Oh, McCarren Park Pool. I have such a soft place in my heart for you. Is it because you have been closed for almost 30 years and the very first summer you reopen, you’re plagued with repeated episodes of pool-closing fights, poop, and vomit?
Yeah, pretty much.
While anyone who’s worked at a pool knows these things happen on occasion, it does seem rather strange that all of these things would happen so often in the same place. Or is it just that the media is paying more attention because it’s the first summer for the pool?
Either way, I have to admire the way you keep plugging away. You’re not letting a little disgusting bodily discharge crush your spirit. There you are, every day, refreshed and ready to start again.
“Brawls can’t stop me!” you said when the fights broke out.
“What’s a little poop among pools?” you asked when the floating specimen scared away patrons.
“Show me something I haven’t seen!” you cried when the cloud of diarrhea let loose.
“Good one!” you admitted when the vomit appeared.
And through it all, you remained hopeful. I have to admire that. I have to wonder whether you aren’t a symbol for us all of what it takes to be a New Yorker. You’re going to get pushed, and pooped on, and thrown up on. That’s almost a given. But what distinguishes the fighters from the others, what distinguishes you from another pool that would have thrown in the towel by now, is that you refuse to give up or give in.
Which is why, despite the reports of your horror stories that come almost daily now, I still swam in you. (Though the knowledge that they’re pumping chlorine into you like crazy, as evidenced by the fact that the other day the chlorine levels were too high to let you open, makes me more comfortable, too.)