Oh, the (Suburban) Games We Played

By Bob Herzog | Newsday Staff Writer

`When I was a kid . . . ''

Many children cringe when they hear their father begin a sentence that way. ``Uh-oh, another story about walking to school in the snow, or not having any TV.''

But I love listening to my father talk about growing up in the Bronx in the 1920s and '30s. Oh, those city games he played: sandlot baseball . . . tackle and touch football . . . stick ball . . . stoop ball . . . punch ball . . . handball. Games that required street savvy and a sense of improvisation. Games that live forever in the players' minds, so they can tell tales to their sons.

I wonder if my 21-year-old son has enjoyed listening to my tales of growing up on Long Island in the 1950s and '60s. Of the games I played. ``Was he really interested or just paying polite attention to my adventures in Little League baseball, touch football, kickball - the favorite sport at recess for Newbridge Elementary School in East Meadow. Will I ever be able to recreate for him the wonders of that ultimate backyard sport - Wiffle ball!

Ah, the suburban games we played. Stick ball may be the stuff of legends for Dad's urbanized generation - ``spaldeens,'' three sewers and a sawed-off broom handle - but hey, we had the white plastic ball with holes in one half, the distinctively skinny plastic yellow bat and a couple of burned-out spots on the back lawn every year where the pitcher and batter stood. With the wind at your back, you might hit it past three azalea bushes and into the weeping willow tree. C'mon, isn't that as good as a three-sewer shot? And who says suburban kids can't improvise? We used a lawn chair as a strike zone, which really helped when we made the Wiffle ball suddenly curve several feet.

How about our version of stick ball? We couldn't play in the street - ``Hey, you kids, get off the lawn!'' - so we went to a nearby schoolyard. We used chalk to outline a strike zone on the wall and sometimes used a tennis ball and baseball bat - made of wood, kids, believe it or not - instead of a broomstick and pink rubber ball. We couldn't measure our long drives by sewers or manhole covers, but sometimes we could hit one over a fence. Is there a better feeling? (Besides belting a Wiffle ball into the weeping willows, of course.)

For those days when we only had two or four kids to play, Dad taught us a version of the city game of stoop ball. We called it curb ball - you'd fire a rubber ball off the curb and, depending on where it lands or if it is caught, you get a hit or an out. The idea was to try to make the ball hit the point of the curb, because then it would fly a greater distance, usually resulting in a home run. Of course, if you aimed for the point and missed, it went on the lawn, so we could only play that game in front of select homes with tolerant owners.

During football season, we didn't play too much tackle, but we had a regular after-school gig for touch football. We played in the street - not too many cars in our development back then - and measured out the field by designating driveways as the end zones. We threw rather than kicked on punts and kickoffs, mainly for accuracy - ``What did I tell you kids about going on the lawn?'' - and generally had three players on a side. To ensure the quarterback could find a receiver, we used the ``three-Mississippi rule'' before a defender could rush. If you completed three passes in a row, it was an automatic first down.

These adaptations amused my father. He could only shake his head at our ``three-Mississippi'' and ``three-complete'' modifications. ``When I was a kid . . . ''

He then proceeded to tell us about his version of touch football, called association. There was no line of scrimmage and no first downs. Teammates passed the ball down the field - forward and backward - trying to avoid a defender's ``two-hand touch.'' Sounds easy, right? Not so. He and a childhood friend demonstrated in the street one day, and the boys from the 'burbs couldn't keep up with the men from the city!

But we had our moments. Basketball was not a favorite in my dad's neighborhood, but by the mid-'60s, my brother and I were among the Island's growing legion of enthusiastic driveway players. So my father built us a backboard and mounted it on the roof facing the patio, giving us a nice little ``court.'' When it was finished, he called us to try it out. We fired up a few jump shots and then passed the ball to Dad. For the only time I can remember, our dad the city jock was out of his league. He awkwardly tossed up a two-handed set shot and proclaimed, ``Not my game, boys. But have fun.''

Years later, Dad helped me put up a backboard and hoop for my son's 10th birthday. He still had the awkward two-hander, but I didn't laugh. My jump shot is better than Dad's, but I don't have the mechanical skills to install a backboard on a roof.

City games and street smarts. Dad has 'em; I don't. But when I see my son and his friends churning up the grass playing Wiffle ball in my backyard, it doesn't bother me a bit.

Bob Herzog is Newsday's assistant sports editor. He is a 40-something baby boomer who was born in the Bronx and grew up in East Meadow and Commack.