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CONEY ISLAND - BROOKLYN

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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BEDFORD STUYVESANT - BROOKLYN

I decided, I go there. All I have not recommended that everyone, both Italians and New Yorkers, both those who do not know anything about New York and who was born and raised there, but I'm a stubborn, if I put myself in the head there is one thing to make me change my mind. I'm leaving home soon, about two and a half, from 76th Street to Bedford-Stuyvesant, perhaps the most dangerous area of \u200b\u200bNew York, located in the exact center of Brooklyn, the scene of numerous crimes over time and is still super-degraded area. A Bedford-Stuyvesant is set and entirely filmed by Spike Lee "Do The Right Thing," emblematic photograph of Brooklyn destabilized end of the millennium, and still does not seem to be changed. Even my friends from Utica Avenue, not the shins of holy-minded hip-hop to the core, I have strongly discouraged to go there, they themselves do not dream any way to cross the imaginary border of Bed-Stuy, or Fulton Street. They told me the usual spiel that they can not anything happen without their approval, but that over Fulton Street can no longer do anything. If I have to tell the truth I never believed these things, on the border, the gangs, the fact that in some places it is better not to go, and so on. Anything can happen anywhere, you can be robbed in your home while you sleep, with the reinforced door and grates on the windows, and no one can say "I told you so", therefore, more confident than ever, I take the subway green number 6 in the direction of downtown, with a spirit of disillusioned and fatalistic frivolous. My goal is in the legendary Soul the Hole, one of the most famous and infamous playground of New York, second only to Rucker Park in terms of charm and fame. Great champions have walked the cement of the Soul in the Hole, real legends like Fly Williams and especially Edward "Booger" Smith (whose life is told in their own movie called "Soul in the Hole") were the undisputed masters of this playground for years, fueling the myth out of all proportion to the field in the middle of Bed-Stuy, and always popular with Broccolini (mythical and sometimes bloody the challenges of the Summer Tournament, with teams from the Bronx or Harlem). Arrival at Broadway-Nassau, in Lower Manhattan, where I take the blue line C towards Brooklyn. Arriva, jump up there. A half hour of travel and arrival at my stop, Kingston-Throop Avenue. Esco, I climb the stairs, and on Fulton Street, the infamous border. If I go south, toward Utica Avenue, are safe, are protected, nothing can happen if I go north, toward Bed-Stuy are exposed, no one can come to my rescue if I am attacked, absolutely nobody can help me. Trying to take it easy and self-irony, I start walking west on Fulton Street, looking around furtively, trying not to see that they are new in the area. The first impact is horrific, in spite of my optimism. Apart from the fact that from then on until I return to Manhattan will not see more a person with white skin, red or yellow, the scene of Bed-Stuy is nothing short of depressing. A few stores open in the middle of the most complete and utter desolation of decay. On the corner of Fulton Street and Marcus Garvey Boulevard, just the way that I take, there is a machine for half inside a gate (locked of course) and half on the sidewalk with the hood back from the impact, with all broken glass, and even the remnants of lunch on the seats, a sign that the car has been there for quite some time and that has been used as a place for a nice feast of old fashioned burger Wendy's. Trying to do as all the passersby, or not consider this thing a little strange, I go further, and walked to the Marcus Garvey Boulevard. The Boulevard is very residential in that they seem to be thousands of people who live here, that everyone from children to the elderly of eighty three years, seem to be sitting outside by the stairs at home or on plastic chairs on the sidewalk, and that all seem to look at me. My mind can not go back to images of "Do The Right Thing," where everybody is beautiful outside on the stairs or sitting on chairs in the shade of a ombellone. So it's true! In the film were all choreographed and entertaining, but in reality, especially if you're in the most dangerous in New York and are the only white within ten miles, more than fun are at least threatening, big, fat, and apparently extremely dangerous. I try not to meet anyone's eye, I always keep my head up high to make it clear to everyone that I know where I'm going and I feel no fear against anyone, thank God, the yahoo-map of the area is perfectly stored in my mind, and I know that to meet Soul in the Hole I have to walk eight blocks to Marcus Garvey Boulevard to Madison Avenue. Near a castle with two faux-medieval towers, which in reality is a mess and a hospital social services, I see, unfortunately, and falling into ruin, and almost entirely covered by weeds nearly two meters high, the historical Bedford-Stuyvesant murals depicting the reality of the neighborhood, with children, shops, green spaces and trees, where he heads the word "Magic Garden Bed-Stuy." How sad. But there are now, I see the next one is Madison Avenue, I just get the corner for an appointment with history. I'm on the corner, I finally arrived, and I do not believe my eyes, I'm dreaming. The playground is not there. In its place only bulldozers, concrete mixers, excavators and cranes, in the midst of tons of gravel and cement powder. I approached the net where there is a cartel. The work will last for months, they're redoing all the playground, in anticipation of even a children's playground and a large garden. Bewildered by delusion, I try to get me thinking about the courage eight blocks of Marcus Garvey Boulevard, which separates me from Fulton Street, the "boundary". Daniele Vecchi, Playground in New York

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GRAMERCY PARK

"Riffs", "Yes, boss." Sunglasses, pockmarked face, and an army of guappi framed in front of him as a an army platoon of highly operational, with eyes fixed and focused, ready to listen and eager to follow orders of the head. They are the Gramercy Riffs, the most powerful gang in New York, the gang that has seen its charismatic leader, Cyrus, who was killed at the gathering of gangs "in the Bronx." Throughout the film "Warriors - The Warriors", the Gramercy Riffs coordinate the hunt for Warriors, blamed for the murder of Cyrus, unleashing against all the gangs of New York, to discover, of course at the end of the film in an epic scene (Warriors are loyal, the Warriors do not kill, "says the leader of the Riffs," ... the best, "he says Swan, the leader of the Warriors), who were not their own, honoring the courage on the beach at Coney Island. Walter Hill's film is a clear and eloquent picture of the New York of the seventies, millions of times more dangerous than today's, after all, remains viable in at least seventy percent of its urban area, while at the time and kilometers square kilometers were absolutely not feasible. The Riffs were of Gramercy Park, a neighborhood in Manhattan's East Village to the north (up to Murray Hill, just below Midtown East, fifteen blocks in Grand Central Station) near the East River, and extends from the river to 2nd Avenue. Today, the year of grace 2005, turn Gramercy Park is absolutely harmless and pleasant, some thirty years ago, however, was much more problematic. The area between 2nd Avenue and Franklin Delano Roosevelt Drive, between the 18th Street and 30th Street, was the unquestioned bastion of peddling heroin, haunted by petty crime and where the police have not set foot except for pocketing bribes. The scourge of Gramercy (and also the example of Hell's Kitchen, a place ugly, disastrous and dangerous Midtown West, but never got as an "example" of evil to be eradicated, perhaps because the crime was all white-skinned and Irish) is always was semi-hidden by the mainstream media, there was no "monster" by banging on the front page (as in Harlem, where the "monster" were African-American misfits), and delinquency was not flashy and dramatic, as in other districts, so few people, except of course the New Yorkers knew about the infamous and dangerous place. Then with time and with the government with an iron fist, the neighborhood has slowly healed, slowly becoming what it is today, a respectable and quiet little apartment, with normal buildings, or dilapidated nor glitzy, populated by "normal" people, without any apparent illicit trafficking in light of the sun, as it was thirty years ago. From regular visitor to the East Village, one day I moved a little out towards the north, reaching up to Stuyvesant Square, cozy little park is divided in two by 2nd Avenue, practically in the neighborhood Gramercy. A few blocks north on 2nd Avenue, there are two playground attached to one another, divided by an isolated and extremely different from each other. The nearest subway stop is the green line number 6, on 23rd Street. You exit the station, it is on Park Avenue, the massive highway undisputed King of the East Side. Take the 23rd Street to the east, you pass Lexington and 3rd Avenue, on 2nd Avenue until you arrive. Two blocks south, on the left is the Peters Field Playground, which occupies the space between the 21st and 20th Street, and one block further south, is the Augustus Saint Gauden's Playground, on 19th Street, always on the left side of the road. Two playgrounds, a distance of one block of each other in the same neighborhood, without borders and ethnic groups in conflict. Nevertheless, the human resources of both the basketball court are diametrically opposed in every way. Peters Field Playground: pitch surrounded by a children's playground, surrounded by gardens, well maintained and cared for. The ballers who delight here have a special characteristic, that are all white. Widening further analysis of the players Peters Field Playground, we see that the people who handle the ball into wedges tend to be older, around thirty or more, are in good physical condition, with good fundamentals and with a good attitude to the game, also careful to make good blocks and maybe a little too soft in rebound. A bit too soft in general would add, the contacts are not hard to play trying to run, but not the most agony. Another four or five characters of the same stack are chatting on the sidelines, a little less physically fit but in basketball attitude, waiting to enter the game. Augustus Saint Gauden's Playground: three billboards on the corner of 19th Street, on crumbling asphalt and without any green space. The ballers who play on three baskets are all African-Americans, Tignosi and muscular young men in his early twenties with aggressive eye of the tiger. The pitch is also characterized by the proverbial posse on the sideline, a dozen Homiez playful and rowdy, a perpetual motion of jokes and shoving, punctuated by ovations to enhance the play of good ballers. The three, three against three on the three boards of this playground are real battles to the death, electrocuting one on one, level crossings as rain and terrifying elbow to rebound, many micro-guerrillas in each pair and a single and single purpose: to win the game. No frills and no inclination to show, just great and unparalleled intensity. Gramercy, 2nd Avenue, two playgrounds in the space of fifty yards, two opposite ways of approaching the game from the street.
Daniele Vecchi, Playground in New York