Sports

What do you do when your biggest childhood dream doesn’t come true?

My cousin and I grew up together in the 50’s, giving a new meaning to the word inseparable. We delivered newspapers, went to the same high school, shared the same relatives, attended the same church, exchanged names at confirmation, had parties, and dreamed of being professional baseball players. Nothing else was on our sports radar or possible career choice.

Growing up in Queens, and later Lindenhurst on Long Island, we were just a train ride away from three professional stadiums. Yes, three: Yankee Stadium, Ebbetts Field and the Polo Grounds. we wanted to be a someone in our lives, a major league baseball player.

We were cousins ​​and best friends. We lived about two miles apart from each other. As long as our single speed bike was nearby, we were a phone call away. As youngsters, what united us like magnets was the prospect of playing ball, any kind of ball. John and I created our own rosters, ground rules, and stadiums. In my house we play endless hours of stoopball. With a 2900 “Spaldeen High Bounce Ball,” we’d shoot it at the brick steps in front of the door, trying to hit the spot and send it flying across the street into the maple trees for a home run. Most of the time we hit ground balls that were caught for an out.

Aside from hitting a home run against the trees across the street, the biggest thrill was pinpointing the path of a potential home run as it darted through the leaves, then catching it to “get out” just before it hit the ground. I usually. Sometimes John and I would get in big trouble if we forgot to remove the bug light from the porch and ended up crushing it with a foul ball. Then it was time to change stadiums in a hurry.

At John’s house we often played wiffleball, using the back of the house as a barrier. Once his mother, my aunt Francis, came out to inform us that the backyard was not a good place to play ball. We could break a window. To set the record straight, we had broken a neighbor’s basement window two seasons in a row with a hardball, while practicing our skills on the course. How could we break a window with a plastic ball? No way, right?

John assured Aunt Francis that a wiffleball couldn’t break a window. As she held her breath, he tossed her hard against the nearest window. It did not break. With a flair for drama, John launched it again. Aunt Francis did not faint and the window remained intact. Defeated by John’s demonstration, her mom went back into the kitchen without another word.

I got up first. I wanted to hit a home run with my first swing. I hit the plastic ball and our wooden broomstick bat, and the bat went flying out the kitchen window.

In disbelief, Aunt Francis stuck her head out the window and yelled, “I thought you couldn’t break a window.” John mumbled something about “Not with a wiffle ball“, and we immediately found an alternative stadium at the end of the block, a factory wall and a truck entrance that is rarely used.

After drawing the strike zone on the wall, we play one-on-one stick-ball. The pitcher was the infield, outfield and umpire as well. A home run was a hit at the factory across the street. How about getting that valuable pink ball back?

Climbing the wall like Spider-Man on the connecting pipes between the two buildings, we were able to retrieve home runs on top of the factory. At 29¢ a drink, it was worth the challenge.

John and I never regularly played on the high school baseball team. We watched major league games together at Yankee Stadium, the Polo Grounds, and Ebbetts Field. We argued a lot about who was the better baseball player, Mickey Mantle or Willie Mays, but we always remained friends, even as adults when our professional baseball dream became unattainable.

When that dream disappeared, we decided to become different types of “professionals”. We call it “Plan B”. John traded in his invisible baseball uniform for a white jacket and stethoscope. I traded for a tie, a sports jacket, and a piece of caulking. When we visit now, we remember the broken windows and dreams of yesterday. And then we’re going to play in a big room with a racket and a little blue ball.

Together, again, playing and dreaming new dreams.

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