In the midst of all this lay a large paved area with a roundabout and swings where a further assortment of plant life delineated the numerous cracks. Adjoining it was a tiny lawn on which a cluster of trees provided a degree of shelter against the oppressive summer heat, an assortment of crude stone benches and, on the far side, a one storey brick hut.
However, at least half of the playground was taken up by a wire-fenced complex within which was set two banks of four tennis courts. One could wonder why this urban vista had been chosen as a site for these courts - surely one of the game's most remote outposts, far from pristine lawns and bright pavilions. They must once have been a proud addition to the neighbourhood but now the fencing was cut in many places, the ragged nets draping forlornly over slacking court wires and the pot-marked playing surface a pastiche of varying shades of dirty grey.
And yet those courts were in use morning till night, during spring, summer, fall or winter, the diversity of its occupants a reflective microcosm of the city's wide diaspora. Lissom youths with long flowing dreadlocks wearing shades and brightly hued shirts, old men with paunches and grey beards, nubile young women with shapely figures and light disposition, off duty factory workers who played stripped to the waist and smoking cheap cigarettes.
And of course, the children! Each day after school and during holidays a teeming tribe of smiling youngsters would converge on the playground. Brothers and sisters, black, white and hispanic alike; they were constantly there, running and laughing, uncaring of their foreboding surroundings.
The tennis courts were a melting pot for all of these; some of whom came and went as if in a perpetual serial drama, whilst others stayed for a lifetime. They were the setting for fierce competitive games, the working off of life's frustrations, gentle social interaction and even the odd romantic tryst.
In the summer months when the sun would bear down and reflect brilliantly off the windows of the tower blocks, one or two patrons would bring portable tape players to synchronise the rallies with a background of broad reggae beat. At such times, amidst a shimmering sea of heat haze, it was difficult indeed not to feel a charge of natural energy about the place.
Unsurprisingly, the wilderness which was this playground was known to all as 'the jungle'- an apt title born out of a mixture of affection and veracity.
In the hut by the courts could be found the Keeper. He was not the jungle's king as much as its mentor - more Merlin than Arthur. The Keeper was a black man with silvery greying hair, middle aged yet with a still proud disposition despite a pronounced limp. He was an individual of relatively few but well-chosen words leading to many suppositions about himself, his past and family but his quiet dignified manner had long earned him the respect of all.
No one could remember a time when he had not kept watch, Argus-like, over the courts and it was said that he could individually remember whole generations of the community - a modern day 'griot' akin to his forebears in long ago Africa.
He spent much time smiling wistfully whilst sat holding court on one of the benches. His preferred phrases were variations on "in the jungle, you gotta work together and survive…"; perhaps it was him who had coined that description of the playground. No one could be sure.
He was once, it was rumoured, a tennis player of some repute, able to mix it with the leading exponents of the day and on one wall inside the hut there was a series of treasured mementoes - six fast fading group photographs - acting as a testament to former prowess.
The courts were free of charge to use and the Keeper supplemented his modest stipend from the city parks and recreation department by giving lessons to the court users. His methods were simple, yet effective, stressing sound footwork and racket skills, and always delivered with a gentle and patient demeanour.
Several times weekly he organised teaching clinics for the multitudes of children and since they had very little or no money these would invariably be at no cost. He would say that the sight of their eager faces and their development towards worthwhile adulthood was reward enough.
And so it was, that in a neighbourhood where the streets offered so many unsavoury distractions and played host to unfulfilled young lives, the Keeper was able to offer a safe haven. Within this his charges not only learned a game for life but also to respect themselves and each other.
One steamy summer in the early 70's his supply of ageing equipment was augmented with a supply of new balls. It may appear strange how such a small gesture would seem so significant but after each session the children in the group would collect and count those balls in as treasured possessions.
Often the clinics would be watched by other children, less inclined to take part, who would peer through the wire and sometimes even climb up it, invariably soon going away. On one occasion that summer there was a difference.
A small shabbily attired half-caste boy of about 10 years and with an unkempt mop of curly black hair had been intently observing for several consecutive days, yet cautiously keeping his distance. The Keeper had become aware of him and waited for his moment before inviting him to join in on the court. Had he but known it, of all his travails this was to be one of the hardest.
Although the boy proved to be a natural athlete and mover and took to the game almost straight away, his nature was discourteous and disruptive and when the Keeper's back was turned he pushed and bullied some of the other children.
It was later, at the end of that evening when The Keeper was outside by the courts that he sensed a sudden sound coming from his hut. He walked carefully up to the window and saw the boy moving inside over the ball basket, methodically removing some of the precious new balls and putting them in his pocket. He then swiftly slid out of the small side door and away behind the trees into the gathering dusk, still unaware that he had been detected.
The boy turned up, albeit late, for the class the next day whereupon the Keeper called him quietly to one side.
"Does your ma know you're a thief, son?" he asked in a measured voice.
"Ain't done nothing" was the cocky response.
"I was watching through the window"
"Ain't got no ma and my uncle will kill me if he knew. I'm no big thing to him"
"I won't tell him son, but you’ve disappointed me and let yourself down…"
The boy, not being used to this method of admonishment without violence was somewhat nonplussed. The keeper had wanted to add more but the boy's response had been to turn round and run off. The older man felt sure about one thing: he would not be seeing the boy around again - a view reinforced by what he then heard from the children about the boy's domestic background and frequent and all too justified visits from the local police.
Few things in life ever surprised as worldly a man as the Keeper, but what transpired the next morning he would remember all his remaining years. When he arrived at the hut soon after ten o'clock he saw a small package on the ground in front of the door on which was written "Mr Boss Man". He opened it slowly to find it contained a brand new box of six gleaming white tennis balls. But there was more. A folded piece of paper opened out to reveal a brief but genuine sentence of apology written in blue crayon.
Instinctively the Keeper looked around and caught sight of the boy watching him, half hidden behind one of the larger trees. When the Keeper beckoned him over, the boy hesitated, not knowing exactly what to expect but was encouraged by a reassuring smile and slowly approached. No words were spoken at first but eventually the boy, gaining in confidence, broke the silence.
"I want to play good like the others - I mean, really want to do it". The Keeper continued to listen. " You're the man, OK? I'll do it your way. Ain't no problem"
The Keeper's face broke into a compassionate smile and he went into the hut, returning with two rackets and the ball basket. After walking out onto he nearest court he ceremoniously opened the box of new balls and emptied them in. He turned to face the expectant boy and it was then he noticed that the hair had been washed and combed, and that he was wearing a clean shirt.
"First lesson. Tennis - it's like life, being in the jungle. You gotta survive, son. You help and be good to others then they'll sure be good to you."
With that, they began hitting balls.
Over the next few months the boy responded positively and despite occasional and sometimes spectacular shows of petulance and frustration gradually became fully accepted into the group, winning admiration for his seemingly endless determination to improve.
The Keeper took all of this in with quiet satisfaction. He noted too his charge's increased interest in both attending and excelling at school: "If I can be good at hittin' balls man these lessons ain't no big problem", and the fact that the attention of the local law officers no longer seemed to be a regular feature of the boy's life.
When rain prevented tennis, the children would sit inside the hut or on the balcony in front of it and write down their ambitions in tennis and onward into life. The boy's first effort was realistic - "…to play a proper match without difficulties" and yet his progress soon far outstripped that as he began to find success in local competitions and broaden his experience and circle of opponents.
A particularly proud day was the occasion he became the first ever competitor from the playground to win the junior title in the mayor's cup tournament. It seemed that the whole neighbourhood turned out to welcome him when he proudly brought back the impressive silver trophy. Even his school principal was there and insisted on taking numerous photographs to mark the occasion.
As time went on the boy began to apply his natural communication skills, once used for life on the streets, in an entirely more positive way - helping the younger children in the clinics; their keen responses filling him with inner pride. The Keeper, whose own mobility was becoming increasingly more restricted, came to regard him as a natural successor, as a father to a son.
And then, one day, the boy was gone. He had been having arguments with the keeper about his wish to go further afield to gain practise partners and competition of the right standard. "Your home is here", the Keeper would say, "the jungle looks after its own" but they could not agree. The boy had been spending less and less time at the playground and this time there was no return.
The vibrant life at the playground continued unabated. The courts were still filled and the children as eager and numerous as ever. However, although outwardly he would never give any sign, at about that time each year the Keeper could not help but feel surges of personal sadness…
Chapter 2
One warm evening in the city's busy commercial district the elegantly dressed man pulled out of the underground parking lot of the law offices at the wheel of a sleek convertible. Although in his mid to late thirties he maintained an athletic carriage, having been for many years one of the city's finest tennis players and he had even dabbled with the semi professional circuit for a year after graduating from law school.
Indeed at that moment he was on his way to the luxurious new racket club in the northern suburbs of the city where he played three times each week, its comfortable facilities and setting reflecting the man's standing and success. When a smooth jazz rendition on the car's sound system was interrupted with a traffic warning he resolved to take a detour to avoid the inevitable congestion which was a frequent feature of commuting. He drove down the tree lined parkway and turned off into the outskirts of the city where the traffic seemed lighter as the elegant avenues gave way to streets framed by tenement blocks astride shanty businesses with faded fascias.
The route took him further, into once familiar areas, and as he waited at a red light something on the roadside caught his eye. Where a complete row of houses had been, a gap had been created by the demolition of one of them. And through that gap he could see the playground. The Jungle.
He parked his car and walked over. Instead of the lively early evening atmosphere he saw nothing but a silent, vacant void. The swings and roundabouts were gone, as were all but two of the trees. The tennis courts were padlocked, the nets and posts no longer there. It was as if a world had ended with no thought given to the wishes of its occupants.
A group of sullen teenagers were eyeing the man's progress, causing him a distinct feeling of unease as he was still in city attire. But he had to go on and so it was he walked over to the hut. Its windows were broken although some effort had been made to board them up and the door was ajar. In the corner rusty tennis court posts were piled listlessly although newspapers and empty coffee cups alluded to signs of recent use.
On the wall seven frames hung neatly. Six of these contained group pictures of long gone tennis players, but it was the seventh that caught the man's eye.
It contained a photo of a teenaged boy holding a trophy, next to which was mounted a small fading piece of paper. Some words written in blue in a child's handwriting had been added to with a date and a large tick in an adult hand.
The man stared at this for several minutes. The legal profession had taught him to be always in control of emotions but he was being sorely put to the test.
As he walked out of the playground he caught a glimpse of a small frail figure of an aged man sitting on a bench taking in the sun and seemingly oblivious to all else. Beside him seemed to be a white stick. The lawyer looked round the desolate scene and looked towards the bench again. The figure had moved on and was walking slowly off.
The man walked quickly back to his car and thought for sometime before picking up his mobile phone and placing a call to a colleague in the city.
It was later that year when the man next returned. When he did an entirely different sight greeted him.
For the jungle once again breathed life. The courts had been resurfaced and painted, the net surrounds now a model of symmetry. Once again they echoed to the sound of tennis balls and the rhythms of the community.
A compact and airy pavilion stood in place of the hut, comfortable inside and its walls adorned with modern tennis posters, noticeboards and a series of older photos in brand new frames.
On the outside a large plaque stood in reverent commemoration of the man who had been the playground's lifeblood for nearly half a century who, although he could not now be there to witness its rebirth could look down from above in warm satisfaction - his life vindicated.
At the dedication ceremony re-naming the playground in honour of him, praise had also been unstinting for the donor who had made the new facility possible, but who had remained steadfastly anonymous.
The man this time was dressed not in a smart suit but a baseball cap, t-shirt and trainers and appeared as any other user. He watched as a boisterous bevy of noisy youngsters enjoyed a lively tennis coaching session punctuated by loud encouragement from the coach in charge.
At the edge of the courts a young black boy was watching intently, racket in hand. After a while he went over to the brightly painted new practise wall and began hitting, a look of wide-eyed pleasure on his face each time he made contact.
The man grinned. "Hey junior, not bad."
The boy offered the racket to the man who hit a series of accomplished strokes that rebounded crisply from the wall.
"Hey, you'se the man" replied the boy in awe "how can I learn to play like that?" he said excitedly, looking the man full in the eye.
The man looked back at the boy. "You want to know, son?"
"Tennis is like life", he began. "Life in a jungle. You gotta survive - be good to others and they'll treat you right…" '
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