Sports heroes of the 60s. The Miracle Mets of 69 with Tom Seaver. Roger Maris and his 61st homer. Jim Brown, unstoppable fullback of the Cleveland Browns. David Lesansky at P.S. 83.

If you remember punchball you're dating yourself. It was baseball without the baseball, without the bat and glove. You played it with a little red rubber ball. No pitcher, no balls and strikes.

The batter steps up to the plate, a little red rubber ball in his right hand. He bounces it on the cement, catches it with his left, switches it back to his right, bounces it and catches it again. He looks over the field. Where should I hit it? He's like a free thrower in basketball, taking his time before going into action. He takes his few steps forward like a bowler ready to throw. He tosses the ball up to the exactly right height, and when the ball reaches its zenith and starts to obey gravity he whacks it with his right hand and races towards first base.

The game is played on the school grounds, where the kids all line up to get ready to enter the school together. The infield happens to be raised a few steps from the outfield. If you hit it really high and far it will sail over the whole infield and down to the lower area, maybe for a homerun. It's not enough to hit the ball hard. You have to develop the knack of hitting it really high too if you want to hit a homerun.

As all punchball historians know, the best player at P.S. 83 in Long Island City/Astoria, Queens, New York City in 1960 was Anthony Polidoro, known as Popup Pollo. But he wasn't in my class and I never played with him so fuckim.

My class had Eddie Epstein. He was the alpha male. He even had a girlfriend, in fifth grade, pretty redheaded Rachel Rosenthal. He was 20 months older than me. At 9 years old, I was kind of young for fifth grade. That's what happens when you're the smartest kid in the universe and you get skipped from 2nd to 3rd grade in mid-year. You get to be the little kid from then on, socially and athletically a good year behind the rest. Think twice before letting your kids skip a grade in school. What's the point?

Eddie never spoke to me, not once. I never spoke to him either. He had his little clique, his Bobby Chakrin, his tall gorky Stephen Cohen. I didn't speak to them either. Eddie spoke to Marion Stieglitz though. He called her Boogie. He teased her relentlessly. He treated her like a virus to be isolated and destroyed. He was the coolest kid in the class and she was the uncoolest, a tall awkward flustered overweight girl who could only blush and giggle and internalize the ridicule, unable to answer back one word. I never called her Boogie, never teased her. It wasn't in me to hurt someone. I can imagine how low her self esteem was.

Lieutenant Bobby Chakrin also had a girlfriend in fifth grade, a very pretty girl named Nancy Pollack. I wonder what "girlfriend" meant back then. Probably a kiss and a feel after school. I doubt that it meant much more.

The fifth grade teacher chose the captains of the two punchball teams for recess in the afternoon, and apparently didn't know a thing, because Bobby and I were chosen as rival captains. Huh? Me? What are you, kidding?

Who do I pick first? Bruce Ronner is the likeliest choice, my best friend at the time, a little guy with a fierce athleticism and a knack for popping the ball up pretty high. God help you if he was pitching to you in hardball because he threw with all his might, had no control, and was as likely to bash you in the head with the ball as he was to throw a strike, and he didn't give a shit which result it was. For a small kid he was pretty scary in basketball too, a few years down the road. His family moved to Jamaica Queens, a black neighborhood, and he played with all the black kids, and played like a maniac, a cannonball on the move, so get the fuck out of his way or get knocked down.

But no, I don't want to make it the "Lennie and his best friend" team. I wanted a more all inclusive team, a team that people would want to be on. I sure didn't want to pick anyone in Bobby's clique. They wouldn't want to be on my team.

As Elias Sports Bureau faithfully records, I picked little David Lesansky. He was great at popping the ball up high for homeruns, and he would be really proud to be the first one picked. He'd be really happy to be on my team after an honor like that. He was, too. I picked up Bruce later.

What about Hoppy?, you ask. Hoppy, also known as George Schechter, used to hop forward before taking a swing. I don't know. For the life of me, I don't know if I picked Hoppy or not. Sorry.

The historic game ended in a victory for the underdog, namely my team, and some very large payoffs at Bodog.com and Sportsbook.

Post script. Two years later, tall gorky Stephen Cohen put his arm on my shoulder and asked me if I wore panties. I don't know. What are panties anyway? When I didn't knock his arm off my shoulder within a few seconds this apparently confirmed that I was a homo. Really? What is a homo anyway? It was an innocent era. An 11 year old who didn't know what panties and homos were. I wonder why Stephen Cohen put his arm around my shoulder in the first place. Could it be? Was he a ........ homo?

No, it wasn't bullying it was just silliness. I never went in for bullying, on either side of the equation, as bully or victim. Wasn't into it. Never saw myself as a victim, and nobody else ever saw me that way either.

As for pretty Nancy Pollack, she was in my class in junior high too, and she went into a very awkward pimply giggly phase. She was no longer pretty at all. She was very dufusy. Her best friend was Marion Stieglitz then. Funny how time changes things. Then in high school Nancy turned into gorgeous again.