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METROPOLITAN DIARY
An uncanny long-range shooter, a conversation observed on the 6 and more reader tales of New York City in this week’s Metropolitan Diary.
Nov. 9, 2025, 3:00 a.m. ET
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Shooting Around
Dear Diary:
Most Sundays, I walk to the outdoor basketball courts at Julia Richman High School in Midtown Manhattan. It’s my ritual: 50 shots from the “old man’s foul line,” then a bench break with the paper and a text to my adult grandchildren to report the day’s stats.
One recent Sunday, my favorite hoop was free. As I warmed up, I noticed a man watching from the far sideline. It was a hot day, and he looked out of place in his jeans and sweatshirt.
“Want to take a shot?” I called out, tossing him the ball.
He didn’…
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METROPOLITAN DIARY
An uncanny long-range shooter, a conversation observed on the 6 and more reader tales of New York City in this week’s Metropolitan Diary.
Nov. 9, 2025, 3:00 a.m. ET
Image
Shooting Around
Dear Diary:
Most Sundays, I walk to the outdoor basketball courts at Julia Richman High School in Midtown Manhattan. It’s my ritual: 50 shots from the “old man’s foul line,” then a bench break with the paper and a text to my adult grandchildren to report the day’s stats.
One recent Sunday, my favorite hoop was free. As I warmed up, I noticed a man watching from the far sideline. It was a hot day, and he looked out of place in his jeans and sweatshirt.
“Want to take a shot?” I called out, tossing him the ball.
He didn’t move in closer. From an awkward angle and distance, he launched an ungainly, almost archaic two-handed shot. It swished through the hoop without touching the rim.
“Wow,” I said. “Can you do that again?”
He did — three more times. Then he walked to another distant spot and did it again, never saying a word.
We played together but not in a coordinated way. I passed him the ball after my turn; he never passed back.
After my usual 15 minutes was up, I paused.
“I’m going to stop,” I said. “Feel free to keep using the ball.”
He did not respond. I sat and read. At some point, the bouncing stopped. I looked up. My ball was resting under the hoop. The stranger was gone.
Now, when I am at the schoolyard, I glance toward the sideline. Just in case.
— Ernest Brod
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86th to 51st
Dear Diary:
I scoot into a seat on the 6 train, wedged between two zombies, headphones clapped over heads, and watch a symphony
orchestrated by two women graceful conductors of swooping arcs sweeping broadly in the tight space around them
long, unadorned fingers and supple wrists tell a story punctuated by soft guttural sounds.
They take turns.
One beats her chest for emphasis the other nods vigorously.
One brings her hands together a solemn prayer the other tilts her head in repose.
The subway screeches halt wise. Standing riders grab the metal pole before stumbling to the whoosh of the open door.
I almost miss my stop.
— Elise Chadwick
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Morning Routine
Dear Diary:
Every morning for two years I walked the same route to work: west from my apartment across 76th Street, south on Park Avenue to 51st and then west to Broadway.
Some days I listened to a book; other days I listened to podcasts. Some days I walked in silence. Every day, no matter what, as I crossed 63rd Street, I could count on passing a man who worked at a co-op building on the corner as he sprayed down the sidewalk.
“Good morning, hon!” he would say. “Have a wonderful day.”
Some days, we exchanged pleasantries about the weather. Other days, we wished each other a good weekend. He didn’t know my name, and I didn’t know his.
Then one day on my walk, someone else was spraying down the sidewalk.
“Vacation,” I thought, until I didn’t see him the next week or the week after that.
My routine changed too. I left my job and no longer walked the same route every morning. I felt sad not to have seen my sidewalk friend one last time to wish him well.
A few months later, I was on my way home and decided to get off the bus at 52nd Street and walk the rest of the way.
It was about 5 p.m., and the streets were full of commuters. I walked up Park Avenue with my head down. I was crossing 58th Street, beginning to regret my decision to walk, when I heard a familiar voice: “Hey, hon! Have a good afternoon.”
I looked up and there he was, smiling. We both kept walking in the crowd. Then I turned around.
“Thank you,” I said. “You too!”
— Stephanie Michas
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Hometown Habit
Dear Diary:
I was living and working in Okinawa some years ago when I traveled to Tokyo to meet my college-age son for a long weekend there.
We were exploring a fashionable neighborhood one morning and had joined a small group of local residents who were waiting at an intersection to cross the street.
The signal to walk had not come on, but the traffic was light, and I was itching to cross without waiting for the light telling me that I could.
Then I spied a well-dressed, middle-age Japanese woman on the other side of the intersection. She appeared to be gauging the traffic as well. When she dipped her toe out into the street, I took it as a sign and started across myself.
As we passed in the middle of the street, she nodded to me.
“I’m from New York,” she said.
— Marsha Mose
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Which Way to Go?
Dear Diary:
I was on an eastbound 23rd Street crosstown bus when the driver got on the public address system.
“Anybody know where Gramercy is?” he asked.
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