The Summer of the Breeze
It was July 1976 and my family had been living on the upper west side on 112th Street for a year and a half. My younger sister Nikki and I were entrenched members of the neighborhood family. She developed a strong bond with my friend, Wolfie’s sister Angie. Together they assembled a crew of girls they could both easily boss around.
Meanwhile, I quickly got the reputation of being a good stickball player because I was hitting home runs left and right. Even the older guys on the block took notice and nicknamed me “Cool Breeze.” I was no longer Jason Baxter. I was “The Breeze.” Whenever I walked down the street, every stride I took oozed confidence and I could hear J.J. Cale’s “Call Me the Breeze” playing in my head. Everything was going my way. The Yankees moved back into the newly renovated Yankee Stadium. Even my afro was having a great summer, and to top it off, I found the 1st issue of Spiderman in a pile magazines somebody threw out. The summer of 1976 was the Summer of The Breeze.
The vibe on our block was a pretty chill one, and we all got along most of the time with the only real arguments happening was between siblings. Kids from other blocks used to come hang at ours because there was always lots of activity going on. They called our block the UN because of its diverse racial and ethnic makeup. My other partner in crime, Skinny Mike, who was also known as Mikey, hailed from a family that immigrated to the United States from Ireland in the 1930s. He was the youngest of four and the only boy.
Wolfie’s family was a TV sitcom waiting to happen. I never got an accurate count of how many family members lived in that apartment, but it always seemed to be filled with people. Wolfie’s dad Ramon was the super for the building and their home was two first floor apartments that were combined and a spacious basement. The main inhabitants of the Santiago home were his parents, four sisters, and grandmother, Rosa, who everybody in the neighborhood called Abuela. She was always our biggest defender and everybody’s surrogate grandmother.
I had a good read on most of the folks, but the person who cast the largest shadow on our block was Lula Mae Brand, matriarch of the Brand family. They were all roughly six feet tall, part black, part Native American and part Sasquatch. Lula Mae and Malcolm Brand produced three sons, Muhammed, Abdul, and Doug. Poor Doug was born after Mr. Brand had transitioned out of his Nation of Islam phase. Mr. Brand was a corrections officer at Rikers Island, so we didn’t see too much of him. However, Mrs. Brand was ever present. I would even say omnipresent. She sat in her second-floor window, with an RC Cola in one hand, an unfiltered Pall Mall cigarette hanging out of the left side of her mouth with an ash tray & Bic lighter perched on her windowsill. She watched everything we did like a hawk, so we gave her the nickname Neighborhood Watch.
In the summer, the stickball games moved from the playground to the street, with the manhole cover serving as home plate. The games would happen right in front of her window, so she watched us play stickball or football and sometimes would involve herself in our games. Her voice was loud, sometimes piercing, with a touch of Southern grit that was heard over everything else that was going on. Mrs. Brand even took to umpiring, coaching, or doing play-by-play of our games from her window. She would say things like, “You missed the tag, Wolfie, you missed the tag,” or “Michael, your swing was a little lazy today. Sweetheart, is everything okay at home?” On some occasions, after having several late afternoon cocktails with Mrs. Rubinstein, she would boo if we made a mistake. A month and a half into the summer and we were already growing tired of hearing her voice. Things got so ridiculous, on close plays, we didn’t even bother arguing with each other. We all looked up at Mrs. Brand’s window waiting for the safe or out call.
One day, mid-July on a Thursday afternoon, we were getting ready to play stickball against our toughest competition, the guys from 107th Street. Half their team were players on the Brandeis High School JV baseball team and some others were future weed dealers I would patronize several years later. They added one player to their team that was universally disliked by almost everybody 20 blocks north and south of 112th Street.
Alloy Johnson stood five feet tall with at least at foot of that being his afro, and I couldn’t stand the little sociopath. Andre the Giant was known as the eighth wonder of the world, and Alloy’s afro was the ninth. He always kept an afro pick with the handle shaped like the black power fist in his hair, and I swear to you it never moved.
He met any perceived slight or insult directed at him with the following words: “I’m gonna get my brother to come here and kick your ass.” A profuse apology from the alleged offender followed, hoping the situation would not escalate any further. Nobody wanted to mess with Alloy’s brother, Timmy, or as he was better known, Karate Man Timmy. He got his nickname because he studied martial arts and had a strange obsession with the Saturday afternoon kung fu movies on Channel 5.
There were about 10 different Timmys in our neighborhood, so they each got a nickname to distinguish one from the other. There was Skateboard Timmy, Roller Skatin’ Timmy, and my favorite, Plain Ole Timmy, whose stunning lack of personality rendered him invisible to all of us. Sometimes, it would take us about twenty minutes to realize he had been standing there with us all along. As we prepared for the game, Wolfie was the first one to express fear about our opponent.
“I don’t know if you’ve seen these guys since last year, but they all grew about three inches and added a shitload of facial hair. I say this as the hairiest bastard we know.”
We had been kicking everybody’s ass all summer and were due for a beating. This was when Skinny Mike thought we needed some tough love and a stern talking to.
“Man, you guys are a bunch of wusses. No heart. Like my Uncle Seamus used to say…” Before he could get the words out of his mouth, we all groaned in unison.
“Coño, Mikey…Uncle Seamus? Now?” Wolfie said. “Oh man, here they come with that little pendejo with the afro.”
We all looked up the block, and there they were, headed our way. We exchanged hellos and got started. I had this strange feeling in my gut that something still wasn’t right in the universe.
“Wolfie, Mrs. Brand’s not in her window! You know how superstitious I am.”
“Really, Jay? The last thing we need is Mrs. Brand and her drunk ass booing us from her window while we’re getting our asses kicked.”
We battled back and forth for what seemed like an eternity. The stickball games were seven innings long, and going into the bottom of the sixth inning, we were tied 5-5. Up to that point, I was having a horrible game, striking out each time at bat. What made it worse was there were runners on base each time. The Summer of the Breeze was becoming a dud. It didn’t help that everybody not playing was watching. Some of the older girls were sitting on a stoop with their boyfriends checking out the game.
With two outs in the sixth inning, I came up to the plate and heard Alloy scream out, “Here’s an automatic out. This guy’s a scrub. Everybody sit down.” I heard that and got pissed off. I was prepared to hit the ball to the moon and preserve the Summer of the Breeze. I quietly seethed as I stared down Alloy. I swung at the first pitch with everything I had, missed and fell to the ground. Besides the sound of my flesh hitting the ground, I heard everyone’s laughter at my very public misfortune.
I dusted myself off and got ready for the next pitch. I avoided eye contact with everyone and focused on the pitcher. I hit it further than I had ever hit any ball. The 107th Street boys didn’t even move; they just watched the Spaldeen ball fly away into the distance. The guys mobbed me at home plate as if we had already won the game. There was nothing in the universe that could have wiped that smile off my face. I was tempted to say something to Alloy, but there was no need. The home run did all the talking.
We were ahead 6–5 going into the seventh inning and got two quick outs. Alloy came to the plate and hit a rocket over everyone’s head. I ran for what seemed like a mile after the ball. I caught up to it, picked it up and threw a frozen rope home on one bounce. Wolfie tagged him out, and we won. We all ran in to greet Wolfie and then we heard Alloy scream out, “I was safe! Game is tied!” The next thing you heard was a good old-fashioned New York City cry of “bullshit!” which we all screamed at Alloy. Skinny Mike, in the rare role of peacemaker, tried to reason with him.
“Bro, respect the call. You were out.”
“I ain’t your bro, Lucky Charms, ain’t nobody talking to you.” I had heard enough.
“You’re making fun of somebody’s height? Look at you. You’re like the size of a Keebler elf! Why don’t you climb your ass up a tree and bake us some cookies.”
That got lots of laughs, even from Alloy’s teammates. I guess watching the Dean Martin Celebrity Roast on TV paid off. My ego and head swelled. I mean, it was the Summer of the Breeze, and the Breeze was on a roll and could do no wrong. The rush I got from the laughs encouraged me to continue roasting my little friend. “What the hell kind of name is Alloy? Does your mom hate you or something?”
A stone-faced Alloy said, “My mother is dead.” There was a deafening silence followed by the dreaded words: “I’m gonna get my brother to come here and kick your ass.”
Alloy took off to retrieve his brother. That uneasy feeling I felt earlier was not about Mrs. Brand but the Summer of the Breeze slipping away into the ether. Shit, it was mid-July. How could the Summer of the Breeze end? Everyone had the dead man walking look in their eyes, and then the random comments came in a flurry.
One of his teammates said, “I heard he beat the crap out of Fernando at Pizza Town because he thought he took his quarters off the Kiss pinball machine. We ain’t seen him since.”
Another one chimed in, “I heard he was in jail for five years.”
That last one sent me over the edge. I lost it and screamed, “You idiots, he’s 16. He didn’t go to prison for five years!” No one had ever seen The Breeze lose his cool. Yes, I keep referring to myself in the third person because that’s the kind of summer I was having. Sue me. Luckily, Wolfie came in with a welcome distraction.
“Let’s all chill out and calm down. I saw Alloy’s ugly momma at the A&P this morning. That hideous beast is still breathing. Okay?”
That got plenty of laughs and loosened things up. Wolfie pulled me to the side out of earshot of everyone.
“Jay, anybody who lies about their mom being dead is crazy. You just say the word, and I’ll get my cousin Benny from down the block. He’s got a trunk full of baseball bats in his car.”
While I appreciated Wolfie’s loyalty, I couldn’t help wondering, “Who keeps a trunk full of baseball bats in their car?” I had no idea what the next 30 minutes had in store for me, but one thing was certain—The Summer of the Breeze was in peril.
We all waited for Karate Man Timmy to turn the corner. I stood there with no emotion on my face, but inside I began to mourn the end of the summer of all summers. My great triumphs would be erased, and the Summer of The Breeze wouldn’t even make it to the dog days of August. I would be one amongst a long list of guys who got beat down by Karate Man Timmy. I was so panic-stricken I thought I was going to piss in my pants and that would only add insult to injury. Lying in the middle of the street, unconscious, with my urine-soaked Levi’s on display for all the world to see.
I stood there feeling all the cool points I accumulated over the summer slide down my face with each bead of sweat. The moment of truth arrived. Karate Man Timmy had appeared in front of me, almost as if Scotty beamed him down from the Starship Enterprise. He was wearing his karate gi and a cheap pair of black slip-on karate shoes he probably purchased on Canal Street. I had never heard him speak before or had any type of interaction with him, and what I heard took me by surprise.
Karate Man Timmy’s voice had the same robotic cadence as those poorly dubbed kung fu movies, making me half expect his words to be out of sync with his lip movements.
“I hear you disrespected my younger brother, and I must avenge the dishonoring of my family.”
My inner smart-ass emerged, and I figured if I’m going to get my ass kicked, I might as well go down swinging, verbally that is.
“Timmy, let me ask you something. Why the hell do you talk like that? You sound ridiculous!” I said, feeding off everyone else’s laughter. “Listen to this asshole. He’s talking like the characters in one of those stupid kung fu movies. You’re a clown…Timothy.”
The laughter continued until we heard weird sounds coming from Karate Man Timmy. It was a series of loud karate noises. We all watched what appeared to be Timmy getting ready to unleash a flurry of kicks and punches at my entire body. I thought to myself, “Oh boy, here it comes!” I closed my eyes because I didn’t care to witness my own brutal beat down. With my eyes shut tight and my fists clenched, I braced myself for the inevitable, but nothing happened. I opened my eyes, and there was Karate Man Timmy, throwing kicks and punches in the air. He had no intention of fighting at all, and his encounters probably never got that far. He was all fear and intimidation. That’s when Nikki went into full boxing coach mode.
“Ooo, Jay, kick his ass, kick his ass, kick his ass!”
Nikki might have been onto something. I prepared to violate everything I stood for until a big, gigantic hand swooped in and grabbed Timmy by the ear. Mrs. Brand, who, apparently, was not dead or injured, came to the rescue. With her lit Pall Mall in one hand and Timmy’s ear in the other, she let him have it.
“You don’t come to my block and mess with one of my kids. Now go home to your ugly momma and learn some manners.”
As he left, Mrs. Brand delivered a literal kick to his ass. Alloy and Timmy scurried away, not to be seen for a long time. We all picked our jaws up off the ground and dispersed. The guys went to Mama Joy’s for sandwiches, and I hung back to talk to Mrs. Brand.
“Where were you? If you were in your window like you were supposed to, none of this would have happened.”
“I was next door at Mrs. Rubinstein’s having a late afternoon cocktail. I was watching the game from her window. By the way, Jay, you know that boy was safe, right?”
