My Spauldeen & Me

The rare time I had enough money in my pocket as a kid to cause a dilemma over what to buy, the same three items recurred in my mind. Our Town & The West Side Spirit published my column on this situation titled, "My Spauldeen & Me."

Yesterday, I strolled through Central Park. Resting on a bench in front of the Delacorte Theater, I turned my eyes to the center of the Great Lawn. I saw myself lying face up on the grass at 9 years old, throwing a ball up in the air as far as I could, never letting my back lose contact with the ground.

Summer 1963: “Mom, please give me a quarter, I’m dying, come on, give me a quarter, I really need a quarter, I’m on my knee, Uncle Mommy, I want a quarter!”

Mom gave me a dime and spun me toward the door out of the apartment. I’d already had six cents. Walking up 83rd Street, I went through everybody’s garbage and found five soda bottles. That made 10 cents. When Murray Parker passed me the deposit money, he made a face because I didn’t buy anything from him. I had my quarter plus a penny. The quarter triggered my dilemma: three of my favorite things cost 25 cents.

My first consideration was crap. My favorite crap combo was a 16-ounce Pepsi with Yankee Doodles, three to a pack. Brilliant! That gorgeous, swirled bottle—what a grip! I never dropped it, and I dropped everything. If other kids had 12-ounce sodas you’d torture them, finishing the 16-ouncer real slow with sound effects, “Hmmm,” “Oh my God, that’s good,” “Oooooh!” The third Yankee Doodle was a gift. You never got three things. After the second doodle, your mouth would calm down, disappointed nothing further was going in it. Then, all of a sudden, your mouth is being stuffed for a third time with fluffy chocolate cake and cavity-causing vanilla crème. If you’re lucky, a gob of crème stays on your upper lip for a while and you don’t realize it’s there until your tongue goes out for a walk and brings it back into your mouth. The third cupcake went down your throat like a royal coach.

Occasionally, I’d ignore my stomach and consider choice number two: a balsa wood glider. They all had names—“Hornet,” “Mustang” or “Scout.” The aircraft’s propeller was powered by a rubber band. In a classroom, you could make a plane out of a sheet of loose leaf and, at best, clock a kid in the noggin four or five rows away. With a propeller on your plane, you were going places. Exotic flight plans danced through my head before the first journey. Sometimes there was no second flight. The plane was fragile. This was a short-lived toy, like having a butterfly for a pet.

Winding the propeller up, I’d send her off. The glider sailed passed the German butcher. narrowly missing the store’s awning. Climbing to the second story it veered left, hitting a wall of wind, did two quick loops and landed on a fire escape.

The painful memory of these lost aircraft led me to door number three: a Spauldeen. A high-bouncing, reject tennis ball. You tested its quality by dropping it from shoulder height—the one you picked must have superior bounce.

In Joe’s Candy Store, I’d proceed with my ritual. During a test, you developed immunity to being shooed away.

“Pick a ball and get out of here.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“They’re all good.” He grabbed one and squeezed it. “See?”

He almost smiled. This frightened me.

“Yes,” I said, “but one of them is better than all the others.”

“You just tried that one,” he said.

“Not true. I have a system. I repeat no ball.”

“I repeat: Pick a friggin’ ball. Now!”

I found one, said, “Bye, Joe,” and left a quarter on the counter.

Working my way down my street, I joined games in progress that moved me:Ace, King, Queen, and then some Off the Point. Finally, I’d run over to Central Park and find a perfect spot in the middle of the Great Lawn, lie on my back and toss the ball as high as possible, over, over and over again. Nothing eased loneliness like a game of catch—even when it was just my Spauldeen and me.

Off The Point

Yesterday, it warmed up to the point if you were a kid and playing in the street the coat definitely would have come off. Because of the five week snow cover going back to the holidays, spring games would have popped up in 1969. The best and easiest to start spring game was Off The Point. All you needed was a Spauldeen, a wall, and two players (ideally four players or up to six).

In the picture below taken by Jan Chapman in 1969, Freddy Muller is about to whack the ball off the point of 400 East 83rd Street (the lip/edge at the bottom of the wall). Two odd things about this photograph: Freddy was right handed, but he's using his left. Probably someone dared him to play with his left hand, or sometimes for a goof we all would play a whole game of Off The Point or Whiffle Ball with our opposite hand. Freddy was close to be ambidextrous, he excelled when we switched hands.

The second odd thing about this photo is the game is being played south to north. We usually used the point on the north side of the street making the south side building the outfield wall. We probably had a string of bad luck with Mr. Moylan. He lived on the second floor of 400 and if he was home when we played Off The Point, he'd open all four of his windows facing the game and wait. Inevitably, someone would sail a high flying shot over the outfielder's head high enough to reach the second floor then it was only a matter of luck whether it hit the wall or dove through the window, gone forever. He never gave a ball back. Spauldeens were expensive, each one lost was painful to the pocket. We thought Mr. Moylan was a sourpuss, looking back, we tortured him and deserved more than open windows.

We usually had a large radio/cassette player positioned on top of a car to entertain us while we played. In 1969, this song was still in heavy rotation, we played it loud.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=saJdS7t_oOM

She Started It

Dad captured my first argument with a girl.
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Barbara threw the Spauldeen lousy and the ball went up on a roof and rolled down into the gutter. The one week rental in Putnam county didn't have a ladder. The ball was lost. It took a long time for me to stop being mad at Barbara. I didn't talk to her for a good half hour.
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Below, Mom and Nan Rode at Putnam in 1960 ~ can you feel the love? Look at the puss on Nan knitting. They spent their lives together at war over Dad and family control. Nan was bossy. How bossy? I'll bet you a thousand dollars my grandmother, Ann Pryor Rode, could have gotten Madonna to go to the store for her, and then made Madonna rotate her stock in the pantry and refrigerator. And then Madonna would have asked, "Is there anything else you need Mrs. Rode?" And there always was. "Help me put up the drapes, Madge." And Madonna would, and she would have come back for more. They all did.
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Everybody's pissed. Someone was always pissed at somebody else in my family. My job was to figure out how to navigate the rearranged alliances. I got pretty good at it, but Nan Rode always screwed me up.

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Below is the cornerstone for the Eastside Settlement House facing the FDR Drive at 76th Street. Built in 1903, it was the second settlement house. It had a grass hill that led down to the East River. My grandmother, uncles, aunts, father & mother haunted that place. It had everything a kid could want. My parents, Pat Ryan and Bob Pryor were the Lindy Dance Champs at the Settlement House.

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Above, Dad & Mom, Patchogue, 1962.

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July, 1961, Dad, Allie Cobert and Mickey Fiorillo from 84th Street between York & East End Avenues. They are standing three stores down from the Old Timers Tavern on the east side of York Avenue at 83rd Street & 84th Street. The awning in the back is Parker's Grocery Store. That's Reliable Meats directly to the right. Mickey married Barbara my Mom's sister, he's my uncle. Allie was family, we loved him.

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Found this great picture of Rory at the start of first grade with a date on the back, November 18, 1962. This is right after the Cuba Missile Crisis. The kids don't look worried. It's recess! They're drinking their milk snacks, and the odds are pretty good I sold it to them, because by third grade I was going class to class as a toast and milk salesman.

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I know the three girls next to Rory on the left, but I only know them like this: the pretty brunette in the front was Bernadette's sister. Bernie was one year ahead of me at St. Stephen's of Hungary. Kenny Devoe loved her, or maybe it was Michael Sorenson. Behind her is Tina Harangazo, Rory's first girlfriend, she was so cute. A perfect symmetrical face. Behind Tina, is Joey Scrapits sister. Joey was in my grade and he's now a doctor. I never caught the sister's name but she was pretty and quiet..

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Here's Pilgrim Hill today at 72nd Street, looking down at what we called Sailboat Lake but park officials called the Conservatory. Starting at the Pilgrim statute this was the best sleigh ride in Central Park.

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I can't dress. Never could.

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Not in first grade, look at my tie. Not when I was 7, look at my zipper.

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As a man, I've failed to meet the minimum sartorial standards for looking good. Please see the evidence in my picture with Mayor Bloomberg and NYCHA Chairman Tino Hernandez, examine the bottom shirt bottom near my belt.

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But I could always ride a horse. This is in front of Lamston's on 1st Avenue in 1959. Every time, I saw a dime with Mercury on it, I thought about this ride. It was my favorite thing on earth when I was five.
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