Inwood,
Manhattan, 1959, the first Saturday of summer. School is out! I
wake up around 7:00 am, fill a bowl with cheerios and a stir up a
glass of milk and chocolate Quick. I gulp it all down in front of
the TV watching Officer Joe Bolton, volume off. I find my brand new
white keds, my new pair of shorts and white eyelet blouse, and
silently get dressed in the kitchen listening to the quiet. No one
else is stirring, so I carefully unlock and open the apartment door,
slip out into the hallway and with a finger on the latch, quietly
close the door. My feet barely touch the steps as I fly down four
flights to the street.
There is
still a chill in the June morning air, sun barely peeking between the
buildings on Post Avenue. Though I'm shivering, I know I can't go
back upstairs to get a sweatshirt. I'd risk waking somebody up and
having to answer all those questions. So without a moment's pause, I
sprint up five long blocks from Dyckman Street to Broadway, and then
another four to Payson Park, close to the River Fields on the
Hudson. Payson has a playground, with a stone house with bathrooms,
and a “Parkie” as we called him. The stone house also contains
several knock-hockey tables, and an assortment of balls, ping pong
table, checkers games and minimal first aid supplies.
Payson
is also the scene of weekly knock-hockey competitions, and this
summer of my tenth year, I am unstoppable. My balance is shaky, I
can't hit a softball, or hit the ball in a handball court, but
boy-oh-boy can I play knock-hockey, and boy-oh-boy do I win! For
those of you who are unfamiliar with this New York City staple, Knock
hockey is a board game with two players, two mini hockey sticks, and
a puck. The object is to slice, or slam the puck into the hole
behind a block of wood at an opponents' goal.
I knock
on the Parkie's door and ask for a knock hockey set up. He looks at
me with a suspicious sideways stare, and says carefully, “sure
thing”. The day has barely begun, and the park is empty except for
the little brown eyed girl in shiny new sneakers. He actually
scratches his head as he considers the request for one brief moment,
then disappears into his house to gather the requested sports
equipment. I wait for him to set up the game and intently begin my
practice. Suddenly a boy about 11 or 12 comes skating into the park
and screeches to a stop in front of me. I look up into his face, red
and sweaty. “Wanna play?” I ask. “With you?” he says. I
give him an exasperated look, hands on hips, as he proceeds to pull
the leather cord around his neck holding his skate key over his head.
He plugs the key into his roller skates and kicks them off. He
doesn't know what he is in for.
Summer
has officially landed!
