Not only is the St. Patrick’s Day parade in Manhattan cancelled, but it looks like the Brooklyn parade is cancelled too.
Not only is the St. Patrick’s Day parade in Manhattan cancelled, but it looks like the Brooklyn parade is cancelled too.
On this date three years ago my childhood friend John Cain passed away of a heart attack.
He was 52.
John was a great friend. As teenagers we spent a lot of time together.
In the 8th grade we played on the same intramural football team. I was the QB. John was the best player in the league. Wherever I threw the ball, John was there to make me look good. He was super fast.
John was a south-paw who lived on Seeley Street.
Awesome baseball player too. Good defensive player in hoops.
One thing I miss about the old neighborhood is the summer league in the boys schoolyard.
While talking, wait check that, while texting with Glenn T. and Danny P. we often reminisece about the good old days.
Today Glenn mentioned some dream one-on-one match-ups that we would have loved to seen. I threw in a few myself.
We deemed it, “Basketball Digest: Who’s Better?”
Buddy Thompson or Mickey Deere?
Willie Lanizera or Patty Byrnes?
Danny Mahoney or Marty Lakeowski?
Jay Smallman or Tommy Barrett?
Louie Webber or Ray Collura?
Mario Barrucco or Mr. Pitt?
Joe Farrell or John Corrar?
Michael Larkin or Kenny Crowley?
Joe Hurley or John Powers?
Richie Deere or Alan Lang?
Jimmy Rauthier or Michael Bundrick?
Artie Lee or Tito Martinez?
Gerry Cole or Charlie Kawas?
Jimmy Cullen or Michael Campbell?
Jimmy Vackner or Ray Goffio?
Frankie Cullen or Joe Santos?
Timmy Kemp or Billy Gallagher?
Albert Esposito or Curtis Walker?
Who ya got?
Wanted to wish everyone a Merry Christmas.
Here’s my favorite Christmas Story from back in the day:
I am 6 years-old. It’s a little after 7 on a cold morning. Everyone in my family is sleeping.
Santa Claus brought me a Voit basketball. I reached down and pulled it from under our Christmas tree. Ripping the ball out of the box, I started dribbling in our apartment, mom woke up screaming at me.
“GO TO THE FUCKING SCHOOLYARD!” She shouted.
I did as I was told.
Got dressed, walked across 9th avenue, down Windsor Place, hung a right on Howard Place.
Straight to the yard. Taking turns dribbling with my left hand and my right.
212 steps. I know because I counted them.
I had the yard to myself. It was empty. People walking to church were looking at me like I was crazy. The schoolyard became my “Paved Paradise.”
Looking at the kids passing by with their parents, I was like, “yeah, that’s right, you go to your church, I’m at mine…”
Been in love with the sport ever since.
Merry Christmas everyone!
I was six years-old when I fell in love with basketball.
Matter of fact, it was right around the time my father left our family.
The year was 1970, Christmas morning. The boys schoolyard at Holy Name of Jesus elementary school was the spot.
When I look back at my childhood, I realize that basketball took the place of my father.
Little did I know at the time basketball would save my life. No, it didn’t make me millions of dollars. It helped shape the man I am today.
Basketball taught me valuable lessons along the way, lessons I should have learned from my absent father.
The game, the players, the coaches and fans. All taught me lessons on how to do things the right way.
My father would come around from time to time but it was never real; he never had my best interest at heart. I think he spent time with me just to keep my mother off his back. My father never told me he loved me. Come to think of it, even when I was with him, he wouldn’t say very much. My basketball showed me love. It always stayed with me, never left me. The round ball was always there for me. My basketball talked to me. It never left me for someone else.
Basketball loved me and I loved it back. Bottom line, when my father left us, he let me down, the rock was there to cushion my fall.
At times during my life I abused Mr. Basketball. I threw it away. I kicked it, kicked it when it was down. When it was begging for me to pick it up off the floor, I ignored it.
When my ball desperately needed air, I allowed it to suffer. Walking past it every day. Paying it no mind. You have to show a basketball much love. Every day.
When I played the game I passed the basketball to teammates, shot it from all over the court and dribbled it up the court. The feeling of holding a basketball was the best feeling in the world. Like a parent holding their newborn. Picking a basketball up off the floor is like no other feeling in the world. When I would hop on my bike to go play ball I would hold my basketball under my left arm and hold the handlebars with my right hand.
On that Christmas morning in the boys schoolyard I took my first shot. I recall that day like it was yesterday. My mother bought my first basketball. No one forgets their first basketball and their first shot. The ball was a Voit, I don’t even think Voit is around anymore?
Washing my basketball every night in our bathtub became a daily ritual. My mother and brother would get mad at me when I would use the hair dryer on it.
“That’s for my hair, stupid,” my mother once said to me.
I slept with my basketball. If my sister could sleep with dolls and stuffed animals, why couldn’t I snuggle up with my basketball?
Walking to the schoolyard on that cold Christmas morning I was dribbling the ball across 9th avenue, down Windsor Place and up Howard Place to the entrance of the yard. Families were walking together to church. I was headed to my church, the schoolyard. It was there that I worshiped the game of basketball. The schoolyard was my safe-haven.
The first time I was on a team, I was eight years-old; I was taught to always keep my head up when dribbling. See the floor. “Hit the open man” is what New York Knicks head coach Red Holzman used to say to the Knickerbockers.
From my apartment on the corner of Windsor and Ninth, it was 212 steps to the schoolyard. Don’t laugh, I once counted the steps while I worked on my cross-over dribble. If someone was walking towards me, I got low and crossed them up.
On December 25, the yard was empty. Why wouldn’t it be? It was Christmas morning. But on most days, the yard was packed with kids from the neighborhood. On Saturday mornings I always wanted to be the first one there. Last to leave too.
Just me and my Voit basketball. Lucky me, six baskets to choose from. The boys schoolyard at Holy Name became my paved paradise.
I worked on my dribbling, shooting and even used the concrete walls of the church and school to practice my passing. Throw the ball against the wall, naturally it comes back to you. There was a big white sign on the church wall which had the hours the schoolyard was open. While I dribbled towards it I recited the hours. Keep your head up!
One of my favorite things to do when I was alone in the schoolyard was to dribble to every basket and make a lay-up. After dribbling to my right side for six right-handed layups I would do it all over again but this time I would reverse my direction and go left, and of course shoot it with my left-hand. We were taught in the third grade to use your opposite hand. I should mention that from grades 3-8 at Holy Name we had outstanding coaches.
They taught us to play the game the right way. Share the ball. Be a good teammate.
Growing up in Brooklyn, New York I had hundreds of friends but basketball became my best friend. My older brother once said, “You’re going to marry a basketball.” He was close, after these years I have been having an affair with it.
At times in my life I ran away from basketball. Turned my back on it. Gave up on it. Thought there was nothing in it for me. I abused it. I was selfish. But today, I realized the ball is everything to me. It dawned on me this past summer while coaching groups of youngsters at a summer camp just how much I love basketball.
This summer I was able to rekindle the flame for hoops.
Over the years I played in many basketball games all over New York City. We played full-court and half-court. I have taken many shots on many different rims. My experience in basketball is probably no interest to anyone but it means the world to me.
I never played college or professional basketball. I was lucky enough to play a few games in high school. It was a time where I let basketball down. But I got to do the next best thing, coach it. I have been able to coach at the collegiate level and now currently at the high school level. I love being around the players. I love helping them improve. I will pass for them and rebound their shots.
Mr. Basketball, thanks for always being there for me. Thanks for waiting for me. Most important, thanks for putting up with me. I haven’t been the greatest partner, but here I am, at 54, learning to love you once again.
One lesson I learned is if you love and respect the game, it tends to reward you back.
Basketball, I will never let you down again.
It snowed all day.
School was cancelled.
I have to get out of my apartment, mom is driving me crazy.
Crossing ninth avenue, I head down Windsor Place, hang a right on Howard Place.
I grab some snow off a parked car and make a snowball. It’s good packing.
I fire a fastball towards the lot on Windsor. Feels like I’m playing baseball. The lot is where we play pick-up baseball.
Few people are shoveling their sidewalks. The sun is trying to come out. Some of the snow is melting. It’s not too cold.
There’s a kid in front of his house on Howard Place trying to make a snowman. He’s alone. Wearing a black snowsuit. Probably around nine years old. He’s struggling. I pick up some more snow, make another snowball and throw it at him. Just missing his head. He doesn’t even notice.
Entering the schoolyard I see Gammie and Edgar shoveling the middle court.
These guys are nuts.
“Yo Red, grab a shovel,” Gammie shouts.
I look around and think, I don’t have one.
Gammie points over towards the fence on Howard Place.
Against the fence, just a few yards away is a small shovel so I grab it, walk through the snow and help them push the rest of the snow off the court.
Looks like they have been here for a while.
It’s what we do. Shovel the court so we can play ball.
When I played on the basketball team at Holy Name, this is where we practiced.
Right here in the boys schoolyard.
Just the yard.
Our coaches made us shovel the court.
Basketball practice was never cancelled.
Parents never complained. They let the coaches coach.
After 10 minutes we have a clear path to work on our dribbling.
From one baseline to another.
Looks like the yellow brick road from Wizard of Oz.
Gammie grabs a ball which was sitting in the snow and starts to go up the court towards the church wall.
He’s not wearing gloves. But he has a really cool hat on.
Edgar watches closely and soon as Gammie gets to half court he starts real low and dribbles forward. No gloves either. No hat.
The dribble is always out in front.
I’m left standing there on the baseline without a ball. Watching these two great point guards do their thing. Working on their handle.
Gammie plays for John Jay, Edgar at Bishop Ford.
Soon as Gammie gets to the other end of the court he throws his ball in the air down to me. Full court pass, perfect. I didn’t have to move. Gammie is known for his passing.
“GO AHEAD RED!” he shouts.
Follow the leader.
I start to dribble towards them.
“GET LOW RED,” Edgar shouts.
Dribbling fundamental 101: Always stay low and keep your head up.
It starts to snow.
Fuck it, let it snow. I don’t care.
For the next few days I will be paying tribute to people I have known for a long time. People from the neighborhood that meant a lot to me growing up. These people made a huge impact on me. From friends to teachers to coaches. I’ll even mention a couple of priests and nuns.
My best friend – we talk often, even text on a daily basis.
Growing up as kids Glenn and I played lots of ball together. Holy Name schoolyard. P.S. 154’s, East 5th street and Manhattan Beach.
Despite being a year older than me, Glenn and I hung out often. We played together on the basketball team at Holy Name. We also played pick-up ball everywhere there was a court.
We’d hop on our Mongoose mountain bikes and ride to Manhattan. Over the Brooklyn Bridge up 6th avenue to West 4th street, Central Park, the Lower East Side; we covered a lot of ground.
“Hey Kid, you know how to ride a bike?”
When it was time to step out at night, we hung out in dance clubs all over the city. We danced, drank and met so many good people.
A classic line on the dance floor at the Limelight. Or maybe it was Xenon?
Cat Club. Studio 54. Peppermint Lounge. Danceteria. Boy-O-Boy, so many clubs…
“Do I know you?”
Glenn and I worked together as messengers down on Wall Street with our boy T-Bone. A few years later we both worked the door at Planet Hollywood.
“Any advice for a struggling actor from Queens?”
“Yo Lance. Blue Fish…Blue Fish…”
One weekend we made a road trip York College in PA, it was a memorable one.
We played ball on Saturday afternoon against their players and went to a cool club later that night.
“You can’t get those Lima beans up that high…”
Knicks games at the Garden, Mets games at Shea and most important, spending time down his basement on Sherman Street listening to records.
The night Bernard King scored 60 points against the Nets we were both in the house. My guy Sugar dropped 36 that night for New Jersey leading the Nets to the win.
Glenn’s parents were gems; his mom treated me like a son. His dad was aces.
Speaking of aces, how about Frankie the Ace? We played so much ball down 154’s; basketball and stick-ball. We called it Swift.
Remember that bowling ball bag the Ace carried.
“Hey Jerry, there’s no tomorrow…”
Last but not least one day in August we were walking the boardwalk at Coney Island. All of a sudden we see Gerard Grayson on the sand, naked. Cops were hauling him off.
“YO FINAMORE, THEY TOOK MY CLOTHES!”
Hundreds of people on the boardwalk and he sees me…
To conclude, I miss those days of hanging out with Glenn. We had so much fun and learned a lot about friendships.
Yo Glenn, hope all is well.