Diary of a First Street Rambler

Prologue

Sixty-one years have passed since the First Street Ramblers last fielded a team on the sand lots of Monessen’s City Park or the Ninth Street ball field. The basketball rim which was once attached to a homemade banking board that was nailed to a telephone pole on McKee Avenue has been discarded. Many decades ago, city ordinances made it illegal to mount such structures on public utility poles. Even without the ordinance it is highly unlikely that today’s youth would take the time or make the effort for a pickup game of hoops beneath the dim lighting of a corner telephone pole. They are probably too busy texting friends, playing computer games or having their parents chauffeur them to manicured little league diamonds or gymnasiums where throngs of parents are watching their mini-stars, some of whom are already burned-out through too much parental supervision. They are coached by well-intentioned, yet over-zealous adults. Their games are officiated by paid umpires and referees. They are equipped with the finest padding, helmets, bats and balls, as well as colorful uniforms. On the surface, all seems to be ‘peaches and cream’, but, is it? I sometimes wonder whatever happened to “childhood.” When I see my own grandchildren with cell phones glued to their ears, being completely unaware of the world around them as they text a friend who is also unaware of that world, I shed a tear over the exciting adventure of childhood which they are missing. I witness growing boys and girls stuffing their guts with an overabundance of sweets, Big Macs or deluxe pizzas, I recall the days when a five-cent banana popsicle or a vanilla Dixie cup was more than enough to satisfy the cravings of any normal twelve-year-old. That same twelve-year-old was eager to choose sides for still another ball game at the old vacant lot or perhaps pick teams for an exciting adventure of “Release the Belgium,” “Leap Frog,” or “Capture the Flag.” To tell kids today to go outside and play in today’s society is like a form of punishment. The very word “play” is foreign to them and when they do play, it is often overly supervised and structured. For those of you who grew up in the 30’s, 40’s, 50’s or 60’s, do you ever recall being bored? I don’t! There was always something for us to do. Yet, with all their personal computers, Wii’s , televisions, cell phones and expensive manufactured toys, the cry from today’s youth is “I’m bored! There’s nothing to do!” Childhood, with its magical touch of creativity has sadly disappeared with the coming of a “higher standard of living.” It is known as “progress” but I for one would like to see us back in those thrilling days of yesteryear when a boy could really be a boy and a little girl was allowed to be a little girl rather than a mini glamour queen. Poverty had its advantages and if your childhood resembled mine, we were “dirt poor” in comparison to today’s standards. Yet, we were allowed to be kids who invented our own entertainment. We sharpened our imaginative skills and developed our creative abilities far beyond the horizons of today’s munchkins. Oh yes, we walked or ran everywhere! Many of our parents did not even own one car, let alone a family fleet! As a result, very few of us were overweight. We ran our skinny butts off and were happy doing so. Like many grandparents of the 21st Century, I often attempt to bestow on my grandchildren some of the material niceties I was denied. However, as a child of the ‘40’s, I realize there is nothing of material value I could give them to compare with the joy of my own childhood. We played with taped-up balls and broken bats. We made things like slingshots and rubber band guns. We cleaned up vacant lots and made our own ball fields and play grounds. Girls were jumping rope, playing hopscotch or catching jacks while we boys were poised around a dirt ring playing marbles or tossing baseball cards against the curb. We were before television, which allowed our imaginations to broaden through the magic of radio. Divorce was uncommon and in most instances our homes were equipped with a full-time mother – one who was at home cooking our meals, mending our clothes and nurturing our cuts and bruises. Our schools did not have computers, calculators or TV ‘s, but they did have dedicated teachers who taught us to read, write and to know our multiplication tables. As the years go by, we tend to glorify the past, overlooking its rough spots. The 40’s had its downsides, though. There were older brothers, uncles and fathers who did not return from the war. Neither our rationing books nor our pocketbooks provided us with enough butter, sugar or meat. The soles of our shoes often wore out before a new pair was affordable and the knees of our overalls or knickers sometimes had more patches on them than the discarded inner tube we used at our favorite swimming hole. But we survived, and in that survival we learned to appreciate what we had. We congregated on street corners and formed clubs or gangs that challenged other corner gangs to football or baseball games. The particular gang that I became a part of was the First Street Ramblers. We were an assortment of boys who lived within a four-block radius from the corner of First Street and Schoonmaker Avenue in Monessen, PA. We were a variety of shapes, sizes and ethnic backgrounds, ranging in age from seven to thirteen. Our counterparts were found in every pocket of the steel mill community in which we lived. They included Smokey Hollow, the Mc Mahon Aces, the Moaners, Cherry Alley, the Brown Bombers, the Ozarks and others with equally exciting names. Despite the war years of the early 40’s, it was a wonderful time in which to be growing up. I often wish I had maintained a log of my childhood adventures, but like many of my contemporaries, those five-year diaries we received as birthday or Christmas gifts have been lost or discarded. As a result, “The Diary of a First Street Rambler,” is committed by a somewhat fading memory more than 60 years after the fact. However, fact it is. Some of the dates may be incorrect, but the events most certainly occurred. The joy of those years has unfortunately disappeared, but the memories linger on. I invite you to join me as I trace my steps to those yesteryear days when there did exist a group of rag-tail boys known as the First Street Ramblers. This is the story of one of those boys.