(BALTIMORE – July 23, 2025) – While I spent my early years in East Baltimore, most of my upbringing took place on the Westside — at the home my mother owned on Moreland Avenue, near Baker Street. She moved there in the early 1950s, back when the neighborhood was mostly non-Black. I grew up in the 1500 block of Moreland, right across from Easterwood Park.
No disrespect to the surrounding blocks, but I lived among Black royalty on what I still call the greatest block in the world.
Most of us attended Matthew A. Henson Elementary School #29. For me, that was from 1970 to 1976. In hindsight, we had some of the finest educators in all of public education. Thanks to Mrs. Robinson, we learned the Dewey Decimal System. Mr. Kermit Williams introduced us to the morning broadcast. Ms. Hilda Brown directed student productions of The Wiz. And Ms. Salin — a cool white lady — led one of the fiercest school orchestras in the city.
Those were the days. When the 3 o’clock bell rang, you might have to fight — that was just part of it. But back then, you fought and went home. It wasn’t like today. Honor meant something different. Today, it’s a whole other lens.
I remember doing school reports on the groundbreaking mini-series Roots. I remember making model cars, learning about Native Americans, and playing basketball until the streetlights came on.
But what stays with me most is the people.
Take Derick Boyd, for example. Back then, he lived on Etting Street. Many know him as a Walbrook High School basketball legend, but if you ask Derick, that was just a footnote. What mattered most was the bond between classmates — not what we became, but how we treated each other.
Derick, the smooth leftie guard, just celebrated his 60th birthday with family and friends in Woodlawn at Chef J.D. Ward’s spot. My flight from Atlanta was delayed, but I had to be there. I wouldn’t have forgiven myself if I missed it. You don’t miss moments like that.
We’ve known each other for 54 years. William White, Gordon Wilder, Gerald Quarles, Irvin Nore, Donald Braxton, and many more came out to support a man who exemplifies what it means to be a friend. We’ve watched each other grow — our wins, our losses, our evolution. We know each other’s stories. And we’ve survived to thrive.
Looking back, no one told us we were growing up in a war zone. No one explained how the Vietnam War would bring drugs into our communities through the trauma of returning soldiers. Your mother just told you, “Don’t go on Warwick Avenue.” Your father warned, “Stay off Poplar Grove.” Stern warnings. I wish I had listened. They tried. But the pull of the streets — and peers — was strong.
Today, it’s even harder. Parents are up against something new entirely: the cell phone. And the cycle continues.
Still, the Matthew Henson crew stays connected. If someone can’t make it to an event, they’ll at least call. We look out for one another — in celebration and in sorrow. When Earl Lane recently lost his wife, Gordon Wilder was right there. That’s how we do. That’s who we are.
We’ve been tight for over five decades, but we know others have kept their bonds even longer. We look up to them — just like the younger generation now looks up to us. One of our heroes is Derick’s oldest brother, Rev. Preston Boyd.
Once a beast on the basketball court, today he’s a man of God and a servant of the people. He leads not only with his words but with his life. Preston was a big brother to all of us, not just Derick. His influence helped shape us into men who value friendship, honor, and respect.
He taught us what our word means — especially as Black men in America. If you say something, stand on it. Your word is your bond. And its value should never be in question.
Derick once told me a story his father shared with him — about friendship. About being there for someone the way you’d want someone to be there for you. That story stayed with me. And it defines who Derick is: a friend, a family man, a grandfather who beams with joy when holding his grandbaby.
Yeah, he’s a basketball legend. But more than that, he’s a husband, a father, a rock in the community. And for me — he’s my friend.
Thanks, bruh, for being that.
