The Parking Meter Story

It was the summer of 1972, and as usual I was spending it with my grandfather in the Bronx. Why they call it “The” Bronx but not “The Brooklyn” or “The Queens” I don’t know. Anyway, I digress.

My entire summer revolved around baseball. We played baseball all day at Van Cortlandt Park, or we would venture over to Coyne Park and play against the kids from Yonkers. When not playing pickup baseball games, we would play stickball or go to Yankees games. There were no video games to play and no air-conditioned malls to hang out in. It was just baseball, all day every day, and I loved every minute of it.

Late one hot and muggy afternoon, I was involved in a spirited game of stickball in the schoolyard of P.S. 19. The kid I was playing against was twelve years old, two years older and much bigger. I didn’t like this kid because he was a Mets fan, and he was wearing one of those plastic replica Mets batting helmets, the inside of which read, “Not to be used for protective purposes.”

As the game moved along, we argued over every pitch, every ruling. It was getting nasty. I was pitching and decided “enough is enough.” I fired a pitch with everything I had in my skinny body, directly at his head. The rubber ball flew out of my hand and made a beeline to his noggin. Perfect aim. Pinpoint control. Bulls eye! I drilled this yappy Mets fan squarely in the head, his shiny Mets batting helmet shattering into hundreds of pieces.

The thrilling feeling I had didn’t last long. The big kid was somewhat perturbed. Actually, worse than that. He jumped off the asphalt quickly and threw his stickball bat (a broomstick) at me like a javelin. It missed. I may have said something about that, but I don’t remember. If I did it probably was, “Ha, ya missed!”

The 12-year old kid, after misfiring on his javelin throw, then took off after me.

Diplomacy would not work here, I quickly reasoned. I started running. The goal was now very clear and simple. Survival. I needed to get to Grandpa’s apartment on 235th Street before the helmetless maniac beat the stuffing out of me. The chase was on.

I ran out of the schoolyard and made a left on 238th Street. I ran to Katonah Avenue and made another left. This was a fairly busy street, with enough foot traffic to aid in my getaway. I was running as fast as I could, zig-zagging between pedestrians. I could feel and hear my heart pounding. Periodically, I would glance over my shoulder to see if my pursuer was still chasing me. He was. I crossed over 237th Street and 236th Street. I planned to make a right on Katonah at 235thStreet and race up the block to the safety of Grandpa’s apartment.

Unfortunately, I never made it. Midway between 236th and 235th Streets, I took a peek over my right shoulder to see my would-be murderer still chasing after me, about 30-feet behind.

What happened next still provides a painful memory. After that last glance, I looked forward only to see a parking meter inches from my face. Lights out. Ballgame.

The next thing I remembered was sitting on the edge of the tub in my Grandpa’s bathroom. Gramps was holding a cold, wet, bloody towel to my face. There were a few other bloody towels on the floor and blood all over my shirt and arms. Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling too good.

To this day, I have absolutely no recollection of how I got to Grandpa’s apartment. None. I do remember how my nose was swollen and I had two black eyes and a headache for a week or so. Looking back, I may have had a broken nose. No big deal, kids were tougher back then, not like the softy generation of flabby kids today. I also recall my Grandpa telling me not to tell my mom, and I never have.

As for the kid who was chasing me, I never saw him again. I wonder if he remembers the chase that ended with a parking meter jumping in my path and taking me out.

Years later, when I was able to drive, I would frequently visit Gramps to take him out to lunch or to the senior club. In the Woodlawn section of the Bronx, parking can be scarce. On occasion when seeking a parking spot, the only available space was at the meter that nearly decapitated me. I wouldn’t park there. I refused. I would rather drive around 20 more minutes to find another place to park than to put money in that specific meter.

As the years went on, I would see that meter and remember that fateful and painful day. It also reminded me of how tall I was when I was 10.

That parking meter haunted me every time I saw it. I wanted to take a hacksaw to it like Paul Newman in ‘Cool Hand Luke’. Of course I never did.

Since that day, I’ve always had a dislike of parking meters. 

In college, in Pittsburgh, I knew a student who commuted to class every day. He had a small hammer and would break the parking meter and put a little sign on it that said, “Broken Meter.” Then he would park for free. I admired him even though he was a vandal.

As far as the Bronx parking meter in question, I don’t know if it is still there or not. Hopefully it has met its demise and is rusting away in a junkyard somewhere. This story also reveals why I’ve spent most of my working career on the radio instead of television.

From:  http://www.turfsports.net/

Tags: baseball, New York, parking meter, stickball, The Bronx

This entry was posted on January 09th, 2009 and is filed under Memories. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response or Trackback from your own site.