Bramson’s Beach & Ballsy Banter
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By Bennett A. Bramson, MPA
It would simply be easy to start at the beginning, but illogic suggests starting somewhere in the middle and in doing so, I will share some memories and stories of my days as a Recreation Director (Coach) with the City of Miami Beach (1970 – 1975). I will pay tribute to two related legends and friends from that time: Howie Berg and Sonny Neham.
As Coaches we each led our respective park programs in concert with the city’s department agenda, but added our own style and flavor to the mix. My programs had developed quite a following in the north end of the Beach, at Tatum Waterway Park, one of the smaller in the stable of facilities. Still, we regularly fielded championship teams in football, basketball, softball and other competitive endeavors, such as archery.
For those who didn’t know Sonny, he was a grizzled older man, a military veteran, who still suffered from some of his war time injuries. He walked with a particularly unusual shuffle and had one arm which hung, almost precipitously to one side (though it functioned, particularly when he wanted to use it to whack you in the head). We often referred to that arm/hand as “the flipper,” a description which will become clearer later in the column. A whack in the head was politically correct in those days!
Howie, on the other hand, was one of the most naturally funny human beings I have ever met. His ability to say things which were off-handed, quick, insightful, but so on-target, often left us speechless and gasping for breath we would laugh so hard. In a future column, I’ll share some of Howie’s exploits serving as the Judge at Kangaroo Court at Honor Camp for more than a decade and a half.
ANY camper who attended my Bramson’s Gold Coast Honor Camp can revel you with tales of “Judge Berg.” Howie, who suffered from Diabetes and had some other health problems, regrettably died far too young in his early 50’s. Howie was Sonny’s nephew. But I digress.
Each year, the City of Miami Beach and Recreation Department would co-sponsor their annual Mayor’s Christmas Party (for a city with many Jewish residents, Christmas was still a politically acceptable event for all. We Jews knew what it meant without complaint).
This program was held on a Saturday close to Christmas at the beautiful former Carib Theater, on the east end of Lincoln Road.
Children from the park programs were driven by parents and even bussed to the location to receive gifts from Santa and the Mayor and watch a selection of cartoons and a choice movie (long lost to memory).
As Park Directors we would come earlier and were assigned by Sonny with the task of unloading the City trucks, burdened with boxes of special toys and gifts for the kids. It was a truly rewarding program.
Just before the truck arrived, Howie said to me, “We don’t want to do this heavy lifting and work, do we?” “What’s the alternative,” I replied. To which he quickly said – “Follow me!” And like a lamb being led to slaughter, I naively did.
Into the men’s restroom we strode only to enter a toilet stall…together.
Now before you begin conjuring up visions of some sort of sexual tryst (which it was not), understand that this was strictly a ploy to avoid detection and pass on work responsibility to others).
For a painful period of almost one-half hour, the two of us squatted TOGETHER, uncomfortably, posed on the small toilet seat cover. For those of my readers who remember our friend Howie, he was no small man (probably in the 300 lb. range) and with my 6’ frame, this was one tight, crowded toilet seat.
We had managed to escape the work and detection, until we heard the door to the restroom slam open violently.
Then came the strange sounds of a thump, followed by a scrapping on the floor. Thump, scrape, thump, scrape, thump, scrape. I was dumbfounded – Howie knew better.
In my lowest voice, I said, “what the hell is that?” To which Howie, in his inimitably humorous fashion replied, “It’s either my Uncle Sonny or the Mummy!” I burst out laughing and fell off the toilet seat after which the door to the stall was kicked violently off its hinges.
I can still hear Sonny’s gruff voice, at ear piercing decibels: “What the fuck are you doing in here?” To which I knew, “Going to the bathroom,” would not be the right response.
He grabbed Howie by the EAR and pulled him out of the stall (I felt a brief sense of uncomfortable security as Sonny wailed on Howie).
As I stepped out of the now wide-open stall, I suddenly felt a slap of painful proportions, which caught me in the back of my head. I never saw it coming but I had suddenly fallen victim to the infamous flipper.
I often thought Sonny would have made a great boxer because no opponent would ever see that flipper coming surreptitiously from behind.
He grabbed me by an ear and strode out of the bathroom with a hand holding each of us by the ear.
I truthfully had a hard time deciding which hurt more: Being dragged by the ear or laughing until my sides throbbed.
At this point, I really did have to use the restroom, but I was too afraid to ask. Remember those times when you held it in so much it hurt? Fear had overcome my need to conduct a normal bodily function.
As we were dragged to the program, we gleefully noted that all the boxes had been unloaded by our fellow coaches: Nelson Ferreira, Gary Berman, Roger Morris, Steve Silvers, Gerry Goldstein, Andy “Babalu” Diaz, and Gary Kitchener.
The joy was short lived as the party ended and everyone was dismissed to go home…except Howie Berg and me. We had the joy, the two of us exclusively, of cleaning up the whole damn mess.
It was a great, albeit sometimes painful, but very humorous and unforgettable learning experience.
I hope you enjoyed sharing this true reminiscence with me.
In my next column, I’ll share another Miami Beach Recreation and Sonny Neham story involving the aforementioned Howie, Nelson, Gerry, Baba, me…and 100,000 fleas!
In memory of Howie Berg and Sonny Neham, here’s to more bantering…
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