Who Knew Sidewalk Stoop Ball Was Illegal?

Who knew? 

Who knew that playing stoop ball in front of my childhood home on Avenue W in Brooklyn could have gotten me arrested? Or that playing stickball on the street could have similarly been my ticket to a ride to the police station on Avenue U?

 

I’ve never been arrested and hope I never will be, but by the letter of the law I conceivably dodged the long arm of the constabulary hundreds if not thousands of times as a youth growing up in Brooklyn. 

Reading a New York Times article Monday on an effort to rescind an old, still on the books Los Angeles law that prohibits ball playing on sidewalks and streets (https://www.nytimes.com/2026/01/14/us/los-angeles-catch-sidewalk-law.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share), I googled to see if New York City had a similar prohibition. 

Yup, it does. Who knew? 

The front steps of my family’s attached row house on Avenue W were perfect for playing stoop ball, a baseball-like game played with a ball, usually a pink Spaldeen (New York slang for Spalding) or Pensy Pinky. The batter would stand to one side of the twelve-foot walkway to the stairs; his (it was never a girl in the 1950s) opponent stood in the middle of the sidewalk, an obvious obstruction of foot traffic. 

The batter would throw the ball against the stairs. If caught on the fly you were out. If the ball bounced the batter was awarded a single, maybe even a double or triple depending on rules set at the outset of a game. 

Most front porches on our street had sharp, right angle brick steps. Our steps were pink concrete, rounded in front, making it harder to get a “pointer,” a line drive comeback that, if caught was an out but if traveling untouched a pre-determined distance in the air would be a home run. 

As my friends and I got older, we began playing games on the roadway of Avenue W—stickball and football. 

For stickball, home plate would be a round sewer cover. Games were played as long as a bat was available, either a real stickball bat with black tape spiraling on the handle or a purloined broomstick from an unsuspecting mother’s utility closet.

Avenue W had a canopy of leaves from maple and sycamore trees. If during a stickball game a ball was hit into the leaves it was a “hindoo,” a do-over, unless a fielder was agile enough to catch it for an out before it bounced. 

The trees, however, were not the biggest obstacle. Balls rolling into storm drains at each corner could wash out any game. Unless … unless you had a wire clothes hanger you could stretch out into an elongated fish hook. Lowering the hook end into the sewer basin, you would fish the ball up from the murky bottom. Whomever had the longest reach would lie flat above the sewer grate to fish out the ball. 

Stickball definitely required our being alert to oncoming traffic, from both sides as Avenue W was a two-way street. Of course, it’s doubtful street stickball resulted in any arrests. Heck, Willie Mays himself would play it on the streets of Harlem (see photo). 

As we got into our teenage years, football games dominated Saturday afternoon play time after we returned from synagogue and eaten lunch. Three or four players to a side. Four downs to each possession. No first downs. Two hand touch. No tackling. Ten Mississippi’s to pass the ball before a defender could charge over the scrimmage line to down the quarterback. Precision passing required to precision pass route running, between and around parked cars. If a team scored a touchdown, losers walked the length of the “field” to accept the throw-off (we weren’t accurate enough to attempt kick-offs). 

I can recall only one person ever getting hurt. Jerry caught a pass running across the width of the avenue. From behind, Marty tagged him hard. Jerry spun around, lost his balance and fell, his head hitting a fire hydrant on the curb. Blood, not water, gushed out. 

We raced to a friend’s house on the corner. His father was a doctor. But he was no ordinary doctor. He said he was an insurance doctor and would not, could not, help, an answer I have yet to understand.

We needed to get Jerry to an emergency room. But Jerry was Orthodox. He had never ridden on the Sabbath. It took some convincing but Jerry finally agreed to go to Coney Island Hospital where several stitches closed his wounds. A week or two later he was playing again.  

Greenland's World Aftermath Does Not Look Rosy

However the imbroglio on Greenland turns out, several things are certain:

Europe no longer can count on Trump’s USA to have its back, protecting NATO members from Russian aggression. Even with a change in administration in 2029, doubts about America’s fidelity to NATO will persist. The Baltic States of Latvia, Estonia and Lithuania might be next on Putin’s platter of vulnerable countries; 

Similarly, Taiwan can give up the notion that America would help it resist a Chinese invasion. Trump might be able to bully European allies but China’s Xi Jinping is no paper tiger. All that stands between China’s absorption of Taiwan is Xi’s calculation of the most appropriate time to launch his “Greenland” version of island usurpation in the name of national defense;  

Third, Israel no longer will enjoy favored nation status with Trump, indeed, with many Americans and their elected officials. Trump’s plan for Gaza will be a constant point of disagreement with Israel’s leadership. Trump does not take kindly to disagreement; 

South America will be a playground for Trump to display his testosterone, threatening military punishment to any country that doesn’t kowtow to his whims. Expect U.S. military raids on drug manufacturing sites in any country south of our border where Trump suspects cartels are operating. Attacks will happen with or without the consent of local governments. What the attacks will not stop is China’s unyielding supply to cartels of ingredients to produce fentanyl that will saturate America with the killer drug. Trump is powerless to force Xi to act; 

Trump’s obsession with expanding U. S. territory will continue with his push to incorporate Canada into his empire. National security and access to natural resources beneath the Arctic tundra motivate his undiplomatic appetite for conquest. 

Since World War II presidents and their advisors have had an overly unfettered opinion about their power on the world stage. Mostly, they restrained openly displaying that power, though covert actions toppled governments presidents disliked and installed dictators more appealing to Washington insiders. 

Trump has taken that conceit to the extreme, openly using tariffs and military threats as a cudgel to control friend and foe alike. 

What happens after Trump is gone (through constitutional or natural causes)? Will foreign relations revert back to PT (pre-Trump) times or will his successors, from either party, feel empowered to follow in his footsteps, albeit, perhaps, in a less Tony Soprano style? 

If Trump had any hope he would ever qualify for a real Nobel Peace Prize, he squandered that possibility by accepting the 2025 award from its winner, Venezuelan activist Maria Corina Machado. Machado presented the award in a blatant attempt to bribe Trump into publicly endorsing her to be Venezuela’s new leader rather than Nicolas Maduro’s vice president, long considered a corrupt politician. 

Trump called Machado a nice lady but remained steadfast in backing the despot in place versus the populist he just met. In doing so, Trump was consistent with the maxim “honor among thieves,” not its corollary. 

Putting aside Trump’s internal and external battles, no doubt the Norwegian Nobel Peace Prize committee did not take lightly Trump’s denigration of its award. Trump would truly have to earn the award by doing something extraordinary, like actually brokering a meaningful peace between Russia and Ukraine, or actually disarming Hamas and stopping Israel from usurping Palestinian land in the West Bank. 

Of course, even if he miraculously welds a peace plan that lasts, the Nobel committee will deduct points for his termination of healthcare and humanitarian aid to African and other Third World countries, resulting in the death of hundreds of thousands, multiple more lives that have been lost in the wars that Trump thinks he stopped.  

Greenland's Fate Precedes Our Own

By treaty with Denmark the United States already has the right to build as many military bases as it wants on Greenland. 

By NATO treaty the United States has sworn to come to the defense of a member state. So, if China or Russia set its sights on Greenland the United States would be obligated to defend it. 

So, why does Donald Trump fail to recognize America’s already confirmed military options when talking about Greenland’s vulnerability? 

Because what the United States does not have in Greenland—and what Trump obviously covets—is the frozen island’s vast mineral resource wealth buried under its ice. 

Trump is a transactional animal. Removing Nicolas Maduro from Venezuela was not about arresting a drug lord dictator. It was about seizing the country’s oil while keeping intact Maduro’s henchmen to protect the oil for America. 

If Trump cannot see himself or his family and well-heeled associates being enriched he cares not for world affairs or international protocols. 

What’s your bet? How quickly will the Trump family pounce on the island to set up with their cronies exploitive corporations to “take Greenland to the cleaners”? 

I’m guessing that within days of Trump’s imperialistic, illegal land grab he will proudly announce “multi-billion dollar” initiatives by his cohorts. The incorporation paperwork is probably already being prepared, awaiting only a filing date. 

A forceful taking of Greenland, even with just sporadic resistance, will require the imposition of protracted martial law, accompanied, most probably, by Trump invoking the Insurrection Act to quell domestic opposition to his piracy. 

Why would Trump, with just three more years in his second and final constitutional term of office, undertake an action that couldn’t possibly reap real benefits till well past his legal residency in the White House? 

It leads one to reason that he doesn’t plan to leave the gilded, ever expanding entity he is building for himself and the 1,000 fat cats he will host in his “big beautiful ballroom.” 

Mitch McConnell and the Trumpian justices on the Supreme Court have given us a Teflon Don who is wasting little time destroying our republic.  

Greenlanders will find active resistance is futile. Dangerous. Deadly. Americans living under the cloak of the Insurrection Act will find a similar fate. 

Greenland has too few citizens to qualify for statehood. But Canada does. Will our neighbors to the north start losing sleep over Trump’s real-estate-developer-mentality to own all he surveys? 

Recalling My Experience Teaching Driver's Ed

When you write a blog triggered by associations from current and past events you never know when or what will strike a creative chord. So it was with a small story from Long Island that appeared in a news feed Monday morning. 

An in-car driver’s education instructor was arrested for allegedly showing pornographic pictures on his mobile phone to students in his vehicle. 

Putting aside the question of his guilt or innocence, I was reminded of my nine month stint teaching driver’s ed during the 2011-12 academic year. 

Two years after I retired, Gilda suggested (strongly suggested) that I engage myself in some out of the house activity. We didn’t need any more income. I just needed to become more active in my pre-pickleball days. 

So, after looking at several classified sections—keep in mind this was during a time when the Internet had not yet killed classified sections in newspapers—I found a listing for an in-car driver’s ed instructor affiliated with a company hired by numerous school districts in Westchester and surrounding counties. My motivation for teaching driver’s ed was that roads I would be traveling would be safer if I taught them how to drive properly and defensively. 

Before being accepted, I had to pass a written test on driving rules and regulations and take a road test to verify my skills, especially that I didn’t cut corners when making a left turn.

And, most important, I had to have state police take my fingerprints and run them through their database. 

Though I didn’t sign up for the pay ($12 an hour), there were quite a few in my training group who clearly were relying on this opportunity to buttress their household incomes. I was content to teach two or three classes a day, about six hours, three days a week. 

Teaching in-car driver’s ed (there were separate classroom instructors) is not as dangerous as one might think, though I won’t downplay the potential for mishaps. The first day with any group of students was the most apprehensive, as you had no idea how much experience they already had. 

Prior to the first day in the late model car provided by the driving school many students have logged time behind the wheel. It’s those anxiety provoking students whose parents fear for their lives and automobiles, and who subsequently do not let them practice in the family car (which here in Westchester often is a Mercedes or Lexus or some other luxury vehicle they’d rather not dent, or worse), that made my time as an instructor a potentially challenging experience.

One girl from Briarcliff Manor started her first lesson by stating she had no desire to learn. She was there because her parents forced her. She related her father took her driving the previous Sunday in an empty parking lot. She hit a light pole!

After the three other students in the car and I gulped and giggled, I confidently told her that wouldn’t happen in driver’s ed because unlike her father’s car the training car had a dual brake. I would always have my right foot resting on the brake. In an emergency I’d also be able to reach out and seize the steering wheel. 

That explanation seemed to reassure the other students. She, however, lived up to, or should I say down to, expectations. Halfway through the semester she transferred out of my class. I don’t know if she ever passed a road test. For everyone’s safety, I hope she abandoned her parents’ quest for a license.

Driver’s ed in no way provides sufficient experience to budding motorists. New York State strongly recommends 50 hours of training time, including 15 hours nighttime driving, before one should take a road test. Students receive just six hours of driving instruction, usually meted out in 22-1/2 minute sessions per week over the course of 16 classes over four and a half months.  

Still, during the two semesters I taught we never had an accident. Except once. The student driver stopped at a traffic light on North Street in Harrison, right across from the police station. The three boys sitting in the rear of the Ford Taurus—most of the cars were that model, usually with 150,000 to 225,000 miles—wondered aloud why there were no headrests for the back seats. I had just finished saying headrests weren’t required for these older cars when WHAM!, we were hit from behind. An elderly man driving a new Acura confused his brake pedal with his accelerator and slammed into us. Two of the boys suffered mild whiplash. Both cars sustained no damage, but we spent the next hour in the police station filling out reports. All in all, one of the better real-life driving lessons worth experiencing.

I stopped teaching driver’s ed because an old basketball injury to my right knee flared up when I kept my leg hovering over the brake. By the end of the first class of the day I could barely sit without yelping in pain. It’s too bad. I really enjoyed (most of) the kids, even the ones who put the rest of us in jeopardy when they first got behind the wheel. I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing them turn into accomplished drivers. 

Recognizing Noah Wyle and Other Beloveds

I was watching a “CBS Sunday Morning” profile of Noah Wyle, the star and executive producer of the Emmy winning “The Pitt,” when I realized I was becoming my parents. 

Growing up, whenever our family would be watching television, my parents—usually my mother—would point out Jewish notables—actors, musicians, playwrights, authors, politicians and other public figures. It didn’t matter if they were observant or not, or offspring from a mixed marriage. Or married a gentile. Or had anglicized their name. 

They were Jewish. The actors that played Ben and Little Joe Cartwright on Bonanza were Jewish. Jewish comedians and writers saturated 1950s TV—Milton Berle, Jack Benny, Gertrude Berg, Sid Caesar, Carl Reiner, Mel Brooks, Neil Simon, Phil Silvers. As we got older we became aware of more Jewish notables—Philip Roth, Woody Allen, Steven Allen, Alan Arkin, Peter Falk, Peter Yarrow, Lauren Bacall, Sandy Koufax …

Now, when I’m watching TV, even if they know it, I find myself pointing out to Gilda, our kids and grandkids the Jewish roots of entertainers and athletes. Noah Wyle, I told Gilda, was born to a Jewish father.  

Of course, not every Jewish public figure deserves recognition and respect. Stephen Miller does not. 

What’s in a Name?: It was recently reported that British author Joanna Trollope died. Her novels “grappled with adultery and the complexities of family life,” according to her obituary in The New York Times. 

Was anyone else darkly amused that her name was an “e” longer than “trollop,” defined as “an immoral or sexually promiscuous woman”?

Was She, He or It Beloved?: Probably the most overused word used to describe public figures who have passed on, or retail stores and restaurants that have outlived their reason to exist, or a product that no longer commands patronage, is “beloved.” 

No disrespect, but can’t writers and their editors think of different descriptors, such as “venerable,” “respected,” “esteemed,” “revered,” “venerated,” or “admired”? 

Something Worthy of Being “Beloved”: Because Donald Trump stripped $500 million from the budget of the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, it officially closed down last week. NPR and PBS will continue contributing to the nation’s intelligent media offerings, so don’t think that “Masterpiece Theater,” “Nova,” “The American Experience,” “Firing Line” et al have gone dark. Nor has NPR’s “All Things Considered” or “Morning Edition” been silenced. 

But the ability of the CPB to support local, often rural, stations with programming has ended. Many of those stations will have to either shut down or dramatically cut back their offerings.

When I read about the hundreds of millions of dollars wealthy elite and business leaders and their companies have stuffed into Trump’s pet projects, I am left wondering, are there no billionaires and corporations with enough intelligence and heart willing to step up and donate sufficient funds to keep public broadcast lifelines alive? If not billionaires, how about millionaires, Hollywood moguls, actors, musicians and singers?  

Morning in America Rituals

I had forgotten it is still mostly dark at 6 am. I’m usually asleep till 9 (in bed till around 10 am) but Wednesday morning Gilda, who usually keeps the same morning schedule as I, had a 7 am volunteer stint with the Cornell Cooperative Extension Master Gardener program at the Westchester County Center in White Plains. 

So she was up and about at 6. I experienced collateral sleep deprivation damage. 

Before I retired my normal wakeup time was 6:45, giving me plenty of opportunity to shower, eat a light breakfast, and drive four miles to the White Plains Metro North train station parking garage to arrive scant minutes before the 8:05 35-minute express to Grand Central Terminal chugged in. 

If I was a few minutes late, no worry. There was another express at 8:08. Or, if I was really slow to get started, I’d catch the 8:25, or the 8:28, or even the 8:44. Those commuter options made White Plains an ideal city to commute to and from, in the morning and evening. As editor and publisher of Chain Store Age it didn’t really matter what time I arrived in the office, or departed in the late afternoon, as long as a meeting with higher-ups was not previously scheduled. 

My routine of two decades was disrupted when Gilda secured a nurse practitioner’s position in mid 1998 with the spine surgeons of Beth Israel Medical Center with offices on Union Square. As she did not yet possess her own parking lot sticker, she commuted with me.

It was not a smooth transition from sole practitioner to married commuters. Gilda did not like my just-in-time-to-step-onto-the-train arrival plan. She preferred—installed—a 5-10 minute pre-train arrival schedule. Once on board, she chose seats that faced the direction the train was going. To me, it made no difference. A seat was a seat. Going south, Gilda wanted seats on the eastern side of the train, so the sun could shine in. For the return, she liked seating on the western, sunny side. I did not like sitting on the sunny side, going or coming. Gilda also enjoyed conversation with friends we encountered along the way. I usually slept, though I admit hearing their voices provided a soft, lulling sleep-inducing contrast to the churning of the train. 

As we were using one car, going home together became a fluid endeavor. Often, Gilda’s surgeons had patient consultations that lasted well beyond 5 pm. I would stick around my office until she telephoned to signal she was leaving 14th Street. This was well before mobile phones were widely popular. 

Once Gilda obtained her own parking permit about a half a year later, tranquility returned to my morning commute. We still tried to coordinate our ride home but it was not mandatory. 

In July 2009, I retired. No more Metro North monthly tickets. No more annual parking stickers. No more early mornings. Until … until Gilda broke her left, dominant wrist and could not drive herself to work at Mount Sinai Hospital at East 98th Street where the surgeons she worked with had transferred their practices. 

She had been driving to work instead of commuting by train. No longer able to drive, she relied on me to get her to work by 8 am (meaning we woke up around 5:45) and pick her up at either 4 or 5 pm. In other words, I drove back and forth in rush hour traffic each way, twice a day. I did that for three years until she retired seven years ago. 

(In case you’re wondering, after her wrist healed she went back to driving herself but we quickly reached an arrangement—I would drive her in return for her cooking dinner, as neither one of us would survive my culinary skills. All in all, a savory compromise.)

A Postscript: Did you know that once your annual White Plains parking permit expires you may no longer legally keep it displayed on your rear side window? Neither Gilda nor I knew that. Ever since her last permit expired December 1, 2014, it has been affixed to her car window. 

No longer. Monday afternoon, in the White Plains Library parking lot, a super-diligent meter reader tagged her with a $25 violation. She’s already mailed in her payment.