Street Games
Tje Bronx 1930s
No emerald green grass covering our field, no bleachers or grandstands, no roaring crowds. Seabury Place’s black, asphalt street was our stadium. In the 1930s, one of the few cars that had appeared on our street was Dr. Kulock’s Buick when he made a house call. If a rare intruder parked his car on our field, we’d open the door, place the gearshift in neutral, and push it off our turf.
What was going on? A brown, sponge rubber ball was used to play Punchball. This was a serious game. The rules resembled baseball. A five inning game with chalk-drawn bases should last about fifteen to twenty minutes. But, with the inevitable arguments as to whether a runner was tagged or a close call at first base, the games ended in a half hour to an hour. Score was kept on the street, on what appeared to be the skeleton of a fish drawn with chalk. Each pair of up and down vertebral spaces represented an inning.
Creativity? While we were running the bases, an empty milk box borrowed from the grocery was tilted against the wall. It had twelve heavy, stiff wire spaces into which milk bottles were placed. The boys who weren’t picked for Punchball stood at the end of the sidewalk, and with one bounce of a rubber ball, tried to anchor the ball into one of the twelve spaces in the box. Each space represented a base-hit. The bottom spaces, which were easy for the ball to enter was an out.
Rules were agreed upon before any game started. If a ball hit a woman sitting and gossiping on the street, the ball was in play. If the ball rolled under Dr. Kulock’s car, it was an out. Should a car be coming towards us, a time-out had to be called. Seabury Pl. and East 172 St. were our Playing Fields of Eton.
Others played Skelly. A square portion of the sidewalk was selected. At the center of each side of the square, two equal-sized 8” boxes were drawn with chalk. Inside each box a number beginning with the number 1 and went on to number 8. At the center was a small box with a number 9. In order to give it weight, each player had a soda cap with the skin of an orange impressed into it. The aim of the game was to finally get your cap into box numbered 9. The player tried to move the cap, by snapping two fingers into into the cap moving it into the boxes in consecutive order. He also tried to hit his opponent’s caps out of the boxes.
After a couple of years had passed, a white Leader replaced the sponge ball. It was a hollow rubber ball with a black Leader stamped on its surface inside an oval. It was used for Off-the Point. The player stood at the end of the sidewalk and attempted to throw the ball at an indentation on the building’s facade. If the ball hit that point and returned without a bounce, he scored a point. The player who earned ten points won the game. Meanwhile, “the big guys” used the Leader to play the iconic, All-New-York-City game, Stickball. Our crowd hadn’t as yet graduated to it, we were still at the Hide-and-Seek and Punchball stage.
Finally, after WWII, the Major League rubber ball of all street games emerged, the Pink Spalding! In 1947, the boys chipped in, and for ten cents we bought the ball from Refugee Jack, the candy storeowner. It was a high-bouncer and didn’t split as easily as the Leader.
Stickball was played with a broom handle and a Pink Spalding. The rules were a given since the game was played for years. If we needed a stick and saw a broom being aired out on a fire escape, Abe was the man of choice. He would be lifted to the ladder of the bottom fire escape, stealthily climb to the broom then bring it down to the street. Nick the Shoemaker, on Seabury Pl. would give us pliers in order to release the nail that held a spring gripping the straws of the broom together. The broomstick then was shaken into an open sewer at the corner of Seabury Pl.
The four corners, where Seabury Pl. and East 172 St. merged created an ideal field for Off-the-Curb. The ball was thrown against a chipped portion of the curb on East 172 St. The ball would either sail through the air or bounce to the ground. The player would then run to first base or on to second base or further according to how the ball was played. Of course, the Pink Spalding was the core of all street ballgames.
One of our favorites was Pitching-In. Home plate was a sewer lid. The batter standing next to the lid, holding a broomstick tried to hit the Spalding that was pitched from a distance of fifty feet. A pitcher could throw a fastball, or if was able, a curveball. An umpire stood behind the catcher calling balls and strikes. A groundball caught in front of the pitcher’s mound was an out, as well as a flyball that was caught without a bounce. A fly ball, uncaught past the pitcher’s mound was a double. A flyball past Adoff’s drug store was a triple and a flyball past Atlantic Scaffolding was a home run.
Moish was a remarkable hitter in this game. I prided myself when I was able to throw a fastball past him. In one game, Jerry, my catcher, signaled for a fastball. I threw it right down the middle of the plate. Moish swung and before I could get my hands up to catch the ball, it lodged in my mouth. Of course, the story was told and retold. I couldn’t wait for the retold to end.
Street games were not entirely devoted to a rubber ball. Johnny-on-the-Pony for example, was a game we could play at nighttime. One member of the team stood against the brick wall of a building while the rest of the team placed their heads between the legs of the teammate in front of him, forming a snakelike line. The first player placed his head into his teammate’s abdomen who was leaning against the building. A member from the other team ran across the street and landed on top of their opponent’s backs. As this continued, the idea was to collapse the team with their heads into their teammate’s rear. Of course, weight was a deciding factor, and as we grew older, so did the game until it died.
Three-feet-to-Germany kept us out of trouble. After choosing, the odd man was it. He would stand at the center of the street while the rest of the boys were allowed to stride three steps from the sidewalk, and then try to reach the opposite sidewalk by dodging the player who was it. If the player who was it tagged the strider after he took three steps then he became it.
Another game we created during the nighttime was Over-the-Light. A team member would throw a ball as high as he could over a street light while an opposing member would try to catch it in its descent. Ten points won the game.
An attempt was made for any game that would keep us busy and competitive. One day Jerry came to the street with two equal-sized empty cans. Peanzy said let’s play soccer. We placed a can against the curb at opposite sides of the street. The aim of the game was to kick the Spalding into the can. After an hour, Moish called a halt to the game. He tried to fit the ball into the can. The ball was was too big! This is a fine game Moish remarked. Whenever we spoke of that day, we referred to it as The Fine Game.
As the days grew colder, we organized a football team. With Crotona Park two blocks from our street, there was no problem to practice. Abe Chayet, handicapped by a paralyzed leg played a powerful left tackle along with Muttle on the right side. Krebs and Resinhead were the guards, Jerry and Donny the Baker were ends. In the backfield Mooney was quarterback, Peanzy and I were halfbacks, Moish was the fullback. We had no uniforms, no shoulder pads, and one helmet belonging to Donny the Baker. He was younger and wouldn’t have played if he didn’t own the helmet. Plays were practiced, and then we were broken up into two teams to play against one another. The halfback who was to carry the ball wore the helmet. A trick play, conceived by Jerry, was to hand the ball off to the halfback not wearing the helmet.
In 1946 our boys began slowly to develop into men. Our team arranged a football game with our contemporaries from Charlotte St. Sonny, our coach came with a navy blue overcoat and a fedora resembling Tom Landry, the coach of the Dallas Cowboys. We ran onto the field, and then came the Charlotte St. team. Where were our contemporaries? Their team was composed of recently discharged veterans from WWII. We were sixteen-year-olds. I had a helmet (where did I get it?) that appeared as it was created with patches from a velvet painting. My mother gave me a thin elastic strip to keep the helmet from falling off my head.
Renee, our kicker from Spain kicked off. It was a booming kick, but the vets brought the ball deep into our part of the field. They scored. Now it was our turn to receive the ball. We moved the ball fairly well, but soon the vets realized that we tried to deceive them by handing off the ball to a halfback without the helmet. Peanzy brought the ball deep into the vet’s territory. On the next play, the ball was handed off to me. I ran through a wide space created by Abe, but soon received a jarring tackle from one of the vets. My helmet went straight up into the air, stretching the elastic, and then it came crashing down on my head. The entire field along with the players spun for a few moments then leveled out. Fortunately, there were no injuries. We lost by a respectable score.
Roller Hockey was another way to warm up in the autumn. Opposing sewer lids were the goals. After many arguments as to whether the puck went over the lid or not, Jerry’s father made us goals, but the fabric wasn’t netting, it was upholstery fabric. Jerry came strutting down the street proudly holding his father’s creations. It was nice to see the puck roll into a goal for a score. But, along came a howling wind. Both goals were swept up and away. They were last seen tumbling down lower Seabury Pl. towards Jennings Street Market.
We didn’t need social workers to explain why we were committing crimes on the streets of the Bronx. We didn’t commit crimes. We created games on the streets of the Bronx to pass the time in a fun-filled and healthy manner. No financial investment was needed. No explanations by social workers were needed. What were social workers?
For a more complete Street Games story read, Seabury Place: A Bronx Memoir by Daniel Wolfe danielwolfebooks@aol.com