What about “chips” on the ball. I think we argued more about who owed who a new spaldeen after one either split or was hit further (or to some forbidding spot)than anyone cared to chase, than whether a pitch was a strike or whether a ball that landed on the sewer was a single double or what. It’s great that the spaldeen is back, though I’ve yet to find a place selling it here in Baltimore.
In the north bronx in the late sixties early seventies, box ball remained a game of hitting a pinky or spaldeen with your hand into your opponents box. He or she, in turn, would need to return the ball to your box before the ball bounced more than once. Points could only be scored on your serve. Depending on the differing skills of the players, additional rules governing the way the ball could be “served” applied, usually requiring that the ball be served with a certain amount of arch on it to allow the receiver a better chance of returning it.
Pennsie Pinkies were made by Penn. They are the core of a tennis ball. Good pinkies were given a coat & sent to the tennis clubs. Rejects were sent to the cities to be punished. Pennsies were softer, and a little stickier, even though they were a bit smoother than Spaldeens (Spalding). Best for box baseball (easier to pinch & spin), punchball & other bounce sensitive games. Spaldeens were more likely to show up in stickball games (they were 5 cent cheaper). If money was a problem, you went into the corner store & asked for an ‘egg’ ball. These were half-price off-brand (unlabeled) balls that were kinda round, kinda bouncy, and kinda ugly (not always pink).
My mother’s “calling out” became a thorn in my side, one that my mother never grew out of. It began from a second story garden apartment in Queens,(where I grew up), and I was called up for a variety of things: “D-I-N-N-E-R! P-H-O-N-E-C-A-L-L!”, “E-D S-U-L-L-I-V-A-N I-S O-N!” As I grew older, these “calling outs” of my mother’s, escalated to the next level, and she brought them with her into various department and book stores. Not having her trusty window with her, my mother would invariably wonder off to look at something, lose me in the process, and then page me. When I turned 43 (gulp!) I decided that I’d had enough! So ….. On A recent trip to K-mart, wondering through the plant isle, I realized that I was in a one way conversation with myself. My mother had done it again. Poof! she had disappeared. I knew in a manner of 5 minutes or so, my name would be announced, and ALL of K-Mart would hear it. I ran over to the toy department, and picked up an item. As I heard my name, I rushed over to the nearest cashier, and made my purchase. I took my mother’s arm, and escorted her outside, where I presented her with own megaphone. She laughed. After a recent trip to Macy’s with my son, I called my mother on the phone and asked: “Remember that megaphone I bought you in K-mart? Could I borrow it?” My mother laughed.
I was most afraid of young women my age when I was in my teens..Don’t know exactly why..perhaps it was because I was raised by my Grandmother and her Sister..could be. Anyone the first lady I felt comfortable is someone I will never forget…after many dates we split..after WWII we met, had a drink..she told me of her wedding plans..after I met her a few times on the subway I said things like: ‘What lovely legs!’..one day she said: ‘Why weren’t you like this years ago…and so it goes..fortunately I married a lady who is by and large the same or better..love her after 47 years of marriage..end of my tale John
My Mother and Dad and their friends took me to Coney many times in the 1920’s when I was little..never allowed in the water and never learned to swim..Mom and Dad were really strong swimmers..I played with my sand bucket..imagine that? We had fun..Dad drank wine with a relative and they both got ‘smashed’..really common in those days of Prohibition…that was a stupid mistake banning booze.’ John