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Putzie was the only one who had seen a major league game,
the New York Yankees, the "Bronx Bombers," at the Yankee Stadium in the west Bronx.. We knew about the
Yankees from the radio broadcasts that I sometimes heard in the candy store, when the older fellows asked Mr. Nathan,
the owner, to put on the game. Some of my bubble-gum tickets had pictures of Yankee players.
It was fascinating to see my first real baseball game, in a stadium, a small one, but still with a laid-out playing
field. All the previous games I had seen were sandlot games. The stands were full and the noisy, enthusiastic crowd
roared its approval at anything the home team did. The first base and third base foul lines were lined with children
sitting on the ground. We found seats on the foul line just past third base and we settled comfortably onto the
dry, dusty earth. The Indian Lake and Floyd Bennett airport were forgotten. After fifteen minutes of joyful spectating,
something happened to make us continue with our original mission.
A grounder, hit just foul, down the third base line would have hit Putzie in the head but he ducked in time, avoiding
a disaster. This near-accident prompted the umpires to clear both foul lines. We had to move behind the home plate
wire-screen where the people and children obstructed the view of the game. Tevie, the oldest of our group, reminded
us of our original destination by pointing in the direction of Indian Lake. "What about it, guys? Do we stay
or go? Which is it?"
After a brief discussion, Lobo, the natural leader of our group, quietly resolved our conflict. Firmly, clearly,
he said, "The airport. That's where we're going, right?" We were on our way. A few minutes later we found
ourselves standing on the top of a hill, the Indian Lake below us, and beyond that, Boston Road and Claremont Parkway.
The lake seemed so big and deep and there were rowboats. (That there was no airport seen, we didn't even think
about at that time.)
I had been to the lake the first time, the year before, with my siblings. We accompanied Zaydeh (my maternal grandfather)
to the lakeside, so that he could "throw away his sins." Just prior to Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement,
Zaydeh, the president of our Fulton Avenue schul, (synagogue) led the male congregants pond-side, for the ritual
dumping of their sins into the water. Afterwards, the men stood around talking, gossiping, mingling with hundreds
of other sin-throwing worshipers from other schuls in the area.
While my Zaydeh was chatting, my brother Sid and I explored the lake. We walked to the end of the lake where the
rowboats were tied up and heedless of the danger we tried to climb into one. The park attendant responsible for
the boats gruffly growled at us, "Scram, you snotnoses before I kick your asses for you." We ran back
to the safety zone of Zaydeh's area.
There was a roundish, six-foot high boulder adjacent to the lake, more than twice my height. This was the Indian
Rock, with a brass embedded dedication plaque in its side, and little steps carved in its side, leading to its
top. Sid was the first one up and for a few moments he wouldn't let me climb to the top, shouting, "I am the
King of the hill." This brought a sharp rebuke from Zaydeh, who told my brother not to disturb the seriousness
of the situation. It also allowed me to make it to the top.
For more, visit the Author's Web Site: Short Stories From a Long Life
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