Handball in the School Yard

My father stood five feet one inch tall, but I never thought he was short. No one in our extended family exceeded five feet four inches.

He was an athlete--swam for miles and once rescued a drowning child.

"I learned to swim," he said, "by diving off the pier into the East River." He and his brothers survived their unorthodox swimming lessons. 

**********

 Wade Junior High School and its cement school yard included a handball court--a wall about fifteen feet high and twenty feet wide.

Weekend mornings my father headed over to the courts for a game. He  owned the requisite pair of protective gloves and a hard blackball. 

You need quick reflexes, good eye-hand coordination and survival skills to play city handball. 

I loved watching the games. The men moved across the court with  wily abandonment, their palms struck the ball sending it careening against the wall and bouncing back to their opponent. 
 
For several hours the air quivered with the sound of sneakers sliding across the court and a blackball ricocheting off a wall.

Mario from Jerome Avenue served the fastest balls while  Samuel who lived  on Morris Avenue was quickest. My father's reputation-- cunning.