46° and Clear
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The two men downstairs were long gone by the time I got up. They were quiet types—illegal aliens, yes—but they never bothered anyone. Our family looked after them. They spoke a language I didn’t understand, kept to themselves, and were already at work for a couple of hours before our day even began.
I grabbed my stickball bat and the rubber ball and walked up the block, just a few buildings away. I rang the doorbell and asked, “Is Robert coming out?”
“He’ll be right down,” someone said from behind the door.
Soon, we were off to the concrete field behind the school. We had our usual spot, with a big chalk-drawn strike box on the brick wall—white chalk, a little smudged from the last game but still good. One of us pitched to the wall. If the ball hit inside the box, it was a strike. If Robert—or anyone—hit the ball, we had designated zones for a single, a double, or a home run. That was our stadium, our Yankee Stadium.
We played for hours and hours, only stopping when our stomachs reminded us it was time to eat. When hunger hit, we’d take the long walk—over several miles—to Fordham Road, where the bakery sold the best chocolate cupcakes you’ve ever tasted. We’d wash them down with a cold container of chocolate milk. Nothing fancy, but it was magic.
It was a wonderful, innocent time. An extended family time.
Sundays meant dinner with family. Catholic school taught by nuns, the brothers, and the priests. Strangers looked out for you. Mothers cooked for their husbands. Grandparents were never far away.
And the friends—Meryl, Luis, Robert, Spence, John, Anthony—we all came from more or less the same background. We didn’t have much, but we had each other. And that was everything.
It was an innocent time. A time I still carry with me. An extended family time. JG
