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It never occurred to me that Norman would chicken out
and become a stool pigeon. He was aggressive, a good athlete, a gambler, (for baseball cards and streetcar transfers),
a veteran explorer of our neighborhood and Crotona Park. He was a very persuasive talker, a take-over guy and besides,
he loved banana and mustard sandwiches. It was his idea that we organize a trip to the Floyd Bennett Airport. When
he squealed to his mother about our plans we labeled him…But that will come with this story.
We were nine years old that bright, summer morning in 1933, when Norman told us about an airport "just on
the other side of Crotona Park." (When I was older, I learned that it was about thirty miles south of my home,
on an island off the coast of southern Queens.) There were five of us in the group and the other four had just
finished playing "off the bench." This game is played with a "Spaldeen," a pink, soft rubber
ball that is thrown against the slatted wooden back of a concrete bench that stands on the park side of Fulton
Avenue.
Our neighborhood consisted of one 'block,' from 174thstreet to 175th , the park on one side; on the other was a
row of ten, 5-story buildings, with four apartments on a floor. (The average family had 3-6 children.) We were
luckier than most 'blocks' that had 5 story tenements on both sides.
"Off the bench:" There are two players to a side and on the fielding team one player stands in the street
and the other on the opposite sidewalk. (In the early 1930's there was hardly any motor traffic or parked cars
on Fulton Ave.) You scored when the thrown ball rebounded off a slat and bounced in the gutter or on the opposite
sidewalk. One base for every bounce, four bounces, a home run. Since I was one of the worst players on the block
I was not picked in the first choosing of sides.
The game had been long and exciting and it finished in great style when Norman hit a home run, an uncatchable smash
which reached the building on the other side of the street and fell into the cellar. I cheered this magnificent
shot and then announced that it was my turn to pick. I would choose the best player from the losing side to be
my partner. Not to be.
Norman announced in his super-confident voice that there would be no more games since we would all go to Floyd
Bennett Airport. "I know it is just on the other side of the park. We can walk there." I was angry for
not getting my pick and I argued loudly with him but as usual, his decision was final; there would be no more "off
the bench" that morning. .
There were four of us sitting on the bench and Norman stood facing us. His spiel was seductive and easily led us
to agree to going to the airport. I suggested that we take along sandwiches. This idea was happily and immediately
accepted. We agreed to take sandwiches from home, telling our mothers that we wanted to have a picnic lunch in
the park. The five of us dispersed homeward to prepare for this great adventure: Norman, Tevie, (Herby), Lobo,
(Natie), Putzie, (Paulie), and myself, Itchy, (Irving.) I had never questioned the fact that Norman was the only
one without a nickname
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For more, visit the Author's Web Site: Short Stories From a Long Life
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