It all started in the simplest way. Arnie’s cousin Barry came in from Farmingdale, Lunk Guylin, to stay two weeks while his Uncle and his new wife took time for Barry’s newborn baby sister. Barry just opened his mouth.

         Barry was about the same age as all of us, 17, but nobody seemed to like him; most of all Arnie. He just ticked-off everybody. He didn’t even have to try… he just did it. Even Arnie’s brother David would get pissed at him.

         Barry was always telling us how great it was in Farmingdale and how it was cleaner and there were nicer houses and how much better the ball players were and how they could beat us in anything and how Brooklyn was a big nothing in anything that counted. Mind you, Barry couldn’t play well and was generally a sore loser but the other kids in Farmingdale could beat us to smithereens. I didn’t like Barry one bit.

         We put up with him for about two days and then we hatched a plan to do something or anything that kept Barry away from us. We would change out gathering point and it was Arnie’s job to lose Barry and then join us. If we couldn’t shake Barry we would talk in a gibberish code and then look in his direction and laugh. We wanted him to feel unwanted and that we were talking – and laughing – about him. Arnie was in on it and we had some good fun. When Arnie’s Mom found out what we were doing she told Arnie that even though Barry was a “little different” he was Arnie’s responsibility and that Barry had to have a good time while in Brooklyn.

         Stanley really didn’t like Barry at all and kept calling him a frigginassdork and threatening to beat him up but Barry just kept telling Arnie, and all of us, that he would tell Arnie’s Mom, Mrs. Mendel, that we were mean to him and that we hit him and kicked him and spit on him and called him dirty names. This would get Arnie in trouble and we really didn’t want that to happen. We began to look at Barry as the chicken pox… a short-term evil we all had to go through. We figured we just had to put up with him. It wasn’t fun.

         In this summer of 1959, with all of us in the 16 to 19 age range, we were old enough and big enough to take control of the softball field at P.S. 179 in the evenings and weekends. Most of the time, we would play a team from East 4th Street or a team from over by McDonald Avenue. If neither team showed up we would get a game up among ourselves with a steady pitcher and catcher. With a total of 8 of us kids and maybe 4 school-yard hanger-on kids we could have fun and a good time.

         The school yard at P.S. 179 was world famous. It had a very short first base line where a fly ball that hit the school building was an out, a gap between first and second where any hit ball was an out, a third base line where any fly ball over the fence was an automatic double, and a parallel wall from second base to the outfield where an off-the-wall hit that touched the ground was good for whatever you could get. A fly ball over second base that hit and stayed up on the arched screen of the play area on the building roof was an out and whoever hit it had to retrieve the ball or get a new one. Other unique elements of the field were that it was all concrete and that you couldn’t take a lead off or run before a ball was physically hit. Sliding into a base was okay but pretty stupid.

         Each time Barry tagged along to the schoolyard with us he wanted to play. In a game among ourselves, we could work it out but Stanley would NEVER take Barry on his side. In a game, Barry was further demanding that he only wanted to play first base even though he couldn’t catch well. In the games against other teams we would let him play a couple innings as a catcher and he would get tired chasing the ball and would quit and sulk.

         While we had fun at each game we inevitable got tired of listening to Barry whine about our field and that his Farmingdale friends could definitely whip us, possibly with one arm tied behind their back.

         The two weeks dragged but they were finally over. Arnie had beat up Barry once and so did Stanley since he could no longer placate himself by simply calling Barry a frigginassdork or even a dumdorkbasset. Stanley told Barry that if he said one word to Mrs. Mendel about any of this he would stick a knife through the top of Barry’s hand, cut a long scar on his face and then piss on him. Stanley was very graphic.

         About a week after Barry went home, Arnie told us that Barry had challenged, even taunted him and then us to play him and his friends, and that Barry’s parents would make a cookout if we came. The offer sounded okay but we made one stipulation that the game be a home and home deal so the Farmingdale kids had to come and play on our field. Arnie conducted the negotiations and reached an agreement with Barry that we would play at their field on August 8th (their requirement) and they’d come in and play us on August 22nd.

         The most difficult thing facing us was transportation. Frankie could get his father’s car and that would carry five, Arnie’s brother David was willing to drive if we would let him play so that was ten players, and Charlie could take his Uncle’s car but we would have to get it home by 7pm when his Uncle came home and it would have to have a full tank of gas. Charlie’s sister Lois and her friend Lana would have to go or she would tell her Uncle. This would bring us up to 13 guys with maybe 10 being “okay” ball players.

         The weeks up to the game were spent setting positions, making batting orders, and agreeing how we were gonna kick their Farmingdale asses. We also worked on getting ourselves a name. Dodgers was a possibility but got mixed support since the Dodgers had relocated to the west coast. We were even less enthused about the Yankees and the Giants. Vette’s, Mustangs, and Cobras were rejected. Bird names did no better. We were really working hard on this.

         The trip out to Farmingdale on the 8th was in caravan and we got lost only twice. I think we were distracted by the desperate search for a name. Obscene names, though sometimes humorous, were frequently proposed but rejected as un-sportsmanlike.

         When we pulled up to the Farmingdale High School field, a REAL baseball diamond, we realized we were in trouble. All their players were wearing Farmingdale High School team shirts, were wearing cleats, and looked big. At the last minute we simply decided to call ourselves “Brooklyn”.

         We were there about ten minutes with Arnie, Barry and this other kid talking when two patrol cars showed up. The cops went over and talked with an older guy with the Farmingdale team who, we found out later, was an Assistant Baseball Coach at Farmingdale. The cops then came over and checked driver’s licenses and registrations for our cars. They even looked in the trunk and inside the cars. All they said was that they had a responsibility to check out-of-town cars. We didn’t like it but we came to play ball.

         Once they left we agreed on a seven inning game, three out to a side, arc-pitching, a new Clincher ball at the top of the 1st and at the bottom of the 4th, two strikes and three balls, a foul ball with one strike was an out, getting hit by a pitch was a “do-over”, no stealing or leads, had to stay in the batter’s box, and name calling wasn’t allowed but chatter was.

         Umpires were a problem since no body trusted anybody. We finally settled on Barry’s father for balls and strikes and for third base and home. We came to agree on the Assistant Coach guy for first and second base.

         As visitors, we were up first. While we connected and hit the ball well, without cleats we couldn’t get good traction around the bases. We went down with two ground outs and a pop-up. The inning in the field was worse. We still had no traction and hit ball on the dirt took odd bounces and in the field they just died in the grass… not at all like Brooklyn. We weren’t at all used to these conditions. After one inning it was three-zip for the bad-guys.

         The rest of the innings were pretty much the same though our hitting got better as we played more aggressively and we got a little used to the dirt and grass. After three innings the score was eight-two their favor.

         I was pulled from the game and standing behind the back stop when one of the Farmingdale players wound up beside me. Just talking, I commented how good they played and asked when they were going to put Barry into the game. He looked at me like it was some sort of an idiot and told me only the Farmingdale varsity was playing and that Barry wasn’t gonna play and that he never played with them. Barry just went to school there; he didn’t even eat in the same lunch period as them, AND they really didn’t consider him a friend. All Barry did was set up the game when he told the Farmingdale guys they were challenged by some smart-ass guys from Brooklyn who said they could beat them one-way-or-another.

         He also asked if we had bought any weapons with us. I asked him what he meant and he said that Barry had told him we were a street gang and had zip-guns, knives, and chains for fights. He explained that that was the reason they got the Assistant Coach to come to the game and why they got the cops to stop by. It was my time to look at him like he was some sort of idiot.

         After five innings it was nine-four and after seven it was eleven-six. We lost. We all shook hands and went on our way. I was very impressed that when they left they had no more than two people in any one car.

         Out of the blue, I also got wide eyed when I realized that we actually played on a field and that our P.S. 179 field was not a field at all and was at best a court yard. Through the years we had called it a field but it really wasn’t.

         On the drive over to Barry’s parent’s house I spread the word about my talk with the Farmingdale player and we were all mad. While Barry taunted us about losing the game; we all stayed cool till we ate and then “playfully” lifted Barry and dumped him in the above ground pool. Everyone but Barry thought it was fun, even Barry’s parents. We made a big deal about the next game in two weeks and Barry’s parents assured us they’d be there with Barry.

         On the ride back to Brooklyn we made plans for the next game and figured out how to change out some players so that we would be more competitive. Two of the better players from the E 4th Street team and one from the McDonald Avenue team would have to be enticed to play for us. We were going to do everything we could do to win. We even agreed to all wear white t-shirts, with a big “B” on the front and back, and jeans as a uniform. Most of the guys refused to wear ball caps ‘cause it would muss up their hair. Remember that this was 1959.

         We even took care of the “extras”. We painted in the bases and the base lines, bought four new Clinchers, asked Arnie to get Barry’s father as one up of the umpires and Sonny’s Dad, a Cop, as the second ump.

         On Friday, the 21st, Barry and his family came in and stayed at Arnie’s parent’s apartment. We didn’t hear much from him that night. That was okay ‘cause we were super excited and didn’t need any of Barry’s mouthing-off. Our confidence was growing and the time was getting near and we were ready. We were primed!

         The next morning we all gathered at the schoolyard at 9:30 for the ten o’clock game. There were maybe 80 spectators and there was some money placed on the game; not all on us. David figured that since he wasn’t gonna get to play, it was fair for him to bet against us. What a shmuck!

         Ten came and went, then 10:30. Barry said they must have gotten lost. Eleven o’clock came and went. Barry’s Dad asked Barry if he had given the team directions and he said he had.

         At 11:30, an hour and a half late, Barry’s Dad went and spoke to his son again. They went back and forth and then Barry’s Dad smacked him pretty good and we could see how upset he was. Barry, with tears in his eyes and his face flushed, ran off to Arnie’s apartment. We just watched and wondered.

         His Dad gathered us around and told us the Farmingdale team wasn’t going to show, that they were forfeiting. He had learned from his son that there was never any intention for them to come in and play us. He apologized for wasting our time and for not knowing and telling us earlier. He then told us we were the better team and that he was very proud of us… the "Brooklyn" team.

         We all just looked at each other; we didn’t know what to say. He then asked David to take his car and buy three cases of cold Cokes and two dozen bags of chips and gave him money.

         Waiting for the Cokes, we split into two teams and played each other. The crowd was gone although David was still pushing the argument that we could not be considered to have “won” since there was no game played. We had a good game, enjoyed the sodas and chips, and generally had a good time. We considered ourselves to have “won” and kicked the asses of the Farmingdale fairies.

         Barry never came to visit in Brooklyn again as far as I knew. That was just fine with all of us. Stanley was right… Barry was a frigginassdork.

[end] © Copyright by Ken Thompson – 2002-04.