The Yankee Stadium submitted by Yardbroom
It was a balmy evening, the night sky was lit by stars, seemingly suspended to sprinkle stardust. Cars highly polished, were parked in the streets surrounding the Stadium. Ladies resplendent in stoles covering arms earlier exposed to the sun, were held close by husbands and partners suitably attired. There was a whiff of expensive perfume in the air, as chauffeurs stood beside their automobiles, prepared for a long wait.
The ladies glided into their seats at ringside, shephered by their male companions who acknowledged business colleagues and friends at ringside. Some couples brought cushions to protect expensive attire from the early evening dew. This Yankee Stadium was in of all places Brittons Hill St Michael. The great and the good of Barbados sporting society were prepared for for a night of boxing.
Enterprising women whose land surrounded the stadium, charged small boys and young men a few cents for a perch in the high trees on their property, which gave a view of the ring. One is reminded of the phrase often used at the turn of the century in New York to describe Barbadians: “As soon as these West Indians have two more cents than a beggar they want to start a business.”
Outside the stadium the ubiquitous sweet sellers were hard at work, downwind of them the rich aroma of freshly roasted corn wafted the night air as corn lay atop coals whose embers were red aglow. Small boys scampered about as they often do when excited. No doubt an exciting evening of pugilistic endeavor was expected.
Brittons Hill? I hear you ask, I doubt anyone under fifty years living there would have seen the Stadium.
In this most unlikely of settings, a purpose built boxing stadium was erected and a successful one at that…thanks to Belfield Alleyne . For those with no knowledge of this Stadium, at Brittons Cross Road, travel towards the Villa Road, after about thirty metres you will come to Cummings Road. Turn right, the site of the former Public Bath will be on your left, about twenty metres along the road, is the site of the Stadium. Almost opposite the site where Mr Chase had his Blacksmith shop…many an old donkey cart owner would know of him…a nice man.
I wonder if Jack Dick and his fellow pugilists could return what they would think of the place now? Alast Brittons Hill is not the place it used to be… a glimpse of old Barbados.
Missing the last bus submitted by ganong
Boys will be boys they say. That includes liking girls. That also includes visiting them at their homes if you are allowed to do more than stand on the premises. Some fellas assist the girls with their homework, and others get to cuddle and do diverse and sundry deeds. All this was all well and good, once you left in time to catch the last bus home. If you left your girl and all was well, and the rain didn’t fall, well you counted that as experience. But often if she was quarreling cause you were “horning she” you got no good night kiss and you left disappointed. It was usually on such nights that the windows of heaven would open and the rains would descend in torrents. There is perhaps no experience as bad as the triology of leaving your lass in a huff, missing the last bus and then being drenched by a tropical downpour. That is what you call missing the last bus in beautiful, beautiful Barbados.
For those from other shores, and those of recent vintage we must clarify a few things. Depending on where you live in Barbados the public transportation system the last bus leaves Bridgetown, the connecting hub and capital at a particular time for each destination. In the sixties it was 6 pm for some destinations, 8 pm for others and 11 pm for others- like mine. It was incumbent therefore to know this important information when engaging in the science of chick checking (courting.) Very few youngsters were then given their father’s car to engage in this lofty pastime, and fathers were not given to rise from their warm beds to rescue silly sons who did not know how to be punctual. Missing the last bus therefore meant that you had to “slam tar”- a most inelegant euphemism for walking home sleepy and tired in the dark!
Usually when you were at the young ladies home, as the clock hands turned towards 11 p.m the young lass would put her hair in curlers or she would otherwise “set” her hair. As soon as you left she was in her warm bed. By the time you reached the bus stop she was far, far away in slumberland. And we the love-infected fellas were on the road struggling to get home. But as they say, boys will be boys; and that includes checking chicks in the approved Bajan fashion. Any girl worth her salt-or sugar- could easily induce the most quiet and conservative boy to miss the last bus. Any normal red blooded chap who sought after the mystical “sugar and spice” of which girls are alleged to be made, readily risked missing the last bus- and getting laughed at. After all, boys must be boys!
One Thursday in July 1972 I left home in St James to seek a job at the JuC Factory in Bay Street. I was unsuccessful and so I went up to Wanderers Cricket Club in Dayrell’s Road to watch an under nineteen cricket game between Barbados and Trinidad.(Craig, Ashby of Cawmere played in that game. As well as Nigel Johnson and Joel Garner.) Cricket finished at 5:30, and I ought to have set off for home at that time. But the lure of seeing my darling, who lived opposite the cricket ground was too great. Next thing you know it was 10:30. Since we had heard no bus pass on the way up to the top of the route, wisdom dictated that I should run to town if I was to catch the last bus to my home in St James.
In those days I was at my peak in the science of running for the last bus. I could run the two miles or so to town in less than 20 minutes if missing the last bus was to be averted. I was not of course an athlete, but until then I had never missed the last bus. True to form I hit Fairchild Street at 10:50 after running through the rain for over a mile. To my dismay the 11 o clock last bus to Holder’s Green was gone! Gone before the time!
I boarded a Paynes Bay Bus and descended therefrom at the bottom of the University Drive on Highway one, to walk the two miles or so to Redman’s Village area. Would you believe it? Half way on this trek the rains descended in a manner that would have caused Noah to fear. I was soaked for the second time that night as I walked wet and wearily homewards. No one could personally have cursed me as I cursed and chided myself that night.
The following night I walked my sweet heart home from the Youth Service, and left in time to run to town to catch the last bus. What do you suppose happened? The bus again left before the scheduled time, and again I got soaked. What angered me most was that I was there on time! It was not my fault that I had missed the last bus! That really hurt! I retired from this pastime at the tender age of 22 when I departed to Jamaica to study. By the time I returned to Barbados I was married and owned a car.
Some years ago my wife and I were entertaining the sweet heart of one my fellow medical students at our home. One rainy night my colleague came to visit, and as expected, lost track of time and missed the last bus. The bus had taken an alternative route to the end of its route near to my home. As a result we did not hear when it arrived. We heard when it left, however. My friend had missed the last bus! He had arrived! He could be certified as a real chick checking man!
I announced to my colleague “Eustace boy, you miss the last bus and we are too tired to drive you home tonight. You will have to walk home. After all you are not a real man till you miss the last bus, and walk home through the rain.”
To my amazement his girlfriend responded “Come Eustace, I will go with you.” They were both Dominicans, and certainly did not know the way from Rendezvous to the Medical Students lodgings in Jemmott’s Lane, just outside Bridgetown. However, because she was the first girl I had met who was willing to accompany her boyfriend home after missing the last bus, I relented and we drove him home. This, after I had rolled up all over the floor having a good Bajan belly laugh at his plight.
Today, few young men know what it feels like to miss the last bus, because they tend to go courting with their parents expensive cars. But I believe with all my heart that a man has not truly courted properly the Bajan way unless he has at least once, on a rainy night, missed the last bus.
Come on fellas . Let’s have some good last bus stories.
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