Daylight dims on Taylor Street and the festival tempo jumps. Picnickers rise from their blankets, double daters stroll. The crowd careens between food booths on either side of the street. Onstage a sequined entertainer punctuates torch songs with Italian salutations to the audience. In the middle of tourist traffic the neighborhood kids gather, indifferent to anyone outside their teenage circles.
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Two are belly-to-belly like umpire and baseball manager over a questionable call. They are yelling in distorted Italian and waving their fingers. Faces are flushed, cheeks billow, necks are straining.
“Doe–” “Ching–” “Say say say–” “Ohhht!”
“Ohhht–”
What’s the game called? I ask. An enthusiastic friend with a Day-Glo earring jumps between us. “Mota! Mota!” he shouts, pronouncing it something like MOE-dah.
One of the girls from the fringe leans into the circle and holds up a splayed hand. “Ching,” she mocks, and leads her friends away. I decide to go watch the fireworks.
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): photo/Steven D. Arazmus.
