Spaldeens were the best. Had more zing, didn’t split as easily, and were cheaper. It was a sad day when Irv’s candy store started selling Pensy Pinkies in place of good ‘ol reliable Spaldeens. Sacrilege. Hit a Pensy a good whack and ooop’s, we have two halves. Just don’t roof it. I don’t feel like climbing.
Back in the late fifties and early sixties (yeah, that was last century) we kids on Lefferts Avenue, in Brooklyn, used to play a game called, Hot Peas And Butter. Somebody went and got their father’s best butt beatin’ belt and a “papa” was chosen (either by “Engine Engine Number Nine” with the feet or by “The Odd Finger Is It” with the fingers) who then hid the belt somewhere (in the bushes, under a garbage pail, down a basement entrance, in a milkbox, etc.) while the rest of the bunch kept their eyes closed in the “Safety Zone”. Then, the “papa” came back to the safety zone and yelled, “Hot Peas And Butter!” Everybody went out looking for the belt. The “papa” would declare, COLD, WARM or HOT, depending on the proximity of the searchers to the belt. Once the belt was found, the new “papa” chased everyone back to the safety zone, swinging the belt and lashing anyone within reach. God help the kid who fell down! We would play until the real father found out that his best belt was missing. He’d come out with his fists on his hips and a nasty scowl. But he couldn’t help it; he’d soon break into a big smile. Ah, the memories of good, clean games! I hope they’re not gone forever.
Growing up in Staten Island in the 60’s we kids would get .25 from our parents every sat to go down to the corner candy store ‘every neighborhood had one’. Once a month, my cousin and I would take turns, one buying a Spaldeen ball and the other buying the candy, so every month we had a new ball to play with. I can remember the firt thing we did withour new ball was to inscribe it with our name so no one could steal it. When the store ran out we would end up with a pnky which was a dissapointment because the smell, feel and bounce were so different. It was something from my childhood that I will never forget. That rubber smell to this day brings back such great memories. I have been trying to find one for my grandson, now I know they are back I can look a little harder. But in the age of tv video games and romote control everything, will the thrill be the same? I doubt it, but I guess to thier generation, we are the olden days and the balls part of our nostalgia.
In Washington Heights (181st Street)in the late 50’s/early 60’s, you could get both – Spaldeens were harder and cost 25 cents, while the Pennsie Pinky was only 15 cents and a lot softer and smoother. We preferred the Spaldeen for stickball and the Pinkie for punch ball. When they went “dead” and lost their bounce, the game was to “roof” the ball by throwing it onto the roof of a 6 story apartment building. Sid’s candy store on 181st street was the only place in the neighborhood that let you check all of the Spaldeens and Pinkies by giving them the “bounce test” before buying – holding a ball at about chest height and letting it go to see how high up it would bounce. I broke Mrs. Morrison’s living room window with a Spaldeen and hit the super of the building across the street with a Pennsie Pinkie!
In Brooklyn in the 50’s we sang while bouncing a ball: Oh, I won’t go to Macy’s any more, more, more There’s a big fat policeman at the door, door, door He’ll grab you by the collar And make you pay a dollar So I won’t go to Macy’s Anymore, more, more We sang this while bouncing a ball and crossed our leg over the rhyming words..more, door, collar, etc.
Great site. I learned about stickball at 15 yrs of age from a fellow by the name of Bobby Graham, a Brooklyn guy who worked at the same place where I was doing summer jobs in Roxbury MA. We used to play after work on Fridays while waiting for our paychecks to be issued. Loved the game from the first moment I laid my hands on that broomstick. We played fast-pitch in local schoolyards with a strike zone on the wall. Ground rules varied according to the game site, but a home run was always over the school building or across the street. The “official” ball was the pimple ball; we only used pinkies when unable to find pimple balls at the 5&10. In fact, pimple balls ultimately got so hard to find that we would go to extreme lengths to retrieve them in the course of game. It was always a sad thing when someone hit a pimple ball right on the seam and split it. Haven’t seen a pimple ball in a LONG time, though. I remember spending many hours practicing and perfecting my pitching technique. Those were the days when a kid had plenty of time on his hands after school and before dinner. It got to the point where I could reliably hit the door handle of my house garage door from across the street. Developed about a half dozen different pitches, including a wicked Elroy Face inspired sinker. Had some wicked grudge match games against local neighborhood rivals. One of my great sports moments was pitching nine straight no-hitters against them. They refused to play us any more. I guess we still own the bragging rights in that rivalry. Nice to be able to share my memories with people who remember and understand this great street sport. Better than golf IMO.
I used to spend my summers at the Flatbush Boys Club. As Marshal said I was put into an Indian tribe each year. I remember being an Apache one year and a Cherokee the next. I believe my first year in the Cowboy groups I was in Cimarron. What I wouldn’t give to play bumper pool, knock hockey and make lanyards again!