Flushing, NY, NY.
That wasn’t a typo. Back then, it meant Flushing, New York City, New York State.
And for a 12-year-old, lower-middle-class Catholic kid in the mid-1950s, it was the center of the universe.
Things that felt completely normal to us might have seemed unheard of in Columbus, Ohio, Columbia, South Carolina, or Robinson, Illinois. But in Flushing, this was just a typical summer Saturday. And yes, that was 74 years ago. OMG, I’m Methuselah!
Out of bed early. (8 a.m.)
Brush teeth. Comb hair. Sorta.
Get dressed: underwear, polo shirt, shorts, socks (yes, socks) and sneakers.
Make the bed. Do a few quick chores. Take out the trash. Put away the dishes. Straighten up the room.
Slop down a quick breakfast. Cold cereal.
Out the door by 9.
First stop: Kenny’s townhouse.
Stand on the street and yell, “Hey, Kenny!”
Watch the window. Sometimes his grandma appeared, frowning. Was she waving? Or shaking a fist? Hard to tell.
If I was lucky, Kenny came bounding out.
Next stop: Tommy’s house, three doors up 194th Street.
“Hey, Tommy!”
Now we were three.
We had a Spaldeen, that small, pink, high-bounce rubber ball I talked about before, and a broomstick left over from last week. What else did three kids need on a Saturday morning in New Yawk?
A wall.
Five blocks away at the local park, we found one. We drew a big chalk rectangle for a strike zone and discussed the rules for the upcoming showdown.
Then we played stickball.
Kenny batted first. He stood by the wall.
I pitched from 50-ish feet away.
Tommy fielded behind me near the fence.
Three strikes, or a clean catch, and you were done (out).
A ball off the lower fence was a single.
Mid-fence was a double.
High fence, a triple.
Over the fence? Home run, baby!
There was always lots of discussion.
We could play like that for hours.
But by lunchtime, we had other plans.
Each of us went home and wolfed down a quick bologna sandwich or some other cold cut. Then we headed back out, each with about a dollar’s worth of change we’d saved or mooched from Mom or Dad.
A great movie was playing at Loew’s Prospect Theater in downtown Flushing:
Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein.
For 15 cents out of our dollar, we took the bus to Main Street.
Four blocks to the bus stop.
15 cents for the ride.
25 cents for a ticket.
And suddenly we were in air-conditioned Valhalla.
Air conditioning was truly a luxury back then. We were cool (literally) for a couple of hours.
When the movie ended, it was back on the bus and home by 5 p.m.
Three boys, ages 11 to 13, roaming the big, bad city on their own.
Nobody got robbed.
Nobody got abducted.
Nobody got beaten up.
Just another typical summer Saturday in the big, dirty, fantastic city of New York.
Enuf.
