In East Hampton, if you had a street named for you before the 20th century, odds were that you were an enslaver.

Peak movie-going, for me, came in the late 1970s and early 1980s, when — a tangle-haired child of that unruly era — I was handed a 10-dollar bill and left to my own devices for entire weekends at a go.

The other day, when Brett, one of the pros at East Hampton Indoor Tennis, noted that Jon Diat, The Star’s fishing writer, and I, its sportswriter, were among the few who wore masks when playing there, I said we did so because “we’re tyrannized by our wives.”