Kite Wars

Snow

Sunday, January 25th, 1953

The grand slam could not have come at a better time. Down by three runs with two outs in the bottom of the ninth, I clobbered Benny Bean Ball Medina’s meanest fastball out of the park. The feverish crowd jumped in place as they cheered and shouted my name. Head high, I did my best Joe DiMaggio homerun trot and rounded third into a cascade of confetti, hot dog wrappers and infield dust.

Driven by the thunderous applause, I quicken my pace toward home plate, but instead of getting closer, my fans and teammates began to fade into a thickening haze. In an instant, only the chilling noise and the cold loud clang of an enormous bell remained.

Heedless of the clatter, I plowed on towards the plate, but the harder I ran, the deeper I sank into a field as mushy and colorless as a marshmallow. And then everything, everything dissolved into white.

*    *    *

Clang, clang, clang!

Papi’s hammer on the radiators sounded as sharp and clear as the cold seeping through my blanket. And once again, his beating rudely jolted me from my sleep. He beat the pipes to snap El Super out of his usual drunken stupor and send up some heat. The only steam, of course, was Papi’s as he smacked the pipes senseless. The banging never helped, since the miserable janitor only stoked the fire when he felt cold.

Stepping barefoot onto the frigid linoleum was all the encouragement I needed to curl back into bed. And I had every intention of doing so when my heart jumped at the view from my nearly crystallized window.

Snow—real snow, falling and sparkling frosty fluff, leaving high drifts against the sill and dagger length icicles hanging from above. From windowsill to windowsill, clothes lines stretched across the span, shimmering and swaying in the breeze like cords of alabaster. Four stories below, the patio we shared with an adjacent building became an elegant carpet of white, covering the trash that often littered the courtyard. Four stories below, the white mark of winter had transformed the trash covered patio into an immaculate carpet.

Then the rich aroma of Mami’s Puerto Rican coffee, which she made it by pouring boiling water through a sock reached me. She knew the brew would sooth Papi’s nerves and brighten his spirits. He laid the hammer down and sat for his morning cup and its miraculous warming effect, which would last him through the day.

On the radio, the always cheery William B. Brown played, Those Lazy Hazy Crazy Days of Summer. The DJ followed Nat King Cole’s jaunty song with his own silly version, Those snowy crazy days of winter, and laughed as he read a list of cancellations, updates and expected accumulation.

Papi did not find the song amusing, since too much snow could cost him a day’s pay. I, however, couldn’t be any happier as I imagined all the games me and my friends would play.

My best friend, Florindo, would be the first in the street, followed by Junior, my next-door-neighbor, along with Icky Nicky, his whiny little brother. Me and this stupendous crew would take on anybody.

Anybody often turned out to be the Franco sisters from the sixth floor. They were big and mean, especially Norma, who liked to punch me in the stomach just to see if I could take it.

Before I could get out into that frigid wonderland, Mami stopped me long enough to serve me oatmeal the way I loved it: creamy hot, caramelized slightly browned on the bottom in my own little avena pot, and my own cup of coffee.

*    *    *

By the time I got out to the street, the snowstorm tapered to flurries then disappeared, leaving a perfect arctic landscape to play and do battle. In anticipation of our first skirmish, my buddies and I immediately began to construct our fortifications.

Thanks to the first pass of a westbound snowplow, our northern parapet was quickly in place. We built the eastern wall with the help of El Super’s garbage can lids, packing scoopfuls into solid blocks. After much sweat and scrupulous care, we cheered at the completion of our western bastion. Never in the annals of arctic-condition warfare had such impenetrable defensive ramparts been created so well as by these frozen few.

I stepped back to admire our work when out of nowhere a frosty glob caught me square on the face. A quick look across the street confirmed my suspicion. It was Garbanzo, the meanest kid on 111th Street as he prepared to launch another.

We’re under attack! My troops and I prepared to repel his assault with what we hoped would be a devastating snowball volley. That’s when the Franco sisters, with malice and forethought, breached our western wall, relentlessly pelting us with their own hard packed missiles. Out-flanked by superior forces and demoralized by Nicky’s snivels, we relinquished our garrison and headed to safer ground.

My pants became un-tucked from the large galoshes Papi bought at Goodwill, letting in more snow than my fingers could dig out. It didn’t matter. In my state of juvenile euphoria, I was impervious to the cold.

Snowplows sounded like Army tanks as they cleared the street and indiscriminately buried parked cars. But thanks to the plows, we owned our own Everest to play on. We climbed and slid down the mountain so often it was like an Olympic downhill event. A discarded cardboard box made the ideal sled. Unfortunately, it failed miserably as an insulation barrier—my butt froze!

I was in the middle of my forty-seventh ascent when I saw the congealed glob under Nicky’s nose and became painfully aware of my own precarious condition. I tried to warm my hands in my coat, but the pockets were as packed with snow as my galoshes.

When my pinkies turned from cherry pink to numb purple and my feet became completely encased in snow, I knew I’d had enough. I was about to run home when Norma, The Witch—I wasn’t allowed to say the other word—came up from behind and flicked my ear.

I just wanted to see if you could take it, she laughed.

The sting vibrated through me like cracked crystal. When the ringing subsided, all my numb lips could manage was, You stubid fweak!

*    *    *

Back home Mami helped me out of my ice-encrusted coat that came off like a frozen suit of armor. She handed me a hot mug of Ovaltine, pulled back the cover of my bed and suggested I take a nap.

Lying under my toasty blanket, I saw myself back atop the snow bank. From its summit, with Superman-like speed, I drilled with snowballs any kid who dared to climb. I was the king of the mountain.

Warm and happy, I drifted off to sleep and dreamt I was on another mound—a pitching mound. Everything was perfect. My team was ahead, I was striking out every batter as the crowd cheered. Then in an instant, my arm turned to jelly. I couldn’t get anyone out and just like that the score got tied. Out of nowhere, Garbanzo stepped up to the plate swinging the biggest bat I’d ever seen. I went into my wind-up, double pumped and delivered the slowest fattest meatball I’d ever thrown.

TWACK!

*    *    *

Three weeks later, I still shivered at the thought of that nightmare and how the crowd turned on me. By then, all that remained of our mountain was a sooty two-foot heap of melting ice that only little kids would play on. Surrounded by a blackish moat, the mound became nothing more than a cold gray mess to jump over.

Look out! Florindo yelled. Before I could turn, Norma snuck up from behind and shoved me off the curb into the watery slush. I sucked air and my spine stiffened as the sludge seeped into my new sneakers. I stood like an idiot, fighting back tears as The Witch ran off laughing.

The betrayal of my emotions added to the embarrassment. For a twelve-year-old, it wasn’t cool to cry. I felt a surge of anger, of humiliation and a need to get back at her. But what could I do? Then, with all the resolve my courage and sharp wit could muster, I squeaked, I’m gonna get you, Norma.

For a long moment, I stood motionless in the ankle deep remnants of the last snowfall, till somewhere in the distance, I thought I heard Florindo say, Are you just going to stay in that mess?

My teeth clenched and my hands curled into a fist. Careful not to loose my footing, I sloshed one foot after the other out of the cold mush. As I walked off, the squish-squish sound of my Keds and the wet trail behind me only added to my shame.

I could not have a more cheerful friend than Florindo who always came up with some cool stuff. Hey, how about we run up to the roof, stack some snowballs and nail Norma when she walks by?

I wanted to say, Yes, let’s do it. Instead, I told him I needed to go home and into dry clothes. I didn’t want him to know, my folks did not allow me on the roof.

Well, if someone done that to me, I know I would. He pointed to the top of my building. I’d go up there, pack a bunch of wet ones and let her have it.

I followed his eyes to the roof, shook my head and said, Don’t worry, I’m gonna get her tomorrow. I’m gonna hide and I’m gonna blast her from behind. I couldn’t tell him the other reason I wouldn’t go up there—I was afraid.

Florindo gave me a skeptical look. Go change your shoes and I’ll go see if any of the guys are up for a game.

Other shoes? All I had was an old pair of sneakers that my toes popped out. So, I wiped my stuffy nose and said, How about stick ball?

Don’t be an idiot.

What do you mean?

It’s still too cold, you jerk!

Maybe Florindo wasn’t so wonderful. But even at thirteen, he’d already acquired the uncanny diagnostic capacity of a gifted psychoanalyst. Maybe in a month or two, if it’s not too windy.

"Too windy? March is always too windy!"

You’re the one who’s windy. He reached down, grabbed a handful of frozen mush and flung it at me. When I bent to pack my own ice ball, he nailed the back of my neck with another. My back arched and stiffened as the glob of slosh dripped down my spine.

For a few frigid moments, I stood in place till I gasped enough air to say, Flo..Flo… Florindo, I’m gonna get ya!

Parade

Tuesday, March 17th

The month was March, the city was cold and about to set a new snowfall record. The city only needed another two inches—we got five. New Yorkers bragged, Buffalo’s got nothin’ on us! Two weeks later not a trace remained of the arctic landscape. Then, as if on cue, soft southerly breezes began to blow through our street. All of a sudden subtle signs of spring’s arrival were popping up everywhere.

No, they weren’t crocuses, daffodils, or robins—not on my block. If any of those countryside harbingers of spring the ability to exist on 111th Street, it would be a most exceptional breed. The only wildlife that existed in our concrete ecosystem was the variety of vermin that refused to be eradicated—many of which were my neighbors.

On the street, kids on roller-skates, bicycles and milk-crate scooters would shortly be dodging cars, pedestrians and each other. While up on rooftops kites would soon be taking to the air.

Though the season had not yet arrived, the St. Patrick’s Day parade marked the unofficial start of spring and the real beginning of the kid year. I’d made up my mind that this year would be the one I’d learn to ride a two-wheeler and fly a kite from the roof like the big boys.

I stepped out and wondered why the street looked so deserted. Down the block, a gust of wind swirled cones of dust and debris while off in the distance, the unexpected sounds of drums, horns and bagpipes came to my ears.

I followed the music to the corner of Third Avenue and fell in line with the other lemmings. Amidst a steady shower of green and white confetti, the jubilant crowd was three deep and growing.

I heard the cheers, applause and heart-thumping music, but I couldn’t see anything. I stood on my toes and tried to look over those in front of me. I got a glimpse of a float, carrying beautiful ladies in colorful gowns as they waved, blew kisses and threw green carnations at the cheering spectators.

I’m missing the parade! I wanted to holler. I needed to get to the front, but there wasn’t the slightest gap in the crowd. I pushed, pried and elbowed myself forward through a rude mob who yelled things like, Hey kid, where do you think you’re going? Stop shoving! and Get out a here, you little twerp!

I squirmed and willed myself to the front of the line. Marching by, two large women held a banner, proclaiming The Ladies Auxiliary of something. Out of step, but with much enthusiasm, the ladies walking behind them waved small American flags and handed out leaflets.

Next in line, members of the New York City Fire Department on bright red fire engines and each with their own Dalmatian waved at the crowd. At an eardrum splitting level, they rang bells, tooted horns and wailed their sirens.

Staggering behind them, as if they’d just lost an extra inning doubleheader, came the Little League players. Each team wore colorful uniforms with the sponsor’s name proudly plastered across their backs: Vinny’s Pizza Parlor, Clark’s Funeral Home and Rockefeller Brothers Plumbing and Heating Service.

A man with Consolidated Edison Electric Company on his jacket pointed at the little ballplayers. Look, they’re walking billboards!

Another spectator wearing a green derby pointed at a small boy with most of his uniform shirt stuffed in his pants. Hey, kid, is that your butt, or is that where the rest of your sign went?

*    *    *

The year before, I played for a short time with a team sponsored by a local politician named Vito Marcantorelli. His name, written in bold letters, wrapped across my back and under my armpits. Regrettably, his sponsorship and our season ended abruptly when he died.

It’s your fault Mr. Marcantorelli is dead! Mr. Bencha, our coach, told us when we showed up at the meeting place before practice. You killed him!

He’s d-dead? I could hardly say the word.

That’s right, and all because of your lousy playing. Mr. Bencha stretched out his hand. Give me back those uniforms, maybe I can still get something for them.

Timmy, our right fielder, cried. Did he really die?

You boys make me sick! He shoved our uniforms into a laundry bag. And here I thought I’d finally have a winning team. But noooo, right off the bat, you got yourselves so entrenched in last place, I didn’t even want to look at your ugly faces.

When little Bobby asked, Mr. Bencha, can I please keep my cap? he snatched it off his head and threw it in the bag.

Congratulations, you have cost us the season, Marcantorelli his re-election and me my weekly kickback… The word slipped out before he could slap a hand over his mouth. He made a fist and snarled, Thank you—thank you for making me look bad. Now get out of here you whinny bunch of losers!

It came as no surprise when a few weeks later, Mr. Bencha got arrested for tax evasion, grand larceny and counterfeiting Green Stamps.

*    *    *

Marching smartly behind the skewed line of Little Leaguers the cheerleaders went through their paces. These budding beauties in glittering sequin outfits twirled and flung their wands to the steady drum beats. Catching the silver batons, however, was another matter. One after another, the twirling sticks ricocheted off their hands, forcing them to break rank. The girls ran to fetch the fallen rods, then scurried to catch up with the rest.

One newly flowering majorette managed to delight most of the guys, as she seemed to blossom out of her top with every gyration. Then I saw Norma, my personal tormentor from the sixth floor, as she brought up the rear of these stunning señoritas.

Hey, Norma! What’cha doing! I timed my shout to her baton fling.

She picked it up on its second bounce, smiled and gave a quick wave. It was not the reaction I’d expected. I thought she’d be mad, but she wasn’t. I thought maybe she might be