TWF 316: A Cleveland Avenue Field Memory

 Hello, friends,

Conflict-Of-Interest Disclaimer:  I've worked for both the Village of Freeport as well as the Freeport School District in the past.

As you are no doubt aware by now, there is an ongoing dispute between the Village of Freeport the Freeport School District regarding who has authority over Cleveland Avenue Field.  The Village, who claims to own the property, wants to provide it to Amazon.  The School District, who claims to have had an agreement to use it for over 70 years, is astonished that the Village is taking these steps, and the school board has voted to file a lawsuit against the Village.  Children and families who use the field are caught in the middle.

This post is not about trying to decide who is legally right and wrong, here.

In fact, this post isn't about trying to hash out every little detail.  I'm sure someone who still lives in Freeport can do a better job of that than I can.  I'm sure someone who does journalism for a living, like from Long Island Press, can afford to spend the time making phone calls to PR departments and tracking down answers.

No - instead, I just want to share a memory that might demonstrate what that field means to the students who play there, and the generations of adults who grew up there. 

Cleveland Avenue Field as seen from Buffalo Ave, courtesy of Google Street View

A Tale.

Between 5th and 10th grade, I played lacrosse.  I wasn't completely terrible at the game for the game's sake, but I was definitely bad at it.  I was a tiny kid playing a contact-intense sport.  I would get hit and bounce across the field.  I wasn't the best at catching the ball, either; my eyes just weren't all that great at spotting small things moving fast without, y'know, glasses on.  I was a decent shooter!  So I changed from being a midfielder (Middie) to being an attacker.

In 9th and 10th grade I played Junior Varsity.  I had a coach who cared about the game and its players pretty immensely.  It was far from perfect, of course.  For starters, I kind of enjoyed the hitting when I was a kid; it probably wasn't good for me, long-term.  However, by the time I'd hit 10th grade I was beginning to feel like I was more than a little outpaced by the physical strength that players I was up against had.  I might have had some bare modicum of "Game IQ," but I lacked the sheer power to stand up to the impact I was faced with, bouncing around at maybe 120 pounds.

One day, near the end of my 10th grade season, I found this out in stark relief.

I mostly rode the non-existent bench, standing on the sidelines.  When I finally got called to play in a game where the score wasn't even close, I was happy to get a chance to get in and do something.  It was still kind of fun, right?

Well, here's the rub:  I had already experienced difficulty with my right knee, to the point that I had to wear a knee brace to play sports or run.  Predictably, this brace squeaked with every step, so I was given the nickname "Squeaky" to go with the myriad other nicknames I got from my time in athletics.  This kind of hurt my feelings, but I wasn't going to let that stop me from getting in the game and playing.  And I did!  And when the ball hit the grass near me, I sized up the 200+ pound defenseman going for it and thought, "Well, I oughta go low."

I threw my shoulder into his mid-waist.

A team-mate of mine hit him from the other side, high.

The dude fell on me with intense force.  I screamed in pain as my knee did things which I can't describe the feeling of, but can tell you resulted in a 40% kneecap displacement and surgery.  This is where reason got squelched by adrenaline.  Never smart enough to know when to quit, I got to my feet.  I leaned on my stick and walked it off.  My coach screamed at me to get out of the game.

Did I listen?  Hell no!

Instead, I stayed in.  I probably disturbed the more adroit players, who probably recognized I should have gotten off the field, but didn't.  Maybe that uncertainty created opportunity; I don't know.  All I knew is that I didn't get in the game often, and I wanted to play, and the pain...Well, the pain kind of just faded into the background.  I was limping!  But I wasn't about to give up.

Somehow, the ball found its way to me.  I took my shot.  I scored.

It was the only goal I'd scored that season.  Our team was pumped about it, excited that a scrub like me succeeded in some mild manner.  It was a bizarrely good feeling.  I guess, in a sense, I'd proven my toughness to the many who doubted what the hell I was doing on the field.  It was, if my recollection serves, the last lacrosse game I ever played.

As mentioned earlier, I needed surgery.  It wasn't too bad, and by the time I recovered I was good to play sports - probably better, in fact, because the smaller issues with my knee had also been fixed.  But...Lacrosse?  No.  No more.  It's not specifically a case of, "Oh, you got hurt so you quit."  That was me and football in 8th and 9th grade.  It's more a case of, "I'm just not good at this thing, and maybe there's something else I'd be good at."

So, I tried Tennis.  I was okay in my 11th grade year, but in my 12th grade year I played doubles and managed to win a spot on the Wall Of Fame as an All-Division player.  I realized that, if I had been playing Tennis all along, I may have been good at the sport.  Later in life, I discovered I was actually quite good at Fencing.  (Thank you, Tanya and Marty)  These are things I could have - should have - been doing, but was instead mentally locked into playing a game that, while it had its fun points, absolutely wouldn't have been the best thing for me.

Now, what is the point of all of this?

The Point Of That Long Tale

This memory is just one of many I have from Cleveland Avenue Field.  Not all of them are good.  Some of them are downright horrible.  But this one, in its own weird way, is a good memory.  It didn't just prove to others I was tough enough to handle myself; it proved that to myself at a time when I really needed some emotional reinforcement.

And it would never have happened if it wasn't for that field; that field where more than one NFL player grew and developed their skills; that field where kids play baseball, football, lacrosse and soccer.  That old ratty field-house is a legend of Freeport's.  That field is notorious for flooding and for geese doing their business, but it's got a charm to it that maybe is indecipherable to people who never played there.

Unlike most The Weekly Freeporter things, I'm not here to propose a solution.  Tensions are inflamed on both sides, and I'm...Not there.  I moved out of Freeport in 2015.  I will say the conflict has gotten ridiculous, with alleged pictures of people's home interiors finding its way to Facebook.  That sounds like doxxing to me, and that's a horrible practice.

I realize there's talk of revitalizing Cow Meadow Park to suit the needs of Freeport's kids.  I actually kind of like it's run-downedness, since there's always somewhere interesting to walk to, but I can't mention that without mentioning the tragic loss of life that's occurred there.  I also recognize there are many obstacles in the way - like, for one, Nassau County owns it, and thus it cannot really be promised to the kids until the Village owns it, which...Yeah.  That conflict is, as I said at the outset, beyond my pay grade.

All I'm here to say is, well, that field means something life-long to these kids because it meant something life-long to me.  I cannot picture entering Freeport on Sunrise Highway without it.

And maybe that's worth more than all the money Amazon could spend in Freeport.

I hope you enjoyed this tale.  I hope, if nothing else, it makes you think of something you've done that was life-affirming in some way.  Feel free to leave a comment or your thoughts.  Thank you so much for reading.

Jesse Pohlman is a former Freeport resident for 30 years, and works as an educator who also publishes Science Fiction and Fantasy novels.  They are available at his main website.