In the late-1950’s, the children living in the southwest corner of Overbrook Park, Philadelphia, used the adjacent well-manicured greenways and out of bounds woods of the Karakong golf course for their playground. Unfortunately, their presence put them at odds with the mounted police, who were tasked with the job of patrolling the courses and keeping the children away. The enterprising youth of the neighborhood had other plans.
***
The boys hunkered down in the high weeds beyond the rough, two hundred yards from the tee.
“Who’s up next?” JP asked. Billy waved his hand and crawled to the edge of the short grass.
The first golfer stepped onto the tee box and surveyed the landscape. The fairway rose then dropped off to the right. A line of trees blocked his view from where the five eleven-year-olds lay in wait.
He put a tee into the ground, adjusted its height, and balanced a shiny, new, white golf ball on top. After two practice swings, he addressed the ball, drew his club back in a slow arc, then forward, completing his swing. A hollow pop sounded as the club’s head contacted the small round projectile propelling it along a path that ended on the manicured short grass one-hundred-eighty yards down the course. The ball bounced several times, then rolled before coming to rest, ten yards from Billy.
Quick as a frog’s tongue catching a fly, Billy popped out of the weeds and headed for the ball. He bent at the waist to keep out of sight. Like a hawk, he swooped in, snatched the quarry from its resting place, and returned to cover. The golfers remained unaware.
“That was easy,” Billy said as he caught his breath and handed the new, unblemished white MacGregor to JP.
“Nice job,” JP said. “However, grabbing a ball that landed close to us is not a great test of your skill. Snag one from the other side of the fairway and make it back here without being seen. That’s a feat.”
“I got an idea,” Mike said. “We wait for all of them to hit. Then, gather all the balls in one run.”
“Okay, big guy, show me,” Billy said and gave Mike a shove.
The second, third, and fourth men hit their drives. Mike jumped up as the golfers walked to their carts. One ball landed a short distance ahead of Mike. He collected that one first. Another rested in the long grass on the opposite edge, fifty yards from him. On a dead run, he scooped it up. The last ball flew out of bounds. He let that one go.
Mike dove into the weeds, a Spalding dot in his right hand and Titleist in his left. As the golfers drove toward them, the boys retreated on their bellies deeper into the brush. The golfers approached the dogleg, stopped, and got out of their carts.
“I thought I was in the fairway,” one golfer said as he walked up and down the rough swinging his club through the thick grass looking for his ball.
“That’s what I thought too. I don’t get it. Mine should be right here.”
“I hooked mine left. It must be out of bounds.”
The five boys froze making not so much as a twitch until Billy couldn’t contain himself. His chest heaved as he held back laughter. His devilish delight spread to the others. Frank and Mike started to convulse in their attempt to remain still. Mike kicked Billy who kicked Frank.
Robbie took the bag of balls from JP, and stood, shoulders back, head up, revealing himself to the perplexed foursome. He was careful to keep the newly procured balls separate from the old ones in case their owners had marked them.
“Yo guys, do you want to buy some golf balls?” Robbie said as he held up four. “They are nearly new and good quality brands, Titleist, Wilson, Spalding, MacGregor.” Nothing quite as satisfying as selling these guys their own stuff, Robbie thought.
“Any happen to have a blue P on them?” One golfer asked. “I’m wondering where you got these.”
“Found them out of bounds and in the creek. Don’t think any have a P, you can look.” Robbie held out the bag for someone to check. They declined.
“How much.”
“Two for a dime.”
“I’ll take a Wilson and a Titleist.” Money exchanged hands. The foursome declared a free drop, took their shots, and moved on to the green. Robbie joined Mike, Billy, JP, and Frank in the high grass as they waited for the next group to tee off. Robbie passed the bag and the money he collected to JP, keeper of the cash.
Business was good. In a couple of hours, they’d made one dollar and fifty cents. More than enough for a round of sodas and chips at Barson’s, on the Avenue. The scam continued without a glitch until a golfer spotted Billy grabbing a ball from the fairway. He got into his cart and appeared headed to the club house.
“I bet he is going to report us,” JP said. “They ‘ll send a Parky for sure.”
JP looked toward the club house and scratched his head. Golfers were leaving the course. “That seemed strange,” he muttered to himself.
Frank scanned the horizon. The first of the mounted Park Guards approached from the east, a second appeared from the west, and a third from the south. They advanced at a gallop, closing fast.
“They’re serious,” JP shouted. “Into the woods, now, before they surround us.”
The boys high stepped through the short rough, then the long rough, through the tall grass, and into the thicket. The five sprinted down the fire road and veered off onto the narrow footpath that crossed a steep grade. Dense foliage lined the way. At the base of the rise, a wetland bog spread out over the forest floor. An outcrop of stone crowned its top. Briars clawed at their legs, threatened to tear their pants. Cicadas rattled.
Led by JP, the boys skirted the side of the hill in single file. Heads bobbing like the pistons of an engine, they stormed deep into the forest. The Parkies rarely followed kids into the bush. There the boys had a sense of safety. As the five moved deeper into the woods, their pace slowed, and tension eased. Running from the mounted Park Guards was a local sport, and they had plenty of practice.
“I can’t afford to be caught,” Frank groused through quick breaths as he tried to keep up with the others. “My father said he’d ground me for a month if he had to pick me up at the Parky Station one more time.”
“Me too,” Mike said.
Once deep in the thicket, they stopped and listened. Silence followed them. Frank climbed the stone outcrop of rock on the crest of the hill. He held a branch with leaves in front of him for camouflage and surveyed their surroundings.
“Two Parkies. One on the edge of the golf course. One in the woods. I bet he’s headed our way. Not sure where the third one is,” Frank reported.
“We better split up,” Robbie suggested. “Mike, Frank, and Billy head to the swamp. Take the storm drain to 77th Street. Make sure the Parkies aren’t waiting for you when you come out the other end. JP and I will hide in the cave at Big Rock and wait for the Parkies to leave.”
Mike, Frank, and Billy descended the embankment and waded into the wetland. Ankle-deep, mud sucked at their feet with each step. The odor of swamp cabbage permeated the air. They approached the entrance to the sewer that led under Farrington Road into the neighborhood and safety. Water trickled out as they entered the tube, just tall enough for the eleven-year-olds to stand. Humid air mixed with the odor of decay enveloped them; cobwebs hung from above. The Park Guards had never followed them into there in the past.
As they made their way into the pipe, darkness soon cloaked them. Billy turned on the flashlight on his Dick Tracy wrist radio. He pointed the light into the distance. Two eyes stared back at him. He stopped moving forward. His heart raced. He wanted to run. Frank and Mike backed up against him.
“What’s up? Why’d you stop?” Mike asked, unaware of the potential danger, his voice echoing through the tube and sounding hollow as he spoke.
“What’s that?” Billy said. He shined the flashlight ahead. Four eyes blazed back. Billy swung his wrist back and forth painting the tunnel with light. Six then eight eyes appeared.
“I’m out of here,” Mike said, spun around, and headed in the opposite direction. Frank grabbed him before he could escape.
“Stop,” Frank commanded. “Walk backward. Keep an eye on them, whatever they are.”
“How about the Parkies,” Billy said. “Think they might be waiting at the entrance by now?”
“Assuming they have any idea where we are,” Mike said as he moved with deliberate steps, his eyes focused on the eyes watching them. Sweat ran down his back.
“I’d rather take a hike to the Parky Station than tangle with what’s down here, Frank said. “I heard that people bring home alligators from Florida, and when they grow too big, they let them go in the sewers. The ‘gaters get fat on rats. Some can get to be twenty feet long.” Mike fidgeted, his mouth agape. Frank moved toward Mike and grabbed his leg from behind.
Mike let out a blood-curdling scream and jumped up. Spider webs covered his scalp. He brushed the fine tangles of silk out of his hair with his hands as fast as he could and ran toward the entrance. Frank laughed so hard he nearly wet himself. He pointed at Mike who disappeared out of the tunnel. Billy turned the light back into the darkness ahead of them. The eyes were gone. A soft rattle, like maracas, emanated from where the eyes had been.
“Rattlesnakes. You idiot. Now, I don’t know where they are,” Billy shouted and shoved Frank. “I felt better knowing where they were.” Eyes wide, the boys turned and ran until they met Mike standing in the muck by the entrance.
“Okay, smart guys, what’s plan B,” Mike said.
“Let’s head to Big Rock,” Frank suggested. “That’s where JP and Robbie will be.”
“I’m headed home,” Mike said. “I’m done. If the Parkies stop me, they don’t know what I’ve been up to, and they’ll just tell me to get off the course. See ya.”
“I hope you’re right. Maybe the Parkies will let you go,” Billy said. “Good luck.”
Mike left the bog, climbed the hill, and skirted the out-of-bounds until he reached the neighborhood where a row of townhouses lined the Fifteenth fairway. A hole in the fence allowed him to escape. He was home free.
Billy and Frank made their way to Big Rock. When they entered the fire road, the sound of hoofbeats on the gravel alerted them that Parkies were nearby. They sprinted into the woods and dove into the underbrush, but not fast enough.
“Stop right there, you two,” one of the mounted policemen shouted in a stern voice. “Come out of there, now. Don’t make me get off my horse to come after you.” He removed a baton from his belt and slapped his black-gloved hand with it.
Frank peeked up from the ground through the brush at the massive animal before him, coat shiny with sweat, a Parky sitting in the saddle, mid-calf black boots, riding pants tucked in, and, hanging from his waist, a holstered gun.
“Okay, I’m going to count to three. One…”
Billy stood up first. Frank followed as the Park Guard said, “Two.”
“Is that you Franky?” The Park Guard said as Frank stepped into the sunlight filtered by the trees. “Are you going to make me walk you all the way to the station to phone your dad again?” He wore a broad, not so friendly, smile on his face as he shook his head and turned his gaze to Frank’s accomplice. “Is that Billy you’ve got with you there? How about that.”
Billy lowered his head in defeat as he joined Frank for the anticipated, humiliating, escorted trek, through the golf course to be followed by the dreaded call to their parents.
“We’ve got two of them,” the guard said. I’ll guide them to the exit. When I return, we’ll probably find the other two by Big Rock. That’s a safe bet.”
“I saw one on the fifteenth fairway, he’s probably home by now,” said the second guard. “The guy we’re looking for is believed to have come this way. We’ll have to release these two.”
“Officer Linehan, sir, you’re not taking us to the station?” Frank asked, surprised by what he overheard. Billy glanced up at the officer with pleading eyes not looking forward to the walk club house that now seemed to be in some doubt.
“It’s your lucky day, boys. Get out of here. Stay off the golf course. Got it. Next time, I won’t be so nice. Right now, we have more important business to attend.” Billy and Frank didn’t hesitate. They took off running up the fire road, out of the woods, to the fifteenth fairway, and into the neighborhood.
***
Deep in the forest, a monolith, Big Rock, jutted out of the ground. Robbie and JP climbed the face to the first ledge thirty feet above the brush. Well-worn foot holds and hand grasps made the assent easy. Toward the back of the terrace, away from the edge of the shelf was an entrance to a cave.
“The Parkies, if they follow us, won’t climb up. We can wait here until they leave.” The boys squeezed through the opening and sat on the rock stools placed around a fire pit. The sounds of horses snorting and clopping up the path below alerted Robbie and JP that the Park Guards had arrived.
“I know you are in there,” one of the cops shouted. “Come out now,” he demanded.
Robbie looked at JP. He knew they hadn’t been seen. “The cop’s just guessing,” JP whispered, then gestured with his hand for Robbie to follow him.
They fled into the depths of the cave, ducking into a tunnel that led to a larger cavern. They stopped. It was pitch black. They could hear water dripping. JP and Robbie had never ventured farther than the entrance where they sat with friends around a fire on autumn nights scarring each other with ghost stories.
“I can’t see you,” Robbie said. “Say something.”
“I’m here,” JP said from across the chamber in front of him. The air was damp, cold, laced with the odor of mold. JP waved his arms in front of him and hit nothing.
Neither spoke nor moved. The sounds of breathing were all that broke the silence. JP listened with care; his vigilance heightened. His hair stood on end. He braced himself as he realized breath sounds came from behind him.
“Robbie, where are you?” JP called, his voice trembling and urgent.
“I’m here,” Robbie said. JP turned his head in Robbie’s direction. Robbie is over there, so what’s…
“I don’t think we are alone,” JP said louder, in a higher pitch than normal. Chills ran down his spine, and his legs buckled. A hand seized his shoulder. JP screamed, spun around toward his assailant, and fell backward dropping the bag of golf balls and the money they’d scammed from the golfers.
“What’s happening?” Robbie sputtered. Someone pushed past him and retreated deeper into the cave. JP lay on the ground curled into a ball. Eyes now adjusted to the darkness; Robbie grabbed JP’s hand and pulled him up. The boys charged toward the entrance. Neither said a word, too frightened to even scream.
As they emerged, the policemen were waiting. Robbie and JP climbed down off the rock and, once on the ground, threw their hands in the air submitting to the Park Guards.
“There’s someone in there,” JP said in a shrill voice and pointed toward the ledge. The Park Guards looked at each other.
“I think we’ve found our man,” the guard said to his partner. See if you can flag down Matt. He should be close by. Send him for back up, then return to me.
Hands still raised above their heads; Robbie gestured to JP. “Do you have the golf balls and the money?”
JP smacked his forehead with an open hand and mouthed back, “No, they’re in the cave, and I’m not going back in there to get them.”
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