The Levee Plaza Skateboard Park

When I was a kid my brother was a champion swimmer. Our family spent every weekend at swim meets, all over Indiana. My dad would give me a few bucks for candy and I’d be off, exploring, stealing stuff, the usual. To compensate, my dad would usually back me when I wanted to try new stuff. Tae Kwan Do, wrestling, etc. One day we were driving through Levee Plaza in West Lafayette, down by the river. I was looking out the window, idly watching some workers pouring cement at a construction site. Daydreaming about something else, I slowly realized I was watching a skatepark being constructed. I knew what they looked like because I’d been perusing Skateboarder Magazine in the grocery store for years. I planned to be there opening day.

      This time my dad said no, afraid I’d break an arm or something. Concrete was less forgiving than a wrestling mat.  I begged. I cajoled. “I wish you’d never adopted me.” “You love Doug more than me.” “If you say no, this is the first step on the road to me sucking stranger’s dicks for money and living under a bridge.” Maybe not that last one, but you get the idea. Eventually, with a little help from my mom, he caved.

      That was it, grades dropped, interest in anything else waned, at least until punk rock came along. I went the park every day after school, all day on the weekends. I met kids from other area schools, formed a punk band, the whole bit. One day I asked this red haired kid if I could borrow his wrench, so I could tighten my trucks. “Don’t lose it, my dad will kill me,” he said as  he handed me the wrench. Later, he would become Axl Rose, but back then everyone called him by his last name, Bailey.