Monday afternoon came faster than anyone expected. The crew walked west together, crossing I-35 at 40th Street, joking less than usual. Not because they were sad—but because this day felt big. New field. New routines. Same team—but not the same. Still, it wasn’t like ML King Park was foreign territory. King Park was still the Southside. It was still in the neighborhood. Just a little different flavor to it.
The parkhouse was busy. The basketball court stayed full. Girls practiced dances on the sidewalk. Kids jumped rope under the shade of the big trees. Older boys sat on the hill watching everything unfold. It was alive. It felt familiar. Just… different.
As the crew approached the field, Derrick slowed for a moment, staring at the big park sign: MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR. PARK. He remembered a few years before, standing beside his parents and hundreds of others, for the ceremony to rename the park. It had been called Nicollet Field before, but in the late ’60s, following Dr. King’s assassination, the name was changed in honor of him. Derrick remembered: The big crowd, sitting in the folding chairs, a church choir, singing, men in suits, women in hats, kids running around with flags, and the moment Ralph Bunche—the Nobel Peace Prize winner—walked onto the stage. The applause had been thunderous. People stood. Some cried. Some shouted “Amen!” Some waved handkerchiefs. His mother squeezed his shoulder and whispered:
“Remember this, baby. Remember who we are.”
And he did.
That memory flickered warm and strong in his chest as he walked onto the King Park field for the first official Phelps-turned-King practice.
Coach Jimmy stood near the middle of the grass field, clipboard under his arm, already blowing his whistle at kids who were messing around.
“All right. Let’s bring it in!”
He smiled.
“I know it’s a little different, but everything we were gonna do at Phelps, we can do here at King. So let’s get to it.”
He blew his whistle sharply.
“Warm-up lap—GO!”
Groans erupted again. Tony threw his head back.
“Lord have mercy… not the lap…”
Marcus shoved him lightly.
“Stop talking and run.” Leon sprinted off like he’d been training for it. Reggie jogged at a steady pace. Derrick fell somewhere in the middle, focused, calm. It didn’t help that Coach Lenny ran behind the group shouting, “Sprint! Sprint!” the whole time.
By the time they finished stretching and footwork drills, something became very clear: King Park’s field felt just as good under their cleats as Phelps did. The King kids felt the same.
Then Coach Jimmy split them into two sides, a subtle tension crackled in the air—nothing ugly, just competitive. King boys vs. Phelps boys. A “Let me see what you got,” type of deal. On one play, Tony hit the hole hard and juked a Donnie so bad the boy spun in a full circle.
Marcus shouted!
“That’s how you do Tony!”
On different play, a King Park wide receiver burned the Phelps secondary deep and caught a perfect pass.
Leon whistled.
“Okay! Y’all got speed over here!”
Pretty soon it wasn’t Phelps vs. King anymore. It was just football. Boys laughing. Boys hitting. Boys showing off. Boys being boys. Derrick felt it—the shift. The blending. The making of something new.
Jimmy blew his whistle.
“Ok. Now we are all just one team. No more them, and us. We’re all King Park, and we’re gonna be Baaaaad!!!.”
After practice everyone rushed inside the parkhouse where it was cool and smelled like floor polish and teenage sweat. The building was lively—always had been. Girls gathered in one of the side rooms, sliding the table aside so they could practice their dances. They had a portable record player spinning 45s: 🎶 “I know, I know that I’m in love…” Chi Chi & Pepe’s voices floated through the halls, smooth and sweet. Then Honey Cone came on: 🎶 “Stick-up! Highway robbery! Stole my love from me! Heartbreak in the first degree!”
The girls squealed and started singing along. Terri. Yolanda. Cathy. And a half-dozen other neighborhood girls. They always turned the room into their own dance studio—synchronized steps, stomps, claps, turns, and hips swinging in rhythm. They tried to pull the boys in. “Come on, y’all!” “Dance with us!” “Derrick! Tony! Marcus!” A few of the boys joined in—doing the funky chicken, even though it was an old dance, but anything to get the girls laughing. Tony strutted in like he was auditioning for Soul Train.
“I’m ready!” he declared, snapping his fingers.
Cathy covered her face.
“Lord, help us.”
Marcus tried two steps and ended up out of rhythm. Leon almost knocked over a chair. Reggie actually did okay—even surprised himself. But Derrick? He headed straight for the radiator along the wall and sat down. He was tired. Football tired. Sweaty, worn-out, shoulders sore tired.
Tasha drifted near the doorway and spotted him.
“You not gonna dance?” she asked, smiling.
Derrick shook his head, breathing heavy.
“Nah. I can barely walk right now.”
She giggled.
“You did work hard out there.”
“You saw that?” he asked.
“I saw everything,” she said softly. His chest warmed.
The music, the laughter, the clatter of boys teasing each other, the rhythm of feet on the tile floor—it all blended into a sound that belonged to King Park. A neighborhood sound. A summer sound.
Derrick leaned against the radiator, watching the room swirl with life. He still missed Phelps. He still felt that tug. But this place? This was good too. Different. But good. He watched Tasha laughing with the girls, hair swinging as she practiced a dance step. He watched Marcus teaching a kid how to backpedal from a football stance. He watched Tony trying to show off his “smooth” dance moves. He watched the everybody coming together— two parts of one neighborhood, blending into one family.
Finally as the sun started its slow descent, the crew headed east across I-35, football gear slung over their shoulders.
“How y’all feeling?” Marcus asked.
“Good,” Leon said. “Field is nice.”
“Competition good too,” Reggie added.
Tony puffed his chest.
“They ain’t ready for me though.”
Derrick smiled quietly.
“Ain’t nobody ready for you Tony”
“How you think this all’s gonna go? Marcus asked.
Derrick thought for a moment.
“We just have to walk a little farther to go to practice, but it’s still the neighborhood.”
And it was.
The summer sun glowed orange over 40th Street as they turned toward Portland, tired but proud. Phelps and King together. This was going to be something. The season was alive. And it was theirs.