U Magazine, Fall 1988

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THE EDITOR'S DESK

The Playground It was nothing spectacular as far as playgrounds go.

Rusting wire backstops anchored two of its corners. Patches of chocolate– colored dirt interrupted large tufts of unkempt grass. Three pitted blacktop basketball courts beckoned from deep left field. But to my brother and me it was the Playground for our dreams - our very own Madison Square Garden, Candlestick Park or Soldier Field - depending on the season. A place where two boys chased the shadows of their heroes. Willie Mays and Mickey Mantle. Roger Staubach and Jim Brown. Jerry West and Elgin Baylor. Heroes all in our young eyes. We duplicated their moves, their stances, their swings - hoping someday we might duplicate their feats. The Playground beckoned from a rise just past our backyard fence. We almost always answered. After-school visits often lingered until late afternoon, when night's curtain lowered on the Seattle winter day. On brilliant summer days, with squawking gulls our roaring crowds, we flagged down flyballs sent soaring high above the dewy grass. Our fancies shifted in rhythm with the cycles of the maples standing guard over our Playground. In the fall, as crispy golden leaves danced across the field, one-on-one tackle football dominated Saturday and Sunday afternoons. The contests continued until winter's soggy entrance, when sheets of rain transformed our gridiron into an unplayable bog of mud. That signaled the opening of basketball season. One-on-one full-court games for hours. My Lakers. Against his Celtics. For the NBA championship. In rainstorms. Sometimes in snow and ice. In almost total darkness. Still, we never abandoned our dreams. As winter's rages gave way to spring's promise, the silent maples regained their luster. Our signal to dig out bats and balls and gloves. The Yankees and Giants vied for months. In afternoon and evening contests often cut short by showers, and from sunup to sundown when school bells fell silent until autumn. Today our Playground calls other stargazing youngsters, just as it called my brother and me some 20 years before. The two of us rarely compete on that magical Playground anymore. Our hopes and ambitions have carried us to other arenas, larger and more distant. But none as special as the first . And now, looking back on those golden days, their purpose rings loud and clear. Were dreamers still. D

John Sutherland

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