My father was gone by my 3rd birthday – never to return. He left no memories of a stern voice, or comforting touch, “a smell-good” scent, or that weary and pride-filled look of “I’m workin’ my behind off for this family.” I have no memories of nurturing or endearing moments, and no “go git your glove boy & let’s head out back” images to reflect on either. I don’t have one picture of my father anywhere. I don’t have a single snapshot of our family together or of him holding his sons in a bear hug. Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop(my grandparents that ended up raising us)said that my older brother looks an awful lot like my father so, that’s the best I can do for an image: based on my brother’s build that would make him a good six foot, with a thick build, and a full growth of hair on his face. I do recall that his presence was large and dark and that his voice was deep and bellowing. I remember that “cologne” he wore smelled an awful lot like winter-green-scented rubbing alcohol in the medicine cabinet.

I can’t for the life of me conjure up what our home looked like at all. I know what the homes were like after he left us – scattered, transient, unpredictable, frightening, dark and always different addresses.

Without a father in my life, I resorted to finding fatherly lessons from other men in my life who were willing to share their wisdom with me. My teachers came in the form of businessmen and laborers, winos and alcoholics, drug dealers and users, sport coaches, my peers and old-heads at the playground, merchants in the neighborhood and war vets that weren’t quite right anymore, school teachers and other kid’s dads. At an early age, I learned to be constantly on the lookout for any nugget of insight that may assist me on my rite of passage to manhood. So, many boys and many men helped me to become the man I am today.

One male figure that proved to be one the most influential in my journey was not a man in the literal sense. But he was a consistently a source of many of the fatherly lessons I learned. That source was, the Preston Playground.

Preston Playground, a.k.a. the Field was probably one of the most significant male figures in my life. Not much to look at but beautiful nonetheless, the Field was a wide expanse of green grass, a set of swings, monkey bars (which I hung from trying to get taller), a sliding board (which I fell off many times), an old deserted school, a basketball court with no lights that also served as the kickball & wiffle ball stadium (I lost an awful lot of skin on that asphalt falling, tripping, or getting knocked down), a baseball field with an infield made of what was affectionately known as Astro Dirt and the equipment shed. You could find beer, liquor, wine and drug mementos strewn about, Preston. The scent of urine behind the equipment shed was always present and no one ever wanted to retrieve a ball from that locale!

In spite of the many seedy and illicit events that occurred at Preston Playground, there was always this marvelous sense of community there too. It was the heart of the block and it was the convening place for anything that was significant in the neighborhood. Reputations were created and lost there. Myths and legends were conjured up there. Loves were realized, nurtured and lost there. Dreams were inspired and squashed there. And stories upon stories were told there.

Preston was my truly like a home for especially when you consider how much time I spent there. That playground was probably the biggest influence in my formative years.
Preston, and all the eclectic men who trekked across its landscape of asphalt and grass throughout the day, gave me permission to chase my dreams.

Preston and I spent countless hours alone having the conversations that an adolescent boy should have with his father. All of my conversations that questioned world events; trying to understand fears or managing worries and concerns; wondering how to fulfill hopes and dreams; making sense of the things deepest in my heart and soul. Preston was always available. Preston was an amazing listener. Preston was always welcoming. Preston was unconditional, trustworthy, it knew right from wrong, and was honest.

Preston knew about all of my successes, my disappointments, my failures and my moments in sports that were memorable.

Spending time at Preston Playground I received a lot of lessons from the school of hard knocks and via the teachers who hung out there on a daily basis: the importance of practice, sacrifice, determination; the lonely work;” teamwork; the Golden Rule; if you want anything in life you’re going to have to scrap and fight, be clever, crafty, resourceful, and honest to obtain it; always be a straight-up man; keep your elbow in and follow-through; hard work never goes unrewarded; can’t do nothin’ in life with a broke Want To; you better leave that stuff alone cause one day you’re gonna be something.

These were lessons that I should have learned from my Dad.

Luckily, Preston Playground was there.

Happy Father’s Day, Preston Playground!