RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,057
(no, no I saw him trip and fall)
I am often a nervous wreck,
for a few minutes, and then
I manage to sweat it out.
When we used to work over
motorcycles and cars, when
we'd come to a frozen or a
mangled or corroded nut, in
order to break it we'd use the
term 'sweat the nut.' I was not
ever sure what that all meant,
but when I look it up now it
only brings weird references
to sweaty balls, etc. That's to
show how 'far' our personal
consciousnesses have progressed.
What to make of any of that is,
and remains, another question
altogether. I was never that
proficient at mechanical stuff,
though I was able to keep things
running, often in the most
primitive of repairs and ways.
It never much mattered to me.
I mostly got to where I was
headed, and back.
-
That was only later anyway,
when I had acquired wheels,
which had never much interested
me - or the ownership of. Cars
themselves I always had an
attraction to, as design and
sculpture; sort of a strange
idea of artistic mobility. So
when I look back now, on
some of the shapes and forms
of vehicles from those eras
of the 1950's and 1960's, they
now sometimes come across
pretty bad (which are two
words, when speaking of
design or beauty, that should
never be juxtaposed like that;
'pretty bad' being pretty senseless
as well).
-
Getting back to Peter McManus'
Tavern, from the previous chapter,
they had one of the coolest things
going, traditionally, that I always
enjoyed. I'm not sure they still
do it; I'd doubt it. But - and I
forget the exact timings - it
seems as if it was the Saturday
before Father's Day, and, I
think, the Saturday before
Labor Day, they'd get the
street, 19th I guess it was,
shut down, bring the beer taps
outdoors, open the place up,
and extend their open hospitality
to the street, whereon teams
played a wicked and long series
of stickball games, in the street.
Now, let me start: At this time
this was still a very rough and
tumble neighborhood of dock
guys, machinists, NY laborers
and hard-working, drinking
class people. No one was in
any way rich; they'd all mostly
grown up right there, three or
four streets off, at most, and it
was a reunion of sorts for the
open air frolic of old pals and
belles again together, out on
the street - which was theirs
again and had probably always
been. They'd known each other
all along, growing up, probably
romancing each other too. The
idea of outdoor stickball tournies
was the equivalent to them of
geeks playing Dungeons and
Dragons down under suburban
lawns. Whatever; the equivalent
value isn't there, so no belaboring
that point. City people are, in
their ways, different - suffice
it to say this was a great, happy
recreation for them. The streets
there are close and narrow, lined
at either sides, on this westside
section, with small apartment
homes, and small workshops.
Most of it now has turned
over to being gay and artisinal
in nature, the manufacture now
being style, fashion, or grooming,
most often. This stickball game
was raucous and wild-fun. One
always hoped for the hottest of
weather, for the sake of the
increased intake of beer, fewer
pieces of clothing, an abundance
of local females, and longer and
more unsteady 'drunkenness' by
late afternoon. I never played,
not being of the local streets, nor
rivalries, but the bar was opened
for all, and all-comers were
welcomed in. I brought friends
there once or twice as well. One
time one of my friends simply
passed out, as if dead, slumped
at a building base like a totally
inebriated Andy Capp. Which
he pretty much was. We managed
to ring up his girlfriend, who lived
in the east 90's by Gracie Mansion,
and she finally came down in a
taxi, into which we heaved him,
and they drove off in the cab.
-
You need to imagine that the
game had a certain integrity. The
narrow street, lined with apartments
walkups, stairways and some stoops,
made for, actually, a very narrow
playing field; pretty much only a
straightaway center and a small
section each to the left and the
right. There was certainly none
of that 'down the line' first or
third stuff. Bases were, at all
times, almost imaginary and
negotiable - which made for
varied flare-ups as the long
day drew along, alcohol-fueled
umpiring included. All these folk
controlled their game nicely,
knew how to finesse that idea
of straightaway center, and there
were only a few hit buildings,
few fouls, and no broken glass.
Lots of lusty arguments. And
the spectators, growing in
number all day, by the end of
the evening had become a rousing
section of cheers, jeers and joust.
Anything was apt to break out.
By nightfall, no one cared.
I'd seen fights over bats, balls,
girls, cousins, wives, uncles,
and the dead; let alone fair or
foul balls, bases touched or not
touched - or any bases at all.
-
Stickball was made for an urban
form of jousting; or perhaps mud
wrestling, without the mud. There
were unsettled tiffs and scores never
settled that would suddenly surface
again. Words exchanged. Feuds
re-torched. It was always obvious,
the connections McManus must have
had with the NYPD to pull this off
twice yearly. No cops ever showed,
that I saw, at least not for enforcement
reasons. A nip or a beer, with that
free lunch, yeah maybe. But no
trouble ever needed their involvement.
This was street-level stuff, kept live
and kept very local. My friend, Jerry,
one of the bar-keepers (they'd have
brought in others too for the day or
the extra shifts), loved this event.
Probably he made out good. Passersby
would be intrigued, stop to watch a
bit and, mostly, thinking the free beer
was NOT for them, would step inside
instead and buy.
-
I always enjoyed that Peter McManus
day, and it always showed me the
real side of NY living - very little
of the insufferably hip and stylish
self-awareness crap we get so much
of now. If any one of today's weenies
got in the way here, they'd have most
probably, and indelicately, have their
fool heads swatted with a stickball
bat while everyone else swore they'd
seen him trip and fall.
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