I grew up in a graveyard. That is to say, the street I lived on bordered a cemetery, whose sprawling grounds formed the site of countless bike rides and games of Man Hunt. The place also sported an unofficial ball field (pictured above). Every Sunday in the fall and winter, the neighborhood kids would gather there to play tackle football (using the neat alignment of grave markers on either side to establish the goal lines). On those afternoons when the Giants had a home game, we could even hear the public address system from the Stadium a few miles over in the Meadowlands.
I still carry a lot of fond memories (and an unfortunate scar on my backside, which I accidentally scraped one time while climbing through the hole in the chain-link fence that served as our point of entry) from those childhood days. No doubt they have left their mark on me in many ways.
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