Back in the day, when I began bustin’ ass tryin’ to break stories by earning the trust of NBA and ABA players, I’d regularly show up in the summer where the best of ’em sweat their glands off, and hypnotized with unremitting spontaneous eruptions.
In the early ’70s, and later on the early ’80s, my pious place was Rucker Park, 155th Street and Eighth Avenue.
Back in the day, there was nowhere I’d rather be on a sweltering Saturday and Sunday with my blanket and picnic basket. An unschooled rookie reporter for the New York Daily News, I had a whole park of caged players to myself, exempting the representative from the Amsterdam News.
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