When growing up in the Late Fifties, living in
the neighborhood of East New York Brooklyn, there was a stickball
team made up of four itinerates that were simply unbeatable.
Theyplayed only for money and challenged anyone willing to put up or
shut up. It didn't matter how much bigger or older their opponents
were, rarely could they be beaten.
The members of this dynamic force had all played with different teams
from other neighborhoods. How they ever got started up was actually
never known. It just seemed to happen. The chemistry between them was
incredible. Flawlessly, they conceived various play situations and
like machines utilized them when the occasion called for it. Never
would they play for less than a dollar a man - a great deal of money
for a young teenager in The Fifties. They'd sometimes played three
games on different blocks in the neighborhood during the course of a
single day.
Our version of stickball was made up of teams having four players
each. Playing on the narrow streets, the infield was made up of
diamond shaped bases with the proximity between first and third base
being very close. Sewer covers served as home plate and second base,
while chalked boxes created first and third base. So, you needed a
first baseman, a third baseman, a second baseman that also covered
the short outfield and lastly, an outfielder that could run like a
gazelle. The ball, a pink spaulding, high bounce, was self hit.
Usually, you hit the ball on a single bounce. It could also be hit
fungo style on the fly.
The group was a diverse one. Off the Stickball Court, they each had
their own personalities and lives that sent them in their own
individual directions. But on the field and during the game, they
were united, tight with an over zealous desire to win.
Joe Carapazza, the team's outfielder, would let the ball bounce three
times and would cock his bat at each bounce interval, and almost
always made solid contact that produced stinging line drives. Joe was
swarthy, small and intellectual - he spoke using many four and five
syllable words - and could run with the wind when tracking down a fly
ball. Rarely, did anything ever go beyond his reach, he was also a
master of the Willie Mays basket style catch. Originally, he played
organized stickball with a team on Chauncey street, south of
Hopkinson avenue. The team was indistinguishable and Joe leaped at
the chance at linking with these money making all-stars. Joe was a
feared threat both defensively and offensively.
John (Brother) DeRose was their third baseman. Blessed with good
looks and one of the nicest demeanors, everyone loved Brother DeRose.
Brother started out in Stickball playing with the prestigious team of
James Sorice, Artie Corio, Cosmo Sorice and himself. This was the
team on Chauncey Street near Rockaway Avenue. One of the few teams
that did not self-hit the ball. They would play pitching in on a
single bounce. Brother never really cared for nor was comfortable
with that format. Needless to say, there was a lot of unhappiness and
bad feelings when Brother embarked on to his money making venture,
leaving them with an irreplaceable third baseman. But being the easy
relaxed luminary that he was, he took all things in stride. Brother
played third base like a golden glover. He'd scoop ground balls hit
so sharply that the human eye could barely follow, and throw out the
hapless and bewildered runner with much time to spare. Brother was
the ideal lead off hitter. No matter what the situation, he'd find a
way to get on base. Once there, he'd display the fine craft of base
running like no one else I could ever recall. Brother was a
playmaker, both in stickball and basketball. Hitting the ball on the
ground in his direction, no matter how hard, would rarely go past
him.
Nathaniel (Nathy) Brett came from a neighborhood devoid of stickball.
Marion street, near Broadway, did not tolerate the game in their
neighborhood. Besides, because of the density of the trees, it
inhibited any kind of serious play. Nathy was quiet, strong, a
lefthander that batted third and could hit the ball over three sewers
long. If they dared to play him too deep, he would take a bit off his
swing and place a drive in front of the outfielder. He had this
dangerous advantage and employed it to the fullest. While his other
team members would cajole, harass, and try to verbally disrupt the
other teams, Nathy would just stand tall at First Base stretching out
to catch Brother's peg or lofting back to corral a pop fly.
Finally, the scrappy little second baseman came from a stickball
family of three brothers on sports minded, Bainbridge Street.
Commonly known as Big Doc, Middle Doc and Little Doc, the Docherty's
were, Tom Docherty - Big Doc, the oldest , tallest and strongest
brother. Middle Doc, Ed Docherty, who, by the way, was also an
excellent baseball player. Finally, there was Little Doc, Jackie
Docherty. Small, scrappy, inventive, a student of the game, he took
no prisoners. He'd use all his one hundred pounds to try and beat
you. He was Pete Rose before Pete Rose came into baseball. Little Doc
was all over the street covering bases from out of nowhere. Truly one
of the great base runners, if you had a mental lapse on the field,
he'd turn a base hit into an inside the park home run.
These were the players that made up one of the greatest stickball
teams of all time.
At that time I joined Emil Backofen who wanted to start a team
fashioned after the famous "Gashouse Gang" of St. Louis Cardinals
fame. Emil took the name "Joe Brown" which was supposed to invoke
images of a barefoot farm boy attaining more than natural abilities
for the game. I took the name "Specs Brown" because I wore glasses
and enjoyed tongue in cheek humor. No other reason. The original
Gashouse Gang members were tough, hard living and drinking
individuals that were feared on the baseball diamond. The toughest
things we did, like drinking Mission Cream Soda from the bottle
without a straw, hardly conjured up the image of toughness.
Emil was the organizer and by far the best player on the team.
Constantly changing players and looking for the right combination to
go after the World's Greatest Stickball Team was his dream and
desire. Emil could have played with them, since he had all the
natural abilities and would have fit in easy. However, they didn't
need anyone else. Emil played the outfield or third base and played
both positions well. He could hit the long ball as well as pop one
for two bases off the apartment house wall. He was the Captain of the
team and had a short fuse when it came to incompetency. The alternate
third baseman was Mickey Broderick.
Emil and Mickey were friends for years and always at each other's
throat. Mickey, on the field, had poor concentration and would, at
times, go off into a reverie and miss fielding ground balls rolling
past his fingers. This would infuriate Emil and send him into a rage
of fire. Soon after, Mickey would threaten to quit the team in the
middle of the game and go home. Emil would convince him otherwise.
But Mickey had untapped potential that he rarely displayed. His main
problem was that he wasn't always focused on the game.
Eddie Carolyn played first base. Eddie had a physical defect from
birth; one leg was shorter than the other. When he walked he sort of
wobbled back and forth. Running was very difficult for him. When he
connected for what would have been a double or triple for anyone
else, he'd end up with only a single. Eddie played first base and we
held our breath when tough ground balls went his way.
I played Second Base and feared for my life from the traffic crossing
on Hopkinson Avenue. Emil said if I would call less time outs for
traffic crossing and paid more attention to the game, we might win a
few. But, stupid me, I put more value on my life than on the game. I
never told that to Emil though. I was in an eternal batting slump
that lasted for almost two years. My timing and rhythm were all off.
The best I could do was pop up or hit ticked ground balls with a lot
of English on them. This batting slump was affecting the rest of my
life. I didn't sleep nor eat well, always thinking about the bounce
of the Spaulding and the proper meeting of wood to rubber with that
sensational feeling when you've connected for a solid hit.
The summer was fast coming to an end that year. We were in those last
hold out days of September that still ushered in some mild weather.
The Stickball Season was practically over. Emil challenged the
World's Greatest Stickball team to a money game at our court on
Chauncey Street off Hopkinson Avenue. When he approached us with the
idea we all belly laughed at such an absurd notion. They could stomp
on us like grapes at harvest and spill our juices in the street like
blood. But Emil saw it differently, he thought the time had come that
we could beat them. Believe me, much better teams tried and they all
went down to defeat. Besides, the least amount they would play for
was a dollar a man. None of us were ready to risk that kind of
capital on such a sure thing as our potential defeat. Eddie and
Mickey agreed with me whole heartening. This could be worse than
feeding the Christians to the lions.
One attribute I forgot to include about Emil was his strong ability
to influence and convince. I can't remember the details that led up
to our mutual agreement in consenting to being slaughtered. I do
remember that sick sinking feeling about having to lose a dollar,
which was about all the money I had in the world at that time.
Included in that dollar were thirty five cents worth of deposit
bottle money. Anyway, The World's Greatest Stickball team accepted
our challenge. I felt the Gashouse Gang was about to embark on the
greatest humiliation and embarrassment of their lives. Emil called
for a pre game batting and fielding practice. We all went through the
motions in complete disbelief at what was about to follow.
The big game was scheduled to take place at three p.m. on a windy and
cloudy, late September day. The very last remnants of summer were
desperately trying to influence the weather, but autumn was
inevitable and waiting in the wings. The World's Greatest Stickball
Team showed up on time, gave their dollars to neutral Bobby Bitner to
hold as did we. I secretly kissed my total worldly worth goodbye as
we took to the field.
In the past, I played many games on many teams with Emil Backofen,
but never had I seen him so charged up and determined to win. If odds
were to be placed on this game, we had to be a 100-1 underdog. For
the first three innings The World's Greatest Stickball Team swung for
the fences. Emil was all over that outfield as if possessed. As I
said, by far, he was the best player on our team. But on this day he
was beside himself making unbelievable catches of wicked line drives
and going deep on long shots to straight away center to bring in the
Spaulding and retire the side. After three innings the score was tied
at 0 to 0. Emil had made eight of the nine put outs.
The two level brownstone houses, on the right side of the street,
began about two hundred feet from the curb on Hopkinson Avenue . From
home plate to that point was about another 125 feet. So, to hit a
home run over the gates of the houses was around 325 feet. On the far
right side of the outfield stood an empty lot. All balls hit into the
lot were foul balls and were retrieved by climbing the fence to fetch
them. .Anything hit over the gates of the houses were automatic home
runs. In the fifth inning Nathy Brett led off and unleashed a cloud
breaker that landed fair inside the gates of the two level brownstone
houses. It seemed as if the ball would never come back down to Earth
again. All Emil could do was watch in disbelief. The Worlds Greatest
Stickball Team had a 1-0 edge.
Mickey, Ed and myself were dejected and ready to throw in the towel.
One run was more than enough to beat us. How in the world were we to
produce runs against this defensive machine? But Emil, red in the
face, tried to pump us up to focus and stay in the game. He still
felt we were going to win. There must have been something he was
trying to prove. This wasn't the same person I'd grown up with. I was
getting the feeling his whole life was on the line for this game. For
me, the burden of trying to beat this team was too awesome. Our
offense up through seven full innings of play was utterly pathetic,
save for Emil blasting hard line drive shots speared, nabbed, seized
and grabbed by the splendid defense of Brother, Joe and Little Doc.
Twice being robbed of a hit, Emil broke his stickball bat in half
cursing to the growing wind suddenly building from the east, picking
up and getting stronger.
However, Emil continued making defensive gems in the outfield,
keeping the score close at 1-0, until Nathy Brett took his turn at
bat in the top of the ninth. Needless to say, Emil played him deep.
But it didn't matter. Nathy unleashed one. The ball was hit so far
that I completely lost sight of it. Bouncing soundlessly somewhere
almost in the middle of the next block, it looked like we were surely
meeting out destiny. The score was now 2-0 and we were coming up for
our final at bat.
It was the bottom of the ninth inning and from home plate you could
see the clouds crossing fast as a front from the east was moving
rapidly across Hopkinson Avenue. Emil said nothing. I think the wind
and the will to win was finally knocked out of him. I led off and hit
a helpless pop fly that Little Doc took in with ease. Ed Carolyn was
next. He was hitless for the day. To eveyone's surprise, Ed dropped a
Baltimore chop toward Brother DeRose who decided to take it on the
second hop because of Ed's lack of speed on the base paths. But,
unknown to Brother, God put a small pebble in the path of the ball's
bounce. When the Spaulding met the pebble it took an erratic bounce
and even Brother couldn't come up with the ball. The tying run was
now at the plate. The fire had reignited in Emil as Mickey Broderick
strolled to the manhole cover representing home plate. According to
our stickball rules, you were allowed two swings per at bat. Mickey
took them both and the bat completely missed the ball each time.
There were now two outs. With the tying run still at the plate, Emil
strolled up to take his at bat. On the left side of Hopkinson Avenue
was a four story apartment building. If you were able to hit the
building on the fly within the first set of three windows the ball
was considered fair and in play. Emil sent a rocket to the apartment
house, barely missing a window. The ball was hit so hard and the
rebound was played superbly by Little Doc. They almost tagged out the
slow moving Ed Carolyn ambling in at second base. We had runners at
first and second base with two outs in the bottom of the ninth
inning. It was my turn to bat. I represented the winning run at the
plate. Never in my young life had I ever felt such enormous pressure.
My head was filled with unrelated thoughts. My back was to the
infield. I think I said a prayer.
As I stepped up to the plate I could see Brother DeRose dancing back
and forth on third base ready to scoop up a ground ball and collect
his dollar. Nathy Brett, stood motionless at first base, standing
tall with his hands at his side. Ed Carolyn stood on the sewer that
represented second base nervously spitting through his teeth. Emil
was poised at first, ready to fly at the crack of the bat. Joe
Carapazza played me mid way shading toward the left because of the
increase in the wind. Little Doc played deep in back of second base
ready to take a line drive hit away from me. I was suddenly all alone
on this late afternoon day in September. I continued to bounce the
Spaulding in front of me trying to focus and trying not to tighten
up. I bounced the ball one time and swung the bat. As I had been
doing for the entire year, I sent out a ground ball tic with a lot of
English toward Brother DeRose. The ball rolled
away into foul territory before he was able to snag it. Strike one.
It had all come down to this final moment.
My heart was beating too fast and my hands were wringing wet. The
winds had grown even stronger from right to left field. I bounced the
ball and aborted the next swing. I bounced the ball again and swung.
The sensation rang out through my body, from my arms to my groin. It
was a feeling I never knew before. Wood met rubber and the Spaulding
was airborne deep but lofting toward the empty lot. I stood
mesmerized halfway between home plate and first base watching as the
wind took the ball and hooked it to the left. I could hear Emil
yelling at the top of his lungs for me to run as he crossed home
plate behind Ed. Joe Carapazza, with his back toward the plate, ran
as hard as was able to. I finally moved and rounded second as the
wind continued to hook the Spaulding toward the two story brownstone
houses. Now, with my back to the outfield, I rounded third base and
headed home, the winning run! Emil and Eddie were already there, they
each held their breath. Brother DeRose was covering the plate and
instinctively faked a tag on me. Suddenly, Emil left the ground with
a leap of victory. The ball landed three brownstone houses back in
fair territory for a home run. We won! We beat The World's Greatest
Stickball Team.
I was in a dream state. My head was so light and the fact that we
actually won was yet to sink in. Quickly, and with true sportsmanship
The World's Greatest Stickball Team congratulated us in our victory
as they each went their separate ways. Joe went south on Chauncey
street to his house near Saratoga Avenue. Nathy went to the East on
Marion Street. Little Doc went west to Bainbridge Street and Brother
went up the block to his house next to mine. Suddenly, I found myself
on the shoulders of Emil and Ed. I was a hero. This was to be the one
and only time in my life that I would ever experience this.
The next few hours that followed with The Gashouse Gang were spent at
the candy store reliving what had happened. "We did the impossible,"
was the chant. Outside the store, the rain poured and dry litter
strewn sewers, from a summer's drought, began to back up. I didn't
want this day to ever end. I was the center of the universe. Over and
over each of us described that remarkable hit, which until today,
more than forty two years later, that feeling still resonates in my
body.
Little did I know that this was to be the last of the stickball
seasons for most of us. I would leave high school to go to work and
had little or no time to spare playing Stickball in the streets. In a
couple of years I was to be drafted into the Army. After getting
discharged I moved to California for a few years.
After that incredible game I never saw Nathy Brett again. Johnny
DeRose soon moved to Bay Shore Long Island with his parents because
they felt the neighborhood was changing too much. We tried finding
Brother DeRose in later years when we organized a reunion, we came up
empty. While living in the Los Angeles area I bumped into Joe
Carapazza, dressed in a business suit with an attache case by his
side, he said he didn't remember who I was. Eddie Carolyn, I heard,
opened a bar and grill. The pain of his deformity led him to drinking
heavily. His health deteriorated and he became an alcoholic. Mickey
Broderick and his family, as Brother DeRose, left the neighborhood.
None of us knew where their destination was. He has never been heard
from since. The Docherty brothers started a printing business
someplace in Brooklyn. Later rumors said that the shop was destroyed
by fire. One of the Docherty's was either badly injured or killed in
the fire. We never really knew for sure. There's nothing I further
know about them. Emil is the only one I still keep in touch with from
time to time. He's retired on Eastern Long Island and spends most of
his day investing in stocks.
As for myself, I too have since retired and moved back to Southern
California, where I now live. Every time I see sports figures raising
their arms in glory as a sign of victory, my thoughts always wander
back tomy magical moment, when that long drive hooked
toward the two story brownstones with Joe Carapazza racing in vain
for a ball he'd never catch.
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