They were times of joy and youth, the summers
of the 1950’s, the days when we were resting
from the months of education, the days that
lasted many hours in our section of the world,
the eastern Bronx, along Virginia Avenue, not
far from White Plains Road and Parkchester
and the Hugh J. Grand Circle, and we grew close
and played till 9 p.m. and defied 90 plus degrees
with our youth and joy. We often passed each
other in the hallways and on the streets and in
the stores of our neighborhood from September
to the end f June, but for two summer months
we saw each other and engaged in sports which
inspired us and taught us to be friends and close
companions. There was cheery competition in our
various forms of stickball and punchball, as
we played amongst the concrete sidewalks, black
tarmac streets and the inviting schoolyards of our
past. The fire escapes were our friends, being our
version of ground-rule doubles when we hit them
with our powder-pink “Spaldeens” — and clunky
cars in assorted shapes and colors, honking horns,
provided momentary respite as they slowly drove
slowly past us and saluted our sportsmanship. Post-
dinner evening after evening we came together
and “chose up” sides for friendly combat, having out-
lasted the depths of sweltering heat and then having
faced a lessened state of heat and no longer deep
humidity, and because each night the make-up
of each team was different, we deepened our
dependence on each other and our joyful
companionship. And while adults and infants
sequestered themselves in their apartments and
their homes intertwined with 13 weeks of summer
re-runs amidst the stifling thick atmosphere, for
none of us those days were blessed with home air
conditioners, we blossoming adolescents swung
and ran and jumped and caught and screamed
with delight as we learned in the midst of our
athletic endeavors how to win, how to lose, and
ultimately, how to play and love the game of Life!
THE POETRY OF THE GAME