Back when summers were loud, streets were ours,
and joy cost about fifty cents,
there was Tina’s—the around-the-block candy store on 83rd.
You’d walk in with a pocketful of change—sticky from melted candy—and head straight for the wire bin near the register.
No need to ask. No need to explain.
There it was, waiting for you: the Spaldeen.
Pink.
Rubber.
Perfect.
Not just a ball—the ball.
The one that knew every crack in the sidewalk,
every brick on the schoolyard wall,
every stoop that could launch it into orbit.
Kids were allowed outside—no phones, no tracking apps—
just a simple rule: be home by lunch.
And with that kind of freedom, the block was your universe.
You’d bounce it once outside—pop!—and suddenly the block lit up.
Kids came running.
Games erupted.
Handball. Slapball. Stoopball. Punchball.
No gear, no coaches, no rules you couldn’t bend.
The Spaldeen went under cars, over fences, into backyards you weren’t supposed to enter.
It disappeared down sewer grates—may it rest in peace.
Sometimes it split right in half from too much love.
But that was okay.
Because Tina’s always had another.
And you always had enough change if you skipped the second soda.
It wasn’t just a ball.
It was your ticket to the game.
To the crew.
To the long summer afternoon that never seemed to end.
The Spaldeen didn’t bounce.
It boomed.
And if you were lucky,
it took your childhood with it—
high, fast, and free.
The Valley Viewpoint 