I loved the energy, the noise, the very living and breathing pulse of it all. The rough edges of its hurried citizens only added to the appeal. If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere. Song lyrics as fact. Art as life.
More specifically, Greenwich Village was the most awesome neighborhood in the most awesome place on Earth. I felt more cozy and at home down there than I did amongst all that glass and steel uptown. There were no skyscrapers at our corner of the world, just our low-rise brownstones and architecturally interesting squat buildings. It was so incredibly artsy-fartsy and cool; a people-watchers paradise. It offered its own unique backdrop, between the music and the smells and the food and the people. Mere steps outside my door, there were art galleries, ninety-nine seat theaters and trendy boutiques, not to mention the beatnik coffee houses, swinging jazz clubs, and super-hip bars.
My apartment was in the West Village on the top floor of a fourth floor walkup. It was certainly no penthouse, however, but I did have a fire escape balcony—where my plants lived and died—with a staircase that led to the roof. When the weather was just right, I’d station my lawn chair up there for a day of sunbathing, and if I closed my eyes, I could almost pretend I was at the beach. Cocktail in hand, blessed breeze blowing, I’d change out the sound of cars grumbling and horns honking for undulating waves and yipping seagulls.
But it was Sunday, so I knew I wouldn’t be lounging around the rooftop oasis. Lisa and I had a standing lunch date every week, and this particular Sunday would see me in Jersey.
She and I had been meeting as a weekly ritual since her recent move back to Norman that year. Even though I was in New York, we were still able to see each other a lot more often, being that we were only a short car trip away from one another. Sometimes, she and her husband Pickford would come into the city for a night out on the town (where they wound up crashing on my futon a time or two), but we had a standing appointment every Sunday regardless. It was awesome to have her back in Jersey.
Lisa and Pickford had spent what felt like forever out west. Pick had played four stellar years with the Bruins at UCLA, then was drafted by the Suns in an early round. They’d barely settled into their new house in Phoenix when Pick was diagnosed with a shredded Achilles tendon during his second season. It turned out he had bone spurs that had gone undetected for years, eventually doing a number on his right leg. The damage laid him up in the hospital during the rest of the season and required no less than three surgeries over the following years. Even with extensive rehabilitation and months of physical therapy, the injury turned out to be a career-ender.
At least as a player.
Thankfully, it wasn’t long before the New York Knicks came calling. Turned out, Van Gundy was a fan, and asked ex-local-boy Pickford Redy if he’d like to join the assistant coaching staff of the Knicks. He barely had the offer on the table before Pick and Lisa were on the road and on their way home to the east coast. I figured it was a bit of good luck—during a really bad time—that finally got the two of them back home again. Lisa said it was more like a godsend, because the offer in itself was enough to jostle her husband out of the depressed funk he’d been in since the injury.
They took up residence in the most charming little waterfront home on Lenape Lake, coincidentally built by my cousin Jack. He and his fiancée Livia had just bought a place not far from there, and was the one who tipped them off to the property.
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Lenape Lake was a private, wooded community within the larger town of Norman. There was a cute little pub on the west side where a peninsula jutted out into the water, giving beautiful views from either the deck out back or through the three glass walls inside the restaurant. It was a place my father had brought Bruce and me sporadically over the years, and had become Lisa’s and my most recent favorite lunch destination.
I walked out onto the deck where she was already waiting at a shaded table at the edge of the water, reading the Daily News. It was a gorgeous day outside—sunny, but cool—and I was grateful that we’d be able to take advantage of the outdoor seating.
She saw me from across the deck and folded her paper onto the seat next to her. Before I could even sit myself down at the table, she said, “Lemme see that thing!”
She immediately reached out and grabbed my hand once I was within her arms’ range, and spent an exorbitant amount of time appraising the diamond on my finger. I’d had a manicure a few days prior in order to display the ring to its proper advantage, and I was grateful that it had held up long enough to pass Lisa’s inspection.