Prison Camp: Recreation
A White-Collar Journal forum for criminal justice, lived experience, and the personal search for redemption
Excerpts From My Prison Journal
I’m continuing to publish excerpts from the journal I kept during my time in federal prison camp. These entries were written in real time, without the benefit of emotional distance. Today’s excerpt is about the adjustment to daily life. Recreation, such as it was, played its own role in that world.
RECREATION
I walked the track mostly. The main prison in the foreground: its long, looming profile, the barbed wire surrounding it, and the staff cars in the huge parking lot next to it, flashing their own message, that we’re here to watch you and you’r not getting out. The crumbling structure of the recreation area in its foothills, decaying like the camp’s interior. There was a field in the middle of the track, overgrown, and a baseball field, a fallow wreck of dirt. But for the inmates, it’s still an escape of sorts, an amenity even. The track, reduced to a crumbling path of ash and mud, remains every inmate’s daily prayer. In any weather, solo, in pairs, groups even, running, walking (most popular), guys in the dog program walking their dogs, picking up their poop along the way and even once in a while, this one inmate walking with a guitar playing and composing and always, Crazy Lou with his wild routine of stopping every fifty feet or so, leaning to the right and left and spitting.
There was some basketball play. Less than I thought. The court not bad. No one very good. Sometimes 20 or more back-and-forths before a basket. It looked like form over substance. Baseball the same. Except the Spanish guys liked to challenge a team of ‘others.’ Neither side very good. Balls through the wickets, ground ball home runs, outfielders dashing in and dashing out, plenty of arguments and shouting. Bocci had a following, horseshoes too. Same guys at handball. No one very good. And the hardwood, dented, damaged picnic tables that guys used to exercise on: pushups, sit-ups, and the like. Some creative moves I couldn’t figure out. The workout trailer had two treadmills and an aerobic machine, vintage 1955. Barbells are not allowed in federal prisons. Fear by the staff, I’m told.
In the early days, I walked with Steve until he departed a few months after my arrival. After, I walked alone, talking to myself, as had become my way with just my radio most of the time. There was a native American area. A teepee and all. Always some fires burning there. Steve said it’s all bull shit. The guys were there mainly to smoke. A rag-tag fence of fragile planks surrounds the teepee. A sign in front: “Only Native Americans allowed.” No one there looked like an Indian.
If this piece resonated with you, consider sharing it or leaving a comment. To support this work and help spread awareness about justice reform for white-collar defendants, subscribe to White-Collar Journal and stay connected. John DiMenna is a member of the White Collar Support Group.
Up Next on White Collar Journal:
Wednesday (Justice Notes): Criminal Justice Reform
Thursday (Notes from Exisle): Log/Verse: Daily, fragmented reflections
Sunday (Prison Camp): More Stories from prison
If you’re new to White-Collar Journal, you can read earlier chapters and essays on incarceration, justice, and reentry at whitecollarjournal.com.
Thank you for reading White-Collar Journal. Subscribing is free, and I hope you’ll continue with me as I explore stories of incarceration, justice, and redemption.
If this piece resonated with you, consider sharing it or leaving a comment. To support this work and help spread awareness about justice reform for white-collar defendants, subscribe to White-Collar Journal and stay connected. John DiMenna is a member of the White Collar Support Group.
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