Under normal circumstances, Rome would have been as good a choice as any to take the final shot. He could take a step or two toward the basket and launch an open 16-foot jumper. “Rome’s game is all mid-range,” Demetrius often said. “He loves those mid-range jumpers.” But Rome’s earlier miss and Keller’s tirade left him in a fragile state. When he caught the ball, he dribbled in two steps but didn’t immediately go up for the shot. He was afraid of failing again, of drawing Keller’s ire. By the time he realized that he had to shoot, his defender had recovered and rushed at him. He got a piece of Rome’s shot, causing it to fall far short of the goal, but in a stroke of luck it fell to Terran, who was near the low block on the left side. Two defenders swarmed, including Murdock, who left Demetrius, and Terran was unable to even turn toward the hoop. Keller screamed at him to shoot as the clock ticked from :06 to :04, but how could he shoot if he couldn’t turn around? He finally jumped and spun in midair, heaving the ball toward the basket. At first it looked like a desperation shot, but he sent the ball so far over the goal and threw it so high, it was clear that he was putting it where he hoped only Demetrius could get it. Demetrius rose up and met the ball with the fingertips of his right hand. He corralled the pass, and when he came down, he was alone at his favorite spot on the right block. Murdock rushed back across the key, so Demetrius jumped toward the baseline, to the side of the rim, and flipped the ball over his head, a kind of half hook shot that assured that Murdock couldn’t block it. As the final buzzer sounded, the ball touched the backboard softly just to the right of the square, caught the front of the rim, and fell through the net.
The Inland Stars on the court and on the sideline and several of the parents jumped in the air. Keller stomped up and down the sideline, his arms flailing and legs kicking upward in what looked like a modified Russian dance. He knocked several boys back into the bench; one blow sent Andrew flying onto the court behind him. The first to reach Demetrius was Pe’Shon, and then Terran and then Justin. Demetrius was quickly at the bottom of a large pile of gleeful eleven- and twelve-year-olds. In a corner where the parents stood, Sharon and Lisa hugged so hard that Lisa almost fell off her chair. Rob went to shake Rome Sr.’s hand, but Rome, Sr., hugged him instead. As those parents celebrated, others fumed. John was across the court, that same searching look on his face, and Darius’s father scowled. Jordan and Darius had not played in the second half.
Little Rome did not pile on Demetrius with the others. He stood alone for a few moments on the spot where his shot had been deflected, on the same side of the court where earlier in the game he had missed the 3-pointer. As the celebration began to die down, he walked toward Keller, who was shaking hands with the Team Maryland coaches. At first, Keller didn’t notice Rome, but when he turned, Rome surprised him by leaning forward and resting his forehead against Keller’s chest. He stayed there for several moments, sobbing into Keller’s sweat-soaked shirt.
“We did it. We’re the number one team in the country. We did it,” Keller told the team when they gathered in the anteroom later. “And you know what? We are probably going to have to play them again tomorrow. And this time, we’re going to beat them by twenty.”
The restaurant on the outskirts of Baltimore was warm and inviting. A tan carpet embroidered with a large white orchid covered the floor near the entrance. Nearby, a small stone fountain plugged into the wall gave off the soothing sound of a mountain stream. On the tables closest to the door, white cloth napkins sat upright, folded to resemble swans. Hugging the north and east walls were elaborate hand-painted screens, one of a young Japanese girl picking flowers, another of a woman holding a nursing baby. Into this peacefulness walked Keller, only a few hours removed from his big victory. He walked past a young Japanese girl holding menus and snared one of the tall stools at the sushi bar. “What kind of beer do you have?” he said, even before Tom found a stool. A diminutive sushi chef looked up from the narrow counter he had just wiped clean, perhaps believing his work was done for the night. It was almost 11:00 p.m., and few people frequented a sushi place tucked into a strip mall at that hour.
“We don’t serve alcohol,” the chef said, and he braced for Keller’s response.
“What?” Keller said too loudly. “What kind of restaurant doesn’t serve alcohol? How you gonna have a restaurant and not serve alcohol?” He pounded his open hand on the bamboo mat in front of him. After asking the chef to repeat himself several times, Keller pushed himself up on his stool and peered over a glass case filled with cuts of seafood. “Who owns this place?” Keller said. “Get me the owner.”
A Japanese man even shorter than the chef appeared moments later. He wore tiny round eyeglasses and a clip-on tie. He walked out from behind the bar and stood behind and slightly to the left of Keller’s chair.
“Sir, you have a question?”
Keller glanced over his shoulder, paused, and then shot Tom a smile.
“Yes, I have a question. Do you know who Joe Keller is?”
The owner’s face went blank as Keller roared.
“So, you don’t know who Joe Keller is? What about Demetrius Walker? Do you know who Demetrius Walker is?”
More laughs, more blank stares from the owner.
“Demetrius Walker? No? Well, you will.”
Keller got up from his chair and put his arm around the owner, who now realized he was the butt of a joke. “I do have a question,” Keller said. “And I hope you know the answer to this one. Where around here can we get some alcohol?”
A relieved smile spread across the owner’s face. He gave directions to a liquor store less than a mile away, and fifteen minutes later Keller had a beer in his hand. It was a night of celebration, so Keller didn’t hold just any beer. While Tom held a normal-size bottle, Keller drank from a forty-ounce Corona.
“Can you believe Pe’Shon? What a play,” Keller said, once a feast of sushi was before them. He loved California rolls and had two platters full. “That was a big-time play. NBA players don’t make that kind of play.”
They replayed other moments from the game: Demetrius’s last shot, his spinning layup to end the first half, Justin’s 3-pointer early in the second. The only pause during a half hour of replay came when the sushi chef, comfortable that Keller was done ordering, turned on a small television to his right, near the bamboo curtain from where the owner had appeared. He settled on CNN, which was reporting that Elizabeth Smart, kidnapped nine months earlier from her home in Utah, had been found.
“They found that Smart girl? Incredible,” Tom said.
“Who?” Keller asked.
“Elizabeth Smart. The girl who got kidnapped in Utah. Do you know who that is?”
“All I know is basketball.”
Keller talked about meeting with John and Darius’s father after the game and how they complained about their sons’ lack of playing time. “We just win our biggest game ever and they are complaining,” Keller said. “Unbelievable.” He then raised his forty-ounce beer, as if to toast his critics.
The conversation turned to the next day’s game. Team Maryland and Severna Park would play in the finals of the losers’ bracket, and the winner would meet Inland Stars in the championship game. Team Maryland would certainly win, setting up a rematch. When Tom mentioned this, Keller waved him off. “We’re not playing tomorrow.” He said he would use the excuse of an early flight to get out of playing the finals. Tom didn’t understand. Hadn’t Keller told the boys in the anteroom that they would defeat Team Maryland by 20 next time? “Why would we play them again?” Keller said. “What is there to gain? If we beat them again, well, we already beat them once. If we lose, then people will say that our first win was a fluke. See, there is nothing to gain.”
Tom was still as confused. “I don’t know if that is sending the right message to the boys,” he said.
Keller shook his head. “Too much to lose if we play them again.” Then he popped the last California roll in his mouth. “Let’s get out of here.”
&nbs
p; Keller had every intention of following through with his plan, but at some point between leaving the restaurant and having to tell tournament organizers he was skipping the final, he came upon a grand idea. He would play the final, but with a team that didn’t include Demetrius and several other players. He would claim he wanted to get his second-stringers some experience, but his real motivation was twofold. If he lost, he could say it was because he didn’t play some of his best kids. It also gave him a chance to spite the parents who had been complaining about their sons’ playing time. “I’m going to teach them all a lesson,” he said. “They are going to see just how good their kids are without D and the others.”
Keller informed Demetrius of his decision as the team loaded into cars at the hotel. “I don’t understand. Why don’t we just go out and beat them?” Demetrius asked. Justin, Terran, Andrew, and Pe’Shon echoed his comments.
“D, you gotta trust me,” Keller said. “I’m doing what is best for you.”
The gym at The Boys’ Latin School had been reconfigured from three courts to one. Wooden bleachers were pulled out from the walls, and people quickly filled them, anticipating a repeat of the exciting semifinal from a day earlier. In the small anteroom where Keller had said a day earlier that the Inland Stars would defeat Team Maryland by 20, he again gathered the team. There was no emotional send-off; he just named the starters, which included Jordan and Darius.
Team Maryland’s coach sent out the same starting lineup as the day before. As those boys took the floor, the coach kept looking over at the Inland Stars’ bench, at Demetrius, Pe’Shon, and the rest, waiting for them to enter the game. Keller had told Team Maryland’s coaching staff before the tip-off that he would be playing only his backups, but no one believed him. For most of the first half, they expected Keller to insert Demetrius and the others at any moment. Keller made almost no substitutions and barely spoke to the boys during time-outs. He spent most of the first half whispering and laughing with Tom. With only a few minutes left before halftime, Team Maryland’s coach realized Keller was not bluffing and pulled Murdock and Wilson and his other starters. At the time, Team Maryland led 20–10; at halftime it was 24–15.
At the intermission, as the boys filed into the anteroom, Keller remained outside for several minutes, perhaps searching for the right words to say. Grassroots coaches wield amazing power over their players. Much of their influence comes with the words they deliver during the pinnacles and pits kids encounter when they dedicate themselves to a sport. What does a coach say after a great victory? That’s an easy one. What does a coach say when his team is beaten? That’s harder. Harder still: What does a coach say when he wished for the beating? When he orchestrated it? That was Keller’s dilemma, though he didn’t spend much time searching for the precise words. He might as well have told Jordan and Darius: This is what your fathers get for questioning me. When he stepped into the middle of the room, Keller slowly looked at each of the boys who had played in the first half. Xavier’s hands were on his knees, his big head jutting into the middle of the team circle. Even after five minutes of halftime, he still struggled with every breath. Darius held his skinny arms at his waist and nervously grabbed at the front of his untucked jersey. Jordan was on one knee with his head facing down. Those boys had struggled against Murdock and Wilson and the rest of Team Maryland’s starters, yet they had outscored the second team 5–4. It was a silver lining Keller could have focused on. Instead, his speech began, “What the hell is wrong with you?” and he went on and on and on.
As they took the floor to start the second half, the boys looked beaten, with one exception: Jordan. He bounded over to the referee holding the ball. John, standing across the court, urged his son on: “Jordan, be aggressive! Don’t let up!” On the opening possession, Jordan made a 3-pointer from the left side. A few possessions later, he got the ball on the left wing and drove to the basket, flipping in a layup while getting fouled. When he made the free throw, it seemed to be a turning point. Not in the game—Team Maryland was scoring at will inside against a tired Xavier and led 33–23—but for Jordan. Against Team Maryland’s zone defense, he repeatedly got the ball on the wing and slashed toward the basket and drew fouls.
By the fourth quarter, Jordan was exhausted, but he kept competing, the only Inland Stars kid who did. On the final play of the game, he dribbled atop the arc, looking for a seam to the basket. For the Team Maryland players, the game had long been over. They settled into a tight zone, essentially telling Jordan that if he wanted to shoot a long shot he could. He moved back and forth, looking for a teammate to cut to the basket or pop into some open space, but they had decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. Out of options, Jordan dribbled to the top of the arc and, with his feet just inside the 3-point line, he used his last bit of energy to heave a final shot as the buzzer sounded. In one sense, there was not a more meaningless shot attempted all tournament. What was the difference between a 14- or a 16–point loss? But, given all that weighed on John’s mind, it might have been the most important moment of the tournament. As Jordan’s heave fell through the net, John clapped vigorously and shouted, “Way to go, Jordan! Way to keep fighting!”
Keller had challenged Jordan, and he had passed the test. Yet no one congratulated him after the game. His teammates didn’t pile on him when his final shot hit home or applaud him for being the one player on his team to shine in a game rigged against him. His coach didn’t put his arm around him and say he’d never been prouder of a player, as Keller did with Demetrius in the mayhem after the victory a day earlier. The Inland Stars lost, but why was Jordan less worthy of praise? In the anteroom afterward, Keller didn’t even mention the game. He reviewed the team’s plans for the rest of the day: back to the hotel, pack, a quick dinner, and then the ride to the airport. It was as if the game, as if Jordan’s quiet triumph, had never happened.
Outside the gym later, John pulled Jordan aside and told him he was proud of him. “You were the only one who could score against those guys,” John said. But Jordan was upset, and he pulled away from his dad and walked off, joining teammates in a waiting minivan.
In the parking lot in the front of the school later, John posed another question to me: “What did Joe teach the boys today?” His voice was low. He kept pulling his hands in and out of his pockets. There was nothing intimidating about him. Then John said: “Today, Joe taught the boys that if he wants to, he can humiliate them. What a lesson.”
8
Clark Francis
In the spring of 2003, stories about the prodigious ability of twelve-year-old Demetrius Walker spread throughout the Southern California basketball community and beyond. His name appeared on message boards at SoCalHoops, a prominent website among hoopniks, and he got his first piece of recruiting mail, a form letter from the University of Miami (Florida). His performance in Maryland had created some buzz, but it was mostly the result of Keller’s tireless promotion of his young star. For years he had told anyone who would listen—parents, journalists, high school coaches, college recruiters—that Demetrius was a once-in-a-lifetime talent, and some were now convinced enough to pass the word along.
One man spreading the Gospel of Joe was forty-three-year-old Clark Francis, a dowdy former journalism student at Indiana University who had built himself into one of the most quoted and curious figures in basketball. Since 1983, Francis had operated a recruiting newsletter, The Hoop Scoop, out of his Louisville apartment, building a following among basketball diehards. His bulletins, which began as black-and-white mailers, consisted of pages and pages of notes on the players Francis scouted at tournaments or camps, overwrought flattery of college and grassroots coaches, and “scoops” that weren’t really scoops at all.
Francis did not play college basketball, which is apparent the minute you meet him. He is built like a Weeble, one of those egg-shaped toys that always rights itself because of the weight in its base. He is pale from the many days he spends in gyms across America—more than 200 a year by his esti
mate—and talks so fast he can be difficult to understand. Francis’s lack of basketball experience did not make him unique among early followers of recruiting. He had an opinion and the means to distribute it, which was all anyone needed to become a recruiting analyst.
The bread and butter of most recruiting services, The Hoop Scoop included, are the rankings of high school players. The first person to compile such a list was Dave Bones in 1957. From his home in Toledo, Ohio, Bones sent out a questionnaire to high school coaches and then whittled that information into a briefing called “Cage Scope,” which he passed on to colleges. Bones was the first, but Howard Garfinkel brought the practice into the mainstream. A New Yorker who ate at Manhattan’s Carnegie Deli three times a week, “Garf” published the High School Basketball Report (HSBR) in 1964 and marketed it to college coaches recruiting in the greater New York area. It wasn’t an instant success—between seven and nine copies sold the first year—but Garf refined the HSBR over the next few years and it became popular with recruiters. Garf ranked players on a scale of 1 to 5, with a 1 indicating a player who would one day contribute to a small-college team and a 5 being a player who by his second season would be a major contributor to a top 20 program. He limited his lists to kids in the East—from Maine to West Virginia—because he didn’t feel comfortable ranking players he couldn’t see several times a year. In 1965 he created the Five-Star Camp, a kind of scouting bazaar, and invited college coaches to work as counselors (and get a close look at the kids). The NCAA banned college coaches from working camps in 1984, but the Five-Star Camp remained, along with the HSBR, a valuable resource for recruiters.
Play Their Hearts Out Page 13
