Rob, Summer '98, & the Old Neighborhood

On a typical summer day, Rob and I would meet up in the mornings around 10am. He would ride his bike over to my house (the entire neighborhood was just one street in a big circular loop), and he would yell to my upstairs window. Sometimes we would get in a game or two of Triple Play Baseball on the Sega Genesis I hooked up to an old TV in the garage. Then, around 11, as we start to feel the beads of sweat trickling down our necks from the building heat and salty Jersey air, we would ride our bikes around the circle, relive last night's web gems, and debate whether Sosa or McGwire would surge ahead in the home run race. We might grab a snack or drink at the Milk Box across Route 34, rile up a anyone that as home to play a few innings of baseball at “Green Gully Stadium,” then wiggle through the shrubs and leaves into our playland in the woods, where the mystical dirt track with towering ramps appeared like entering a level of a video game. "Hop on, let's ride!"

This is a story about fun and freedom, curiosity and adventure. It's a coming of age tale. This is a story about Rob, Summer ‘98, and the Old Neighborhood.

The "OD"

The more I reflect, the more I realize how closely my self-image is tied to my upbringing in "the OD,” as I refer to it (that acronym doesn’t make much sense, does it?).

After all, the OD taught me a lot about becoming who I was. I learned to come out of my shell, wear shorts (yeah, those legs were whiter than vanilla ice cream when they first saw the light of day), and even date my first girlfriend (I think that lasted two weeks). Most importantly, I learned that I loved and deeply craved feeling a connection with others.

It was in the old neighborhood that I met a few long-time friends, and even recruited others to come hang out there. None were more significant in impacting my life than Rob. But I’ll talk more about him in a minute…

Up until that summer, I had been a really shy… quite frankly, lonely… kid.

I spent the majority of my early years in a state of quiet anxiety as my younger brother faced undeniably harsh health challenges. While my parents tended to him with trips back and forth from central NJ to Children's Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP), I was constantly being cared for and transported by nannies, family friends, and congregants from our temple, sometimes being displaced from my true home for weeks (if not months) at a time. Our household was in an endless state of chaos. But it was my normal.

It wasn’t until my second full year living in the Old Neighborhood, starting in Summer/Fall1997, that I finally broke out of my shell. We found a babysitter down the street who ended up taking care of my brother when he was intermittently home between hospital stays, and she had a son (the first of many significant "Mike”s in my life ahead) that was just a few years older than me.

Despite my self-perpetuating terrors of having to make a new friend, I went out to play some hoops at the court. I was terrible, and got made fun of for being shy, but I showed up and met some other kids in the process. A few weeks later, I joined a few of them to play street hockey, which was more up my alley, and I felt a bit more comfortable and accepted.

Rob

Then came Rob. He moved into the OD in late summer '97 and was set to attend the same school as Mike, who introduced us.

Here is the best way I could describe the goofball Rob was: every time he introduced me to someone new, he qualified our friendship by exclaiming that the first time he and I met, I took a chunk out of his leg.

This was just a microcosm of the absurdity that he carried in his mind / view of the world. Nothing was really out of the ordinary. At least I wasn’t the one he claimed was born with a tooth on his… male genitalia.

All of the sudden, a whole new world opened before my eyes. I found myself with a companion. Someone who had a way better sense of humor and saw the world differently. A guy who found a way to make light of every person, place, and situation possible… sometimes to the point of pure annoyance, especially when you were the subject of that humiliation. But god, did I need to laugh.

Over the course of the following summer (Summer ’98, to which it is now affectionately referred), we had basically started our own summer camp. He and I were 12 and 11 years old, respectively; our parents having no money to send us off to a real summer camp, so we made our own.

The Jumps

If Summer ‘98 was defined by creating our own summer camp, then “The Jumps” was our “Color War.” The old neighborhood was abundant with kids our age–many between 8-13–and somehow we found an enormously challenging and fun project to undertake as a community. Mind you, I look back and wonder how the hell all of our parents collectively allowed this… but it truly defined our summer.

The jumps were our Disney World. A manicured figure-8-style dirt bike path with jumps, made for and by the rebellious, BMX-loving kids in the neighborhood. JT, Danny, Richie, and a bunch of other “wiseguy” kids, as Rob referred to them, would compete by circling the figure-8 to then launch off the 3-4 ft ramps we built from scratch. If you weren’t riding the jumps, you were building the jumps. If you weren’t building the jumps, you were watching kids fly off the jumps. It was our jam.

Now, I have to pause here and reluctantly admit… I was mostly doing the latter two. This scrawny little Jewish boy didn’t have the guts to fly 10 feet in the air. Even after I convinced my dad to get me a sweet, lime-green, freestyle GT Performer… I guess I was scared. 🤷

Rob and I found our roles as building partners, maybe because he was a little scared deep down, too. We took large sticks and beat back the plants and leaves to expand the track. We used shovels from our garages to fortify the existing jumps, increasing their height and ensuring they stayed intact. We theorized about building a track that surged down the lip of the gully, only to come up the hill on the other side.

The Grasslands

Late in the afternoons, the sun would shine on what seemed like a far-away enchantment. “The grasslands!!”, Rob dubbed it. He spoke of the myth that the Grasslands were a magical place where you skip through like in a meadow and all of your dreams come true. However, he warned, you never wanted to actually walk on them, because they would suck you in like quick sand. I remember being skeptical about this for what felt like a whole year, until one time I finally dared to head over there… and he wasn’t kidding. That mud was thick!

The idea that there was a far away land… that you could see, but couldn’t truly reach… I wonder what this meant for Rob. Did he like it that way? 

Looking back on our friendship, it was clear he was a dreamer. He had big goals and visions of the future, but it seemed like he wasn’t quite sure how to reach them.

I think about what my dreams were at that time. Did I have any? The more I reflect, the more I remember feeling like I was really, truly lost. I mean, let’s be honest, what 11 year-old actually knows what’s up in his life? Still, I recall feeling isolated, scared, and unsure of things.

And yet, these daily routines–-riding the jumps, playing on the crappy TV in the garage, speculating about the grasslands–they gave me purpose. They gave me energy, bolstered my spirit, and provided something to look forward to, everyday. The OD gave me a sense of who I was, someone who got joy from connecting with others, leading the charge, playing sports, being active and having fun, caring about my friends, and being present.

It’s crazy to think how true and even more illuminating these sentiments are today. Connectedness is a value I hold true almost above all else, and is also in my top five strengths (StrengthsFinder).

The things we did that caused a stir, while nerve-racking, still made me feel adventurous and alive.

One example: Rob had created a legend, the Tale of Nutsack Jack. As bad as this sounds, the tale suggests he was a homeless guy with a beat-up red hoodie and a scragly beard who appeared at night to scare and harass the kids in the neighborhood by ripping off their ears (or something like that… I was 11). I recall one of our friends came over and dressed up in a hoodie and mask, pretending to be NJ in the flesh, just to scare the other kids. They got pissed and almost started a fight. Dumb at the time… probably still dumb now, but a memory, nonetheless.

The Lesson

So why recount this decades later? Perhaps more importantly–Why do I find myself revisiting and reflecting on the times in the Old Neighborhood so often?

I’d like to believe it conjures the spirit of adventure that was discovered, possibly wavered, but never really left.

As an adult in my 30s, I feel like a lot of my youthful spirit is in the rearview.

Money troubles, fitting into a new group in a new city, learning to share a space with a partner, balancing multiple jobs and responsibilities… All of this, at times, feels like all work and no play. For more than five years, I’ve worked on businesses and projects that have gone through many ups and downs, often letting the pressure to succeed stress me to no end.

Recently, though, I had an awakening. An enlightenment, if you will. I re-discovered a skill derived from youthful passion that I had forgotten about. The ability to make anything in front of me fun.

After all, an 11-year-old with no structure has nothing better to do than to create a world of adventure with his best friend. Why can’t his 30-something-year-old counterpart do the same?

I’ve shifted my energy to working on this project, Live Your Values. I want it to be fun, exciting, and full of adventure. Not everyday in the old neighborhood was exciting and adventurous, but every day had that possibility.

Our days of exploration and discovery in the Old Neighborhood were balanced with the familiar and routine. It’s what made me enjoy it the most. I knew that within the same day, we could play six innings of baseball at “Green Gully Stadium”, work on the jumps, and also explore a whole new area of the gully we’ve never seen before. We could get ice cream at Scoops (where the owner coincidentally looked like Mark McGwire), grab a Yoohoo at the Milk Box, and see a dude walk in and buy a lottery ticket in his underwear. We might run into Francesca and the BMX crew, and he might take us to a newly constructed neighborhood where they’re prospecting an entirely new set of jumps (but nothing would ever compare to the OG OD).

The Question

What if my approach to my projects were centered around the pure fun and enjoyment of the pursuit? How much more engaged would I be? What if the pressure was off, and I treated work less like school and more like summer camp… or better yet, Summer '98?

The OD taught me how to live. It taught me how to love living. It taught me how to let loose and have fun. It may have just been the most important lesson in my life.

RIP Rob Gaudiosi 12/24/07

This is part 1 in a series on The Old Neighborhood. Subscribe and stay tuned for more.