Jerry Dunk

In the summer of 1963, Manhattan was sweltering. Street vendors lined the sidewalks, jazz spilled from open windows, and kids played ball in every alley. But one block—West 43rd between 9th and 10th—had a strange reputation. Locals called it “The Quiet Stretch.” No kids played there. No dogs barked. And at the center of it all was a hot dog cart run by a man named Jerry Dunk.

Jerry was tall, wiry, and always wore a Knicks cap pulled low. His cart was immaculate—chrome polished daily, buns perfectly steamed. But what made Jerry famous wasn’t the food. It was the court.

Behind a rusted gate next to the alley, Jerry had built a half-court basketball setup. Regulation height rim. Painted lines. Even a scoreboard wired to a car battery. He called it “The Dunkyard.” And if you beat Jerry in a game of one-on-one, your meal was free for life.

No one ever won.

Witnesses said Jerry moved like smoke—his crossover was hypnotic, his vertical leap unnatural. One kid swore Jerry dunked from the free throw line in dress shoes. Another claimed he saw Jerry hang in the air for five full seconds. But the strangest part? Jerry never missed. Not once. Not in ten years.

Then, in October 1973, Jerry vanished.

His cart was found abandoned. The court was padlocked. And beneath the asphalt, city workers discovered something chilling: a trapdoor. Beneath it, a narrow staircase led to a concrete chamber. Inside were dozens of old basketballs, a rusted cot, and a wall covered in Polaroids—each one showing Jerry mid-dunk, his face blurred, his feet never touching the ground.

The NYPD closed the case as “abandoned property.” But locals still whisper. Some say Jerry was a ghost. Others say he was part of a government experiment. And a few believe he’s still out there, challenging strangers to one-on-one games in forgotten corners of the city.

So if you ever see a pristine hot dog cart with no vendor, and hear the echo of a basketball bouncing in an empty alley—run. Or lace up. Your choice.