  photos: Dominic Episcopo
born again
Ray, a 44-year-old forklift operator, leans against his silver Ford pickup with his butt propped against the open tailgate. It is 3 p.m. - only an hour and a half till he has to pack up and head off to work. He stands alone, sipping a beer from a plastic Pocahontas cup, staring at two patches of orange dirt in the otherwise litter-filled grass in South Philly's FDR Park. His buddies left him to get more beer and haven't returned. A black Camaro pulls up, behind it a blue Buick. Three young tattooed men jump out of the cars, two with sea-foam green beepers clipped to their belts. "You got a hammer?" one yells to Ray. "Aww Yeaaaaaah!" Ray beams. "I got my horseshoes too. You wanna play?" Ray doesn't know them, and he doesn't care either. He just wants to play horseshoes. "Where are you from?" I ask the tallest of the trio. "We're Two Street Irish trash," he says. "He's Ninth Street trash," he jokes of his Italian-looking counterpart. All four - Mikey, 22, Sean, 21, Mikey II, 27, and Ray - know what to do: hammer the stakes in the dirt, separate the horseshoes gold-tone from silver-tone, break out the beer - Old Milwaukee or Coors Light for Ray, Molson Ice for the young guys - and divvy up into teams. Just a minute ago, Ray was about to call it quits and head off to work. But he usually sticks around. There's always someone willing to pitch a few in this park.
Before Ray could light up a cigarette, the clank-clanking sound
of horseshoes was reverberating through FDR Park.
The game of horseshoes has been around since Roman times. Some even say Ben Franklin pitched a few in his day. With the MTV generation's passion for extreme sports and the accompanying haute couture sportswear, one would only expect to see guys like my pop playing the game, a 50-year-old tattooed biker who prefers Jack over Dom any day, and barks at my suggestion of including Smart Dogs at his barbecues (he says you can't taste any fat in them). But the allure of horseshoes as of late has crossed boundaries - age, ethnicity, social class, neighborhood, car make, even beer brands - and captured the competitive spirit of all. "The young kids, they play baseball, football. Middle-agers, like me, play horseshoes. The retirement club, they play bocce ball," says 27-year-old Mikey II. (I would argue with his reference to 27 as middle-aged, though.) In the middle part of this century, horseshoes were widely considered to be a game. One ?50s horseshoe set, manufactured by Auburn Rubber Company of Auburn, IN, boasts in its accompanying four-page rules brochure that their products are "safe play." Even more telling is the packaging: pictured are only three people, (hardly an average for tournament-style games, since the preferred number of players is four), one of which is a scrawny-limbed, smiling woman in spike heels and a long red dress (hardly fit enough for stiff competition). But this scenario was true to life: the most exciting matches were played at backyard barbecues and family picnics. It was simple enough to play in heels while drinking beer or cocktails, grilling up t-bones, and buttering corn on the cob. These impromptu games still go on. Ray keeps his horseshoes in a blue vinyl bag behind his car seat at all times. He works four 10-hour shifts a week and plays horseshoes before work in FDR Park every chance he gets. He has been playing in the same spot for four years - with strangers, co-workers, friends and just about anyone who passes by - which looks more and more like a horseshoe pit with every clump of grass that's ripped out of the earth from each horseshoe he hurls. He's even got a buddy, Jerry, on the Fairmount Park Commission who has promised to build him a real pit in the park sometime soon. But he's especially proud of his pit in Woodbury, NJ, which is a horseshoe's throw from his house. Aside from the occasional hoots and hollers, Ray says horseshoes is a friendly game, rarely resulting in arguments. The Mikeys and Sean even switched their Pearl Jam-playing station to the same station Ray had blasting out of his car - Oldies 98. But the validity of these makeshift games is crushed by the more organized officiality of the National Horseshoe Pitchers Association (NHPA), an organization formed in 1921 which governs the "sport" and holds regular tournaments. Though it's a respected organization, Ray's not a member. "I work at night, and that's when they have most of their games," Ray admits with a hint of shame. NHPA games are played by the "official" rules (12 pages worth, and available on that doggone Internet) with "official" gear (the young "Two Street" boys use an "Official Wilson Horseshoe Set"), in "official" pits and by organized leagues (women's, men's, kids'). At such a tournament you won't find any of the FDR Park pitchers' critical elements: coolers of beer, homemade pits, and constantly changing rules.
What is universal is the language. Horseshoes has its own - some
terms are official, and some are coined after one too many Schlitzes.
Fifteen minutes into their game, and still no sign of Ray's original buddies. His guess was that they were stuck in a bar. Then, a light blue station wagon pulls in next to Mikey II's. Three men, some more of Ray's co-workers, step out - one resembling Donald Sutherland, the other two surely relatives of the Brawny paper towel man. Twenty minutes into the next game, another auto pulls in. Out jump two guys, probably in their 30s, itching to join in the clambake (a non-NHPA horseshoe game. See sidebar). As yet another car drives up to the pit, Ray is close to his second game win. He has racked in five or six ringers in one and a half hours, and is raring to go. As the radios spit out Neil Diamond's scratchy "Solitary Man," Ray looks at his watch. 4:20pm. Only 10 minutes till he has to pack up and get to work. After a few more pitches, the game is his. Within seconds, cars are revved up and headed away from the horseshoe pits.
Except for the Mikeys and Sean - the three stay behind for a few
more pitches, maybe so they can beat Ray in tomorrow's game.
Here's some horseshoespeak to get you started: pitching: the act of throwing a horseshoe. shooter: a horseshoe player. flip shoe: a single flip shoe is an end-over-end shoe that makes one vertical rotation; a double flip makes two. turn shoe: usually pitched by the better players, a turn shoe turns horizontally three quarters to one and three quarters. clambake: the non-NHPA, picnic-style games usually occurring at family reunions/barbecues/pig roasts. ringer: a horseshoe that lands wrapped around the stake, worth three points ? the highest amount of points in one throw. six pack: two ringers in a row (worth six points total, hence the reference to six). double six pack: a double ringer (or six pack) for each player. comin' in from behind: the phrase used to explain the phenomenon of a ringer that lands with the two prongs of the shoe facing the shooter.
dogger: Ray's nickname, derived from his abundance of ringers which
"came in from behind." |
