Games

See the happy girls and boys

Playing with their colored toys

Hear them counting one and two

Learning colors, red and blue

Merrily they sing a song

Moms and dads should sing along

For no better time to enjoy

As when they were once young and strong

This time and hour will surely pass

And when you look there grown a last

Ready to leave with nobility and pride

Cherish those moments, that magical ride

Lessons are learned and then one day

They’ll remember

You shared in their games of play

~ Gemini Joe ~

hen I was a kid, we spent most of our time outside on the streets waiting for something exciting to happen. My parents didn’t worry much because if we did anything wrong the neighbors would report it. But we were good kids. At least I was anyway.

On hot summer days, we would sit on the steps in front of my house trying to keep cool. If we were lucky, an adult would open the fire hydrant with a pipe wrench. We laughed and yelled as we ran through the flowing water, but soon, the fire trucks came to shut it down.

Sometimes, we waited for the iceman. We ran after the truck trying to get little chips of ice that flew off the back. The man would stop the truck and run us off. That was funny.

I am breaking up over these stories because this is bringing me back, and it’s very emotional. I lived through it all and I was lucky to have gone on with my life.

When it wasn’t too hot, we played many outdoor games. First, we had kick-the-can. You took an empty can and everyone ran toward it. The first person to kick the can was in charge. They had to count to one hundred while the rest of us hid. If he saw us, he would yell, “Tap-tap you’re it,” John, Louie, Marie whomever. They had to come out and run to the can before the kid in charge got there. If he didn’t, he had to go to jail. If he did, he would kick the can. Then it was his time to be in charge.

The other thing we used to play was stickball. We played it with a broomstick and a very soft ball. It was just like baseball, but we played it in the street. One sewer cap was the home base and to the right along the curb some distance, we would make a chalk mark for first base, second was usually another sewer cap, and third base was on the left side of the street. We had a pitcher and someone was in the outfield. If you hit the ball, you ran around touching each base until you were home. If someone from the outfield tagged you, you had to go back. We would play this game until the ball broke or wore out and lost air. Then we had to find a new ball.

Then there was Johnny on the pony. Sometimes, there would be three people on each team. One team stood against the wall. The first guy would put his arms up and hold his head against the wall. The second guy behind him and the third behind him. The other team that was up would go running and jumping right on to their backs. They had to hold on like Johnny on the pony. If they fell off, that team was out. When everyone got on, if you collapsed, you had to stay down for another game. They waited until everyone jumped on and was on securely, then the team on the bottom would say, “Buck-buck, how many fingers are up?”

One person was able to raise two fingers, three fingers and someone in charge would verify if the people on the bottom were correct.

There was another game called werewolf. A team on each side had maybe three or four people. One team was the moon and the other the clouds. The moon team would roll up paper and hit the cloud team as they ran by to get points. Then the cloud team turned around and hit us until the moon went by. Whatever team rapped the most kids got the points.

Then there was another game called stoopball. The ball was a Spalding. You would hit the steps and the ball would come back at you. That would be one point. You did it again and it would be two points. If the ball hit the point of the step and high flied and you caught it that was five points. Your score went up, but if you missed then the next person had a turn.

But, my favorite game was “marbles.” We played it in the lots. There were plenty of lots there when I was growing up in Brooklyn. They’re gone now, because it’s all built up.

First, we would draw a circle in the dirt. Each kid put in maybe four or five marbles of his own. The game had rules. Each player used a special marble, called “a shooter,” to knock his opponent’s marbles out of the circle, and got to keep the marbles he shot out.

The first person tried to shoot marbles out of that circle and your shooter had to come out. You kept that marble, then you would shoot again and maybe catch another marble. If you hit one of the marbles out, but your shooter stayed in there, you had to put the marble back; that was the rule.

My brother gave me a special shooter. It was a steel ball and everyone complained, because that ball was powerful. That thing used to hit all the marbles and everything used to come out.

“No, Joey,” my friends said. “You can’t use that marble. You have to use a regular marble or the game is not right.”

So I did. I wasn’t trying to cheat. I was just trying to be better. Anyway, it didn’t work with them guys.

When it was dinnertime, our mothers called out the windows and we all went inside.

On the Fourth of July, we had a block party. Everybody sat outside with their chairs, and we had plenty of food on long tables. The grownups told all us kids to collect branches for the fire. They piled it up in the middle of the street. At sunset, they would light up this big pile of wood.

The fire department came around to patrol the streets and tried to put out the fire, but for some reason, the pressure was not good and the hose wasn’t long enough. They were able to put out the flames, but there were still smoldering embers in there. When they went away, one of the parents came out with a can of gasoline and re-lit it.

All the older boys used the fire to shoot off fireworks. Sometimes, they stuffed a cherry bomb into a glass jar. It was very tricky. You had to be quick to light it and get the cover back on before it blew. Sometimes the flame snuffed out, but most of the time there was enough air in the jar to keep the wick going. The glass shattered and made a loud noise.

I wasn’t allowed to have firecrackers, but my father let me have a lit sparkler. I waved it around while he attached wire hangers to potatoes and placed them into the fire. He called them “mickies,” named after the Irish who loved potatoes. As the fire blazed, the mickies baked. The wood turned to coals and he took them out. The potatoes were hard and black outside, but I was surprised that they were white and fluffy on the inside. He split the potato and put a pat of butter on top with some salt. It was delicious.