Hidden from view, I sat quietly in the bushes until the prison guards moved far enough from the flag for me to walk.
I heard my grandmother calling for dinner from our fifth-floor window. Now is my chance, I thought.
Feeling the pressure of making a move, I jumped out of the bushes, lunging 20 feet and tagging the base of the flagpole with my foot, freeing my teammates from the seemingly impenetrable fortress of Joy Pagano. Gaya.
Everyone scuffled, prisoner and guard alike. I stunned them all with my shameless sneak attack. As I looked at my grandmother, I felt a hand holding my arm. Joy caught me mid-sprint, holding me captive.
As I sat there, my heart was beating, sweating, I could imagine my grandmother’s patience. And in that very moment, I saw every lamp post in my premises and the lights of the apartment go out one by one.
On that hot July evening in 1977, all the electricity in New York City went out like sweat in my dirty socks.