Getting to the bottom of the D subway orange, or the last stop in Coney Island-Stillwell Avenue, for me is always a great emotion. Step off the coach, standing on the runway, looking towards the sea, see the famous Wonder Wheel and other rides spread over the entire Surf Avenue, turn back and see the crumbling palaces and crumbling shacks of the heart of Coney Island is driving me every time from the mouth of the legendary phrase: "... what a place looks like shit ... and we fought all night to return ...". Holy words spoken by Swan in the film "Warriors" by Walter Hill, the absolute cult film of the eighties, a daring journey of the Warriors gang of Coney Island back from the Bronx, unjustly accused of the assassination of the leader of the Riffs, Cyrus, who wanted The truce between all the gangs of New York to rebel against the police and hunted by all the bands on their incredible journey back home. The journey of over an hour from downtown Brooklyn to the deeper I am absolutely degraded through neighborhoods like Borough Park and Bensonherst practically modest houses here and there, surrounded by huge landfill of waste, rusting appliances and gutted sofas stacked on each other to bulk. Arrival at the terminus of Stillwell Avenue, down the street on Surf Avenue, the "promenade" of Coney Island, and as usual, I remain impressed by the desolation of the landscape. I am absolutely convinced that the great writers of the decadence had a rudimentary time machine, and that they did regularly visit the Coney Island end of the third millennium or early second millennium to find the inspiration. On Surf Avenue shops, stores, amusement arcades, rides and any other type of activity seem to date back to the seventies, as look like furniture, as customers, such as colors and attitude. It also seems that no one since then has never seen fit to change the broken bulbs, to replace broken windows or throwing landfill in any kind of bulky waste lying on the road apparently from time immemorial. I set out on the waterfront in the north, leaving behind perhaps the only nice building in Coney Island, the camp of the Brooklyn Cyclones, a Single A baseball team that is part of the organization of the New York Mets, and who has the care and cozy diamond on the beach. After just a couple of blocks I notice the proximity to Brighton Beach, "Little Odessa", now inhabited only by Russians, Ukrainians and ex-Soviet. The indications on the road signs are in both English and Cyrillic, same thing for the insignia of the vast majority of shops, it occurs to me that someone would say, "no longer The Coney Island of your fathers. "After about ten blocks I head to the left, towards the hinterland, taking Cropsay Avenue, passing under the tracks of the subway and seeing massively increase the crumbling around me. It seems to me even to hear , reverberated effect-track subway tunnel about ten feet high, three empty bottles in the three fingers the rhythm of a raucous "... Warrioooors ..... Come Out and plaaaay "cry of the leader of the Rogues, which asked the Warriors to" play at war. "After all these mental journeys finally arrive at Keyspan Park, where a cluster of concrete occasionally peeps some strip of grass. Children's games (Completely empty), a handball wall, a wall with a dozen children Chicano intent to rebuild (or remove) a bicycle, and two basketball courts, a completely empty, and the other shared equally by the two entities completely defined, autonomous in its own right. In the field there are only a half of white, long-limbed, shaved, blonde and bad sides, the other half of the field there are only African-Americans, of all sizes, smiling and jovial. As soon as I get closer to the field, I realize what is happening at Keyspan Park. Whites are the Russians, and do not seem in good relations with those of the other half of the playground. After just two minutes after my arrival at the camp, a speck-like teeth and no doubt love the soap grabs me and tells me confused her life and her daily habits. Seeking to break free, I move in any direction, but the character I spring, I'm interested to see that match, and begins to tell that he is a great friend of Stephon Marbury (obviously) and his brothers, which has seen them grow the field and that it was he who taught him the rudiments of the game. After this gem I find the strength to sow it and I go across the field, incidentally, no reason, I move on the field where they're beating the Russians. They play hard, defend strong, and seem absolutely essential and concentrate on the game. Spoken in Russian, calls, fouls, points, tips. They are almost all young people, but a character in his forties from the physical integrity, fair-haired and balding with a mustache, cover 1 .80, the attitude old school Soviet, and then the great ability to find himself unmarked for a shot from distance, which puts continuity with a disconcerting, almost the double of Kurtinaitis. I want to play, expect a good half hour without anyone considers me. At one point, between games, entered the field to see if someone would at least pass the ball to make two shots. Nothing. The ultimate hope is to ask. I ask in English if I can play, and a version of Dolph Lundgren Ivan Drago answer me in Russian, reveals the tone and playing them enough. Astonished me back on the sideline and threw a blind eye to the other half of the field, where even African-Americans are still, doing the shooting between games. Coast to head for that slice of the playground, when I arrive at approximately the height of the line by three points, a guy with braids from under the basket, pass me the ball. Finally I start to play.
Daniele Vecchi, Playground in New York
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