and least assertive of the neighborhood band, had to take what was left. If I got to be
a cowboy at all! If the scenario of the day (modeled on some movie) demanded, Billy
had to be THE GIRL that the leading cowboy rescued. There’s a snapshot of Pershing
carrying me and I am in some sort of girl’s outfit and holding a doll. Humiliation!
Pershing developed a game we called “Follow That Man." In the role of
detective chief, he would say, “Alan, follow the next man you see and report back
here in 15 minutes." Alan, with paper and pencil in hand, keeping a prescribed
distance, would then “pursue" the next man who walked past the house, usually in the
direction of the business district. When the man went into a store or building, the
pursuit was over and the detective came back to headquarters and reported what he
had observed. I don’t think our parents were too happy with that game. “You never
know what some man might do to you if he catches you spying on him."
We could be creative, too. In the all-purpose area of the Rohrer backyard, we
made a miniature golf course. A load of old lumber from under the back porch was
put to good use for the alleys of each green and we designed obstacles, traps, tunnels,
etc. Which one of us had been exposed to miniature golf to be able to simulate a golf
course. Alan, no doubt.
Then there was ball. I was so unathletic that I can’t even remember which ball
games they played. Notice I did not say “we" played. First of all, I was the youngest,
but I was also little, skinny and frail. (Pershing used to put his thumb and a finger around
my wrist with room to spare and giggle at the ridiculousness of it.) Eventually, there
were enough boys in the neighborhood to require a larger lot than the Rohrer backyard
for their games, so they graduated to a field that was part of a new city playground
adjoining the Western Maryland Hospital. I often watched the games. Pershing was the
organizer, the scorekeeper, the play-by-play announcer. He was starting early on the
sports journalism career he still pursues, in 1994, even in semi-retirement.
Shinbone Alley was the name of the narrow cobblestone street that ran behind
the houses on lower Baltimore Avenue and the rear of the houses on the next street.
Shinbone Alley. Not just a neighborhood nickname but the official name as recorded
in land records of the time and on modern maps as well. By day it was innocuous,
serving as a shortcut at times. By night, unlighted, it was a terrifying passage to
horror - or so I was told by the older boys, who delighted in taking advantage of my
little-boy suggestibility. First they would set me up:
The ghosts are really out tonight. Look at ‘em flying around behind that
garage window. (In time I knew I was seeing the reflections of car lights passing in
the distance.) Venturing closer, we would squint into the darkness at the other end of
the alley and eventually, sure enough, I swore I could see “things" moving around.
Then one of the older guys would dare an accomplice to walk the length of the alley,
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