Look at that Kid Go!
The Bronx 1939
It was winter in the Bronx. Wavelets in Crotona Park Lake were breaking against its cement walkway. Inverted rowboats, stacked like plates stood to the left of the boathouse. Trees were bare. The only sign of life were sparrows chirping an occasional tweet and squirrels nervously surveying the area around them. I left my apartment with ice skates tucked under my arm. Sheets of ice bobbing over Crotona Park lake teased me.
With no alternative, I went to the frozen wading pool in Crotona Park East’s playground. There was hardly room to maneuver. The population density on the ice formed a human rotating disc of first timers, stragglers, and some decent skaters. Soon the ice will be covered with a three-inch slush. This isn’t skating; I’ll get more exercise on my walk back home.
Cold days passed. A thin, icy glaze formed over the lake. If I threw an acorn on it, it would have penetrated its surface. Why are the sparrows standing on it? Don’t they know that they might break that thin, icy film, and then another intact sheet would have to form?
In five minutes, I was home. Pa was listening to the news about Poland being overrun. He let the commentator know that Russia would soon be there to stop the Nazi bastards. At last, the weather report came on. Freezing cold was predicted for the next three days followed by snow. My father, always skeptical about the weather report said,
”The weatherman guesses like a blind horse guesses the path to the village.” (Translation from the Yiddish).
Well, the weatherman was right. The cold weather came. In a three days I went to inspect the lake. My woolen gloves immediately lost its battle to the freezing cold, and my innersoles provided no warmth when I rubbed my icy toes against them. A white sheet of snow covered the ice. A series of tiny footprints in it told me the squirrels had inspected the area. The red ball at the center of the white flag that indicated skating is permitted was not snapping in the wind.
Where is the parkee; parkee Solomon? (We called the park employees, “parkees”). He was reliable. If the ice was thick enough, the flag would be flying.
Two parkees came out of the boathouse; one with a hand drill. They stepped cautiously on to the ice, and then shoveled a small patch of snow to the side. The one with the drill bent to hjis knees and began turning its wheel so that the bit was able penetrate the ice. The other parkee opened a collapsible ruler then measured the thickness of the ice.
“Hey, can we go skating?” I shouted.
“No,” one replied. “It’s too thin.”
I went home muttering, “If they could stand on it, why can’t I? My skates don’t weigh much.”
A few cold days had passed. After school, I went to see if there was any change to the lake. The flag was flying briskly in the wind. Two parkees, with wide snow shovels were pushing the snow towards the side of the lake leaving a large rink for skaters. I ran home and grabbed my skates, but before I left Ma stopped me.
“Take a glass of milk with cake, you can get the grippe.”
“If I take a glass of milk and cake before I skate, it will be all over the ice in five minutes.”
“Go then, go. You don’t listen anyway.”
Should I trot to the lake? No, it will tire my legs. I’ll walk quickly like everyone else does.
I went into the men’s room of the boathouse, found an empty stall, and began lacing up my skates.
What if I laced up my skates on a park bench near the lake? Everyone will see the multicolored patches my mother wove over the holes in my woolen socks. I am the best skater on the ice, what will they think of the best skater on the ice with patches in his socks?”
I stepped out of the men’s room on par with everyone else’s socks and ready to scoot around the lake. With the wind pushing me, and my blades biting into the scratched ice, I imagined I was a blur to the skaters as I passed them.
Could the skaters see me? Was I really going this fast? I hope there are no ruts in the ice. If there are, I’ll go flying.
With a turn came the reality all outdoor skaters face; skating into the wind. I fought it. It wasn’t going to discourage me. I lowered my head to offer the least resistance, and then I pushed. My legs hurt, but I can’t let the skaters know that a headwind had beaten me. I came home exhausted.
I sat down at the kitchen table waiting for Pa to come home. Oh! Mrs, Suslow had already given us the Daily News. What is this? Silver Skates? The sports section printed an application to race in an ice-skating competition called, The Silver Skates.
I’m only nine-years-old can I enter? Oh yes, there’s a Midget Class for nine to twelve-year-olds.
I filled out the application, tucked it into an addressed envelope, and affixed a 3-cent stamp. For a week, the postman came and went. At last, there was a letter from the Daily News asking me to appear 3:00 PM at the Brooklyn Ice Palace on the following Saturday.
Pa recovered from his grueling work on the weekend. I wouldn’t ask him. My brother was only twelve-years-old and my uncle, who lived with us, would have boarded a train going to Van Courtland Park, or somewhere in the north Bronx. Ma was reluctant to go to strange places. If she wasn’t going to Brighton Beach where my aunts lived, she said she was going to the end of the world. She saw my anxiety to compete, so there we were at the Brooklyn Ice Palace.
The subway took us to Brooklyn. On the way to the Ice Palace, we passed a bookstore featuring Mein Kampf in the widow. Ma wanted to turn around and go home.
“It’s a bunch Nazis!” she shouted.
I pleaded with her to accompany me the rink. Kids with tan camelhair coats draping their shoulders were warming up as they skated by this nine-year-old wearing brown corduroy knickers and a red and blue flannel shirt.
I was one of six Midgets. We were asked to loosen up by skating twice around the rink, and then come to the starting line. Some of the skater’s coaches took them aside to plan their strategy. Should I go to my mother? What will she tell me?
“Come home, it’s getting late.”
I never skated on such slippery ice. My skates, of pre-Hans Brinker vintage hardly bit into it. The ice on Crotona Park Lake was well-scratched from all the skaters. My blades bit easily into its grooves. I hope I stay on my feet. We lined up.
What’s this? The boy next to me wore a body hugging, maroon jersey uniform with Johnny Wiegal embroidered across the left side of his upper chest. What kind of blades are those that were three inches ahead of his boot? Why were they as narrow as razor blades? Mine were at least ¼” wide. Why were those boots above his blades so shiny? This is a race, not a dance. My parents bought my skates for twenty-five cents at a second-hand shop on Third Avenue in the Bronx. Their black shoes were so worn, they resembled brown suede. This guy wasn’t going to lead the pack, not if I could dig my blades into the ice.
The gun went off. We were in tight bunch at the first turn, but then I felt my blades slip instead of digging into the ice. Johnny was in the lead, I was second. I could beat him and his uniform if I stay on my feet. I bit harder into the ice as we approached the last turn, but my fat, unsharpened blades skidded sideways carrying my body with the brown corduroy knickers and the two boys behind me into the retaining wall. Johnny won the race. The last two skaters of our group came in second and third to qualify for the semi-finals. Back to Crotona Park Lake.
The years passed by quickly. I answered, ”present” whenever the lake froze. If it didn’t, there was the Wollman Memorial Skating Rink in Central Park.
My daughter married a Torontonian and settled there. Her daughter, Remi knew the names of every hockey player in the National Hockey League, and I was sure she would eventually skate like them.
Why not show her that Grandpa can spin around the ice in spite of his 80 years? We went to a nearby rink in Toronto. I laced up my skates then walked to the ice.
Why was the walk so challenging? Why was I so uncomfortable? It never was at Crotona Lake or Wollman in Central Park. Well, I’ll show them once I’m on the ice.
An unsteady glide brought me to Remi, my daughter, Sharon, and her husband, Meir. In my mind, this old guy would be the focal point on the rink. The focal point took off and landed squarely on his head. A bloody trail followed my son-in-law and me to the locker room. The doctor at the hospital sewed up my left eyebrow, aligning it approximately with my right one.
Who will be the next skater in our family? Two years later the Torontonians drove down to our co-op in Bronxville. There is a skating rink off the Thruway five minutes from our apartment. Remi brought her skates, laced them up, and this eight-year-old was a squatting blur as she whizzed in and out of the skaters on the rink. When I saw her, I imagined her in brown corduroy knickers and a red and blue flannel shirt, only this time she won the race. I was swelled with pride. She reminded of the first time I scooted over the ice and I heard, “Look at that kid go!” She is the only girl and the star of her hockey team. The legacy survives. “Look at that kid go!”
Crotona Park Lake awaits an 83-year-old this winter, but he’ll take a pass on that.
For the complete story read, Seabury Place: A Bronx Memoir.