“The Spaldeen”

It just may have been the most perfect of simple pleasures
of our perfectly simple days.

A firm, hollow, smooth-skinned, pink rubber ball, 2.25” in diameter…
that you could buy in places like Frank's Candy Store for all of 25 cents.* 

Simple, yeah, but do you believe that an inanimate object can have a soul?

Hey, just ask any middle-aged man
(or many women of a certain age)
who was once a kid growing up in the boroughs of New York
during the ‘50’s and ‘60’s about…
the "Spaldeen".

Somehow the mere mention of the word Spaldeen brings a rush of images and emotions
that immediately take one back to the day.
To hot summer afternoons.
To cherry Cokes. 
To Richie Cachiotti and Donnie Brady and Eddie Shapiro. 
To games that extended into nights
when we could barely make out each other's shadowy images.

It was all there for us, right in the palm of our hands. 
All ya needed was the ball. 
But not any ball. It had to be a Spaldeen.

*I remember buying one for 15 cents, then a quarter…
then (a barely affordable), 35 cents.
Sure you could get a Pensie Pinky for a few pennies less…
but I wouldn't bring that around in my neighborhood if I were you,
unless you wanted to get totally "ranked out".

Nah, the Spaldeen is one-of-a-kind.
It had its own feel. 
When brand new,
there was this thin almost-powdery coat of rough, coarseness,
with its supposedly "real" name emblazoned proudly across its face:
 "SPALDING HIGH-BOUNCE"…
I NEVER heard anyone call it that!

Of course, before committing to your purchase…
you test-bounce several “candidates”…
to make sure it has the ultimate hi-bounce.
If dropped from your eye height, it must rebound to at least half your total height.

Then, exiting the store, after a few minutes and a few bounces on the sidewalk,
it starts to take on that easy smoothness
that makes it feel like an extension of your hand. 
And soon the black lettering begins to smudge and fade.
But even without reading the name, you knew it was a Spaldeen.

The aroma alone of a brand new Spaldeen,
would fill one with a sublime bliss and anticipation of things to come.
It was the smell of fresh sweet rubber,
almost like the Bazooka bubble gum in a new pack of baseball cards.
Close your eyes and you can still smell it today…
a whiff of summer and innocence and joy and hope.

Some of us might still be able hear its “sound “echoing too. 
Hear that distinctive "thwack" of wood meeting firm rubber?
That’s the sound of a “two-sewer shot”.
(”The Say Hey Kid" reputedly was the author of the legendary “FOUR Sewer shot”.)

A WHAT???

Allow me to explain to the young amongst you and you non-New Yorkers…

A Spaldeen,
your mom's broomstick,
a city street with limited traffic…
and you got a game of Stickball.

The “rules” of Stickball were, shall we say, rather “loosely” defined…
changing according to what neighborhood.
(and sometimes the individual street),
you lived on.

On my block, Buchanan Place, I contend we played the “true” Stickball.

With one manhole cover serving as home plate, the other as second base,
the back wheel of the blue Buick is first base and the hydrant is third.
Standing at home plate/sewer #1,  
one would toss the Spaldeen in the air, about a foot in front of himself…
and then after one or two bounces,
(or for some show-offs, out of mid-air),
step up and swing our mighty broomstick to send that pink sphere soaring
as far as our youthful power would allow.

If the one of the “fielders” caught the ball “on the fly”,
(or by some street’s rule…on a ricochet off a parked car)…
it was an out.
If not caught…the batter would run the “bases” as they would in baseball,
until they were thrown out by a fielder.
(Of course, being very aware of the cautionary shout of “CAR!!!,
indicating oncoming traffic interrupting the game).

Being that our “field” was defined by the logistics of a narrow street,
lined with parked cars and houses on both sides…
we stick-ballers quickly learned to hit the ball straightaway to “centerfield”…

'Cause left field is no man's land:
a fenced-in yard with a killer dog named "Whitey"
…and right field is Mrs.Yallow's garden
(and Mrs. Y. just may be even more dangerous than Whitey.)

In some ‘hoods, the game was different.
The Spaldeen was “pitched” on one bounce from 50 feet away,
allowing for some absurd curves and confounding movement.
Much more challenging than self-hit fungo!

And sometimes, we would play P.B.C. (Pitcher Batter Catcher).
In a school yard, or between two buildings,
we'd draw a box on a wall that delineated the strike zone,
(kind of a concrete “umpire”)
and pitch to it,

If the batter swung and hit the Spaldeen over a designated spot on the opposite wall,
it was a homer…
however…if caught off the wall…a disappointingly tough out.

And then there was the simple, bare-boned “Flys Up”,
where the batter would fungo a hit to a cluster of several waiting players,
vying (sometimes shoving each other) to catch the Spaldeen on a fly,
and become the new batter…
or nab it on several bounces,
and then roll it in, attempting to hit the broomstick laid on the ground.

These games had no time limit, no innings, no stoppage…
other than your Mom calling you home for dinner,
the neighbors complaining and the cops showing up,
or a (frequently) lost Spaldeen.

And know what?
If you can't score one of mom's broomsticks…ay, that's OK.
When it came to inventing games with a Spaldeen,
the only limit was your imagination.
I read somewhere that the Spaldeen was called the “Rosetta Stone of urban games”.

Ya got your fist, right?
So we'll play “Punchball”.
Toss the ball over your head, swing overhand, as if you were serving a tennis ball
and punch it with your closed fist.

It would take off…
physics-defying long, high fly balls that seemed to never come down.
The puncher would be running around the made-up bases,
while the outfielders frantically chased down the Spaldeen.

Or, see those “boxes” on the sidewalk concrete?
That’s the mini-field for “3 Box Baseball”.
The pitcher would stand,keeping one foot behind the line of “Box 1”,
stretching and leaning in as far as he could,
and with a flick of the wrist, bounce the Spaldeen into “box 3”,
with as much spin and curve as possible.
The often-frustrated batter, straddling the box on the opposite side,
would try to slap a hit, while staying within the boxes.

Building on a good idea…was “5-Box Ball”
This required finding  a row of five equal-sized “boxes”  designed in the sidewalk.
Two opposing players, stood at opposite ends.
On the first turn, you’d try to bounce the ball into the box closest to your opponent
(your fifth box, his first),
without him catching it on the fly.
If he catches it on a fly, or if you missed the box, it's your opponent's turn;
if he didn't catch it, you throw again.
This time you’d aim for your fourth box (his second), where it had to bounce once
(and only once!), then bounce one or more times in the fifth box before he catches it.
These challenges go back and forth until one “bouncer” achieves
having the Spaldeen somehow dance once in all five boxes.
Requires superior skill and disciplined patience…it may take a while.

Then there was “Off the Point/Curb/Stoop/Wall”…

Where you’d throw the Spaldeen with all your might,
against a rock-hard surface,
as the fielder would try to catch the rebound without allowing any bounces.
Each bounce earning another base (single, double, triple).
Hitting the pointed ledge would result in a thing of beauty,
rocketing the Spaldeen far over the fielder’s head.

Got a penny? Take you on in “Hit the Coin”.
Stand behind a line and try to make that penny flip on a sidewalk

How ‘bout “Captain”? or “Ace-King-Queen”?
A hybrid of handball and boxball,
that can be played anywhere that a wall and sidewalk meet.
Each player (anywhere from two to six) has a box (defined by cracks in the sidewalk)
that they must defend.
The player on the leftmost side (the "Ace") serves by bouncing the ball once on the ground first,
where it then hits the wall and goes into the box of the player on his right (the "King"),
who then must hit against the wall and into the box of the next player ("Queen"),
and so on down the line.

When the last player receives the ball, he switches its direction,
sending it back on its journey towards the Ace.
As in handball, the ball can bounce only once, either arriving at or leaving the wall. 

While some of these games tended to be boy-centric
(although there were some amazing girl punch-ballers…
and I coerced my sister Ellen into playing a daily game of “off-the-stoop”.)…
the neighborhood girls had their own Spaldeen game…

“A My Name is…”.

The young lady would get a good bounce going,
then, balancing on one leg,
would swing the other leg over the ball with each bounce,
while reciting/singing an alphabetical litany of (1) Name (2) Place (3) Item,
e,g. “A my name is Alice, I come from Alaska, and I sell Apples”;
followed by “B my name is Barbara I come from Brazil and I sell Baseballs”. 

They keep going non-stop until…
they miss catching a bounce;
they can’t think of a needed letter;
or they can no longer maintain their balance.

“My name is Zora, I come from Zanzibar, and I sell Zebras” IS rather impressive.

Finally, any discussion of Spaldeen games must include the ever-so-elegant…
“Asses Up”

Asses up is more of a (somewhat sadistic) ritual than a game.
It is the dire result of losing a game.
The unfortunate loser of Ace-King-Queen or perhaps 5-Box Baseball,
would be subjected to standing facing a wall, leaning in head-wise so the afore-mentioned “ass”
invitingly protrudes as a target.
Your (supposed) pals, about 30 feet away,
rear back and fire the Spaldeen at your tush.
Each player gets one turn.
It doesn't hurt too much…physically…
but the humiliation (and raucous laughter of others)
is punishment enough to make you never want to lose again.

But what of a Spaldeen's life cycle?
Alas, let's just say it was "fleeting", at best. 
Sometimes lasting only for one major blast…
disappearing mysteriously under a car or in a bush
or winding up in places that no human dare to go.

But it could also die in disgrace,
rolling ignobly down a sewer. 
Maybe “Skinny-Armed Eddie” could stretch a wire hanger down into the filthy water
and fish it out. Hey, we can still use it!

Then again, it could die a valiant death…
being "roofed",
thrown high atop an 8-story apartment building
by some ego-driven boy trying to prove his manhood. 

Sometimes it may just have been "maimed",
torn in half by a violent whipping broomstick. 
Hey, we can still use it!
A half Spaldeen curves like a boomerang. 
and that makes it perfect for P.B.C.

The games.
The memories,
"The Spaldeen". 

Quite possibly the best purchase a quarter ever made. 

"SPALDEEN” FOREVER.

I leave you with a poem I found online from one Margey Wynne.

My childhood,
the building blocks
that formed my identity,
my character.
Humble beginnings,
a city child with
cement instead of grassy fields.
Stickball in the street,
not little league.
I didn't know that I was deprived.
How can you miss what you've never had?
Now my children have grass, trees,
soccer teams with fancy equipment.
But I don't see the joy in their faces
that would envelop me, the exhilaration
when I slammed that rubber ball
with a mop handle
and scored a triple.
A child with no backyard or
a child with no broken mop handle.
Which ones of us were deprived?
Copyright Margery Wynne 1997

Would love to hear your memories of “The Spaldeen”..