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What Ever Happened To Plain Fun"' H ':1:' 1 !*'•
Having been born and raised in
New York City, and a product of
the fourties as well, it annoys me to
see some teen-agers hanging
around the bouse.
fotihc life of me I can’t figure
out what great charge they get
from listening to stereo records...
the same records that they have
heard a hundred times or so on
every radio station.
Whatever happened to plain fun,
kids getting together and playing
-7 The great games like hide
and seek, ring a leveo, three men
on a pony, checkers (played with
bottle caps weighted with orange
peels) and the best game of
all...STICK BALL...are they lost
forever?
Granted, there were a thousand
kids on our street alone, and it
wasn’t ultra difficult to round up a
few bodies to keep busy...but, we
wanted to do something.
Stick ball was the closest we ever
came to a manicured diamond and
real baseball. Some of us had
mitts, other didn’t, but everybody
played, regardless. The ball was a
.plain rubber tennis ball...without
-the fuzz. And the bat was a full
length mop handle or broom
handle, whichever was hanging
lower on the fire escape. Come to
think of it, we must have kept the
mop and broom manufacturers
mighty busy filling reorders for
yfearsrin a small' way we were an
asset to the economy.
Teams were selected after team
captains were chosen. Members of
each team could range in age from
twelve to twenty and sometimes a
grown, married guy would
volunteer to play a base. At times
like this, these were BIG, no
fooling around games...every pitch
was for blood.
Being thirteen or fourteen years
old, during one such game, visions
of being the game hero surely
entered into all our thoughts. We
all wanted to be a Joe DiMaggio,
Johnny Mize, Phil Rizzutto and
every other baseball hero of the
day...if we could only get the
chance.
I clearly remember coming up
to the plate (drawn with chalk)...
By Joel Saperetein
I____
all seventy pounds of me, in ripped
Lee dungarees and soiled t-shirt,
holding a mock bat cut from
someone’s favorite mop. The
weathered bat was several inches
taller than I, but bases were
loaded, it was the last of the
ninth...AND I WAS UP.
The mop handle on my shoulder
was no mere stick. It was a club
and I was joltin Joe D. I hit the next
• pitch not a mere two sewers or
even two and a half sewers as per
my usual clout, but a giant three
sewers distance. It went up and it
went far...breaking a third story
window on its flight. No matter, the
blast was a home run, and a skinny
kid became a hero that day...equal
to any big leaguer ..and much
more satisfying than sitting in a
room listening to a record that I
had heard one hundred times.
The kids I know really have it
made in the shade...and they don’t
even realize it.
The poor, underprivileged, over
fed babes actually look forward to,
and in fact insist upon, being
banished to their room...their
sanctuary away from the world at
large.
In this room a ritual of self
torture is inflicted. It couldn’t be
anything else. Nobody, but nobody
would knowingly lock themselves
in a small room, then proceed to
turn the hi-fi up to maximum
--- - - - - - - -
-;___I
audio. The walls quiver and paint
begii s to chip and fall. Even the
family dog can’t bury himself deep
enough to avoid the ear shattering
shrills being passed off as music.
Try and talk sense to these
kids...impossible. After hours and
hours of self torture how can you
expect to penetrate eardrums that
are only conditioned to function
many octaves above terminal
audio pollution?
Not so many years ago, my room
was sort of a haven also. In it was
one hi-rise bed, ore dresser, one
night stand and my only treasure...
a small plastic AM radio that was
encased in a field of static.
This radio was my escape An
escape out of a dirty, grimy New
York neighborhood, overpopulated
with kids and kids and kids. I
listened enchantedly to The Green
Hornet, Superman, The Lone
Ranger, Jack Armstrong and the
great comedy programs featuring
Eddie Cantor, Danny Kaye, Edgar
Burgen & Charlie McCarthy, Fred
Allen, Jack Benny and so many
others.
The most harsh punishment for
the young of my generation was
pulling the plug on the radio. That
was real torture...a mental whip
ping that took quite a while to get
over.
Life today would somehow be
impossible for a zillion kids, who
pay$15.00 each for the privilege of
being squashed together at a con
cert, just to see The Who, or The
What, or The When, or The Where.
Parent strategy and all the
“HOW TO COPE" books miss the
target by miles. I think that our
sanity lies in the formulation of two
organizations...open to all adults,
"I DON’T CARE ”, by and for
concerned parents and “LET’S
ALL HOPE AND PRAY FOR
MANKIND."
:: ! ,\ anna
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