The World Of Our Fathers: From 7/25/06

Marty called to tell me about the death of our friend Bob's dad Moe. I believe that leaves only one of my boyhood friends from Knickerbocker Village (of the dozen or so that I still have contact with) who have their fathers still alive. I was thinking about my father when I was playing ping pong with my nephew this past weekend. The kid is soon to be 8 and I would say in another two years he will easily beat me (and I'm a decent player). Of course, he has a ping pong table in his basement to practice with. I learned to play in the city recreation center in the Smith Projects near Catherine Street (see the diagram) where Bert Bloom's father worked. It's interesting, my father taught me the value of volleying and positioning the ball in strategic spots. He never taught me how to slam. My nephew is into slamming. I guess I'm not a slamming kind of guy, that is if you don't count a certainly facility with acquiring anger. Same with my father. His technique in teaching me how to pitch was the same. Control was the key. On Sunday mornings (since he usually worked 6 days a week) he would take me down to the shuffleboard courts (now a hockey rink) in Tanahey Park and tirelessly had me pitch to spots. In retrospect maybe the lines of the shuffleboard court helped with alignment. I don't remember him having the impatience he had with me in later years. It is just about the fondest memory I have of my father. Later on, for one brief shining moment at age 11, I became a top little league pitcher for the ragtag team my friends and I were on. I wouldn't have done that if it wasn't for him. PS, the Old Coffee Pot of Joe is paired with a Greek one.