At handball, my father was good.

Yesterday was warm in New York and all our windows were opened and you'd think we'd get a little cross (or Magen David) ventilation. But no, there was none. It was as hot inside as a chafing dish at the Weinstein Bar Mitzvah, so out I went for a little walk around the neighborhood, looking for a breeze.

Minutes after leaving our building I found myself in John Jay Park, which abuts the FDR Drive and a charming little block called Cherokee Place, which sits between York Avenue (Avenue A with a nose job!) and the drive. Once in the park, which I seldom visit because Carl Schurz Park is closer, I came upon some Puerto Rican boys playing handball against a wall that was erected for that purpose. These boychiks were whacking at the ball and running around like chickens, all of them, on their returns. Seeing them, lithe and athletic, made me think of my father, Schmuel (Samuel), who was neither, may be rest in peace.

Schmuel was one of the great handball players of the Lower East Side, dominating the territory between Orchard and Houston, all the way up to the Asher Levy baths. And you know what, he could have beat these kids in a wheel chair. Schmuel knew every angle and how his shot would set up his opponent's. Therefore, he could stay virtually still, stationary while forcing his adversary to run around like a dervish or my mother on Passover serving the Seder meal.

I'd play the old man now and again, when I was young and fit and he was old and heart-attacked. My initial impulse in playing him was to take it a bit easy--he was old and had had a coronary. After two minutes and invariably finding myself down nine to nothing, I'd try to rally but by then it was too late.

There's a lesson here somewhere. When you know the angles, you shouldn't have to schvitz so much. Hear that Puerto Rican kids?