Stoops

I was walking around the neighborhood and saw a young boy bouncing a tennis ball in front of his front porch. He looked record bored.

I walked up to him and held out my hand. “Let me have the ball. I’ll show you something.” He handed me the ball. “Now stand back there and catch it before it hits the ground. If it hits the second square of the sidewalk, it’s a single. The second, a double, and so on.” He looked puzzled so I went through it again.

He shrugged and trudged about halfway down the walk. I threw the ball against the steps, going easy on him and not using my accumulated storehouse of cunning in this field. It didn’t take long for him to catch the third out.

I flipped the ball to him. “Your turn.” He had no moves and went three up, three down. Time to go to school. I employed some of the more basic strategy and moved my men around the bases. He started to catch on and earned his bats again. I was happy to see him mimic some of my strategies. And, I was especially glad to see him get into it.

Third time up. The gloves are off. I ran him up, back and side to side. It was time he learned a lesson in life. He was at least ten. Take your victories where you can.

We were soon talking smack and laughing. I let him get close, but didn’t give it to him. No free lunch in life. We finished and I flipped the ball to him. He wanted another shot at me but I shook my head and tried to conceal my gasping. “Teach it to your friends.”

“What’s it called?”

“Stoop ball.”

“Stoop ball? What’s a stoop?” I pointed to the steps, but it’s a lot more than that.

I was born in a row house neighborhood. The most important feature was the stoop. Unless there was a blizzard, every evening, the adults and little children sat out on the stoop. Few had televisions. They’d also wander up and down the street, visiting and sharing leftover food and a little vino.

Pre-teens might be playing stickball, half ball (variation of stickball using half a ball – space was limited), soccer or football in the street. The games were periodically interrupted by an adult yelling about damage to the cars lining the curbs. The teens were hanging out in front of corner candy stores. (where the pinball machines dwelt), always wary for interlopers from other turf).

The games went on in the street (or in the alleys behind the rows, where wall ball was played) because the stoops were occupied. During the day was the time for stoop ball.

The stoops were a significant social factor. Everyone networked via them, although it wasn’t called that. Now, I barely know the people on my street, let alone the rest of the neighborhood. Back then, I knew everyone. And, they knew me. If something happened anywhere within the eight square blocks, it spread like wildfire. There were no secrets.

It was a different time.