(BALTIMORE – September 25, 2026) – Before Easterwood Park became our playground, somebody had to fight for Black children to use it.
The park existed long before Curtis Dunham, Kevin Morgan, and I came along. The Maryland Center for History and Culture has a photograph of Easterwood Park from the summer of 1930. But in 1950, segregation still governed access to recreation in Baltimore. That July, Earl Koger challenged the Park Board’s policy at Easterwood. In September, Earl and Linwood Koger proposed integrating two city parks. In November, the board voted to open Easterwood Park to Black children beginning December 1. mdhistory.libraryhost.com
I knew Easterwood as a boy. I did not know that part of its history. I knew Earl Koger as an insurance man and the publisher of The Pocket, the little newspaper I remember seeing on Fridays around Penn-North. I have written about that paper before. Now I am learning that Koger’s name also appears in the record of the struggle over the park where I grew up. The AFRO carried advertisements for his insurance business and later described him as a newspaper publisher and former insurance executive. I cannot tell you that he alone opened Easterwood’s gates. I can tell you that he stood up when Black children were being denied access. guide.msa.maryland.gov
That history belongs at the beginning of my story.
Black families began moving into that part of West Baltimore in the 1950s. Before then, the neighborhood had been predominantly white. By the time my friends and I were growing up, Easterwood Park was where we played, gathered, and learned who we were. We inherited a place that earlier generations had fought to make available to us.
I lived in the 1500 block of Moreland Avenue. Curtis Dunham lived in the 1700 block of Moreland, between Presbury and Westwood. Kevin Morgan lived a block away from me, in the 1600 block of Warwick Avenue. We both lived off Baker Street. We knew one another as neighbors, and we had no idea we would still be taking pictures together 50 years later.
We had a wonderful childhood in Easterwood Park. We had Easterwood Recreation Center, but we also had a community. Those two things went together.
Inside that little rec center, we played ping pong, pool, and bumper pool. We lifted weights and practiced karate. We went roller skating. Outside, there was basketball, baseball, tennis, and track. We played flag football on Sundays. Ralph Durant led the Ed Waters Track Club, named for a great track athlete. We also hooped and swam at Carver High School and at Coppin. And our discos? We had the best discos in Baltimore. Hands down.
Eula Mae Williams directed Easterwood Rec. She saved our lives. She knew us, knew our parents, and understood what we needed—sometimes, I think, better than our parents did. Ralph Durant and Marion Flood were among the other adults who helped make the rec center what it was. They gave us activities, structure, and a place where we belonged.
I only remember seeing one person get put out of there: Edward. Yes, I’m dry snitching. But Miss Williams loved him just like she loved the rest of us. That was the kind of place Easterwood was. You might get corrected, but you still belonged.
The park had its own Sunday tradition, too. A flag football team called the Whatnauts used Easterwood as its home field. When they played, it was a festive occasion. My daddy couldn’t park his car because so many people were there. Odell’s—the famous nightclub over at North and Charles—sponsored the team at one point.
There was also The Whatnauts, the Baltimore soul group founded in 1969. George Kerr produced them. They recorded “Message from a Black Man,” “Please Make the Love Go Away” and their biggest hit, “I’ll Erase Away Your Pain.” In 1974, they joined The Moments on “Girls.” The music group and our flag football team are two distinct parts of the story, each carrying a name I remember from those years.
Community leadership was close to home, too. Kevin often talks about what Senator Troy Brailey meant to us. Senator Brailey was a champion, but he was accessible. He lived right in the neighborhood. You could knock on his door.
His daughter, Alice Torriente, has told me about the civil rights leaders and athletes who visited her father at his home. He was a giant, yet he made himself available to people around him. When I first left for Morehouse, he gave me a state senatorial scholarship. I have never forgotten that.
And when I look at this picture of Curtis, Kevin, and me, I think about the friends who are missing: Emmett “Darryl” Motley comes to mind.
Darryl was a beloved West Baltimore native who attended Matthew Alexander Henson Elementary School. He grew into a standout basketball player and a remarkable athlete across multiple sports. In our neighborhood, he was the star. He could play football, too.
Baseball? I’m going to have a little fun with him there. I thought I was the better baseball player. After all, I played James Mosher baseball, and that was no small thing.
Darryl died much too young. Saying his name is part of telling the truth about this picture. We are grateful for the friends standing here, and we remember the ones who should have had more years with us.
Reginald Matthews. Eric Scott. Trina. Roslyn. Peter Wheat. We lost them, too.
Other truths about our childhood won’t fit neatly into a photograph. I could tell you about Warwick Avenue and why my mother told me not to go around there. We could tell you about the murders, the kingpins, the tennis shoes and the stacks of money. Curtis, Kevin, and I could probably each tell different pieces of what we saw in those streets.
We could also tell you about traveling together wherever we went. As we got older, that included the nightclubs—Giovannci’s and Pascal’s up in Park Circle. I remember seeing Kurtis Blow there. We went places together, came home with stories, and kept showing up for one another.
That is why this picture is special to me. We saw a lot. We lost people. Yet here we are, in our sixties, still coming together. We bring our children, our grandchildren, and our moms. Right up at The Mill, we had a wonderful time—a good old-fashioned reunion.
By the grace and mercy of God, everybody in this picture is still here. We understand what a gift that is. And after 50 years, we still have love for one another.
They say if you get one true friend in this world, you are rich. I look at Curtis Dunham and Kevin Morgan in this photograph, and I know I am rich.
That’s my West Side story.
