A stiff leg doesn't stop Fallyn West, 42, from chasing victory. The longtime Detroiter had fantasized about the moment the week before. West stands atop a fresh basketball court illuminated by summer sunshine.
Since the dreamy years of girlhood, basketball has been a compass for her life. "I always was an athletic kid, always played with the boys," she says with a glimmer of nostalgic glee.
A former college player, she coaches for a recreational basketball league in Pontiac that keeps some players, she says, out of the penitentiary.
On a Friday afternoon in July, West relives her hoop dreams.
She is one of many spunky and battle-tested competitors attending the inaugural Hoopfest here in Curtis Jones Park. Featuring a walking path, playground, and basketball court, the park has become a treasured hangout for the historic Northwest Goldberg community on Detroit's west side.
In this underinvested quadrant of the city, people ached for something beautiful and invigorating. The creation of the court, in particular, answered their prayers.
Over the next dizzyingly-hot three days, the festival offers a mélange of competitive basketball, casual basketball, food trucks, shoe giveaways, rap beats, swagger — all in the name of fostering neighborhood pride and good vibes only.
West is hyper-focused. She's gunning for bragging rights and highly-coveted prizes: a Cade Cunningham signed jersey and ticket vouchers for a Detroit Pistons home game.
She doesn't talk to her rivals. She treats the objective of winning the adult H-O-R-S-E competition more seriously than anyone else. She drains layups and jump shots and reaches the final.
Short, blonde locs resembling rotini pasta flop around West's head. A lily tattoo on her arm pays homage to her late mother Belinda. The one who held up a broomstick in front of West's teenage self so she could practice high-arching shots.
West's moment to shine arrives. She needs to make one more shot. Just one more. Her inner voice calls her the G.O.A.T. From the free throw line, she shoots. The ball takes flight, forming an elegant parabola mid-air.
Swish! The ball goes in. West triumphs, flexing her biceps like Wonder Woman.
"I told you what I was gonna do," she says, hopping up and down and vowing to her auntie Joyce that they're gonna go see Lebron. No matter the arena, the championship mentality of a true baller never dies. Neither does the thirst for glory.
The court shimmers under the sunlight. West marvels at this slice of real estate she says brings camaraderie to the community.
"When you have a responsibility, such as keeping the basketball court clean, it pushes you to do it in your own neighborhood, in your yard. It makes you put your garbage can up. It makes you not litter," she says. "This court is clean. It's beautiful. And people make sure of that."
A sign of revival
On a humble strip of Rosa Parks Boulevard., a few aging houses and uneven grasses orbit the basketball festival. From this street view, a smattering of tall buildings, utility poles, and lush trees disrupt the horizon line demarcating earth and sky.
Northwest Goldberg is one of the city's oldest neighborhoods and has roughly 2,000 residents, mostly Black. Major roads and highways, including Grand River Avenue, I-94, John C. Lodge, and West Grand Boulevard., form the borders of an area that's slightly below one square mile.
Daniel A. Washington, a 29-year-old native son of Northwest Goldberg, quickly points out this place's vibrant past — the fascinating and the ugly. Of what once stood.
"My community has so much history," he says, possessing a calm reverence. Raised on these streets, inheriting these stories, comes off as a badge of honor.
He talks about Olympia Stadium, an entertainment venue demolished in 1987 almost a decade before he left the womb. He talks about the neighborhood's Jewish heritage.
Still, a lot of people aren't aware of this history or the provenance of the neighborhood name. The area drew its name from Louis J. Goldberg Elementary School. Goldberg was a Jewish school inspector from London, England heralded as a "champion of children" for Detroit Public Schools, according to the Jewish Historical Society of Michigan.
The area has also gone by other monikers such as Zone 8, which conjures up a more painful parcel of the past. That name was actually a shortened code created by the police, referencing the 48208 ZIP code of the neighborhood.
From Washington's perspective, Zone 8 carries negative undertones. "So a lot of the drugs and violence and gangs really put a bad light on this area," he says, adding the police were openly racist toward Black people during the '70s and '80s.
The Northwest Goldberg name, Washington says, exalts the neighborhood's historic legacy.
Real quick, a roster of history-making heavy hitters inhabit the neighborhood, including King Solomon Baptist Church and the Motown Museum.
Don't forget about Rebel Nell, a jewelry store known for social enterprise work, and Marble Bar, popular for its 12-hour dance parties after dark.
Everywhere else, old homes and unused lots dot the landscape. Curtis Jones Park rose from the rubble of a vacant patch of land. Devoted to a beautification mission, Washington believes Black Detroiters deserve nice things, like a playground and a basketball court.
The park is another sign of revival.
"Fifteen years worth of children have literally lived in this neighborhood without those two amenities," he says, his voice fluttering with a tone of injustice.
The construction of a police training academy, Washington says, made the old court on Marquette and 16th Street inaccessible. Since then, Washington had watched kids play basketball on the streets, deeming the whole set-up unsafe as cars zipped by. Injury or worse was a clear threat.
Washington, broad-shouldered and big-hearted, was eager to resurrect life to what was lost. Through his community development organization, NW Goldberg Cares, founded in 2017, the executive director led a campaign to raise more than $420,000 needed to make the recreational haven into a reality — the fifth park in the neighborhood created by the organization. They plan to build 20 more public spaces by 2025.
Many families longed for a playground and a basketball court, cornerstones of shared life perhaps folks elsewhere take for granted. Now, it's theirs to preserve. "This is owned by the community," Washington says.
The Gilbert Family Foundation and many other philanthropic partners helped fund the creation of Curtis Jones Park. The playground has a yellow slide, swings, a stationary Gumby-green toy lizard for riding, and more. The NBA-size court, painted yellow, blue, and gold, has six hoops. Soon, there'll be a scoreboard, thanks to a donation from PepsiCo.
The park, unveiled last October, is christened after Curtis Jones, a local basketball legend long gone. Before the hype era of Instagram and TikTok videos, Jones was his own brand of viral sensation in the late '60s. But the life of one of the greatest Detroit high school basketball players ever to hit the hardwood spiraled into a woeful parable.
"His story is often forgotten, not told, not remembered," Washington says, noting the park spurs curiosity and conversation about the playground icon.
"It's important to honor him, not just to look at his story and say, 'oh, that's unfortunate,' but to honor him and say, 'this is what this man contributed to the community.'"
The basketball festival, a celebration of the sport and the life of Jones, showcases another truth about this neighborhood not dominated by blight and violence and tragedy. Maybe a bigger story that'll outlive Washington.
The Magician
The air is prickly hot. Hydration is paramount. Gulp down one cup, or two, or three of KandE's freshly squeezed lemonade or risk getting woozy.
The skills competition, a mosaic of ages, genders, and athletic gifts, floods the court on a Saturday afternoon during the second day of Hoopfest.
Right now, George Merriweather, 61, isn't his day job, a forklift driver.
He has come to this court twice a week before the break of dawn, before he heads over to start his shift at an auto plant just so he can play the game of his youth.
"Joy at no cost," he says, enshrouded by a sense of peace. The drills paid off.
Right now, Merriweather is a bucket.
Slender and graceful, Merriweather wins the free-throw contest, beating much younger players. His reward: Beats by Dre headphones. Today's parlance would describe his performance as a flex. A tangle of guys give props to the O.G.
Washington, the master of ceremonies, cheered him on while also delivering color commentary. "You're gonna have to soak tonight," he tells Merriweather, smiling.
Merriweather recounts the folklore surrounding his mentor and friend Curtis Jones. The ball-handling skills. The supreme confidence.
All of those virtuosic traits earned Jones the nickname "The Magician."
Jones is a big reason why Merriweather picked up a basketball in the first place. "I wanted to emulate him," he says. "People were so excited about him. It was a lot of joy. Knowing a lot of time you don't see a lot of joy. Everybody in despair."
Merriweather recalls the memories of a famous Michigan high school basketball game with warmth and affection. The game that anointed Jones's legend.
It's 1967. In the heart of Osborn High School, the Public School League championship game rages between two bonafide super teams, the Northwestern Colts, led by junior point guard Jones, and the Pershing Doughboys, fronted by future NBA players Spencer Haywood and Ralph Simpson.
The game was also televised, making the whole Great Lakes State take notice.
The sport, based on newspaper accounts, was Jones's true love. After his father died when he was 12, Jones imagined playing basketball with clothespins, leaving garments scattered on the floor at home.
Fast forward to the epic game, Jones proves his mettle. With seconds left on the clock, Jones, skinny and agile, hits a shot. Colts win.
Final score: 63-61. Jones gets hoisted onto people's shoulders.
After high school, Jones ventured away from the playgrounds of Detroit to the unfamiliar territory of Idaho, where he played for a junior college.
He couldn't read beyond a fourth-grade level, according to a Detroit Free Press article from 1983. His secret was exposed. He had a series of nervous breakdowns. He never realized his destiny of NBA greatness.
Jones soon returned to his hometown, living in the basement of his mother's house on McGraw Street perched a few blocks away from Northwestern. A few blocks away from where his star was born. He replayed the game-winner over and over in his head. A beautiful memory.
Eventually, Jones got diagnosed with acute schizophrenia. He was in and out of the hospital.
"I got too close to my dream and my soul could not bear it," Jones told the Detroit News in 1990, summarizing a painful theme of his life.
Jones died in 1999 inside a psychiatric ward. He was 49. Among his last words were to his mother. He told her he loved her. He is buried in a cemetery in Redford, per a Detroit News article.
Merriweather says he knew Jones. He became a friend to the player he idolized ever since he was a child watching the Northwestern-Pershing game. Jones would shoot hoops in an alleyway near Merriweather's house on Antoinette Street.
Merriweather remembers the softer side of Jones. Of who he was beyond what went wrong.
"He loved kids. Kids loved him," he says. "He'd come down the street with the basketball and then show you some moves, spin it like a Harlem Globetrotter."
They dreamed together, all the time. They'd say blue sky, blue sky, a lot. Their shared words for dreaming. Merriweather says Jones wanted to buy mink coats for the girls. He wanted to fix up the houses. He wanted to build a basketball court in his neighborhood.
Outside the edge of the court is a sign featuring pictures of Jones looking calm and carefree and a little passage that reads like a poem:
The Magician.
Some knew you. Others revered you. There are those who even idolized you.
The smile.
The dribble.
The no-look passes.
Simply, the smoothest the game has ever been played. Making people cheer and look with utter amazement — knowing this type of player comes around once in a lifetime.
Not every legend gets celebrated, and like you, some don't receive it until it's too late, but this court...and this park...is to honor
our own great.
Did you see that?
Curtis Jones.
Twenty four years after his death, people are still talking about Jones, spreading his story from one generation to the next.
Merriweather imagines his friend would have loved this park.
"This is his dream," he says like a boy in awe. "I'm glad. I'm happy."
Caretakers of the court
This Sunday is no time to rest. More games ignite the court on the final day of Hoopfest. It's a snapshot of pick-up basketball culture building community. In a charming way — spoonfuls of pure energy and rhapsody. Hard play. Hustle. Tactics. Theatrics.
A succession of mesh jerseys, baggy shorts, and fresh kicks zig zag across foul lines and three-point arcs. The game-play chatter sings like jazz.
"Don't leave him. He's a sniper."
"Nobody's tryna go pro!"
"There you go. There you go. Pass that rock."
"He doin' it for Curt!"
"Don't start that, fellas."
Dahviell Richardson is watching the three-on-three showdowns from the sidelines. He flashes a 48208 tattoo. He shouts tips to the players on how to level up their game. Pick-up ball is life around here.
"We're a competitive neighborhood. We like to be the best," he says. "If I'm out here. I'm 28. If I'm playing against an eight-year-old, I'm playing against him like a 28-year-old. So he know."
A few days before, Richardson brought his five-year-old son to the court. They played against another father-son duo. Richardson can do this classic dad thing, thanks to this court.
"My son and his son. Me and him. We don't know each other," he says. "But we gonna get out here and try to make something happen for our kids. Something fun. Being in our kid's life. It really matters a lot."
Richardson never thought a nice court would sprout up here.
"In the last 10 years, this is the best move my neighborhood has seen," he says, believing it's a spark for change. The good kind. "They're restoring the 'neighbor' back to the 'hood.'"
The whole park is bumpin'. Two girls from the Motor City Dragons sell World's Finest Chocolate bars. Toddlers wail like an ambulance siren. Little kids riding swings gain altitude. More tikes make a joyful ruckus inside a blue and green bounce house.
A drone camera will soon ascend into the atmosphere. A Roy Lichtenstein-esque food truck pulls up as the Boom. Boom. Boom. beats of "Rich Flex" by Drake and 21 Savage thump from the speakers.
Under a shade structure, DJ Gifted of Hot 107.5 FM keeps the bangers goin'. The sound blares, rattles the ear-drums, could fill a mini-stadium just fine. The enormous sound is noise-complaint loud, but the cops don't seem to care. They're guarding the table of donated shoes.
A large cloud looks like an ominous ink blot hell bent on ruining the party.
A trickle turns into a drizzle — the fickleness of Michigan rain.
A batch of festival-goers rush for cover under a white tent. Many seem unbothered, still shooting around. A torrent of jumpshots. Loose balls catapulting toward the bleachers. Balls grazing the orange rims. A bunch of airballs. The struggle is real. But there's a certain poetry to an airball — of just trying.
All day, Washington ping pongs around the festival. The chaotic fun is hopefully a harbinger of better things to come. He then grabs a street broom and sweeps pebbles off the concrete walkway bordering the court.
The hope is the court will stay the way it is. The way it always should be.
Fortunately, he's not the sole caretaker.
The stubborn rain stops. Dozens of people stuff the sidelines. A celebrity game gets started after 4 p.m. — fast-paced, high-flying, competitive, series. Two teams go hard. One is led by Detroit City Council President Mary Sheffield, and the other by local hip-hop star Trevon Gardner, aka Skilla Baby. He arrives fashionably late, having flown from Miami. A gaggle of girls go atomic for Skilla.
A man in a shiny red durag makes an up-and-under from an assist by Skilla after he steals the inbound pass. The sun radiates. More baby hook shots. By the fourth quarter, Skilla’s team pulls ahead. There’s a peppering of light trash talk. “Ya’ll weak as hell,” shouts the man in the red durag. Final score: 32-23. Team Skilla Baby wins. The rap star talks to the crowd. “I feel like the youth is our future,” he says. “Imma be there for y’all.” The people swarm the court.
Hours later, the sky up above is clear, and the vibe down below is obvious:
Long live Curtis. Long live the game of basketball. Long live the court of the people's dreams. Painted yellow, blue, and gold.
Subscribe to Metro Times newsletters.
Follow us: Google News | NewsBreak | Reddit | Instagram | Facebook | Twitter
