Morris Park 1977

It was the summer of 1977. The New York Yankees were on a winning streak. Later that fall, they won the World Series. Elvis Presley died. The movie Saturday Night Fever was in full swing. And who could forget the blackout?

I remember an excitement that summer. One reason was that I didn’t have to go to camp. That meant full days of playing stickball — “chips on the ball,” which meant if you lost it, you bought a new one — or grabbing a hanger to try to fish it out of the sewer, or even worse, venturing into the dreaded “Piss Corner.”

Baseball cards, breakfast and egg creams at Angelo’s Diner, pinball and Asteroids at Lavelle’s candy store. Life was good.

The neighborhood fire hydrant was left on full blast. The sprinkler cap came off quick as we held the standard hollow can to redirect the water. Hearing the bell of Dom’s ice cream truck would have us running in droves. We would take our leftover ice cream sticks and race them down the street with the overflow from the hydrant.

A couple of times a week, we would go down to Janel Towers and swim in the pool, which was always an adventure. And the Fourth of July? Well, that was an event in our neighborhood. In fact, it was the first time in my young life that one thing was made very clear: You are an American, and that is very special.

Our nights were spent listening to Yankee games, playing stoopball, ringalevio, tag, chasing fireflies, and “Hot Peas and Butter.” That was the steroid version of tag — when they found you, you were hit with a belt as they yelled, “Hot peas and butter! Hot peas and butter!” And I can’t forget “Johnny rides the pony,” where if you were on the losing team, you had to take a Spalding thrown at your backside by the opposing team.

Although those activities sometimes came to a halt if we were overwhelmed by the smell of hot bread coming from Russo’s bakery.

Another summer standard was my brother and me going to Rosario’s bakery for Italian ice.

Yeah, as a 13-year-old kid, all was well within the confines of my world — the neighborhood of Morris Park.

It was during that same year that Wedge , Speed (R.I.P.), Colt (R.I.P.), and I became a little more adventurous. We left our immediate confines and began exploring other areas of Morris Park, starting with the train station at Esplanade. For fun, we would ride trains back and forth to Manhattan, breaking out the glass for the fire extinguishers and spraying each other, among other things.

It was also during this time that we took an interest in the names written on the trains, inside and out.

Around that same time, we started traveling toward White Plains Road and 180th Street. It was in those locations that the writing was more prevalent. The more notable names were El Marko 174, Blue Beard 183, John 150, and Shorty 5 of the Crazy 5 crew — whom we knew very well because they were from Morris Park. As time passed, we noticed other names of the era — Blade, Comet, Ale — just to name a few.

Shortly thereafter, we were inspired to choose our own nom de plume names. In late fall, before the holidays, in the P.S. 83 schoolyard, we started our own group, which we called Morris Park Crew (MPC).

As a middle-aged man, I look back at the many life lessons learned growing up in Morris Park and have come to realize how fortunate I was to grow up during that era in such a great environment — one that seemed to have an invisible safety blanket that allowed me to dream and experience life as a kid to the fullest.

Growing up in a single-parent household, I never felt deprived in any way. It was the fathers and men of the Morris Park Community Association and the neighborhood who became surrogate fathers to my brother and me. Great people like Dom Deprospo (R.I.P.), Dom Castore, “Old Man” Frank — whom they called Bronson — and many others left an indelible mark on us that carried into adulthood.

I’m very grateful. I feel very blessed that I was able to experience such a special part of my childhood growing up in the Morris Park section of the Bronx, New York.

I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

John F Lorne