big papa puff

It probably looked big before they built the mammoth middle school next door, especially with the soviet-styled solid brick facade, windows on the second floor that still don't open, metal doors with little squares of plexi to look through.
I hoist my bike up the stairs to the entrance and pull the door open. There are only two people inside, and they're both inside a booth: 4ft of painted concrete topped by thick glass to the ceiling. There's a little sliding rectangle of space that I have to lean down to talk to the man in the chair inside. Folks must've been shorter in the 50s.
"Hi, can you tell me what kinds of programs you're offering here?"
The man reads them off for me, most of them, because I didn't ask for anything specific, but he doesn't mention the sewing circles or cooking classes, just the sports. We're almost yelling even though we're only a few feet apart. The other guy disappeared into the back somewhere. I get this talk when I walk into a place unannounced and undetermined. Do I have kids? Do I live around here? What am I looking for?

The conversation picks up when I mention that I'm a researcher with the university. I tell him I'm doing my work about rec centers in Columbus and he starts describing his work, giving contacts and telling me about the neighborhood. His name is Mr. Davis, and the disappeared man is Thomas.

We chat through that rectangle for half an hour before he stands up and comes out of the glass office. He's 6 foot 7 and some kids call him dad. The only thing that got him up was the opportunity to retrieve a collection of thank you cards that young kids had made for him over the years. He held up a poster board with cards stuck to it, pointing to them, reading them out loud, smiling the whole time.
We must've talked for over two hours, me saying almost nothing. Sometimes it felt like he was making a case for the place. I'm used to that like I'm used to the disaffected concentration when I ask a rec employee what goes on in their center. I'm used to being seen as a journalist initially.
He says he wants kids to not be "one-dimensional," teach the value of preparation, keep them out of trouble, learn to cooperate, learn to get on with each other. It's not about competition and it's not about the money.  He told me how one of the kids he used to work with is a state employee in some pretty high up spot, and how this guy thanked Mr. Davis by name in his acceptance speech, cuz he "couldn't have done it" without him.
He also told me about how a reporter and a city official came through when they were deciding which centers were closing last winter. To prove his value to the kids he took the two into the gym packed with kids playing.
"Hold up, y'all" he bellowed.
Then he sang "Say my name say my name," just like the Destiny's Child song.
All the kids yelled back, in harmony: "Big Papa Puff!"