Game’s over, game’s over

There were several ways of ending a game when I was a kid. Stickball was a popular pastime when you had enough bodies. All it required was a rubber ball and a broomstick handle. The bases were cars, fire hydrants and a manhole cover. The ball was pitched underhand, on a bounce, different effects being imparted by spinning the ball with the flick of one finger upon release so that when it bounced it darted to one side, or slowed down or sped up, depending upon which way you made it spin. I can still do this. I can’t remember how to rhumba, but I can do this.You might think the game would be over after nine innings. Not so. Although we were using a relatively harmless missile, for some reason there were always neighbors who objected to us winging this thing all over the neighborhood and throwing ourselves against their cars in an effort to beat the throw to the car-base. This resulted in the “Game Called on Account of Cops” ending. A patrol car would swoop in and the bat would be confiscated. If we were forewarned, even by a few seconds, we could forestall this ending by chucking the bat under a car and sticking the ball in our pocket.“What? Oh we are just having a cappella practice officers. Nobody playing stick ball around here today.”Loss of ball was another ending. A power hitter with lousy control could put the ball on the roof of the theater across the street or into old Mr. Thompson’s yard. Thompson had a Doberman Pincher on a long chain. Of course nobody had another ball. We never thought that far ahead. This was to be a recurring theme.There was termination by bully. Every so often a couple of big guys from another street would happen by and see us having fun, which could not be allowed. It is in the bully code. They would start by demanding a turn at bat. It usually ended with them either hitting the ball onto that roof on purpose, or they would just walk off with the bat while laughing. If you had your own bully they would not do this. However, your bully had to be the pitcher, hogging the ball on every play and pinch-hitting for anybody he thought could not hit the ball, often batting on every other turn.Too dark to see the ball? For some reason it never occurred to us to figure out if there was enough time to play a whole game. If we felt like playing, we just started, then acted surprised when we found ourselves swinging our bats at bats instead of the ball.There’s that theme again.Bill Abrams resides, and still takes to the streets with stick and ball every so often, in Pine Plains.