The Courts
Approximately 200,000 automobiles travel daily on New York’s Long Island Expressway (LIE), and I doubt not one driver or passenger ever pays any attention to that small odd shaped block of the city on the south side of the expressway, just west of the 108th Street exit in Queens.
Labeled today on Google Maps as the Barrier Playground, it is bordered by 62nd Avenue to the south, one of Queens’ most famous streets, Yellowstone Blvd. to the east, and a row of a few private homes to the west. The north side adjoins the Horace Harding Expressway, which is really the service road for the LIE, and here it triangulates in to merge with 62nd Avenue.
For me, though, every single time that I pass by, I cannot help but turn my head momentarily as the LIE rises up an incline to provide a fleeting three second glimpse of that area. It seems empty, barren and lifeless today, as that little city park with a handball court and two full court basketball courts sits largely in a state of disuse. But that is not how I see it. I see it through a lens to my past, harkening back to the time of the late 1960’s and early 1970’s.
I was just about to turn thirteen when my family moved to a new apartment in Rego Park. Although only about seven or eight blocks away, it may as well have been to a different continent, as the move brought us to the other side of Queens’ most major thoroughfare, Queens Blvd. Crossing this line also meant I’d be leaving my old junior high school behind after one year there in seventh grade. A new school awaited me, one long block away from our new apartment. I’d had a particularly difficult time acclimating to the junior high school environment in seventh grade, not academically, but socially, so I was not averse to having a chance for a new beginning.
I would still be taking classes in the New York City public school system’s three year version of its enriched “Special Program (SP)”, consisting mainly of honors classes supplemented by electives in both foreign language and instrumental music. There were two main classes of about 30 students each in this program. I will never understand why this particular group of students was so different from those I had met in my old junior high school, but I found them to be very friendly, inclusive and welcoming of newcomers. It was not long before I got swept up in their major recreational activity that would remain entrenched in me virtually until I hit the age of 50.
Basketball has always been known as the “city game.” This may be due to the way that parks proliferate throughout the boroughs of NYC, and all that a group of ten needs to participate is one basketball. Within a mile of my new apartment, there were at least ten different schoolyards, parks, or playgrounds where outdoor baskets could be found. That period from the summer of 1968 when I turned thirteen, until the fall of 1973 when I left for college also coincided with the most magical era of NBA Basketball that New York City has ever seen. Those NY Knicks, playing with an extraordinary unselfish team based style on offense but primarily driven by their focused intensity on defense, captured the hearts and minds of all New Yorkers as they won two championships and competed for a third.
Two of these Knicks, the now legendary NY hero Willis Reed and the popular charismatic Cazzie Russell both lived in apartments a few blocks from me. They frequented the local Jewish Deli where their autographed photos lined the walls and counter, alongside the pastrami and potato knishes. They also frequented the bagel shop and other stores on 63rd Road. One of my friends actually delivered dry cleaning to them, explaining to us that when the standard 6’8”” door to Willis’ apartment opened, his head and neck were not even visible through the opening.
All of these factors combined to make recreational basketball the activity of choice for my new found group of friends. Our after school center offered daily access to play in the gym, although it was usually limited to “half court.” Various different public schools in the area combined to provide evening open gym play for us: one would be open on Mondays and Thursdays, another on Tuesdays and Fridays, and a third on Wednesdays. We played every night, usually after having played every afternoon. You’d think that would be plenty, or enough, but you’d be wrong.
I don’t recall the circumstances that first led us to gather outdoors at that one particular set of outdoor courts along the LIE service road. There were surely many other options, some of them even a little closer to where we all lived. These apparently available outdoor courts afforded us the opportunity to focus more on regular full court five on five basketball, although we’d play any other variation there too from one on one, two on two, three on three, to four on four, whether full court or half court. There was no Google Maps back then, and without any identifying signage from the city, we came to call this place, simply, “The Courts.”
On weekdays, Saturdays, Sundays and holidays throughout the year, on summer weekday evenings after work or camp, we gathered there religiously, usually ten to twenty of us, to run full court basketball and try to honor the game in the same way our NY heroes played. No communication, planning or coordination was ever required. It was just understood that we’d always be there, all the time, playing our hearts out forever. Play defense, hit the open man on offense. The only shortcoming was the absence of outdoor lighting, so our games ended only when we could legitimately no longer see the basket due to darkness. Many a mother would scramble to get family dinners served earlier than usual on those summer weeknights so that we could all be on our way to play basketball by 7 pm, ensuring a good two to two and a half hours of summer evening play.
You’d think that would be plenty, or enough, but you’d be wrong. The Beatles’ “Eight Days A Week” had nothing on us, because it felt like that is how much we played there. We played there in the spring in the rain. We played there in the summer in the 90 degree heat. We played there in the fall under any and all conditions. And we played there in the winter, even to the point of shoveling the snow off of The Courts first.
As winter came, we had realized that all we needed to supplement our other winter indoor play, was a phone chain. Like the post office, neither rain nor snow would stop us, it would just require a few phone calls first before we could play. On many a wintery Saturday or Sunday morning, my mother would come into my room and tell me a friend of mine was on the phone. A grin would slowly envelope my face. The Courts, I thought to myself! What time, who’s bringing the shovels? A two sentence conversation on the phone followed. “12:30.” “Call so-and-so.”
After junior high school was finished, we all entered Forest Hills High School, which among other accolades, was also a perennial NYC High School Basketball powerhouse. No, there would be no let up for us. It, too, offered evening gym access for our maturing games. With close to 4,000 students when we first entered in 10th grade, Forest Hills offered its three grades a staggered triple session. As sophomores, we attended school from about 11 am to 5 pm making daytime play impossible. As juniors we attended from 9 am to 3 pm allowing for afternoon play at the Courts. As seniors we attended from 7 am to 12:45 pm. By now, I am sure I don’t need to tell you what this group of seniors did daily beginning around 1:30 pm, all through 12th grade. The Courts.
As we scattered to colleges, most of us out of town, the heyday of The Courts was now behind us. But we all came home for Thanksgiving, Christmas intersession, spring break, and the summer. For several more years, The Courts lived on during those times. Sure, we all drove there now instead of walking or riding our bicycles. But much else remained the same, until life’s evolution ultimately forced the scattering of our group and erosion of our get togethers at The Courts.
So the next time that you have occasion to be one of those 200,000 that still pass by daily, look over the LIE to 62nd Avenue as you pass by. Perhaps you too will now see the smooth behind the back dribble popularized ever so coolly by Walt Frazier; perhaps you’ll see the tenacious shot blocking or ferocious rebounding evoking Willis Reed; perhaps you’ll see the high arcing long range jump shot of Cazzie Russell; or perhaps you’ll see legendary defense played like never before like Dave DeBusschere.
Perhaps you’ll see a group of young boys playing — the City Game.
At The Courts.
