Yo, Watchoo Lookin' At?

Last week, I traveled to Houston on business. On my way back home, as I am wont to do when I'm in a city I haven't previously visited, I purchased a snow globe, to add to the collection we have at home.

While searching through several stores, all featuring an eclectic mix of souvenir items, I realized that there seemed to be common thread running through all of these retail establishments. All of these places featured something with the phrase "Don't Mess With Texas" emblazoned on it. It was everywhere. On T-shirts, hats, key chains, ash trays, you name it. You couldn't go more than ten feet in that airport without seeing the phrase "Don't Mess With Texas" somewhere.

My initial reaction was something along the lines of "Boy, they must be really tough here. I'd better not mess with Texas." On second thought, maybe it's just the opposite. Why do these people have to spend so much time telling other people not to mess with them?

Take my home state, New York, for instance. Have you ever seen a "Don't Mess With New York" T-shirt anywhere? Of course not. In fact, most New Yorkers are secretly hoping that someone will mess with them, just so that they have an excuse to slap somebody around.

New Yorkers have a reputation for being tough. We don't need a T-shirt to prove it.

Okay, I'll admit it. I've really bought in to the "tough New Yorker" thing. Perhaps it's a matter of civic pride. As FBB knows all too well, I get a kick out of telling people that I grew up in Queens, in a tough neighborhood. So, you'd better not mess with me.

The truth is that the part of Queens in which I grew up, a town called Kew Gardens, was a rather idyllic place, actually. Nothing tough about it at all, really. I can hardly recall any incidents in my childhood where my toughness was tested.

Then again, there was that incident at the stickball game.

Here's the story:

I had a friend who lived on the other side of Kew Gardens, and we used to hang out a lot and play ball after school and on weekends. About a block away from his house, right off a major street, there was an area where the neighborhood kids used to play stickball. For those of you who are unfamiliar with stickball, it's very much a New York City game, and is basically baseball, designed to fit the unique dimensions and characteristics of the city streets. As the name implies, the game involves using a broomstick instead of a bat, with the bottom portion of the stick covered with tape, for a better grip. We typically used a rubber ball, although sometimes we played with a tennis ball. The interesting thing about stickball is that different parts of New York have different rules. In Queens, the ball was pitched on a bounce, with an umpire calling balls and strikes. A foul ball on a third strike resulted in an out. Otherwise, everything was based on distance. Anything that got through the infield was a single. If the ball landed on the crosswalk, it was a double. If it landed in the cross street, it was a triple. If you hit the ball clear over the cross street (quite a distance), it was a homerun.

One day, when I was 11 or 12 years old, I was playing football with my friend outside his house, and we noticed a stickball game in progress, so we went down the block to watch. It turned out that they were short on players that day, so they asked us to join. We did, although we felt a bit awkward, as we were the only Jewish kids playing in a game that was clearly skewed toward the Italian-American demographic. When it became obvious that my friend and I were both pretty good at the game, we were invited back to play whenever we wanted.

A couple of weeks later, I was playing stickball, and I was hanging around, awaiting my turn at bat. One of my teammates was a 16 year old kid named Anthony. (Actually, about half of the kids there were named Anthony). Anthony was one of those guys who made you wonder how the Roman Empire lasted longer than 20 minutes. Let's just say he was a few beans short of a pasta fazool.

(Blogger's note: In the next section, readers will be well-served to read Anthony's lines with a heavy, almost caricature-like Italian-American accent. Think of any mobster movie or TV show you've ever seen).

As I'm just standing off to the side, minding my own business, Anthony sidled over to me, and pointed to a spot about 100 feet away, where a bunch of girls named Angie, Gina and Tina and the rest of the local chapter of Future Hairdressers of America (FHA) were hanging out, listening to the radio.

The following conversation ensued:

Anthony: "See that girl over there? That's my girlfriend, Angie."
Me: "Oh."
Anthony: "I think she's nice."
Me: "Oh."
Anthony (gesturing towards the group of girls): "Hey Angie, come here."

At this point, the warning bells started ringing in my head.

Few things on this planet are as frightening as an Italian guy trying to show off for his girlfriend. This would probably not end well, for anyone involved.

Angie came over to where we were standing.

Anthony: "Hey, Angie, I think you're beautiful."
Angie (cracking her gum): "Aww, thanks Anthony."
Anthony (turning to me): "Isn't she beautiful?"
Me: "Uhhh."
Anthony: "Whatsa matter, you don't think she's beautiful?"
Me: "Uhhh."
Anthony: "Hey kid, tell Angie that you think she's beautiful."
Me: "Uhhh."
Angie: "Knock it off, Anthony, leave the kid alone."
Anthony: "No. I think you're beautiful, and he's gonna say it."

Now, just for the record, let me point out the following. Angie was not beautiful. She was not pretty. Not even remotely so. Angie was far from beautiful. Very far. It was a long distance call from Angie to pretty. And long distance calls cost a fortune back then. Of course, this was all besides the point. This was about intimidation. For some reason I can't quite explain, perhaps sheer stubbornness, I made up my mind right then and there that I wasn't going to be Anthony's puppet, no matter what the consequences. That's just how we rolled in the 11415. It was a way of life in "the Q."

Anthony then picked up a stickball bat, and waved it in my face. The veins in his neck started to bulge, and he was turning red. "If you don't tell Angie she's beautiful right now, I'm gonna hit you with this bat."

Angie: "Cut it out Anthony, what's wrong with you?"
Anthony: "Stay out of it, Angie, this ain't about you."
Angie: "You're a jerk, Anthony."
Anthony: "Oh yeah? Well you're a pig."

After that romantic exchange, Angie stormed off, leaving me alone with Anthony. Unfortunately, he wasn't done. "I'm tellin' you, kid, you say that Angie's beautiful, or I'll hit you with this thing."

I said nothing.

Anthony tensed, then swung the stick at me...and stopped short. He dropped the stick, and broke out in a wide grin. "Aww, I was just messing with you. It's alright."

He then put his arm around my shoulder, and said, "I like you. You're tough." Of course, he then felt compelled to boadcast his opinion to everyone. "See this kid here," he said, pointing to me. "He's tough. He's all right."

About a minute later, it was my turn at bat. I strode to the plate, and either because of the fear-induced adrenaline rush I had just experienced, or emboldened by Anthony's endorsement (or simply because I was lucky enough to get a pitch right where I wanted it), I crushed the first pitch I saw, sending the ball across the street. And over the sidewalk. And over a house. Off the roof of the second house.

For the second time in about two minutes, I earned some respect.

The interesting thing is, Anthony still wasn't happy. "Hey, that was my ball you just lost. You owe me a quarter."

The rest of the game, and my childhood, for that matter, passed by without a similar incident.

Looking back, I'm not sure if I really was tough, or just really, really stupid. Well, at least Anthony thought I was tough.

You know, the funny thing is, I don't remember ever paying Anthony for that ball. If I ever did run into him again, perhaps I'd just hand him a dollar bill, for the ball.

I'd tell him to keep the change.

...to buy something nice, for Angie.