regarding the 3 sewer question vs. 4 sewers: i played stickball in Holliswood Queens NY in the late 50s and I was taught by my late father. he once took me back to the South Bronx where he played in the late 1920s and early 1930s. 3 sewers was the furthest for a homerun and the ball had to pass three full sewers. he never mentioned 4.
What is this “league” stuff? Where were the leagues in 1947? Every game was a one-time event that lasted until someone had to leave or it got dark. Moms were home fixin’ dinner and Dads were working. In Queens, the games in the street were played with as few as two people per side: one pitched and one played the outfield. The catcher may have been a fifth person who caught for both teams or until someone had to go. The ball used was a Spaulding but it was pronounced “spaldeen.” It was also called a Pink Pearl and cost 15 cents. The bats were old broomsticks sawed off — nothing fancier, no tape (what was tape?) and certainly not store bought. Two kinds of pitching were allowed: “no flukin’” meant you had to throw the pitch in on a bounce without spinning the ball. “Flukin’” meant you could pitch it in on a bounce and put spin on the ball. The usual car fenders and sewer plates were bases. The other game where the ball was thrown in a line into a box on the wall was called “steam.” This apparently was a Queens only expression. No running bases. If you grounded the ball past the pitcher, you got a single; past the pitcher into the fence (in the schoolyard) on a fly was a double; over the fence was a triple; and over the fence and across the street into someone’s front yard was a home run. There were lots of local variations depending upon geography (walls, fences, front lawns, fenders) but these were the games before leagues, before television, before Moms and Dads ran things, back in the days of really loud street arguments by ten year old males (only) over whether a ball was fair or foul. No political correctness. And all the games ended when these males got to be about 13 or 14 years old and went to high school. This is ultimate truth I’m talking about… not what your father told you about how he played and you adopted the stories as if they were your own. Dassit.
We played the “traditional” stickball when I was a kid in Queens, NY, but we used a loaded whiffle-ball bat with a taped up barrel for a little extra weight. To us, it was a kids’ game. We grew out of it as we improved at baseball. We couldn’t all play on the same little league team and hardball was too expensive (we were ghetto) and didn’t have 18 guys who could play hardball to get a game going. Softball…face it, softball is for girls and old men. We took up fast-pitch (wall) stickball in schoolyards. Nowdays we play in a league all over the NYC metro area. There is no running the bases; the batter gets credit for a hit if the ball passes certain distances (marked out on the field) without being cleanly fielded or caught on the fly, as the case may be. Most players use either a metal bat, a combination wood/metal bat or a wooden bat with sheet metal rolled onto the barrel- it’s too hard to make solid contact with the old, broomstick-style wooden bats. Rules limit the size of the barrel. The kink is that we play with shaved and singed down tennis balls (We use old ones with not as much air in them). The effect is less resistance, so the ball is pitched faster and breaking pitches have some sick movement. Because the ball is also smaller than a conventional tennis ball, it is much harder to get a hold of one. However, pitching this smaller, lighter ball probably does even more damage than a baseball does to your arm over the long run. Typically, the games are low scoring with a ton of strikeouts. The top pitchers frequently strike out 15-20 batters in a 9-inning game. Basically, if the guy has good control, you’re going to be up against it. No-hitters happen, especially during doubleheaders, when games are only 7 innings. You don’t usually scratch out runs. Most scoring comes from home runs. During the playoffs, when both teams have their aces going, you’ll get 1-0 games where teams get less than 5 hits per side. But that’s what makes the game all the more intense. Any run you can scratch out matters immensely. There have been many leagues over the years. In the late 80s/early 90s there were about 200 teams of all skill levels. Because most of the better players joined forces and consolidated into super-teams, fewer people play now but the competition is much tougher.
Well guess what it isn’t just N.J., Bronx, or Queens, because we played it in Brooklyn too. I was raised in the Fort Greene Projects around the 50’s and man i grew up with a big crowd of kids. we would spend all day playing all kind of games, and kick the can was one of them. No lie we had over fifty kids and you can imagine how pisst off the kid who was it was, when somebody would kick the can and about thirty of us would be free. ahhh it was priceless.
Kick the can is not just a N.J. game. I live in Queens N.Y.(all my life)& I have the kids here on the block playing it all the time. The only thing different these days is we use a liter bottle 1/4 filled w/dirt & rocks. It’s a little easier to get out from under the cars. There wasnt so many when I was younger.Kids have a good old time away from the TV & video games if we just take the time to teach them how.
Yes! “I declare war on…..toby2max!” Long pause before you yelled out the name to heighten the anticipation. We used the exact same rules that toby2max describes, and we used the names of countries also. If you forgot who was what, you sometimes declared war on yourself! (I remember doing this!) For the three steps, we were allowed to place the ball on the ground where we caught it, then back up and take a running jump for our three steps. I grew up playing this in Laurelton, Queens in the late 50’s and 60’s.
This summer, after locating your website, I painted 3 skelly boards on some blacktop at a sleepaway camp called Camp Mesorah. I grew up in city hpousing project in Queens (Pomonok)and the last time played the game was 45 years ago. I used the Bronx rules because the 2,4,6,8 trapezoid made the game rules more exciting. The game took off. Kids were playing it at every free moment they had. Pipsie became a respected and revered word in camper vocabulary. We used metal snapple caps for skelly caps, filling them with crayons that we melted with magnifying glasses. The designs and colors in them were elaborate. Campers and counselors formed teams together(as age doesn’t matter but skill does) and a 32 team tournament with trophies culminated the season. This summer, more black top is being added and the number of courts will increase to 12. Lighting is also being added for night games. More tournatments are planned and the game with intercamp challanges. The game has already spread to 5 Towns area of LI where I was hired to paint 3 courts in driveways and backyards. hank you for helping me relive my childhood. This is the game that taught me addition, subtraction and strategy. Maybe one day we will see a skelly court on every basketball court!
Yeah, I remember dear old Dad. He loved to play the horses…in fact, he loved to wager on anything. Problem was, he wagered TOO much and it cost him his life. Well, that’s another story for another day and another topic (perhaps, “My Father was a Bookie, what was yours?”). Oh yeah, the story. One late August night, back in 1958, my father took me to a Yankees – Senators game at the stadium. For some reason, unknown to a 5 year old boy, he decided to pay for a taxi as the transportation to and from the Bronx (maybe the car was repossesed? We lived in Forest Hills, Queens). Anyway, I don’t recall too much about the game but I sure as hell recall what happened afterwards. The return taxi was summoned for the trip back home and some where along the line, maybe even towards the end of the game, it started raining…pouring…heavy! The cabbie wheeled the taxi into a gas station in order to refill the tank. I remember the back door opening and the water on the ground rising above my shoes. We raced/splashed/slid into the waiting room whilst the cab was re-fueled. My dad went off to another room…more than likely to use the pay phone to call…yup…his book. So I waited. And waited. The rain as so thick, I could barely see out the window to the gas pumps straight ahead. Still waiting. Finally, an attendant came in and asked me whom I belonged to. “My dad.” I replied. “And he’s in the taxi outside that’s getting gas.” “There’s no taxi out there now,” said the attendant. I think I started crying but I was too traumatized to remember. Still am. Turns out, he left me there…plum forgot about me…probably pre-occupied with his wagering. I find out later, he had gone 3 or 4 blocks before the cabbie asked about his son. Well, they did come back for me so all’s well that ends well, right? Sure it is.