The Champ of 94th Street by Harriet Posnak Lesser

I think about her every spring. The champ of 94^th Street, the girl with the golden palm who ruled the handball courts at Arthur S. Somers Junior High School in Brooklyn. She was small and wiry and uncoordinated, but she could smash a ball like nobody else. She disappeared a long time ago and I’m the only one who knows why.

Growing up in a Brooklyn apartment, back in the year zip, there were no Little League teams, no coaches, no outdoor tournaments played before cheering parents. Our athletic agenda ran the gamut from sidewalk potsy to street softball to stoop ball and “`A’ My Name is Alice.”  I played them all, but between the ages of 9 and 12, my favorite warm weather hangout was the handball court at Junior High School 252. It was located on East 94^th Street and Kings Highway, steps away from the building where I lived. The school was new back then and everything was state-of-the-art.  There was an intercom system and a cafeteria that served hot food. But for me, the main attraction was the handball court with its three giant walls. I spent most of my summer vacations there, perfecting my skills without adult interference or instruction.

I couldn’t wait for spring to begin. At the first hint of warm weather, I’d run to the corner candy store and buy a brand new `Spauldeen.’  (Brooklynese for Spaulding, the company that made the balls). I always picked one with fuzzy coating. The bald pink ones were prettier but they could be rough on your hands.

I was now ready for spring training. I’d hurry home from elementary school, belt down two glasses of milk with half a box of Melody cookies and head for the schoolyard. I’d get there early to make sure I was alone. I’d stand in front of the newly painted short line and smash my Spauldeen against the wall with my open palm. The pain was pretty bad, but I did it over and again — trying to control the ball so I wouldn’t have to chase from one end of the court to the other.

After a week of solitary practice, my right hand and I were ready for competition. There were plenty of kids around, most of them regulars who lived on the block. Everybody wanted to play with the champ. I picked one steady partner and a standby in case the first kid got sick or dragged off to Coney Island by a well-meaning relative. We’d stand about 18 inches from the wall and choose odds/evens for who went first. Smash, pow, run and smash again. I made up the rules. If your Spauldeen landed over the short line, you lost a point. Stragety (sic) and judgment outweighed brute strength.

My career came to a bitter end in the spring of my 12^th year.  I went to the handball court with my new Spauldeen in hand, but I wasn’t alone. A couple of men were already there. Each wore a leather glove on his right hand.  Instead of a fuzzy Spauldeen, they had a little black rubber ball. They stood in back of the line and faced the wall, skipping the odds/evens ritual.  Smash, pow, run and smash again. Up and back across the width and length of the court they ran.

I had a handball epiphany. I’d been playing a lie for the past three years. Disheartened and embarrassed, I turned around and went home.  And that was the last time the champ of 94^th Street appeared on the handball courts of Arthur S. Somers Junior High.

Copyright 2015 Harriet Posnak Lesser

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Harriet Posnak Lesser is an award-winning journalist and social satirist whose articles have appeared in Long Island’s The South Shore Record and Nassau Herald, The New York Times, Cracked Magazine and others.