ginsburg this week? The organization employed her words—just not all of them—to underscore its support for abortion. Ginsburg said: “The decision whether or not to bear a child is central to a woman’s life, to her well-being and dignity. It is a decision she must make for herself. When the government controls that decision for her, she is being treated as less than a full adult human responsible for her own choice.” The ACLU, though, wasn’t content to let her words stand on their own. Instead, “woman” was excised and changed to “person,” in brackets, of course, with “her” changed to “their,” and “herself” changed to “people.” Follow the bouncing ball off the cliff. Now, this is the ACLU, mind you, rewriting history. What right do these people have in altering a person’s words? Yes, person, man or woman.

Considering this latest development in insanity, I thought I would look at some popular songs and how they might be sung in an Orwellian future. Whitney Houston’s “I’m Every Woman” would be “I’m Every Person.” Roy Orbison’s “Oh, Pretty Woman” would be “Oh, Pretty Person.” Carlos Santana’s “Black Magic Woman” would be “Black Magic Person.” Percy Sledge’s “When a Man Loves a Woman” would be “When a Man Loves a Person.” And, last but not least, John Lennon’s “Woman” would be “Person.” Let’s sing it together now: “Person, I can hardly express, my mixed emotions at my thoughtlessness…”

I liked the world better when we were hitting some out. Jimmy Carter was the president then and In Search Of… merely speculated on the various doomsday possibilities awaiting us or maybe not. On that scruffy ballfield more than forty years ago, I never could have envisioned where I, and the rest of us, would be headed in 2021: to Hell in a handbasket or maybe not.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Life’s Lemon Twists and Turns

Previously, I’ve written about the sprawling victory garden across the street from my childhood home. Somewhere, somehow, it endured for more than a decade during the tumultuous 1960s into the early 1970s, when empty lots were fast going the way of the dinosaur. The multiple lots that accommodated the garden space were up for sale the entire time but found no takers. In those less regulated and less litigious days, permission was granted to plant gardens and do whatever one pleased—within reason and the law—on properties owned by other, often unknown, persons. And so, sheds and shacks were built to store tools, provide cover from inclement weather, and catch catnaps, too. A well was dug to access the waters of Tibbetts Brook, which once upon a time flowed in the light of day. It was then still flowing, undeterred, but several feet beneath the surface. Within the garden confines, there were festive summer parties thrown on holidays and weekends, where adult beverages flowed unimpeded just like the brook beneath it.

Elsewhere in the summer of 1969, social unrest and Vietnam War protests raged. Fortunately, the New York Mets were exhibiting miraculous signs of the miracle yet to come. A New York City mayoral campaign was also underway, which would see incumbent Republican John Lindsay lose a close primary battle to John Marchi, a bland and benign state senator from Staten Island. However, with the Liberal Party line guaranteed in the November general election, Lindsay never broke his campaign stride. In a highly contested multiple candidate Democratic primary that year—which included former mayor Robert Wagner, Jr. and Bronx borough president Herman Badillo—New York City comptroller Mario Procaccino, a law-and-order candidate in an era of lawlessness, prevailed with 32.85% of the vote. There were as yet run-off elections for the top two candidates, if nobody surpassed 40%, which became law the following year. Now there’s this confusing, counterproductive rank voting—no more run-offs—until somebody attains 50%. But that's another kettle of fish.

Anyway, viewed by many left-leaning Democrats as something of a neanderthal, Procaccino lost their vote to the urbane, free-spending Lindsay, who won reelection with 42.35% to his opponent’s 34.79%. Comfortably ahead in the polls at the outset, the Democratic candidate proved something of a gaffe machine. Addressing an audience of African American New Yorkers, Procaccino exclaimed, “My heart is as black as yours.” Journalist Richard Reeves wrote how the man “snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.” Gaffes notwithstanding, Mario Procaccino originated the phrase “limousine liberal”—a good one that has stood the test of time—to characterize the haughty Mayor Lindsay, father of the fiscal crisis yet to come. Mayor Wagner, his predecessor, was the grandfather.

Okay, this really isn’t an essay on past New York City politics, but soda pop instead. At one of those summertime barbecues in the garden, Reinhold, a gentlemanly German-accented fellow, brought to the festivities—potluck as it was—two six-packs of soda. They were a no-frills brand in no-frills cans. One was root beer and the other a 7-up knock-off called lemon twist. The always-conscientious Reinhold periodically offered the non-adults on hand—like me who couldn’t sample a Schaefer, Rheingold, or Schlitz—a root beer or lemon twist with its yellow lemons on the insipid can. I can still hear him asking: “You vanna voot beer? How about a vemon twist?”

While growing up, sodas were not typically in my family’s refrigerator. They were special treats for special occasions. Or when we youngsters saved up enough pocket change to visit Pat Mitchell’s grocery store. Twenty-three cents got you a coveted sixteen-ounce glass bottle of soda. Nedick’s orange and Royal Crown cola being favorites.

During one of those memorable youthful summers, a local oddball nicknamed “Red”—or the more mysterious "Cream Sam"—promised we kids that he would buy us all sodas from the neighborhood supermarket, Bohack’s, which had a sale on the Krasdale—no frills then and now—brand. Six cents a pop! Red reneged on this promise for some reason, but I’m certain that at the age of eight or nine, Krasdale sodas would have hit the spot—just like that lemon twist—on a hot and humid New York City evening.

Finally, on the soda pop front of yesteryear, there were those over-priced flat Coca Colas and Pepsi Colas enjoyed at the ballparks. They hit the spot for sure. Then, of course, there were the visits to the maternal grandparents in Bangor, Pennsylvania, who always stocked Coca-Cola in large glass bottles, which were enjoyed with Miller’s pretzels and ice cream. Sold to area watering holes, the pretzels came in large tins. My grandfather would ask the proprietors—Johnny and then Freddie—to sell him tins for home consumption. Bar none, they were the best pretzels I ever tasted. So, why exactly have so many things turned flatter than flat—like a Shea Stadium vendor’s soda in the seventh inning—in the here and now? That is the question.

When Meatball’s Car Went Missing

(Originally published on 8/5/13)

In early August 1978, a neighbor’s car—a dark brown Ford LTD—was stolen. It was parked on the street one night and gone the next morning. Courtesy of my youthful penchant for noting historical neighborhood events on pieces of loose leaf and assorted scraps of paper, the exact date of this Grand Theft Auto has been recorded for posterity. On August 8, 1978, the dark brown Ford LTD was gone for good. I even remember its license plate number: “418 KZY.” It’s funny, but we memorized by osmosis things like that back then. We were outside an awful lot, particularly in the summertime, and witnessed our neighbors' comings and goings day after day. Their vehicles were very distinct in the 1970s, and so were they.

This particular LTD, though, was more than just any old neighbor’s set of wheels. It belonged to “Meatball” and was the car that chauffeured a bunch of us neighbor kids—just before it went missing as a matter of fact—to Jones Beach on Long Island. “Meatball’s” son, an older mentor of sorts, was always taking us places. On this Jones Beach excursion, a friend of his tagged along named Frank. Our chaperones, as it were, were twenty-seven years old and we were teenagers. I was the youngest at fifteen.

Frank was known to a bit of a fusspot and whiner. He was, suffice it to say, a certifiable oddball. Frank once scrubbed his car down with AJAX and took the paint off of it. His day-at-the-beach attire included patent leather shoes. When Frank fell asleep in the front seat on the ride out there, he became a tempting target for one of the LTD’s backseat passengers. With his mouth agape while in the Land of Nod, a friend seated to my right and next to an ashtray, reached in and plucked out an old cigarette butt. He dangled it close by the sleeping Frank’s open mouth. I don’t think he planned on dropping it inside, which wouldn’t have been a good idea. A joke’s a joke, but a man choking to death isn’t all that funny. Our driver, Frank’s pal from his college days, was not amused by the backseat antics.

As we neared our destination—the Jones Beach parking lot—we found ourselves in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Frank remained in the Land of Nod when that same friend of mine attempted to snatch one of the two headrests from the front seats. His intention: to bop Sleeping Beauty with it. Navigating the heavy traffic, our exasperated chauffeur simultaneously tried to put an end to the headrest horseplay. In so doing, he rammed into the car in front of him. It was a significant enough hit that the sleeping Frank’s head crashed into the windshield. He wasn’t wearing his seat belt in the pre-seat belt law days of the past, which was commonplace. The windshield actually cracked—X marked the spot—where Frank's considerable cranium, as I remember, met the very solid auto glass.

Frank was understandably quite rattled at being awoken in such a violent fashion. “Is there any glass in my head?” he hysterically asked. Fortunately, the answer was no, and we eventually went on our way. With the exception of the windshield, damages were minimal to the dark brown Ford LTD. After our day at the beach with fussy Frank—anticlimactic after the accident—we returned home to the Bronx with a story to tell of how the accident really happened. Our driver’s flip flops slipped as he was hitting the brake in that snarling beach traffic. No mention was ever made of the headrest horseplay behind it. The true story of what happened on the fateful day in August 1978 was buried—and known by only the handful of people in that brown LTD—until now. I don’t know whatever became of Frank. In fact, I never saw him again. But I sincerely hope the headache that he complained about on the ride back cleared up.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)