When Kingsbridge Town Came to Bangor, PA

Fifty-eight years ago today, Kingsbridge denizens en masse descended upon the small town of Bangor in Pennsylvania’s lush Lehigh Valley. It was my mother and father’s wedding day. The former was born and raised in this picturesque hamlet with its working slate quarries and delicious bologna. The folks got married in the town’s sole Catholic church. While Catholics were a ubiquitous lot in the environs of Kingsbridge, they were a tiny minority in Bangor, which hosted houses of worship of every conceivable Protestant denomination and a synagogue, too.

Courtesy of Hurricane Diane churning in the nearby Atlantic, August 13, 1955 was a horrible day weather wise—dreadfully humid, extremely windy, and completely waterlogged. Several days later, in fact, this very same, slow-moving hurricane would wreak havoc in Pennsylvania’s Pocono Mountains and elsewhere in the northeast with epic rainfall, flash flooding, and many reported deaths. So, in this age before GPS and SUVs, destiny divined an anything but smooth voyage from the Bronx to Bangor.

My paternal grandfather—and father of the groom—determined that it would be best for one and all to charter a bus for the trip. He correctly surmised it would be a major hassle for such a diverse cast of characters to travel independently to foreign terrain sans both the aforementioned GPS and Interstate 80, which had as yet reached the New York Metropolitan area. Back then, a trip to Bangor involved numerous twist and turns and the venturing through scores of small towns. Traffic lights and traffic jams were all too common. Opportunities to make wrong turns and get hopelessly lost were multifold. And this reality snippet didn’t even take into account the possibility of inclement weather. (Pre-Interstate 80, a Kingsbridge to Bangor trip took three hours or thereabouts. Post-Interstate 80, that time was cut in half.)

A bus was thus chartered to transport an eclectic group of Kingsbridge residents and others to the wedding. It was an arduous ride through unremitting heavy rains and ghastly humidity. Smoking on the non-air-conditioned bus ride was permitted in those days—and a lot of people smoked. Happily, there were no reports of passengers needing oxygen when they at long last set foot on Bangor soil. Taking into consideration the foul weather, the wedding Mass had been delayed in anticipation of Kingsbridge Town meeting Bangor, PA.

The oral history passed down to me has it that the bus trip to Bangor was decidedly somber as the driver carefully navigated through flooding rains, but considerably more raucous on the return trip home. The boys—my father’s buddies from the old neighborhood—brought along a barrel of beer with them to help pass the time. And all of this after a fun-filled reception at the Blue Valley farm fairgrounds. There was no bathroom in the bus, which I expect added further drama to the successful Kingsbridge meets Bangor experiment.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Ode to the Front Stoop

Like so many other things, stoop sitting in the big city is a lost art. While it’s not completely dead and buried, its heyday is definitely a thing of the past. Once upon a time stoop sitters were a ubiquitous lot on summer nights in the Bronx’s Kingsbridge and elsewhere. It’s what city folk did as a rule before the advent of computers and Facebook. After suppertime in the warmer climes, men and women of all ages migrated to the great outdoors to sit on their stoops, spit the breeze, and—yes—dish the dirt. Some hit the stoops with beach chairs. Others emerged from indoors with pillows to soften the blow of resting their derrieres on brick and concrete. Heartier souls just plopped down on their stoops’ rock-hard steps and sidewalls and found it perfectly comfortable.

Stoop sitting was emblematic of the sense of community that existed. It brought neighbors together on a daily basis and encouraged the art of conversation. Stoop sitters from the past had no cell phones in their pockets. They weren’t on tenterhooks awaiting calls and texts. Nor were they checking their iPhones every thirty seconds to see what breaking news and incredibly important stuff was happening in their lives in real time. These groundbreaking—and, yes, stoop breaking—technologies were decades down the road.

As a boy, my evening itineraries didn’t entail me sitting around and chewing the fat with the older generations on the front stoop. Post dinnertime, we kids were otherwise engaged in street games, even after sunset. “Flashlight,” or “Flashlight tag,” as I’ve sometimes seen it referred, was a favorite night game of ours. Still, I recall ending up on the front stoop after the elders had said their "good-nights." It’s where we typically finished our always-busy summer days and shared some final thoughts.

Of course, I spent countless hours sitting on the stoop in the daytime, too. “So, what do you want to do?”—summertime’s most frequently posed query—was Front Stoop 101. And after doing what we had settled upon doing, the stoop was where we usually ended up afterward to both catch our breaths and plot our future adventures.

There’s very little sense of community in these parts anymore—and a lot of other places it would seem. I remember knowing just about everyone who lived on my entire block and well beyond its borders, too. When there were things called neighborhoods—real neighborhoods—we even knew people that we didn’t know. Knew their names at least. We didn't all associate with one another or like one another. There were the good, the bad, and the ugly around town. But it was a neighborhood—with character and characters in a vastly different time.

I remember how our family dog, Ginger, so quickly acclimated to being a Bronx stoop sitter. She instinctively knew when we were just going outside to sit on the stoop, and she’d promptly assume her position on the third step, where she could both contentedly rest her head on a low wall and keep a vigilant eye on all the goings-on in the neighborhood. RIP: the energy of the front stoop.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Pigman in the Archives

Recently, I unearthed a box load of papers from my high school years (1976-1980). For more than thirty years now, I have haphazardly archived a diverse assortment of tests, absentee passes with teachers’ initials on their backs, schedules, report cards, school notices, etc. Thumbing through this stuff didn’t exactly bring back fond memories. Foremost, it made me wonder what would become of it all this stuff when the grim reaper came calling. And I think I know the answer.

High school ephemera in my voluminous archives are just the tip of the iceberg. I have saved through the years countless bits and pieces from the times of my life. And since I’m not Thomas Jefferson, Michael Jackson, or Babe Ruth, my labyrinthine, dribs and drabs paper trail will not likely be of interest to too many people. When whoever comes around to clean out my closets and dresser drawers, a scrupulous inventory of all that I have left behind will not likely occur. I’m certain that anything of value will be promptly located and quickly separated from 1977 high school Spanish tests and student handbooks informing us boys that our hair should not touch our ears or the back collars of our shirts. (My high school, Cardinal Spellman in the Bronx, did not literally enforce this overly strict hair rule in the late 1970s, which was an era of mop tops and pretty long hair as a rule. I know this because I violated the handbook’s written dictum for the entire four years. The powers-that-be did nonetheless have a “your hair is too long” standard that they willy-nilly enforced by threatening transgressors with “get it cut or we’ll cut it for you.” I recall a peer of mine asking me if I was told to cut my hair. When I said no, he said that he was given the haircut ultimatum, and that my hair was a lot longer than his.)

I have thus reevaluated the business of archiving my life and times. Separating the memories’ wheat from the memories’ chaff, I’ve begun paring it all down and recycling what—at the end of the day—merits recycling. My mission: to spare my heirs—sometime down the road—having to unceremoniously discard this man’s life in one fell swoop.

Of course, I will pick and choose items worth saving—like my report cards for instance—and do away with such things as impossible to understand Geometry tests and lamely written English essays. (If the tests are any indicator, I have forgotten an awful lot of stuff since high school.) I will, however, think long and hard before scrapping such things as handwritten, mimeographed quizzes, like the one on The Pigman, a book by Paul Zindel and freshman year required reading. I don’t suspect there are too many teachers penning tests in their own hands these days, and then mimeographing them for distribution. As I see it, The Pigman test transcends one mere student and assumes an historical importance—one worth preserving for future generations to appreciate. Really…throwing stuff out can be a very complicated affair.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

A Midsummer Day's Nightmare

The waning days of July have a knack of resurrecting old memories, and not always the most pleasant ones. An unwelcome packet used to arrive in my mailbox in the late 1970s at around this time of year. Amidst all the fun and frolic that I was experiencing in those summers of my youth, these manila envelopes underscored that the good times wouldn’t last forever—that their days were very definitely numbered. The fun and games would soon be over, because new school years were right around the corner.

“Once again I am writing to you in the middle of the summer with materials and information concerning the opening of school in September,” the packets' cover letters invariably began. They were actually addressed “Dear Parents,” because the first order of business was establishing what the monthly tuition bills would be for the coming school years. For those of us who attended Catholic high school, this was no small matter. In 1978, Cardinal Spellman High School’s tuition was $730, and that sum covered ten months through June 1979. Today, the tuition at my alma mater is $7,250—a tenfold increase. I suspect that the “Once again I am writing to you in the middle of the summer” packets are crammed with even more apprehension than in the past. The $3 monthly tuition raise that occurred in the 1978-79 school year was probably not a budget buster for too many parents. The necessary tuition raises nowadays are, I fear, packed with a more substantial wallop.

Honestly, I didn’t concern myself with high school tuition back then. The folks picked up the entire tab. College tuition was another story. But it was the “Once again I am writing to you in the middle of summer” packet’s recounting the school opening dates and various orientations that faithfully got me down. It always seemed that it was a little too early to have this information in my possession and, worse than that, permanently lodged on my brain. The packet, too, highlighted how fleeting summer vacations really were. If the middles of summers could come around so awfully fast, the ends of summers could, logically, come around just as quickly—and they always did, including in 1978. In fact, thirty-four summers have come and gone since then, with a thirty-fifth one soon to be in the history books.

Happily, I don’t receive anymore “Once again I am writing to you in the middle of the summer” packets in the mail, although now I don’t mourn a summer’s passing like I once did. And that’s for a whole host of reasons, with one being that I don’t have to return to high school in September. It cannot be denied that this annual summer reminder was a real bummer for those of us who loathed school. And I'd hazard a guess we were the considerable majority.

A neighbor of mine, who attended another Catholic high school in the Bronx, received similar materials in the mail at around the same time as I did. And from that day onward, he would incessantly intone that “summer’s almost over” and marvel about the speedy passage of time. In retrospect, time really didn’t fly by in my youth. The high school years seemed interminable as a matter of fact. Now, four years go by in a heartbeat, and summers even faster than that. Thank you for reading this blog of mine—in the grand tradition of my old principal Monsignor White—in the middle of the summer.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

  

Tis Bitter Hot...And I Am Sick At Heart

It was close to one hundred degrees today in New York City. And once upon a time, I welcomed Bronx summers and sizzling temperatures and high humidity with open arms and a brave heart. But not anymore. My reasons are multifold and have been previously chronicled in my blog. Foremost, youthful summers meant the end of school—a couple of months respite from ten months of drudgery and high anxiety. Is it my imagination, or do more kids than ever actually like going to school?

Summertime also meant longer days, all sorts of games played outdoors, vacations on the Jersey Shore and the North Fork of Long Island, and a whole lot of stoop-sitting to fill in the gaps. The art of conversation was alive and well back then, but I can’t remember what any of us talked about. Thirty and forty years ago, a night like tonight would have brought the stoop brigade out in full force, with the exceptions of those spoiled sorts addicted to a luxury called “air conditioning.”

I grew up with no air conditioning on the premises to help us navigate sultry Bronx summers. My father frequently opined that feeling the heat was in our heads—a state of mind only. This mentality from up above, and the fact that an air conditioner would have blown a fuse every time we turned one on, precluded any sort of technological relief from the dreadful heat and humidity one-two punch, which was so commonplace. We did, though, employ fans in the house, which were both reluctantly condoned by my father and compatible with our antiquated electric wiring.

Nevertheless, summers from those days of yore underscored the genuine neighborhood feel that existed—camaraderie that is largely gone with the hot winds around these parts. Very few people sit out on their front stoops nowadays, even on comfortable summer nights. Kids aren’t playing outdoor games on the streets—none at all. Why., we even played a game called “flashlight,” aka “flashlight tag,” to extend our active summer days after sunset.

Without air conditioning in our upstairs lair in our three-family home, the excessive heat of past summer days and nights past was not a barrel of laughs. And, too, there were regular utility brown outs in the 1970s, with power cuts on the hottest of nights, flickering lights, and, worse than all that, refrigerator ice cubes freezing and unfreezing. But somehow, we endured the worst of the summertime heat. We played doubleheader games of stickball on steamy asphalt in ninety-plus degrees weather, and didn’t bring any liquid refreshments with us. It’s just what we did or didn't in these instances. In retrospect, I wonder why we didn’t think to bring water, or an alternative thirst quencher, in a thermos jug or something, but they were just different times. Individual bottles of water for sale didn’t yet exist, and we would have thought that quite bizarre. We just played the games we had always played—and that previous generations had played—and returned home parched. We’d then hit the iced tea jug or lemonade pitcher. A stickball peer of mine often referred to his life-saving need for “H-2-O.”

Sure, I prefer air conditioning. I’d long ago broken ranks with my late father on that score. What a great invention. Honestly, I don’t look back fondly on being miserable in the sweltering summertime heat, sucking in the poor air quality of New York City, and sticking to my bed sheets on the warmest of nights. But I do look back fondly on the lost neighborhood and the sense of community, which has been cast asunder—not by air conditioning, but by the passage of time.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Karma Train

I have this friend who absolutely loves spaghetti—all kinds of spaghetti, he says. The way I see it, though, spaghetti all by its lonesome is pretty much tasteless. It’s the tomato sauce and other toppings that matter, so I could never quite understand how anyone could claim to like all kinds of spaghetti dinners in all kinds of venues.

The Spaghetti Man also has a knack for finding fault with restaurant food and service. Several years ago, he recounted the story of finding a piece of glass in his spaghetti bowl at some over-priced Manhattan eatery, I cut him a little slack and conceded he had ample reason to be upset this time. Even lodging a complaint was in order. Still, I couldn’t help but see karma at work. You know, the guy who always finds something wrong—even when there isn't anything wrong—finds a small but sharp piece of glass in his spaghetti bowl. And then—some years later—it happens again at another dining establishment. Just what are the odds of that? I don't think my friend is running scams to get free meals like Angel,  PI Jim Rockford’s good buddy. I think bad karma is on his tail. Of course, it could be restaurant staff members wanting to get even with an overbearing and annoying patron. However, I think placing jagged glass in a pasta dish—a criminal offense—would have been carrying things a bit too far when saliva, a sneeze, or earwax would have sufficed.

Today, I rode the karma train from the Bronx into Manhattan and then back again. I usually ride in the first or last subway car because they are generally the least crowded from beginning to end. I rode downtown in the second car this morning only because an oblivious young woman on the platform was talking on her cell phone and ran interference, blocking me from getting to the first car. As it turned out, the second car’s air conditioning was out of order. I could have moved to another one, but the day was pleasant enough to make it quasi-tolerable for me, but apparently not for many others. Hence, the car remained less populated than it would have otherwise been. Since I didn’t pass out on the journey, I suppose it was worth remaining in warm, stale air for the forty-five minute or so ride.

On my return trip, all was going well for a while. I was in an uncrowded, air-conditioned subway car—the last one as a matter of fact. But then a mother, grandfather, and young boy got on the train at Lincoln Center. The kid was unleashed, unruly, and running about like a pinball, but worse than all of that he was constantly shrieking at the top of his lungs—and I mean shrieking! He was mimicking a Ninja Turtle or something at some point. Negative karma was once again rearing its ugly head.

I noticed several people changing cars just as soon as they got the chance, but I remained stationary, pretending to fall asleep or some such thing because it was at once embarrassing and surreal. On more than one occasion, the mother told her son to keep his voice down, but to no avail. Really, she didn’t seem overly concerned about it. Like me, most people in the subway car were pretending not to notice this excessively hyper child, who most definitely wasn’t on any kinds of calming meds.

I was actually preparing to at long last to leave the subway car at the City College station at 137th Street and ride in another one, or even wait for another train if necessary. But, lo and behold, the unholy threesome—that bad karma brought to me—got off there. The entire subway car heaved a collective sigh of relief when they did—I felt it—although outwardly, like good New Yorkers, we remain poker-faced. Just another day on the Karma Train.

Roads Not Taken

Growing up in the Bronx’s Kingsbridge in the 1970s, I faithfully attended Sunday Mass after Sunday Mass—and Mass on Holy Days of Obligation, too—at St. John’s Church. It was a pretty impressive-looking place on the inside in those days, but I can’t honestly say I got anything out of the repetitive Mass thing. There was no Mass appeal if you will. The sermons from the various men of the cloth were largely uninspiring and totally unmemorable. But to paraphrase comedian Jackie Mason: “I say this with all due respect.” My mother used to say, “You get out of it what you put into it.” That cliché evidently meant something to her, but it left the young me cold.

What I mostly recall from this largely benign but monotonous experience was Sunday morning breakfast. That is, getting to Pat Mitchell’s Irish Food Center—aka “Pat’s”—before the Mass’s masses. In stark contrast with the parish priests’ sermons, Pat’s chocolate frosted donuts, miniature jellies, and fresh rolls were unforgettable. They meant an awful lot to an awful lot of people in the neighborhood, which explained why hightailing out of the church at Mass’s end as quickly as humanly possible was the order of the day. Long lines and a survival-of-the-fittest jostling in this small, but iconic neighborhood grocery store were the Sunday morning norm after the various Masses.

But this blog isn’t about Pat Mitchell’s and his tasty donuts. (I’ve tackled this important historical and culinary subject before.) It’s about a road not taken. A special announcement—a footnote of sorts—was always made at the end of the Sunday morning Mass that I normally attended. Those of us on hand were informed that coffee and donuts would be served in the church’s adjoining “Pebble Patio”—on the house of worship as it were—immediately after we all went in peace. Foremost, I was intrigued by the moniker—Pebble Patio. It somehow struck me as funny, and I wondered, too, what kinds of donuts were being served there. Were they Pat’s, from a wholesale bakery called Willow Sunny, or perhaps from nearby Twin Donut? While appealing to the palate, the latter’s donuts left an aftertaste that sometimes lasted an entire day. Could it possibly be they were purchased from Shelvyn’s Bakery? No, not a chance—their donuts were pretty big, comparatively expensive, and thus unsuitable for any of the church’s come one, come all gatherings.

What I feared most of all, I think, was that the Pebble Patio donuts came from a supermarket. You know—the old-fashioned, powdered sugar, and cinnamon-coated varieties churned out by Hostess and various generic bakers. But, alas, I didn’t venture down that road to the Pebble Patio even once. There’s an important life lesson here, and I believe it’s that we should call upon pebble patios—one and all—when afforded the chance, because what we might find there may surprise us.

Greased Lightning

While growing up in the Bronx neighborhood of Kingsbridge, I couldn’t imagine living anyplace else. There were certain things of such monumental importance to me that necessitated I remain—as long as they were there—in the geographical location of my youth. The way I saw it: Life without them just wouldn’t amount to much of a life at all.

Most kids establish reputations—deserved or not. They achieve notoriety for their personality quirks, unique abilities, and special passions. The New York Mets and pizza lust—notably from a place called Sam’s Pizza in the neighborhood—stuck to me like a barnacle to a ship’s hull.

From a very young age, I was a Met fan in an area of the Bronx teeming with Yankee fans. My father was slavishly devoted to that haughty franchise in the South Bronx since the Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio days. The first baseball games I ever saw were at Yankee Stadium. I broke ranks, nonetheless, and received the nickname “Mr. Met”—“Met” for short—which has endured for four decades. I remember thinking about the prospect of living someplace else back then—outside of New York City—and how I would be unable to see my beloved team’s games, which were televised frequently on local WOR-TV, Channel 9, in the 1960s and 1970s, but no place else. This was a time before satellite dishes, ESPN, and all that multi-media jazz. A Mets’ game televised as a network “Game of the Week” would be all that I could ever hope for—and that was hardly enough.

And then there was Sam’s Pizza. I used to patronize the place an awful lot in the 1970s through much of the 1980s. I'd say the sixty cents slice price to a dollar a slice price represented my heyday. Sam’s product in those days was both thick and cheese intensive. The oil from the pizza stained the takeout paper bags in varying degrees. My father dubbed the place the “grease shop,” and it genuinely annoyed him to see me plucking slices out of my all too familiar greasy bags. From his perspective and generation—second generation Italian no less—it was outright sacrilege for me to patronize a pizza joint as often as I did.

But as I recall, the Sam’s Pizza grease from days gone by was the tastiest grease imaginable—one that I will never know again. Occasionally, when the pizza had been sitting around for the better part of the day, the grease factor could metamorphose, take a turn for the worse, and upset the stomach. But so what? That was the price one paid for a by and large incredibly tasting pizza—grease and all. And back in the 1970s, pizza boxes were only used for whole pies. Two, three, and even four slices were placed in a small paper bag. “Grease City” as we might have said in those days of yore. One got a lot of bang for one’s buck in those days, though, which is why living down wind of Sam’s Pizza and its greased lightning once meant the world to me.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

“B” as in “Ball”

It’s June in the Bronx. With the school year ending, hospitable climes, and the days growing longer and longer, it was, a long time ago, a favorite month of mine. This time of year used to mean play ball—all kinds of ball in the great outdoors. Nowadays, I see very few kids playing anything on the streets. This sociological observation is why I was quite surprised to encounter a cardboard tray of rubber hardballs in a local delicatessen—one run by Arabs. For some reason, rubber hardballs in an Arab deli called to mind Dr. Z, an affable Egyptian professor of mine from Manhattan College in the 1980s. He informed our macro-economics class that in his language—Arabic—there was no “P” as in “Peter” and “B” as in “ball.” And so, naturally, he always made a “mish, mosh, moosh” out of words with Ps and Bs, like “rubber hardball.”

A Bronx deli in the twenty-first century selling rubber hardballs just struck me as odd. Perhaps I’m missing something here and there is a real demand for them—for some game to be played somewhere unknown. They could also be inventory leftovers from the 1970s and a prior deli owner. I just don’t know. I do know, however, that one, among many things, that we urban youth did to pass the time in my Bronx neighborhood, Kingsbridge, was play pitcher and catcher and games of “errors” in our concrete backyards and elsewhere. Rubber hardballs, which I presume were manufactured for exactly that—playing on rough, synthetic surfaces, provided us with the ideal ball. Gradually, even they would wear out with use. This once versatile and robust orb would eventually be deemed too far-gone—an "egg"—and be put out to pasture.

While growing up in that simpler snapshot in time, my family’s front hallway performed double duty as an equipment room, where our baseball gloves, bats, and balls were placed and plucked from as needed. The ball selection included everything from spaldeens to whiffle balls; hardballs (cowhide and rubber) to tennis balls. When purchasing one of his stickball bats, I'll never forget “Herman” of Bill’s Friendly Spot on W231st Street lecturing me. “Do not use tennis balls with it,” he said, “because the bat will break.” In other words, he would not take back splinters—a broken bat under any circumstances. Of course, I ignored Herman’s counsel and the bat broke upon a second contact with a tennis ball.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

He Said It Absorbed the Perspiration

With the weather turning so hot so quickly in the Bronx these past couple of days, I couldn’t help but recall the simpler times of my youth. Yes, when the neighborhood I grew up in had both character and characters—lots of them in fact. When perspiration streamed down my face while in the great outdoors today—rapidly and of a considerable magnitude—I realized something. The perspiration absorber that I once owned—a full head of hair—was no longer at my disposal, which explained a lot of things.

One thought led to another as my unprotected brain baked on this uncomfortable day in May. Heat-inspired memories of growing up in hot times—in a hot spot that is no more—consumed me. Mr. C lived up the street from me during my boyhood. And he had a perspiration absorber all his own. On my front stoop one warm summer’s eve a long time ago, Mrs. C revealed her husband’s secret to beating the heat at bedtime. No, it wasn’t an air conditioner. That contraption didn’t cool rooms; it only increased electric bills beyond the pale. Mrs. C let us all know that her husband—and she always referred to him as “my husband”—faithfully wore a T-shirt to bed, even on the hottest, most humid nights that Mother Nature had in her arsenal.

“He says it absorbs the perspiration,” Mrs. C went on to say, revealing her family’s equivalent of the Coca-Cola recipe. Fortunately, my younger brother and I happened to be in earshot when this sage advice on waging war against the worst that perspiration had to offer was uttered. In fact, we made it immortal and still quote Mrs. C to this day, although I kind of prefer letting perspiration have a go at me on an uncomfortably warm night without an absorbing tee.

It was a city neighborhood tradition once upon a time on sultry evenings—stoop sitting and sounding off. First, second, and third generations occasionally sat around in the same general vicinity. Verbal gems could therefore be absorbed—along with the perspiration—and be passed on to future generations. Unfortunately, first, second, and third generations spitting the breeze on front stoops are harder and harder to come by nowadays. Why sit out on the front stoop, anyway, when one can be inside in air conditioning staring at an iPad or laptop sans any perspiration at all? Why? I don’t know, but sometimes a little interaction and perspiration goes a long way…a long way.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Men at Work: The Pete Charlia Story

If you wandered the streets of my New York City neighborhood these days, you would be hard-pressed not to conclude that the economy is rosy and jobs pretty plentiful—in the blue-collar, build-and-fix things trade at least. Scaffolding is everywhere. Local streets are forever being dug up to repair or replace antiquated infrastructure. Old edifices are being torn down and new ones are going up. Area homes are being gutted and rebuilt to twenty-first century standards that beget twenty-first century rents. Hard hats, street dumpsters, and cigarette butts are ubiquitous.

Now, while I’m certainly pleased there are all these jobs for all these people in these difficult times, I can’t help but resent having to run daily obstacle courses in my travels and endure the incessant noise that comes with the territory. Gone are the days when men at work and such mayhem appealed to me. Granted, I was only a ten-year-old kid at the time when a six-story building went up across the street from me. The foreman in charge of the construction crew was a man we all knew as “Pete Charlia”—a little Italian guy with a potty mouth and boxer shorts that rode up his stomach and backside, too. He was ahead of his time.

In the 1970s, Italians—from Italy no less—were still building things in these parts. And we kids in the neighborhood relished watching them ply their trade. The grating sound of a pile driver was music to our ears. When the building’s foundation was initially laid, a handful of daring youth—much older than me—would walk along its maze of concrete and risk serious injury or worse. In no uncertain terms, Pete Charlia informed us one day that he intended to push—to his death if need be—the next kid he caught in his work in progress. This way, he reasoned, the others would learn their lessons and appreciate the risks of falling into the abyss of his foundation. Invading his domain, which was fenced off to keep interlopers out, had its consequences after all.

I don’t know why I thought of Pete Charlia today—some four decades later—as I observed so many men at work. And, guess what, the man’s last name probably wasn’t “Charlia” after all. A Google search of the surname took me to the United Kingdom and Australia, not Italy. His first name was probably “Pietro,” too. Pietro could very well have been in his thirties when we knew him. But everybody seemed so old to us back then. Pete Charlia—or whatever his real name was—could still be among the living all these years later. But I can't help but wonder where his life took him after this building job in the Northwest Bronx. On his staff was a tractor driver that we nicknamed the “Head” because he wore a variety of headwear, including a Slapsie the Cook hat, to ward off the hot sun. Even with our often errant youthful divining of ages, I’ll go out on a limb and say that the “Head” is dead. Whatever became of the whole lot of them, I don’t know, but I’m happy to have known Pete Charlia and his crew all those years ago.

P.S. The photograph is of my father, not Pete Charlia. The pile driver, however, belongs to Pete.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Journals, Context, and the Historical Record

A while back, I revisited several journals that I kept during the early 1990s. A fair portion of the scribbling I’d classify as benign. But some of my reportage brought back unpleasant memories from—it would appear—a mostly unpleasant time in my life. In fact, I had largely forgotten the multi-layers of unpleasantness that existed back then, but there it was. A considerable chunk of these journal entries took a rather dim view of select individuals and their behaviors. Worst of all, I found myself every now and then extolling the virtues of some folks whom I subsequently discovered didn’t merit the praise—and that’s putting it mildly and among the most embarrassing things I have ever put on paper.

What I especially find interesting about these strolls down Memory Lane is the nature of journal writing itself. Exactly why was I writing so frequently in them back then? Why did I write the things that I did? Who—besides yours truly—did I ever want or expect to read my journals? The answer to the latter question is nobody but me—at least during the living years. After my death, though, I was comfortable with the journals becoming part of the historical record of my one brief shining moment of existence.

As I’ve grown both older and balder—and nearer being dead as a doornail than twenty years ago—I’m not as comfortable with the notion of bestowing my private journals to the ages. The trouble is that their content—depending on when I breathe my last—could prove hurtful to some people still among the living. Occasionally, my entries were heat-of-the-moment rants that need to put into that context. However, without me around to explain said context, the journals could very well paint an inaccurate picture—certainly an inaccurate big picture—of all that was in my little corner of the world.

This is the problem with honest journal writing as a rule, which is why I have only periodically kept them. I don’t want to be writing them with an eye on posterity and preserving, or enhancing, my reputation. Then again, I don’t want to tarnish my micro-memory on the family tree by having snippets plucked out of it as indicative of the real me that actually aren’t the real me—in total at least.

I know of some people who keep fluff-a-nutter journals that record day-to-day events in a simple, all-is-well tone. All family gatherings are warm and fuzzy—naturally. All vacations are incredibly relaxing and barrels of laughs, too. God—life is good! For sure, these journals have their place. They record the linear progression of our lives and times. And, too, their authors don’t have to ponder whether or not their journals should be set ablaze at some point in the future to keep real the historical record.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

The Word Gets In the Way

I have this recurring nightmare that one day I might get ensnared in a Microsoft Word loop and never extricate myself from it. It seems that every so often the Word spellchecker advises a change, which I dutifully make, and then it tells me to change it back again. And when I do that, there’s that red squiggly line once more, directing me to change it to what it was previously…and so on and so forth. This ping-pong could, in fact, go on forever. I could sit at my computer and make these changes indefinitely.

Really, Word is rather insidious as it goes about its business, often recommending changes that are just plain wrong. But what concerns me most of all is how this software program gets under one’s skin and plays mind games. Word has the uncanny knack of creating doubt. It has the power to make you believe that what you absolutely know to be true—a correct spelling for instance—maybe isn’t true after all.

I got caught in a particular loop yesterday when Word informed me that “store owner” was one word. While I was almost certain it was two words, I nonetheless bowed to the change pending further investigation on my part. But then Word told me that “storeowner” was wrong and that it was indeed two words. FreeDictionary.com actually supplies a definition for “storeowner” as one word, but the consensus spelling is two words. Word is confused and so am I.

For some reason, all of this reminded me of a disturbing episode of Rod Serling’s Night Gallery, where this thoroughly rotten soul, being hunted down for his crimes against humanity, wished to be absorbed into a particular painting—a resplendent portrait of sheer bliss and absolute serenity. It was a Mr. Limpet sort of thing, but with a really creepy edge. And, yes, the man got sucked into a painting all right, but not the idyllic one he had desired. Instead, he became part of a painting that portrayed horrible suffering, which is where he would now be confined in perpetuity.

I’d hate to be caught in a loop and forevermore be compelled to change “store owner” to “storeowner” and then back to “store owner.” Perhaps I should just fast-forward myself out of these snafus when they occur, but Word tells me on one page of a manuscript that “fast-forward” is indeed hyphenated, but leaves another “fast forward” uncorrected without the hyphen. Insidious indeed.

Perchance to Dream

For some reason I remember Dr. Sidney Freedman, M*A*S*H 4077’s ever-patient psychiatrist played by Allan Arbus, once saying, “Freud said, ‘Every dream is a wish.’” I forget the context but, suffice it to say, ol’ Sigmund was a bit careless in his pronouncements and slothful in his conclusions on occasion—prone to some big-time generalizations. I, for one, do not desire being friends with this strange and unpleasant guy named Martin from the neighborhood. Yet, last night, I dreamed he and I were best pals and met for a game of chess in a nearby Starbucks.

Foremost, I don’t like Martin by reputation and—most of all—from extended observation. I’ve seen him through the years—decades in fact—in places we both frequented. One of them was my favorite diner, which sadly is no more. I never said a word to the man, yet he menacingly glowers at me every time I pass by him on the street. I don’t take it personally, though, because he does the same thing to just about everybody else.

Martin, you see, was a diner blowhard, but not your run-of-the-mill diner blowhard. Let’s just say he was on the higher intelligence side of the blowhard spectrum and wanted everyone to know it. He desperately needed to be heard and to show-off his eclectic acumen. Martin regularly jousted with the much lower IQs of the diner staff and its clientele. He also wrote and read poetry in local establishments that welcomed poets with open microphones. Martin would always attend these events at the pub-eateries that hosted them, but never, ever buy any food or grog—nor would we he contribute a buck when the basket was passed around to help support and sustain area poetry readings and the arts. He often got up out of his chair when the basket took flight to go to the bathroom or to get some fresh air.

I suspect a sighting of Martin triggered this dream of mine. Recently, I spied him seated in a Starbucks' window and playing a game of chess. Martin is a paranoid fellow—his eyes flit back and forth as a rule—so I was not surprised when he sneeringly peered out at me looking in at him and a friend, or more likely a chess-playing acquaintance. I find it inconceivable he could have an actual friend, but anything is possible in this wacky world of ours.

Personally, I don’t frequent Starbucks—too expensive and highfalutin, especially when there are diners and Dunkin’ Donuts around in abundance. Granted, there is no WiFi in these places, and Martin probably couldn’t bring a chess set in and hang around for hours and not even buy a lousy cup of coffee. I played chess as a youth, but never enjoyed games grounded on next-move pressures every step of the way. This goes a long in explaining why I usually lost. Martin would make short order of me in a game of chess in a Starbucks' window. Perchance to dream a better dream tonight—a Freudian one without Martin that I could genuinely wish would come true.

Cat-like Coordination in the Pocket Park

It’s been said that the truth is stranger than fiction. And I would add that the quintessential reality show—truly unscripted and unpredictable—plays out on Main Street, Broadway, and at One Penn Plaza, too.

A stone’s throw away from the entrance to Penn Station, there is what is known as a New York City pocket park. This little snippet of real estate is not much to look at, but it’s a place to rest one’s weary bones in what otherwise is a heavily trafficked and rather grubby area of midtown Manhattan.

Grubville notwithstanding, the reality show on display on this day at One Penn Plaza was worth the price of admission. It seems a diverse group of drug-addled and miscellaneous mentally ill men and women gather, kibitz, and commiserate in this little park. There is very probably a shelter nearby that bids them adieu until the dinner bell and lights out. It’s sad, yes, but sometimes the surreal quality transcends all else.

The scene: Enter a straggly foursome. The leader of the pack—by default—is the oldest and sports a scary-looking skull tattoo on one of her arms. She looks like Rhea Perlman and is drinking something masked in a paper bag. And I don’t think it is Hawaiian Punch. Rhea is quite loquacious and doing a lot of sermonizing to her brethren of the streets. The closest in age to her is a Susan Sarandon look alike—had things gone really bad for her. Susan doesn’t appreciate Rhea’s perpetual lecturing of her and the others. She is especially miffed when Rhea unilaterally chooses to grant a little privacy to the youngest members of their ensemble. They need “time to work out their romantic problems,” Rhea says, without the two maternal figures on the scene butting in.

In the midst of this ongoing drama are two teenagers on bicycles performing all kinds of tricks on the various walls, steps, and metal banisters in the pocket park. Rhea is dutifully impressed and asks, “How many Red Bulls did you have to drink to get all that energy?” Self-deprecatingly, she adds how she is “too old and too fat” to ride a bicycle anymore, let alone perform acts of derring-do.

As if this One Penn Plaza reality show isn’t interesting enough, along comes a multiple bag-carrying fellow who kind of resembles the late Larry Hogue, the “Wild Man of 96th Street,” as the New York Daily News dubbed him. This notorious bipolar crack-addict terrorized a Manhattan neighborhood a couple of decades ago. When today’s Larry enters the pocket park, he is in the bicycle-riding youths’ way and taking his sweet time in getting to where he is going. They ask him politely to move and he beams a combination of hate and befuddlement.

When Larry is in earshot of me, I realize he isn’t angry at all, but mesmerized by the youth and what they are doing. He refers to their “cat-like coordination,” which I think is a nice turn of phrase from, if you will, a deranged individual in a truly unscripted reality show on the streets of Manhattan. After expressing some concern for the kids not wearing helmets, and possibly “landing on their balls” as many of their bicycle stunts involve coming down atop metal railings and such, Larry walks off and finds a little chair with a table in front of it—not too far away from where I am sitting—and promptly begins thumbing through his myriad accouterments.

The wind blows some of his trappings away and I watch as Larry scampers after them—very slowly, I might add. Larry has only one speed and it is not fast forward. At long last, with his table properly set, he begins pulling out bottles and mixing them together like a chemist in a laboratory. I can’t say for certain what is in any of them, but I’d wager Milk of Magnesia isn’t among them.

It is Rhea, Susan, and Larry’s turf that I am on. That much I know. They don’t say goodbye to me when I exit the drama and excitement of the pocket park on a beautiful Saturday afternoon in spring. But that is okay. They have left their mark on me with this bona fide New York Experience in the perfect setting. What will tomorrow bring them? God only knows.

A Cautionary Tale: MoneyPak Can't Buy Happiness

Engaged in my now standard morning routine of drinking coffee, perusing various online news stories, and navigating Facebook bromides, I was violently assaulted a couple of days ago. Without fair warning, my computer—access to any and all of its components—was snatched away from me.

While leisurely reading an article from a local newspaper, the words suddenly disappeared. They were replaced on my screen with a bloodcurdling notice from the U.S. Department of Justice, or so it said, informing me that my computer had been locked pending further investigation of criminal activities. However, I could unlock it for $300—payable via MoneyPak only—and perhaps stave off further investigation of what were some pretty serious crimes my computer and I were alleged to be involved in.

The U.S. Department of Justice was quite thorough here, I thought, in its decidedly chilling message. I was informed where I could purchase MoneyPaks—Rite Aid, Walgreens, CVS, 7-Eleven, et al. However, something rang a wee bit unethical to me that the feds could be bought off so easily. But then, this government entity made no iron-clad promises they wouldn’t proceed in the investigation after it got its $300 via MoneyPak. Giving me three days to pay this extortion to the U.S. Department of Justice may have seemed fair, but not when the due date was March 1st and I received the notice on March 26th.

Needless to say, I didn’t run down to Rite Aid, a nearby retailer that sold the U.S. Department of Justice’s preferred form—actually only form—of payment: MoneyPak. Instead, I shut down my computer, hoping against hope that all would be well when I turned it back on. It wasn’t, which didn’t surprise me. That hideous notice appeared before I could even put my computer into Safe Mode and try any number of things. For a non-computer savvy person, like me, I feared I might have to exercise the nuclear option—System Recovery—and begin anew. And, with my very old computer, that meant returning to prehistoric virtual times. It had happened to me once before and it wasn’t pretty.

The insidiousness of acts like this—anonymous, computer wrecking, and extortion of monies from the frightened and gullible—are downright sickening and more than a bit scary. The fact that these attacks come out of the blue—when we are blissfully going about our business—is a cautionary tale from the age we live in. What will tomorrow bring? God only knows. And, as for the persons behind these viruses—this particular one has been dubbed Ransomware—you deserve nothing less than being boiled in heart-healthy, hot Canola oil.

Note to Self

While thumbing through a box of grammar school ephemera recently, I encountered an uneven scrap of notebook paper with some scribbling on it. Turns out that it was a bona fide “Note to Self” and dated 2/26/80, which places its author—me—in my senior year of high school.

What can I say for certain about this day in February 1980? It was a Tuesday and a leap year, so there was a Friday, February 29th. I took a sick day from school, but I can’t say for sure whether I was physically under the weather or not. I’d hazard a guess that I wasn't. I was, though, experiencing some measure of teenage angst—the “I dread returning to that sickening place” is a dead giveaway.

Funny, but I have no recollection of writing this “Note to Self” and headlining it “Feelings Tonight.” I don’t recall what exactly was troubling me thirty-three years ago on that winter’s eve. Suffice it to say, I didn’t enjoy my high school experience all that much, which was more about me than the institution of fine learning I attended, which really was better than most in the Bronx. As I recall, I found my senior year the least unpleasant and objectionable of the four. So, the timing of this “Note to Self” surprised me a little.

As far as I'm concerned, the most intriguing note within this particular “Note to Self” is: “To be taken out on June 27.” This was the scheduled day I picked up my high school diploma, I believe, and the last day I would ever again set foot—by necessity—in that “sickening place.” Strange, but I do remember penning occasional notes with the “To be taken out on” tag and date—when enumerated troubles, which seemed so all consuming and even insurmountable, would be no more. It was my crude teenage way of convincing myself that “this too shall pass.” Oh, I believe in tomorrow.

There was, however, a serious glitch in this particular “Note to Self” and all the others, too. The words I penned ended up not being read—“taken out” as it were—on the prescribed days. And this was integral to the "Note to Self" concept. Still, it's probably a positive thing in the big picture—proof that so many of my problems were indeed fleeting.

On June 27, 1980, I was supposed to exclaim, “Hey, that awful angst that I wrote about in my 'Note to Self' is no more—gone with the winds of time.” Well, having missed that key date, I have finally gotten around to reading it thirty-three years later. And, yes, whatever was the overwhelming burden that confounded me on that February night a long time ago has been lifted from my shoulders. As for other “Notes to Self” that exist in the miscellaneous ephemera that I have yet to uncover, I’m certain, too, those assorted tribulations have also dissipated.

I do, though, have a few brand new “Notes to Self” that need to be written—notes befitting my life in the new millennium. To be taken out on when—now that’s the big question. Perhaps I'll publish them in thirty-three years and let everybody know how they turned out.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Even the Garbage Was More Special

Why, yes, the 1970s were a simpler snapshot in time…for me, and probably for a few others, too. Midway through the decade, 1975, had some extra-special resonance. Gerald Ford was the president of the United States, having succeeded Richard Nixon, who had resigned the previous year amidst the Watergate scandal. I had originally written “in disgrace,” but I thought it a bit cliché to do so.

Actually, Gerald Ford was a pioneer in the annals of American history—a truly unelected president—appointed by Nixon after his elected vice president, Spiro Agnew, resigned in disgrace in October of 1973. By his own admission, he was a “Ford, not a Lincoln,” but startlingly benign in contrast with his dubious predecessor. He asked Americans to wear “WIN” buttons back then, an acronym for “Whip Inflation Now,” in what were inflationary times.

But I turned thirteen that year, and inflation didn’t mean all that much to me. In fact, I don’t recall ever wanting for anything because of skyrocketing prices. Now, the government’s inflation statistics suggest that everything is hunky-dory—under control—in this pricey arena. It’s funny, but while I may have been a callow youth back in 1975, I don’t recall prices rising as fast and as frequent as they do today. And it’s not just the rising prices but also the sizes of everything that are shrinking.

While I don’t do political blogs—and this isn’t one—I can’t help but conclude that those inflationary times, in the 1970s, were better times, particularly for individuals on fixed incomes and families. They weren’t, then, buying shrinking rolls of toilet paper and half gallons of orange juice that were fifty-nine ounces. The pound of coffee from 1975 is a distant memory. The thirteen-ounce coffee is even a thing of the past.

This blog, however, is really about the 1970s in general—and 1975 in particular—when even neighbors’ garbage seemed more interesting. My father was wont to pluck from area garbage heaps unusual items. In the spring of 1975, just in time for my younger brother’s Confirmation party, he brought home a rather large wooden advertising placard for, of all things, Kentucky Fried Chicken. "Let Us Do Your Catering" it read. Where exactly he found it—and why it was there in the first place—I’ve since forgotten. Nevertheless, he propped it up in the dining room for the party and it was conversation piece. Many of us posed for pictures in front of it during the festivities. Wearing flowery dress shirts were also kind of cool, as I recall, when Gerald Ford was president and KFC was still Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Ironically, for those of us in Catholic grammar school, the 1970s color infusion, which seemed a bit over the top and even somewhat strange on occasion, supplanted some of the most ridiculous-looking, downright creepy outfits imaginable for the Holy Sacraments. (Compare with prior Communion and Confirmation attire.) A little color went a long way, I'd say. Now, if we could only Whip Inflation Now.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Premature Senior Moment

Recently, while on a daily errand run on the heavily trafficked Broadway, I spied a young fellow with a clipboard in hand. I generally try to avoid clipboard-wielding men and women for a variety of reasons. Foremost, I’m not typically interested in their particular causes or their winning business opportunities. And—even in the rare instances when I am on their wavelengths—I can’t help but be leery and on guard for some sort a scam. These are the times we live in…and I live in the Bronx.

Try as I did, though, I just couldn’t bypass this chap. He said, “Hello,” and since I didn’t say, “Goodbye,” he began his spiel, which I politely listened to while not breaking stride. Strange, but I thought I heard him say he was pitching a program for “young people” like me. So, I listened further to what was tumbling out of this poor guy's mouth. Under the circumstances, I couldn’t help it. Is he actually pitching a senior daycare plan to me—with door-to-door pickup, Medicare, arts and crafts, etc.—I wondered? And indeed he was. The flier he handed me told me as much and listed the countless benefits and the many exciting things I could do at this geriatric daycare center. Why there were gentle exercises and mental stimulation games to be enjoyed. Really, what more could a person ask for? Actually, the “Relaxation Room” didn't sound half bad.

Despite being cane and able, perhaps my walking along with such an aid added fifteen or twenty years to my chronological age, I don’t know. But from this young man’s perspective, I was a geezer who just might enjoy playing a game of checkers with a fellow geezer. I take small solace here—very small in fact—from a friend from high school, who when asked to hazard a guess of the age of our high school chemistry teacher, answered, “Sixty.” Well, thirty plus years later and she’s still teaching the same subject at the same place—and she’s not ninety-three. She was probably in her late twenties—maybe early thirties—when we had her as a teacher. Nevertheless, AARP solicitations aren’t very far off, I know. And to paraphrase a favorite author of mine, I’m more cognizant than ever before that every day amounts to “more and more subtracted from less and less.”

The Ralph Factor

Thirty-two years ago this January, I met Ralph—a salesman and bona fide peddler who represented a small pet accessories company that sold assorted wares to mom-and-pop retailers in the environs of New York City. Still in high school at the time, and working in one such store in Queens, Ralph fascinated me.

When he strolled through our shop’s back door—called Pet Nosh, by the way—for the first time on that cold winter’s morning when Jimmy Carter was the president; Ed Koch, the mayor; and Hugh Carey, the governor, Ralph wasn’t exactly dressed to the nines. Rather, he looked like a real nerd—the genuine article—when I first laid eyes on him festooned in earmuffs and an old Muscovite man’s winter hat. As something of a nerd myself, perhaps I’m being quick to judge here, I recall thinking as I watched Ralph remove his multiple layers of winter garments, including galoshes, which seemed to me like overkill considering the day was sunny, dry as dust, and the grounds snow free.

No, Ralph was a full-blooded nerd all right with his completely buttoned up white dress shirt and 1960s—maybe even 1950s—old tweed sports jacket. Yet, there was something mesmerizing about Ralph—special—as I eyed him lifting up his suitcase full of wares onto our front counter. Actually, it was more of a chest than a suitcase. Ralph was a happy-faced, upbeat version of Willy Loman. While his kind still plied their trade in 1980, their days were definitely numbered. Ralph, however, was as enthusiastic as ever—the eternal optimist—and viewed the impending pet care trade’s boon as a godsend.

In 1980, the industry was on the cusp of becoming a really big deal, and Ralph and his employer were right in the thick of this awakening, peddling a hodgepodge of merchandise that we all thought was pretty unique and quite cool for its time: attention-grabbing cat and dog toys, every imaginable kind of treat, and state-of-the-art accessory items like the Step ‘N’ Dine. Incredible, but this thing could actually keep pet foods fresh with its plastic covering—one that would only open up when a cat or a small dog approached it and stepped onto its welcome mat mechanism that, in turn, raised the plastic cover. The only problem—and it was a considerable one in retrospect—was that the plastic cover slammed shut every time the cat or dog stepped back off the welcome mat, which was often, to chew and digest their dinners. Suffice it to say, not a very pleasant dining experience. The consensus: Step ‘N’ Dine scared the dickens out of felines and canines alike who would—so pet parents complained—starve themselves before ever again approaching this invention from hell.

Fortunately, though, Ralph had a treasure trove of goodies in his suitcase-chest that pets of all stripes could appreciate. He wrote his orders by hand on scrap paper. I actually gave him scrap paper on more than one occasion, which he greatly appreciated. It was like gold to him because he used so much of it due to a Korean War injury that affected his handwriting. (Ralph wrote in very big strokes. A single order sometimes took up twenty or more pages.) There were no modern-style computers back then and the Ralph Way of doing business was not unusual. “The catch is you gotta buy a dozen,” Ralph often said. In his eighties now, the man is still at it. He has somehow survived all the growth and changes in the business. It can be explained only by the Ralph Factor.

Really...It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over

Funny, but I can recall as a kid doing the math with a friend of mine. We calculated how old we would be in the year 2000, which seemed so very, very far away—a science fiction-y sort of benchmark. Actually, we envisioned ourselves being downright ancient by then—in our late thirties—but reasoned, I suppose, that it would take so long a time in coming that it just might never come to pass. Well, it did—2000 has come to pass and then some. It’s 2013 now and counting. And time is accelerating, too.

Recently, the sports writers who elect members of the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame failed to select a single one for induction in 2013, despite several marquee names with Hall of Fame numbers on the ballot, including Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens. Their more than suspected use of performance-enhancing drugs torpedoed their chances—this go-around anyway.

2013 also marks the fortieth anniversary of the 1973 Mets, and my then favorite team’s last place to first place August-September metamorphosis. Champions of the National League Eastern division, the Mets promptly defeated the heavily favored Big Red Machine in the play-offs—three games to two—but came up a game short in the World Series against the heavily favored Oakland A’s. It was a World Series that my beloved Mets really should have won—they were up three games to two after all. It would have been the icing atop the cake of what was—for me at least—a mystical snapshot in time that, I know, can never be replicated.

I wasn’t quite eleven years old that September when the baseball gods intervened and healed so many injured players, while simultaneously adding a little extra oomph to their on-the-field performances. The coupling of youthful, unjaded exuberance with bona fide baseball fanaticism proved a potent mix, particularly back in this vastly different, much more innocent epoch to be a kid. If I had a month to live over in perpetuity—a Groundhog Month as it were—September 1973 might very well be my choice. It was an epic run for Met fans, and most especially appreciated by the younger set, like me, who lived and died on every call made by Lindsey Nelson, Bob Murphy, and Ralph Kiner. Up to that point in time, these three guys were the only broadcasters the Mets had ever employed. They painted the word picture with class and aplomb in stark contrast with the overbearing critical eyes of so many of today’s announcers.

My all-time favorite player was pitching great and future Hall of Famer Tom Seaver—the “Franchise” as he was known in these parts. Yogi Berra managed the 1973 club and, as far as I'm concerned, will always be a Met. God, Willie Mays was on the team’s roster—back home in New York where he rightly belonged—for his final season in what had been a long and illustrious career. When the organization hosted a “Willie Mays Night” in the thick of a pennant race before a capacity Shea Stadium crowd, I remember watching the festivities on the family’s black-and-white TV set in our living room. Witnessing the Say Hey Kid “say goodbye to America” was simultaneously thrilling and poignant. It was a simpler snapshot in time, for sure, with both affordable tickets on sale at the box office and Jane Jarvis tickling the organ ivories in the ballpark. Forty years ago, 24/7 all-sports-talk radio stations didn't exist. Dissecting and criticizing players, managers, and management were largely confined to newspaper columns and miscellaneous bloviating among friends and acquaintances on the neighborhood streets, in the schoolyards, and—for the adult crowd—in the saloons.

Growing up in the Northwest Bronx—in both a Yankees-centric neighborhood and family—kicked up the pressures a notch or two for this sixth-grader Met fan. Despite it being my family living room, I nonetheless accepted the reality I’d be watching the 1973 World Series in enemy territory. High anxiety. My father—a Yankee fan extraordinaire—hated the Mets with a passion. Committed New York fans loved and loathed in those days—to the marrow of their bones. And I hated the Yankees right back with equal fervor. Real fans just didn’t play both sides of the street and, if they did, they weren’t considered real fans.

Anyway, on October 14, 1973—game two of the World Series in Oakland—scrappy shortstop Bud Harrelson scored the go-ahead run in the tenth inning on a Felix Millan sacrifice fly. But hold your horses here, veteran umpire Augie Donatelli missed the call. He anticipated Harrelson sliding—which he didn’t do—and positioned himself smack dab on the ground for a bird's eye view. The great Willie Mays—in the on deck circle at the time—couldn’t believe the out call and fell down on his knees in despair, gazing toward the heavens for some succor, which he didn't get. An apoplectic Yogi Berra cried out in both disgust and resignation, “You missed the damn thing!” Harrelson, who was tossed out of the game for something he apparently uttered to the overly sensitive Donatelli, moaned, “You can’t kick me out for your inadequacies!”

As one might suspect, I was crestfallen at the blown call and, too, the harsh ribbing I received from the Yankee fans on the premises—my father in particular. I ran off to the security of my bedroom to shed a tear or two—definitely internally and maybe even externally. I don't recall the teary details. Chagrined at having gone too far, I suspect, my dad came back to console me. He said something to the effect: “The game isn’t over. The Mets could still win it. Come back to the living room.” I did and, in fact, the Mets won the game in fourteen innings. Although I knew he wished they had lost—super-Met fan young son notwithstanding—Pop was right on the money.

There is a life lesson here—from all those years ago in 1973—I surmise. “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over,” perhaps, or “Ya gotta believe?" I can't say. However, I do know that forty years have passed and a fair share of folks from that time—and that team—are no longer among the living. And that's kind of sad. But really, life is about moments—high points—and the 1973 pennant chase and post-season were, for me, high points that will never, ever be forgotten.

The Con Man Cometh...Again

Today, unhappily, I discovered that an indefatigable local con man is still plying his trade in the neighborhood. A few Thanksgiving mornings ago, he tried to put the bite on me, and apparently his shtick hasn’t changed all that much. When he initially approached my brother and me, he posed the seemingly innocuous question, “You don’t remember me?” In an attempt to convince me that we had indeed crossed paths on life’s long and winding road a while back—and on multiple occasions, too—the con man followed this query of his with an amiable back and forth guessing game.

Kibitzing for far too long with this guy, whom I didn’t in fact recognize, I was in hindsight a wee bit too dense for engaging this phony baloney for even a moment. As it turned out, the con man game that I got swept up him, found him, at long last, admitting to being the brother of a fellow whom I once worked alongside. Yes, I had finally guessed right with “John Smith”—really, that was his name. Funny, though, but I never knew he had a brother. In fact, I didn’t recall ever meeting a single Smith relation at the workplace.

So, to me, my con man was thus Billy, Eddie, or Adam Smith for a brief spell—very brief. The guessing game had gone on almost a full block before we had settled on the Smith Brothers’ connection. But by then, the cloud of dimness that had enveloped me had completely dissipated and I was more than suspicious. I wished with all my heart that Billy, Eddie, or Adam Smith would vanish into thin air, never to be heard from again. I knew, though, having given him entirely too much airtime made it inevitable that I was going to have to play along to the inevitable conclusion. He was, of course, going to ask me for money at the climax of some cock and bull story. Yada…yada…yada...he locked his keys in his car and had to pay the locksmith to get them out. Poor guy—he couldn’t get home without his car. And that, of course, is where his checkbook was.

Anyway, I finally had to decline his plaintive request for $42. I felt a hint of guilt for having strung the con man along for more than a block, when I knew full well he was not John Smith’s brother. Still, when I said, “Sorry…no…I can’t,” the agile con man didn’t miss a beat and went on his merry way to pull the scam on another unsuspecting patsy. And, it should be noted, I wouldn’t have given John Smith’s blood brother $42, either.

Fast forward three years and I hear a familiar voice from behind me this morning: “You don’t recognize me?” When I pivoted, it was, lo and behold, John Smith's brother. Ironically, I did indeed recognize him, but he didn't recognize me. “No,” I said without missing a stride. “You still don’t recognize me,” he said as he trailed me for several steps. “No!” I repeated more emphatically. While this neighborhood con man quickly gave up on yours truly this go-around, he nonetheless supplied a final verbal volley. “I’m your Saturday mailman,” he said. Oh, no you’re not. I know my Saturday mailman and he’s definitely not you. You’re John Smith’s brother, no? That was then and this is now.

The Power of Negative Thinking and Sunday Karma

In the world of prostheses and health insurance approval, patience is without question a virtue. I’ve been getting around on a malfunctioning C-Leg in its safety mode—a stiff leg, if you will—for four months now. I delicately navigated from point A to point B by adopting a paralyzed right side kind of gait and dragging the right leg along. I got more than a few “poor fellow” looks from locals, who, most probably, assumed I had suffered a stroke or some such setback.

So, this past Friday when I dragged myself to a scheduled appointment at the prosthetic clinic, I knew at least the pendulum was shifting in the direction of progress—of brighter tomorrows. I nonetheless employed the power of negative thinking—never for a moment believing I’d walk out of there with a bend in my knee and a spring in my step, which is what happened. It was both unexpected and exciting—an early Christmas present if ever there was one—even if my new knee was only a “loaner.” I anticipate becoming a full-fledged owner in the near future.

With my new lease on life today, I ventured into lower Manhattan for the first time in a long time—since late July as a matter of fact. While the day was chilly, damp, and gloomy all around, being back in the saddle was all that mattered to me. But good things come with a hefty price attached, I suppose. When a mother, father, and their two little girls took over the subway car I was in for five long miles of my journey, I should have just internally rejoiced as the kids twirled around subway poles and generally ran rampant in the aisles. I didn’t, however, and neither did countless exasperated straphangers, who were compelled to continually dodge the girls’ awkward ballerina moves and incessant jabbering. Ma and Pa nevertheless gushed the entire time. Predictably, too, the subway car morphed into a classroom—a common occurrence—as the smugly doting parents taught their youngsters all kinds of life lessons, except the one that I believe is most important in a New York City subway car: Take a seat, shut your mouth, and mind your own business.

The rancid icing on the cake here was when I heard Dad tell one of his children that we have “twelve more stops to go,” then “eleven,” “ten,” “nine,” etc. Hoping against hope this bunch would exit after several stops just wasn’t in the Tarot cards. When their stop count got down to eight, I took it upon myself to do a little arithmetic of my own. Egad, they were getting off at 18th Street, the tranquil station I sometimes exit when tranquil is what I desire above all else.  Now just where did all this bad karma come from?

Happily, the Brady Bunch wasn't in my subway car on my return trip home to the Bronx, but a well-educated and highly informed lunatic was. Among many things, he put in a good word for Jesus, noted the passing of Larry Hagman, and informed one and all that he couldn’t rightly defend Kobe Bryant for his actions, nor the woman, who he felt was equally culpable. Fortunately, this man of many opinions and insights exited after only a couple of miles and several stops. I must admit to being impressed with his parting salvo—something akin to Val Bisoglio’s words and jaunty manner after robbing the patrons of Kelsey’s Bar in an All in the Family episode. “Bye, bye, everybody,” he said as he headed off to Lincoln Center. He knew who he was and endeavored to be the very best lunatic that he could, which I find very admirable.

Our Woo Woo Song

When Kingsbridge’s “Stickball Boys of Summer” gathered together this past week for a long overdue reunion, I unearthed a treasure trove of the mostly crude scorecards that chronicled our exploits. One that I came upon was dated June 18, 1978. What was most intriguing to me about this day and game was not the seventy degrees temperature or the final score, but rather Commissioner Meatball’s admonition to us to “WATCH THE OLD LADIES.” Our game’s quasi-imaginary commissioner was referencing a prior incident.

Occasionally when we arrived at John F. Kennedy High School all gung-ho for a stickball game, we would be unpleasantly surprised to discover that our field was occupied by someone else, or that the school was hosting an after-hours or weekend event of some kind. The latter entailed cars pulling into a parking area—a key part of our playing field—and people getting out of them and walking through tennis ball fallout territory. Playing under these conditions was pretty uncomfortable, as I recall, but—come hell or high water—we almost always did. The game meant that much to us.

Anyway, a few days prior to June 18th, the high school hosted a pre-graduation gathering, which seriously complicated our early evening stickball game. Automobiles en masse filled the parking lot at an unnerving clip. We kept playing, though, as folks of all ages paraded in between pitcher and fielder. Chasing after fly balls in our designated double and triple zones were now hazardous undertakings. So, when the senior member of our stickball contingent ripped a hard line drive, which had double written all over it, into a senior citizen’s mid-section, our game unceremoniously ended.

The old lady cried out “Woo…woo!” when the airborne tennis ball struck her. We uttered a “so sorry” or two to the woman and her companion—probably her daughter—as they contemplated their next move. The victim didn’t appear worse for wear— a bit startled, perhaps—as she at long last started walking in the direction of the school’s entrance. However, she kept stopping, pivoting, and casting us dirty looks.

Observing this stop-and-go, our fearless leader, nicknamed “Cheese,” said without missing a beat, “Follow me,” as he made a beeline to the back of the school and away from his nearby parked car. “Where are we going?” I asked. You see, Cheese was the far-thinking Head Cheese. He was making absolutely certain that the old lady and her escort didn’t see us getting into his car—with his license plate.

This is precisely why Commissioner Meatball advised us on that mid-June day to keep our eyes peeled for old ladies when playing our favorite summer game on Bronx asphalt. The scorecard from this day in 1978 identifies our foursome by our nicknames: Cheese, Met, Geek, and Fish. Fast forward a year to 1979 when I, evidently, determined that our scoring ways and statistic-keeping merited a little more professionalism and class. We were thereafter referred to by first name initials and surnames. Commissioner Meatball, nonetheless, was back and continued to offer us sage and practical advice on playing the game like fine gentlemen, good neighbors, and patriotic Americans.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Revisiting Nostalgic Bullies of Yesteryear

Not too long ago in the scheme of things, people from the old neighborhood and classmates had, by and large, dropped off the radar. Then along came the Internet and a thing called social networking to upend so many of the “Whatever became of?” mysteries. Folks whom we had largely forgotten—or only thought about when we perused a school yearbook or came upon an old photo—materialized in the virtual ether.

Always a curious sort, I was especially interested in what the bullies from the past were up to in the twenty-first century. Outside of the occasional incident, I wasn’t, thankfully, bullied in any kind of systematic way. But there were a lot of bullies, and bully cliques—they don't merit being called gangs—in the neighborhood while I was growing up. One particular motley crew from a couple of blocks to the east of where I called home were—what I would deem—textbook bullies.

Like me, they’ve grown up now and are leading adult lives—chronologically at least. Courtesy of Facebook, I’ve discovered the whereabouts of a few of these former Bronx bully boys. They are rather respectable citizens—pillars of the community—in nearby suburban communities like Hastings-on-Hudson, Pearl River, and Woodbridge, New Jersey. Funny, though, while they are not gut punching kids in the stomach anymore and stealing their basketballs and spare change, they are nonetheless nostalgic about all those good times they had. Evidently, breaking into area mom-and-pop businesses in the wee hours of the morning, and robbing them blind, was a real hoot in Kingsbridge, and remembered with great fondness by these law-abiding adults. I get the impression they would like to do that in Hastings-on-Hudson, Pearl River, and Woodbridge, too, but just don’t have the nerve anymore.

I have come up short on a couple of my favorite local bullies from the past. Apparently, they aren’t computer literate and into social networking—or maybe they’re no longer of this world, who knows? And perhaps this is for the best. One missing-in-action bully was the quintessential sadist. Forgive me for wondering what became of a kid who derived pleasure in blowing up pigeons with firecrackers. The other fellow who piques my curiosity was the Incredible Hulk’s evil doppelganger—a truly scary, callous leviathan. As I recall, though, he had a soft spot for cats, so I guess there's a little bit of good in everyone.

In my innocent youth in the simper times of the 1970s, I could never fully comprehend what made these bullies the awful oafs they were. And while I welcome them into adulthood and can forgive their youthful cruelties and boorish behaviors, I just wish they weren’t so nostalgic for all those fun times from their pasts. I'd hate to think their bullying days were their heydays.

(Photo from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)