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Blogs by Russell A Vassallo
Memories 6/6/2016 5:43:55 AM
I was nineteen, working and driving and, in our neighborhood of crime and toughs, that was a way to escape. But it was also a bonded area where people stuck together and helped each other. The lob of the older boys such as myself was to care for the little guys, the youngsters. So we organized ball games, played cards and took them to places they had never seen. My group consisted of Jazzo Martano, Lefty Reo and his brother, Sammy, a kid named Bruce and his brother, Blinky, called that because he could blink more times in one minute than a god with salt in his eyes.
On one summer evening, I drove the pack of them out to a miniature golf course in Rahway. It was a hot spot of people and especially young girls, but more it was a chance for these kids to enjoy something they had never done.
I paid the fee for all five and off we went to the first hole which was about fifteen feet long with a windmill down at the end. If you went through the windmill without hitting one of the arms, you might actually get a hole in one. I was filling out the score cards when Sammy loaded up and teed off. I think he had seen someone driving balls on a local golf course so he laid into the ball and drove it clear out of the course and into a rough field next to the amusement park. He actually did this without hitting anyone.
The owner wanted fifty cents for the lost ball so all of us left the course and went looking for the ball. When we returned, the owner looked doubtful as if he was about to make money on a damaged and dented ball.
"You said fifty cents per ball?" I asked.
"Not a penny less," he sneered.
I motioned to Jazzo who then emptied a bucket of balls ont he counter.
"Forty-eight balls," Jazzo announced, watching the owner's face shrink into shock.
When he recovered, he puffed, "I'm not paying for my own balls."
"Sorry, pal," I answered. "I work for a lawyer and, when a ball travels onto property not owned by you, it is deemed abandoned. The balls aren't yours, and we can sell them around the corner for half what you want."
He opened the register and took out ten dollars. "Take it or leave it."
AT the local ice cream store, we raised our cones and toasted the owner for his generosity. After that we dubbed Sammy as Sammy Swack, a name that followed him even through marriage and kids.
If you want to learn more about Jazzo, there is a story about him in my book, Mafia Memoirs.
