A Perfect Day

Thank you, "Mr. Beller's Neighborhood" for publishing "A Perfect Day."  My New York Giants first Super Bowl memory. 

“Tommy, want some action?” Al said to me on the school bus.

“No, the Giants are favored by 9 ½ points.” I answered.

“What about over and under, it’s 39 ½?”

Now he had my attention. The Giants would keep the score low through ball possession.

“OK, twenty times under,” I said.

“Good boy!” Al smiled.

So I bet one hundred dollars that the combined score of both teams in Super Bowl XXI

would be 39 points or lower.

It was January 25, 1987, an 80 degree perfect cloudless Sunday in California. I was

headed for the Rose Bowl to see the New York Giants play the Denver Broncos. The trip

started two weeks before. The day after the Giants won the NFC Championship game I

called airlines for a round trip to Los Angeles. They were sold out. Instead I bought a

reservation to San Diego. Over the next ten days, I tried to locate a game ticket and had

no success. On the Thursday afternoon before the event I began calling travel agencies to

try to sell my flight back to them. The first place asked me why I was selling. I told her I

couldn’t get a game ticket.

“I have one,” she said.

“How much?”

“$375.”

I swallowed and said “Yes.” Face value was $75.

An hour later, the messenger arrived and I examined my ticket.

Gate B Tunnel 27 Row C Seat 111.

Possibly the worst seat in the 101,000 capacity Rose Bowl, but I was going to see the

Giants.

I left the next day and prearranged staying with my friends Al and Janet an hour from

Pasadena. The problem was traveling from San Diego to a hotel lobby in Irvine where

Jane and I had worked out a pick up. When I landed, I started working the rental car

counters. A guy my age said he was driving to San Francisco. I told him if he dropped me

off at my hotel on the way north, I’d pay his first day rental. When we got near the hotel

he pulled the car over to the shoulder and said he was late. He took my money and left

me on the side of the road. I climbed down the embankment and over a fence into the

hotel’s parking lot. Jane was in the lobby when I ran in. It was 3 a m. The game of my

life was only 36 hours away.

Jane found companies running buses to the Rose Bowl. I bought my ride for $15. At noon

on Sunday, I was on a yellow school bus, with one other Giant fan and 40 Denver Bronco

fans. I was excited and surrounded by the enemy. I waved goodbye to Al and Jane. They

looked like proud parents, except for the fact that Al was counting on me giving him

money to pay his bookie if I lost the bet.

Gliding over the California roads the bus was a happy land where Bronco fans, the other

Giant fan and I joked together. The New York guy shared his blue tortilla chips with me,

and kept asking, “Would you like another Giant chip?”

Off the bus, I strolled around the Rose Bowl a few times to kill time and I ran into Andy

Rooney in his lucky Giant raincoat. We talked about our love for the Giants and old
Yankee Stadium.

Stepping through the dark tunnel into the Rose Bowl my heart smacked inside my chest.

My long suffering was over. The New York Giants were my father’s and my unbreakable

link. Our passion for football was unconditional. When I was 7 to 9 years old the Giants

lost three consecutive NFL Championship games. Turning 10 in 1964 I knew that would

be our year, the Giants, Dad and me. But they stunk, and kept on stinking.

By half time, I sensed victory even though the Giants were losing. In the third quarter the

Giants exploded and led 26-10. Thinking of my dark fan days, thinking of my Dad and

me going, watching, listening to hundreds of Giant games together I started to well up,

but then I remembered my bet. My stupid $100 bet. Every time I had a good thought

about what was happening on the field I also thought 4 more points I lose my bet.

As I’m having these feelings, the Giants are driving towards my end of the field. On a

trick play a receiver ends up wide open. Phil Simms throws the ball to him and I’m

mumbling, “Drop it! Drop it!” The receiver catches the ball and my heart lifts then drops

at the same time. How could I ever root against the Giants? Best day of my life and I
tarnish it.

Final score was 39-20. I couldn’t wait to talk to my father. Back on the bus: silence and

40 broken Bronco fans, me and the guy with the blue chips. The Rose Bowl had only had

two exits and all the VIP’s left first. We idled in the parking lot for an hour. I felt like I

was in a funeral home on wheels. I could hear sad heaving coming from the grim Bronco

fans. A tall woman had a tear rolling down his cheek. I felt bad for them but remembered

how many times I had sat in their seat. Once in a while, the Giant fan and I would look at

each other across the aisle and exchange a quick hand raise, a small yip and one word “Giants!”

Several hours after the game we arrived back at the hotel. I called Jane and asked her to

delay one hour so I could celebrate at the hotel’s bar. I put money down and a sea of blue

started forming around me. I remembered something important and slipped away to

make a collect call.

“Dad, we won, I love you.”

“I love you, Hon.” he said and we both hung up.

Keeping The Faith

2020 still hopeful

I'm smiling today, despite my New York Giants self-destructing as I start my fourth quarter.
I have faith the Jints will win a fifth Super Bowl before I kick the bucket. (see Jimmy Durante in "It's A Mad, Mad, Mad World.") I'm like a lifetime Red Sox fan before 2004 refusing to die before the Bambino curse was broken. Boston's mortality rate spiked after they beat the New York Yankees. Passion does that.

my position after another crushing nyg loss

Mom said when I was a kid I'd flip out and levitate when she put the extra Yankee Doodles pack in front of me. She hid it behind the mass of Ronzoni boxes in the cabinet over the washing machine. My father was a pasta freak.

12.25.60 Xmas
517 E. 83rd St.

uncle mommy 83rd st.

uncle mommy 83rd st.

In my 66th year, I dream the Giants will become competitive and win one more Vince Lombardi trophy before my appt. with Walter B. Cooke. Mom's gotta have one more pack of Yankee Doodles hidden for me. I better start working on her Mother's Day card. It's going to be a good one.
P.S. Thank you, Eli Manning for you know what.

1964 Thomas Pryor art work:
"One Foot Gifford On Construction Paper"
Had a crappy pair of dull scissors too lazy to get the sharp one in the kitchen. After Mom knocked my similar work of Mickey Mantle off my bedroom wall and threw it away She claimed it was an accident whiles she was dusting. Under my breath, "Fat liar."

two # 16s with their heads glued together
yorkvillestoopstonuts.blogspot.com — with Frank Gifford at Borders Books & Music.

89 & teepee

Central Park 1961

my 1970 NFL football signed by George Chapman & my second single. My first single was "I Told The Witch Doctor." I think Rory robbed it.

Mom watching me play football in 1969 at Harris Field.

"When The Fire Hydrant Was The End Zone"

What? Jints score 40 points?
Is Barkley #26 the best nyg back ever after twelve pro games?


Here's my New York Times story, "When The Fire Hydrant Was The End Zone." It will take you back to New York City street life when a football and a few friends could fill your day, any month of the year. ps east side of York Ave 81st to 82st was our field.


Steve Murphy’s living room was a harsh turf. There was no rug, only a slice of cold linoleum glued to a concrete floor — hard as Lambeau Field, the Green Bay Packers’ tundra, on an icy afternoon. We wore elbow pads and kneepads and kept the windows wide open to minimize the chances of breaking one. When the football sailed through one after a bad throw, it was a beautiful thing to watch — the spiraling ball taking a sweet, long ride. We’d hang from the second story windowsill and slip down to the street to get the ball. It was just another play. We got away with it because Mr. and Mrs. Murphy never got home before 6. Besides, where else could we go? We had no backyards, and it was the 1960s in New York City — we were barely allowed to ride the subways by ourselves, and grass fields were scarce. But I loved the sport. I carried my football everywhere, just in case anyone wanted to play catch. I slept with it to prevent fumbling. And even more important, I loved the New York Giants. The “ny” on their helmets was tattooed on my heart. It’s no wonder that — 35 years after the team moved to the Meadowlands in New Jersey — they’re still called the New York Giants.
Back then, in an attempt to boost ticket sales, local TV stations didn’t carry their home games. My dad usually went to Connecticut with a gang of friends and watched the game in a motel room. I had to follow it on the radio. Sometimes he scammed a ticket, and I would beg him to get me one, and he promised he would, someday, when I was older. I used to dream — literally — that an angel would blow through my window and fly me to Yankee Stadium, where they played then. But it never happened.
Instead I spent afternoons turning my knees black and blue on Mrs. Murphy’s linoleum, until the afternoon Mr. Peters — Artie and Jamie’s dad — overheard us talking about a game.
“You play tackle in the Murphys’ living room?” Mr. Peters asked. “Does the old man know?”
Jamie laughed so hard, soda came out his nose.
“Are you kidding?” Artie said.
“Do you want to play here? Wall- to-wall carpeting?” Mr. Peters said, waggling his thick eyebrows up and down.
I couldn’t believe it. “Absolutely,” I said.
Artie shot me a look and asked “What about Mom?”

“Mmmm … The Missus? The Missus? The Missus will be a problem.” He drummed a finger across the cleft of his chin. “She hits the stores on Saturday — hairdresser, Woolworth’s, Schaller & Weber, the A&P and the Chinese laundry. She’s gone at least three hours, sometimes four. I guarantee three hours. I’ll referee. We’ll put the entertainment center face down on my bed. We’ll move the couches to the kitchen. Everyone wears socks with no shoes, no sneakers. You’ll all wear gloves on your hands to minimize scuffing the walls.”

“Dad, you’re getting carried away, we don’t need gloves,” Artie said.
“She’ll catch the marks on the wall before she steps through the door. We’ll be dead,” Mr. Peters said.
Artie pointed out that with gloves, no one would be able to catch the ball. “We’ll hang bedsheets over the walls with masking tape,” he said.
Mr. Peters smiled proudly. “That’s my boy!”

I was in the Twilight Zone. My dad tried to outwit my mother every day, but that was on his own behalf. I’d never seen an inside job, where one parent helped the kids gang up on the other. I understood the gravity and prayed for Mr. Peters’ soul.

For two months, all went well. Then, one Saturday, we were in the middle of a goal line stance. As the play started, the front door burst open. Mrs. Peters was back early. Jamie picked up the needed yards on a right end sweep and dove over two defenders, passing within inches of his mother’s head. She screamed at Mr. Peters until his arms hung slack at his sides. The beating was brutal and a double loss because big mouth Steve had told his parents about our game after we moved it to the Peterses’.

Everything on the sidewalk was in bounds: fire hydrants, trees, phone booths. We did our best to accommodate pedestrians, but if the game was tight, we’d use a lady carrying a few brown bags as a blocker.

Dejected and out of a playing field again, we sat on parked cars on the street.
“What’s the difference between linoleum and sidewalk concrete?” Steve finally asked.
“Let me cut a sample from each and smack you in the head,” Artie said.
“Really, if we load up on sweatshirts, put a few pair of shorts over our dungarees and wear pads, do you think it’s any worse than the linoleum?”

And that was how York Avenue from 81st to 82nd Street became our new football field. Everything on the sidewalk was in bounds: fire hydrants, trees, phone booths, mailboxes, light poles, signs and meters. We did our best to accommodate pedestrians, but if the game was tight, we’d use a lady carrying a few brown bags as a blocker.

looking up at the sky on the 50 yd line of our York Ave. field

In 1967, the neighborhood’s church parishes formed a tackle football league for boys 13 and up. Our sidewalk game faded away. My new team’s home field was the dustbowl just inside Central Park at 97th Street and Fifth Avenue. Dad never missed a game. Walking home one day, I popped the question.

“Dad, will I ever get to a Giants home game?”

He took a while to answer, but when he did, he told me about five regulars at Loftus Tavern. I knew Loftus. I could have entered it blindfolded, walked to the back of the bar and put a dime in the jukebox without bumping into a stool.

“Well,” he said, “these regulars kept their tickets under the bar’s register, and sometimes one of those guys don’t feel too well on Sunday morning, and Jack gets a call. Then somebody else gets a call, and that person gets to go to the game.”
He told me to go down to the bar around 11 on Sunday, tap on the back door’s window and see what happened.
The next Sunday, the Giants were playing the New Orleans Saints at Yankee Stadium. At 11 sharp, I tapped on the window. Jack, the Irish owner, took his reading glasses off, saw me and came to the door.
“Good morning, Tommy, how are you?”
“Fine, Jack, just great.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Could I come in?”
“Well, the cops will have my license if I serve you a drink before 12, but a Coke won’t harm anybody.”
I hopped on a stool. Jack dropped two maraschino cherries in my glass.
“Jack, were all the guys here last night?”
“What guys?”
“The guys who go to the game with you?”
“Yes, everyone made an appearance. Chris and Orson were the last two out the door.”
“Did either of them look sick or anything?”
“Well, neither one looks that good to start with, but Orson, he made a couple of passes at the coat rack on his way out.”
I wiped my face with my hand and opened the newspaper. The phone rang. I nearly fell backward off the stool. I crossed my fingers under the bar.
“Hello Mikey, how are you?”
I unclenched. It was Jack’s brother. He had season tickets, too. He owned a bar in Sunnyside.
Jack hung up, saw my face and said, “Cheer up, lad. It’s only 11:30. Game starts at 12:35. There’s still plenty of time.”
He knew why I was there. Dad and Jack were in cahoots.
At 5 to 12, the phone rang again. I held my breath.

“Oh, Orson, I’m sorry to hear that. You seemed a wee down last night. Probably the flu. Tommy Pryor’s here, do you mind if I give him your ticket?”

My heart was ripping a hole through my chest. Jack hung the phone up and slid his gigantic hand under the register, pulled out five red tickets and held them up like a winning hand of cards.

“Do you want to wait for the other guys and we’ll pile into a Checker together?”

I told him no thanks. I wanted to get up there and sit in the crowd as the place filled up. Twenty-five minutes later, I was looking down on the field, watching my favorite players warm up — Joe Morrison, Tucker Frederickson, Ernie Koy and Spider Lockhart. I memorized the ticket stub. Mezzanine, Section 18, Box 56B, Seat 5.

my stub from that game

Check out my 1960s memoir, "I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood." at Logos Book Store or online at Amazon, hard copy or Kindle, (128 five-star reviews out of 128 posted) "River to River ~ New York Scenes From a Bicycle," my photography portfolio is also available online.

"I Could've Died Right Then & There"

Ron Johnson scores winning TD vs. Skins Nov 1970

Best live "Old Yankee Stadium, we were there," sports days ever with Dad.

New York Giants beat the Washington Redskins 35-33 ~ Nov 1970 ~ Jints came back from 19 points down with a quarter to go. Tucker Fredrickson's best game as a pro. Ron Johnson scored winning sweep right in front of Dad & me seating behind Yankee dugout. (God bless you, Ron Johnson. You made the end of my teen years hopeful.)

The Stadium rocked like it was a Rolling Stones concert. Dad and I hugged as if we were going out. The concrete below our feet was going up and down, up and down.  I didn’t care if the Stadium fell in on us. I could’ve died right then and there.

Dad’s gone fourteen years, when Dallas loses, I feel his smile. When the Giants win, I feel Dad’s hug and kiss.

At one point, (maybe they still do) the New York Daily News Sports Department sold prints of photos to the public. In the early 1980s I went down to their 42^nd Street building with old dates in mind. Special Mickey Mantle days and terrific Giant victories. The photos in the papers from those special days were tattooed to my brain. I asked for the 1964, 1967 and 1970 files. 

I found Mickey Mantle’s 500 homer, Mantle’s homer off Barney Schultz breaking Ruth’s Series record. Tarkenton rolling out in a win against the Cowboys, Bob Tucker in same game and the crown jewel, Ron Johnson scoring on the sweep against the Skins in 1970. Doug Van Horn, Willie Young, Willie Harper and Don Hermann blocking efficiently on the play.

While I was looking through the photos I received a bonus.  A guy came into the empty side room where I was looking through the photos.  He leaned over me and asked, “What cha doing?”

It was Bill Gallo the News sports cartoonist.  He sat with me for a half hour shooting the breeze, getting a kick out of my intensity and knowledge of his old hero & goat photos from past World Series. Bill was very nice to me. The 6 photos I bought cost me $95. It was a good day.

Yankee Stadium 1962

Bleeding Blue in Pasadena

teepee @ Rose Bowl @ January 25, 1987

This week in 1987 I flew to the New York Giants first Super Bowl appearance against the Denver Broncos. I packed all my bad karma in a small suitcase. Karma gathered as a long suffering parishioner in the Church of Mara. I planned to leave it inside the Rose Bowl at game's end. I wrote a story about the trip that Mr. Beller's Neighborhood published in 2012.
Thank you, Mr. Beller's!

Bleeding Blue

“Tommy, want some action?” Al said as I leaned out the open school bus window.

“Nope, the Giants are favored by 9 ½ points."

“What about over and under, it’s 39 ½?”

Now he had my attention. I felt the Giants defense and running game would keep the score low.

“OK, twenty times under,” I said.

“Good boy!” Al smiled.

So I bet one hundred dollars that the combined score of both teams in Super Bowl XXI would be 39 points or lower.

It was January 25, 1987, an 80 degree cloudless Sunday in the warm California sun. I was headed to the Rose Bowl to see the New York Giants play the Denver Broncos. The trip started two weeks before. The day after the Giants beat Washington in the NFC Championship game I called airlines for a round trip to Los Angeles. They were sold out. Instead I bought a reservation to San Diego. Over the next ten days, I tried to locate a game ticket and had no success. On the Thursday afternoon before the Super Bowl I began calling travel agencies to try to sell my flight back to them. The first place asked me why I was selling it. I told her I couldn’t get a game ticket.

“I have one,” she said.
“How much?”
“$375.”
I swallowed and said “Yes.” Face value was $75.
An hour later, the messenger arrived, and I examined my ticket.

Gate B Tunnel 27 Row C Seat 111.

my ticket stub from the game

Possibly the worst seat in the 101,000 capacity Rose Bowl, but I was going to see the Giants.

I left the next day and prearranged staying with my friends Al and Jane Rosenbloom an hour from Pasadena. The problem was traveling from San Diego to a hotel lobby in Irvine where Jane and I had worked out a pick up. When I landed, I started working the rental car counters. “Anybody driving to L.A.?” A guy my age in a suit said he was driving to San Francisco. I told him if he dropped me off at my hotel on the way north, I’d pay his first day rental cost. He agreed. Jim was an Encyclopedia Britannica salesman and tortured me for the entire ride on how my future children would thank me forever for buying this gift for them and their children. I declined, he pouted. When we got near the hotel Jim pulled the car over to the shoulder of the highway and said he was late. He took my money for the day rental and left me on the side of the road. I climbed down the embankment and over a six-foot fence into the hotel’s parking lot. Jane was in the lobby when I ran in. It was Saturday morning three a m. The game of my life was only 36 hours away.

Jane found companies running buses to the Rose Bowl. For $15 I bought my ride. At noon on Sunday I was on the yellow school bus, with one other Giant fan and 40 Denver Bronco fans. I was excited and surrounded by the enemy. I waved goodbye to Al and Jane. They looked like proud parents, except for the fact that Al was counting on me giving him money to pay his bookie if I lost the bet.

Gliding over the California roads the bus was a happy land where Bronco fans, the other Giant fan and I joked together. The New York guy shared his blue tortilla chips with me, and kept asking, “Would you like another Giant chip?”
"Yes, please."

Off the bus I strolled around the Rose Bowl a few times to kill time and who do I run into to? Andy Rooney in his lucky Giant ~ Columbo looking raincoat. We talked about our love for the Giants and old Yankee Stadium.

Stepping through the dark tunnel into the Rose Bowl my heart smacked inside my chest. My long suffering was over. The New York Giants were my father’s and my unbreakable link. Our passion for football was unconditional. When I was 7 to 9 years old the Giants lost three consecutive NFL Championship games. Turning 10 in 1964 I knew that would be our year, the Giants, Dad and me. But they stunk, and kept on stinking.

After a good Bronco start the New York defense rose up and by half time I sensed victory even though the Giants were losing 10-9. In the third quarter the Giants exploded, scoring 17 points and led 26-10. Thinking of my dark fan days, thinking of my Dad and me going, watching, and listening to hundreds of Giant games together I started to well up, but then I remembered my bet. My stupid $100 bet. Every time I had a good thought about what was happening on the field, I also thought 4 more points I lose my bet.

As I’m having these feelings, the Giants are driving towards my end of the field. On a trick play a receiver ends up wide open. Phil Simms throws the ball to him and I’m mumbling, “Drop it! Drop it!” The receiver catches the ball and my heart lifts then drops at the same time. How could I ever root against the Giants? Best day of my life and I tarnish it. Final score was 39-20. The place rocked like a Springsteen concert. Giants carried Coach Parcells off the field. I couldn’t wait to talk to my father.

Back on the bus: silence with forty broken Bronco fans, me and the guy with the blue tortilla chips. The Rose Bowl had only had two exits and all the VIP cars exited first. We idled in the parking lot for an hour. When we began to move I felt like I was in a Walter B. Cooke Funeral Home on wheels. I could hear sad heaving coming from the grim Bronco fans. A tall woman had a tear rolling down his cheek. I felt bad for them but remembered how many times I had sat in their seat. Once in a while, the Giant fan and I would look at each other across the aisle and exchange a quick hand raise, a small yip and one word “Giants!”

Several hours after the game we arrived back at the hotel. I called Jane and asked her to delay one hour so I could celebrate at the hotel’s bar with any other Giant fan I found. I put money down on the bar and a sea of blue started forming where I stood. I remembered something important and slipped away to make a collect call to New York.

“Dad, we won, I love you.”
“I love you, Hon.” 

And we both hung up.

****

Mark your calendar. Valentine's Day, February 14th, a special Stoops to Nuts show at Ryan's Daughter, 350 E. 85th Street @ 3-6pm. I''ll perform sections from my upcoming play, "City Boy." My special musical guests: David Terhune, Nina Terhune and Eric Vetter.

"My Aim Is True"

Thomas Pryor presents:  Stoops to Nuts Valentine Day Show

Ryan's Daughter, 350 E. 85th Street
February 14th @ 3pm to 6pm

Check out my 1960s memoir, "I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood." at Logos Book Store, or purchase the book online at Amazon (114 five-star reviews out of 114 posted) or Barnes & Noble ~ and buy "River to River ~ New York Scenes From a Bicycle" my photography portfolio online.

My Secret Fan

Mom hated watching me play football. Barely tolerated it. Showed up for three games. First one with Our Lady Of Good Counsel in Yorkville, NYC I got knocked out at 15. At 18 she saw me break my fibula at Rice Stadium in Pelham. Her final appearance, on a kickoff return my two front teeth flew out of my mouth after colliding with a defender's helmet on the Asphalt Plant field @ 90 Street on what Dad claimed was my best run ever. Mom ignored everything other than was I injury free. Same for rugby my next contact sport thanks to Joe Menesick. Afterwards, Mom stepped out of the room when football came up in the conversation. At 28, my parents gave me a large statue of a receiver pulling in a pass while his legs get tied up by a defender. The player catching the ball looked like Raymond Berry my secret hero because most of the New York Giants were terrible. I thanked and kissed my parents but knew it was Dad's idea, he found it and bought it.

At my daughter's kindergarten graduation a bunch of years later, Mom said, "nice to see the football statue is still front and center in your living room."
"Dad picked a winner," I answered.
Mom's face drop.
"What's a matter, Mom?"
"I found the statue in an antique store on Lexington near Hunter. I bought it. Dad wasn't there."

I hugged her so hard she didn't realize I was crying.

p.s. Mom gave me Donald "T.D" Duck for my 40th birthday.

Da-duh! We have a "big to do" on 11/21 it's "The Beatles White Album" Stoops to Nuts show at Ryans Daughter on Saturday, Nov. 21st, @7-11pm (shush! I'm also celebrating Alison's birthday). Our artists: Walter Michael DeForest, Colin Dempsey, Joe Dettmore, Nicole Ferraro, Daniela Schiller, Supersmall and Adam Wade. And much much more!

"The Beatles White Album" Stoops to Nuts show

Ryan's Daughter 350 E. 85th St. 

Saturday, Nov 21st @ 7-11pm

Free show

Do you like old New York City photos and street life stories? Then check out my 1960s memoir,"I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."Available at Logos Book Store and online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

The book has 112 Amazon five star reviews out of 112 total reviews posted. We're pitching a perfect game. My old world echoes TV's "The Wonder Years" ~ just add taverns, subways and Checker cabs.

Breaching My Defense

Who saw Koosman coming on in 1968 right after Seaver in 1967? I did. I was at his 3-0 four hit shutout vs S.F. Giants on April 17, 1968. I played hooky from St. Stephen's 8th grade, Cleon Jones hit a homer, and I hit a guy in front of me with yellow mustard I smacked out of a shitty little package I was having trouble opening. The victim with the comb-over chased me through the mezzanine from left to right field and back for two innings before giving up. I watched the rest of the game in a new seat far away. The week before late in bed, I listened on the radio as Koosman shut out the Dodgers 4-0. Rocky Colavito was in RF for L.A. He went 0-4. I thought Seaver was stuck up and I liked Koosman, a lefty, like me, and a blue collar hero to Seaver's surf's up California asshole. For the record, Yankee fans thought Nancy Seaver was a dog and Slider was ugly for a dog. Up through 1968 I was a normal sports loving person. 

"Oh, fudge..."

But look how happy I am near the blackboard in the photo. I'm 14, in LaSalle Academy's homeroom 406 the day after the Jets won Super Bowl III in January 1969. Stunned was my standard look following a review of sports scores that year.

The Mets and Jets winning championships the same year crushed me and made me an easy target in school and on my block as a die hard Yankee and Giant fourteen year old fan with thin skin and a giant red button.  It scarred me for life regarding Shea, anyone who played there, or rooted for them. The relentless abuse was piled on from spring to winter than all over again in grocery stores, down Carl Schurz and John Jay Park, Woolworths, 80th Street bowling alley, on line for the 86th St. movies, on stoops, even friends' mothers picked on me. "Hey Pryor, get a new team!" Mrs. Walsh yelled from a third floor 83rd St. window. She was so pretty even after she said it, I still wanted her.

"Hey Pryor!"

But my favorite sport games are defensive gems. In baseball, they must include electrifying pitching.  Ford, Koufax, Gibson, Catfish, Lyle, Guidry, 78, Hershiser, 88 and 89. The dropoff on McNally's Oriole curve ball was scary and otherworldly from behind the plate in perfect box seats in Section 1 where you stayed put and no usher chased you late in the game at Yankee Stadium on a weekday afternoon any time before Steinbrenner bought the team.

Last night watching the Mets vs L.A., a tense game where it came down to one situation, one hit, and a manager's call (maybe Mattingly should have left Kershaw in to face Wright, who went down easily the previous three times. Kershaw had his number).

l

Jimmy Teaman with notebook, 1971

I love good defense and single hits, goals or touchdowns that end a war in sports. Enjoy the ride, Met fans, I'm rooting for you, really, Tommy

Jimmy and Dermott, you can attest to the intensity of the abuse heaped on Yankee and Giants fans during our four years together at LaSalle. Thank God, the Islanders didn't bang the Rangers until we left high school. It was easy to get lost at Hunter College regarding your fan loyalty.

Freshman Homeroom 406, LaSalle Academy, January 13, 1969

Do you like old New York City photos and street life stories? Then check out my 1960s memoir,"I Hate the Dallas Cowboys - tales of a scrappy New York boyhood."Available at Logos Book Store and online at Amazon or Barnes and Noble.

The book has 112 Amazon five star reviews out of 112 total reviews posted. We're pitching a perfect game. My old world echoes TV's "The Wonder Years" ~ just add taverns, subways and Checker cabs.

"oh my!"

Praise for the book:

“Thomas R. Pryor has written a sweet, funny, loving memoir of growing up old-school in a colorful New York neighborhood. A story of sports, family, and boyhood, you’ll be able to all but taste, smell, and feel this vanished world.”
Kevin Baker, author of the novels “Dreamland,” Paradise Alley,” and “Strivers Row,” as well as other works of fiction and nonfiction


“Tommy Pryor’s New York City boyhood was nothing like mine, a few miles and a borough away, and yet in its heart, tenderness, and tough teachable moments around Dad and ball, it was the mid-century coming of age of all of us. A rousing read.”
Robert Lipsyte, former city and sports columnist, The New York Times

 
“Pryor could take a felt hat and make it funny.”
Barbara Turner-Vesselago, author of “Writing Without A Parachute: The Art of Freefall”


“Pryor burrows into the terrain of his childhood with a longing and obsessiveness so powerful it feels like you are reading a memoir about his first great love.”
Thomas Beller, author of “J.D. Salinger: The Escape Artist”

The Jean Shepherd of Yorkville has a book - you should get! -Adam Wade, winner of 20 SLAMS at The Moth (18 StorySLAM victories and 2 GrandSLAM Championships) 
I've been a HUGE fan of Thomas Pryor's stories for a long time. It's so great to read so many of them in this fantastic book. Pryor pours his heart and soul into each and everyone of them. Some gut wrenching, others laugh out loud funny. And you don't have to be a NY Giants fan or a Cowboys hater to enjoy this book (though that will help). You just have to have a heart and love fun, authentic stories. Buy this book, I promise you'll enjoy it!

Dave Hill "The Goddamn Dave Hill Show" ~ WFMU radio
I wasn't alive for the New York Thomas Pryor writes about, but thanks to his brilliant, honest, and hilarious book, I feel like I was there."

Great writers are supposed to transport you to their world -Nicole Ferraro, writer, N.Y Times & Editor-in-Chief, Webby Awards
Thomas Pryor is one of those unique writers who can grab your heart and make you laugh and cry in a single sentence. The portrait he paints of growing up in New York City -- in Yorkville, specifically -- in the 60s is so vivid that you'll feel yourself there with him in every single scene, and every single memory. Great writers are supposed to transport you to their world, and Thomas Pryor does this exceptionally well. You'll walk away from this book feeling like you know intimately every butcher and bartender in town, every Sister at St. Stephens, and certainly every member of Thomas's family. Even more than that, though, this is a book about being a kid, growing up, loving people and losing them, losing people and loving them even more, and finding one's way. Basically, it's a book for anyone who's ever experienced the sheer pleasure and pain of being alive and growing up. Buy it today. It will leave you feeling enriched, touched, entertained, and eager to turn to page one all over again.

Wonderful Storytelling with a Time Machine Effect! - Leslie Gosko, entertainer, storyteller, comedian, "Funniest Woman in NYC"
Heart-warming, hilarious, and wonderfully quirky, "I Hate the Dallas Cowboys" has something for everyone. Thomas Pryor does a fantastic job of transporting you to 1960's New York where you feel like one of the characters in his Yorkville neighborhood. Stylistically reminiscent of Jean Shepherd's "A Christmas Story," this book, too, becomes an instant classic!

David Terhune - The Losers Lounge, co-founder
After reading "I Hate The Dallas Cowboys", I felt as if I had grown up with author Thomas Pryor. His stories of a childhood in New York City, punctuated by family photographs, drew me into his world and took me on a personal tour of the streets and neighborhoods of his youth. Living there were a host of vivid and eccentric characters - his parents, brother Rory, grandmother Nan, Joe from the candy store, Sister Mercedes, stewardesses Marie and Justine, and his many friends and co-conspirators with whom he shared his adventures and dreams. Mr. Pryor’s humor is gentle and infectious, his memories animated and engrossing. These essays are both historically valuable as well as entertaining in a way that befits the unique voice of New York City.

My first payoff, January 25, 1987, Giants first Super Bowl