I grew up in the South Bronx on E 142nd between Willis and Third Ave, back in the early 50s. I was the smallest kid on the block. Whenever we played stickball, the ball would inevitably end up going downhill into the sewer on Third Ave. The big kids would remove the grating, give me a coat hanger with a loop at the end of it and lower me down head first holding me by the ankles. I’d reach down with the coat hanger get it under the ball, scoop it up and toss it to the guys.

Sometimes there would be other balls in there for awhile. you could tell because the submerged half would be a different color than the top.

This was considered a real good thing by the guys cause we wouldn’t have to go and get 10 cents for a ball. My mom didn’t like it cause I’d come home smelling likt the sewer. One time when I was about 8 or 9 she really got disgusted, she stripped me down, threw me in the tub and beat the sh** out of me while scrubbing me down and yelling. Even that didn’t stop me. Being part of the boys was more important.