By Alex Berger
Queens has become the melting pot for people emigrating from such far-away places as South America and the Mid-East, Africa, and closer places such as Manhattan (me) and the Bronx. I recently received a letter from a transplanted Bronx-to-Queens resident, Joe Ricevuto of Jackson Heights.
Besides writing that I am “the greatest” — gosh, Joe, such compliments will get you everything — he informs me that he is the grand marshal of the “198th Street Gang,” a collection of scattered friends who formerly lived on his old Bronx block. The Gang holds annual reunions to recapture those days of growing up in the Bronx neighborhood. They have been meeting since 1977.
These reunions are held at the St. Marks Church in Jackson Heights and attract many members now living in Chicago, Long Island, Westchester, Florida, New Jersey, Queens, and elsewhere.
Members of The Gang like to schmooze and reminisce about the good old days when, as kids, their only worry was getting into a stickball game, or trying to raise 12 cents for a movie at the Loew's Paradise. And, with a wink, savoring the moment when they stole a kiss in the hallway.
The men fondly recall personal moments — the stickball or punchball game they single-handedly won; sitting on the old stoop to gab, treating a scuffed knee playing “Off the Point” with a pink Spaldeen (for those of you who are relatively recent New Yorkers, that was a rubber ball), recapturing the joy of playing Ring-A-Leevio, Kick the Can, or Johnny on the Pony; and arguing which baseball team was better — the Yankees, the Dodgers, or the Giants.
The women are never left out. They hilariously remember wearing those loafers with a penny in them, skipping rope, and playing Potsy, marbles, and hop-scotch. The reunions are never complete without salivating over the neighborhood food – those luscious Charlotte Russes, cakes and ice cream from Krum’s Bakery; the mello-rolls, cherry Cokes, fudgicles, and egg creams (do you remember? — they had neither eggs nor cream!) from Sarah and George's Candy Store. And who could forget reaching down into a pickle barrel to retrieve a kosher sour?
Ricevuto never forgets to place in a prominent place his old homemade scooter (made from a wooden box nailed to a plank with skate wheels on either end); a wooden, rubber-band zip gun; baseball cards with pictures of their heroes (Joe DiMaggio, Pete Reiser, and Mel Ott); comic books; a jump rope, and other mementos from days long since gone. Yes, Joe, they certainly were the good old days. May your reunions go on forever.
Mr. Sickser owned an “everything for the baby” specialty store to accommodate the post-war baby boom. The language in the store was primarily Yiddish. Business was particularly good and the two-man store could not handle the volume — so, one morning, Mr. Sickser ran into the street and stopped the first youth he spotted. “Young man,” Mr. Sickser mumbled in broken English, “would you like to make a little extra money?” “Yes, sir,” the tall African-American boy answered, and he followed his new employer into the store.
The ambitious lad immediately impressed everyone with his good manners, diligence, and demeanor, and he was eventually hired as a regular employee.
From the age of 13 until his sophomore year at City College, the young man worked for 50 cents an hour, and he picked up a good deal of Yiddish. He eventually graduated from City College, entered the military, and rose to the rank of general. Today, that same man was recently appointed President Bush’s secretary of state. He is, of course, Colin Powell, who continues to chat in his second-favorite language whenever the situation arises. Powell still credits Mr. Sickser with being the one stable point in his teenaged life.
Actually, I experienced a childhood much the same as Joe Ricevuto, although I was not raised in the Bronx. I come from the Lower East Side. Yes, I remember my growing-up years quite well and those wonderful nicknames we gave each other. But the biggest thrill of my childhood was one stickball game I will cherish forever.
As a skinny, bespectacled, 98-pound weakling, I was not much of a player. However, I usually got into the games because my best friend Stan “Hack” Drescher, was the perennial captain of one of the teams. Out of kindness, he would choose me as the last player picked and put me on first base where I would do the least amount of harm.
This “game of games” was a grudge match. Our team was clinging to a slim one-run lead. It was the last inning with the opposing team coming to bat. Their lead-off man, Jimmy “the Kid,” lined a clean hit into center field. “Kishka,” batting second, struck out and “Pop-Up” George, batting third, popped up.
Then the ever-dangerous “Bet-A-Buck” promptly singled, sending the Kid to Second Base. Alan “Bags”, their slugger, then hit a whistler into the outfield for a hit. The Kid rounded third and was heading home.
As the first baseman, it was my duty to cover home plate. The muscular Kid was coming. The ball arrived a split moment before the Kid and I caught it on the fly. I braced myself for the impact and boy, did it come — like a runaway locomotive. The Kid’s rock-solid shoulder crashed squarely into my cheek bone, knocking my glasses off. They flew one way and I flew the other way.
When I woke up a few minutes later, I saw my teammates’ happy faces. I was told that I had held onto the ball, tagged the Kid out, and won the game. That was, and still is, one of the most thrilling and treasured moments of my life.
— Even though I didn’t get to see it.
Reach Times-Ledger columnist Alex Berger by e-mail at aberger3@yc.rr.com, or call 229-0300, Ext. 139.
