I was born and raised in a middle-class suburban household. We lived life comfortably, knowing that it was not much of a hassle to acquire a non-necessity. I had parents who were supportive of my decisions and a brother who shared similar interests as myself. In particular, my brother and I were always interested in sports. Sports such as baseball, basketball, football, and more were the topics we would discuss with one another. We gained such a profound interest in sports from my father, who spent the majority of his free time building relationships through competition within sports. It could have been inferred from the day I was born that sports would become a primary source of enjoyment.
It is a fair statement in saying that I was, and currently still am, an introvert throughout my childhood. In other words, I found enjoyment in doing things on my own. This allowed me to become imaginative in the things I did and allowed me to envision myself in a position where power was at the palm of my hands. There was only one place throughout my entire childhood where this magic came to life: Cherry Brook Park.
My father would bring my brother and I to Cherry Brook Park multiple times a week. Within the park was a rustic basketball court with a hockey rink format made of asphalt. Nearby are the tennis courts, and beside it, a large wall where people can practice hitting tennis balls by themselves or have a catch with a baseball. It’s every sports-fanatic’s dream to have a park with an athletic complex inside it only half a mile down the road. I know that it brought pure joy to me when my father would bring my brother and I to practice fielding ground balls or play an occasional game of pickup basketball.
Cherry Brook Park eventually became my backyard. I would practice throwing my deadly curveball at the wall; go around the entire complex at blazing speeds to win the biggest cycling race since the Tour De France and escape the big, bad wolf when asking him what time it was eagerly waiting for him to shout “dinnertime.” Throughout the summer, there wasn’t a day that went by where I was shooting a basketball by myself at the hockey rink. I was never great at basketball; maybe I have a decent free throw shot, but nothing scout worthy by any means. Ironically, I wasn’t there to practice my form. I was there to self-reflect about things that were relevant to me at the time. Hours would go by and I would be at free throw attempt number four hundred and fifty. I thought of myself as a rising NBA superstar who put the team on his back to bring them back into playoff contention. That’s where I began to develop my underdog type of mentality. I would spend time sitting underneath the hoop up against the wall of the hockey rink just bouncing a ball. Some of my greatest ideas were created at the hockey rink, as well as some of my deepest reflections.
My father lived in this town his entire life. He would tell me stories about how people lined up around the tennis courts, anxiously waiting to get a set in with a group of friends. The town actually hired someone to monitor people entering and exiting the courts with a sign-up sheet while sipping away at a cup of coffee. As for the hockey rink, people of all skill levels would showcase their skills to a large crowd who cheered for the kid who never made a basket in his life and laughed at the stud who air-balled a layup in a tightly contested game. People respected one another and dared not to vandalize anything that was at Cherry Brook Park.
I am still in disbelief when he tells me these stories because Cherry Brook Park today is not only a ghost town, but it is also vandalized beyond measure. Walls are chipped, nets from basketball hoops are torn down, drains are clogged, paint is faded, and fences are cut. People began to get bored with one another and decided to move onto something else that peaked the minds of children in mainstream society. Once the Internet came about, people began to shift their interests and left my father’s childhood in shambles.
My father and I are very similar to one another. We both enjoy doing things on our own and we expressed our emotions through physical activity. I understand that Cherry Brook Park is no longer kept in pristine condition. All I know is that the park was always be populated by one person: myself. When I see the park today, I envision it bustling with children from my father’s generation. I think to myself that I’m so lucky to have an entire park to myself.
Cherry Brook Park is where my childhood was at just like how it was for my father. I learned many things, experienced both good and bad memories, and let my fantasies run freely without a care in the world. It’s a shame that nobody was there to see me cross up Michael Jordan during Game 6 of the 2009 NBA Finals located at Cherry Brook Park; the crowd must have left early thinking that the underdog could not outshine the “GOAT.”
