It wasn’t an oversight. Roberto had missed the games during pool play because he was in summer school back in Santa Barbara. Told that Roberto flew in only the night before, McHee sighed heavily. “He flew in and saved their ass.”
The team played only one game in each of the first few days of the tournament, often in the morning. Despite entire afternoons off, the boys saw little of Memphis beyond their hotel and the mall across the street. Before the trip, Carmen had researched landmarks in the area. She had arranged for the team to attend a lecture by a producer at Sun Studio, where Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins, and others had recorded. She also had organized a bus tour that would stop at Graceland, the University of Memphis, and the Rock ’n’ Soul Museum. But when the day came for the Sun Studio lecture, Keller said the team was tired and took the boys to a movie instead. On the day of the bus tour, he said the boys needed to “stay focused,” which meant remaining in their rooms playing video games. Before the trip, Keller had reluctantly agreed with Carmen that the boys should visit the National Civil Rights Museum, but once there he told her there wasn’t any time. “That is something the boys need to see,” Carmen said. “That is something every black person should see in their lifetime.” Keller didn’t budge, and as with the Sun Studio lecture and the bus tour, she took Justin alone.
On Thursday afternoon, Carmen and Justin walked through the museum, taking in exhibits and presentations on Jim Crow laws, Booker T. Washington, Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, and the Montgomery Bus Boycott. At the start of the tour, a video showed how the Civil Rights Movement had prompted human-rights movements in other parts of the world. Clips of speeches by Martin Luther King, Jr., and Malcolm X were spliced with photos and footage, including some of King being arrested. While Justin looked at the screen, Carmen looked at her son. His skinny frame had begun to fill out and he was just under six feet tall. He still wore braces, and wrapped around his left wrist was an assortment of blue and red rubber bands, but she could see the “little man” he was becoming. Another mother might have dreaded Justin’s leap into adolescence, but Carmen took pride in it. His grades were good; he looked out for his younger brother; when a group of teachers at Justin’s school challenged the kids to a daily basketball game during lunch recess, he organized the team, eventually putting together a group good enough to defeat them.
“Not bad, not bad,” she’d say when someone paid her a compliment about Justin. “We’re trying.” But she was doing more than trying; she was succeeding.
Near the end of the tour, Carmen and Justin peered into Rooms 306 and 307 of what was once the Lorraine Hotel, where Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated on April 4, 1968. They saw the wreath that hung on the balcony, the spot where King stood when he was killed. They listened to a replay of the last few lines of King’s final speech, delivered in Memphis the day before his murder, and Carmen put her arm around Justin as King’s words filled the hall. He didn’t pull away, and she kept her arm there during the walk back through the lobby of the museum.
Later, at the hotel, Justin struggled to describe the experience to inquisitive teammates. Over and over he told them, “It was just … it was real, you know? It’s hard to talk about. It was just real.”
Following a 56–44 victory over the Sacramento Jr. Pocket Kings, Team Cal faced the Dallas/Fort Worth NetBurners in the Round of 16. Before the game, Keller looked up at the rapidly filling stands and then motioned to where Demetrius lined up for another dunk during warm-ups. “That’s who they’re here to see,” he said. “The Legend.” A few minutes later, the Legend was in a defensive stance, guarding an undersized forward from the NetBurners. Demetrius put a forearm against the player as he ran toward him, and he knew instantly that Team Cal would win. The NetBurners’ forward was trembling. “You’re a little bitch,” Demetrius said to the boy, who responded by running to the other side of the court.
Final score: Team Cal 60, NetBurners 26.
In the lobby of the gym after the game, Keller dialed every number in his cell phone, delivering the news that Team Cal had advanced to the Elite Eight. A parent from another team entered the lobby and said to Rome, Sr., “Well, did you hear? Team Maryland lost.” Hoosier Hoops had also been eliminated, the woman said. Team Cal’s two rivals, the squads that had knocked them out of the two previous Nationals, were out of the tournament. Keller asked every new visitor to the gym to confirm the news. When he heard it enough times, he said, “We can win this thing. And if we do, I am going to write John Finn Can Kiss My Ass on my ass and then go over to his house, knock on the door, and pull my pants down.”
Later that night, Keller sat at the bar at a Joe’s Crab Shack across from the hotel. He pounded Coronas, ate oysters, and teased the bartender, asking if Soderberg reminded her of Harry from the movie Harry and the Hendersons. He wasn’t worried about Saturday’s quarterfinal opponent, and neither were the players. Hoosier Hoops had been eliminated by American Roundball Corp. (ARC), a Southern California team that the Team Cal kids had defeated so many times they had lost count.
“If we lose tomorrow, I’ll kill myself,” Keller said between oysters.
His life was spared. Sporting a red, white, and blue headband with the NBA logo on the front, Demetrius looked every bit the future pro as he hammered home three breakaway dunks in a 55–26 victory that put Team Cal into the semifinals.
After that game, Soderberg approached a kid standing near the bleachers; the boy reminded him of Detroit Pistons forward Tayshaun Prince, whom Soderberg had coached briefly at the AAU level. “You’ve got a body like Tayshaun Prince did at your age,” Soderberg told the boy, who looked about twelve. “If you work hard, you could be the next Tayshaun Prince.”
The kid gave Soderberg a puzzled look. “I’d rather be the next Demetrius Walker.”
At first glance, semifinal opponent Chicago And1 looked no match for Team Cal, except in the wardrobe category. Its two starting guards stood no taller than five feet, and their front line was also small. But the Chicago boys had style. They wore white uniforms with a burnt-orange trim and white Nike Uptempos with the same orange accent. It was the look the University of Texas basketball team had sported in making it to the Final Four a few months earlier. Several of the players also wore orange headbands, including starting guards D. J. Cooper and Taylor Smith, and each had his hair braided perfectly, with small beads dangling down the back. “That’s tight,” Rome said of their look as he watched them walk into the gym at Wooddale High School. Their game was equally tight. Cooper and Smith were excellent shooters, as was forward Isaiah Williams, and Chicago’s approach would be similar to the Virginia Panthers’: hope to make enough 3-pointers to offset Team Cal’s size advantage.
Chicago opened in a man-to-man defense, and Aaron destroyed the smaller center. He scored on his first three touches, forcing Chicago to switch to a tight 2-3 zone. The players looked uncomfortable in that defense, but it was the only way they could slow Aaron. In the past, Drew or Jordan would have made Chicago pay for bunching so close to the rim by making 3-pointers. Had Pe’Shon still been around, he almost certainly would have continued to dump the ball in to Aaron, despite the zone. After all, if you lofted the ball high enough, Aaron was the only one who could get it. Keller and Soderberg screamed for this approach, but the perimeter players ignored them and kept jacking up 3-pointers. It was as if they wanted to prove to Chicago—which made five 3-pointers in the first half—that they, too, could bomb away from the outside.
“You guys must be brain-dead,” Keller said at halftime. Team Cal was ahead 29–21, but only because of a couple of late Chicago turnovers that led to layups. “I say go inside and you guys shoot threes. We shot eleven threes, and we made one. What the hell are you guys doing?”
Soderberg calmed Keller, then told the team, “Go out there and play our game, and we’ll win this thing easily. These guys are not as good as we are making them out to be. And they are not going to keep making those long three-pointers.”
/> But they did.
Late in the third quarter, Cooper and a reserve Chicago guard each made 3-pointers, cutting Team Cal’s lead to 35–33. With 4:53 left in the game, Williams tied the score at 39 with yet another from beyond the arc. A steal and a layup by Justin wrestled the lead back, but then Williams hit another deep 3-pointer, this one over Demetrius’s outstretched arm. It was the first time Team Cal had trailed since the opening quarter.
Keller sat down and quickly ran his hands over his face. He could scream Get the ball to Aaron! over and over, but if no one listened, what did it matter? He stood up tentatively, like a beaten boxer staggering to his feet for the final round. He looked toward the ceiling of the gym, to the lights covered in metal cages, and shouted, “Would someone please, please get the ball to Aaron?”
If you had polled the Team Cal players and coaches, asking them to vote for the player least likely to follow Keller’s instructions, Craig Payne would have won in a landslide. The big man Keller had brought over from the Runnin’ Rebels with Gary had been a goof since joining the team. If a player’s ear got flicked or someone’s shorts were pulled to their ankles, Craig was likely the culprit. But Terran’s absence forced Keller to play Craig more, and his stomach ached at the thought. “I love Craig. I love his toughness. I love that he won’t let anyone intimidate him,” Keller said before the team left for Memphis. “But I also want to kill him.”
With just under four minutes left in the game, Keller found another reason to love Craig. He received the ball near the free-throw line and, rather than shoot quickly as Team Cal had done most of the game, wheeled toward the basket and dropped a pass inside to Aaron, who scored easily.
“Finally!” Keller shouted, and he punched the air.
After Williams missed on Chicago’s next possession, Rome followed Craig’s lead. Catching the ball on the wing, he patiently waited for Aaron to front his defender before feeding him the ball. Aaron was fouled instantly and made one of two free throws, putting Team Cal ahead 44–42 with 2:59 left.
A Chicago turnover gave Team Cal the ball again, and when Gary brought the ball upcourt, he saw a pleasing sight: Chicago had gotten out of the zone. He sent the ball to Demetrius, who instantly penetrated to within eight feet and pulled up for a pretty jumper that seemed to hang in the air for days before falling through the net. Demetrius bounced in the air several times as he ran back on defense. “Let’s go! Let’s go!” he screamed, and his passion lifted his teammates. Chicago trailed only 46–42, and the 2:10 on the clock was more than enough time to seize back the lead, but the game was over. Demetrius wasn’t going to let Team Cal lose. He scored six straight points to finish the game and Team Cal advanced to the finals, 52–44.
Demetrius nodded his head vigorously as he walked off the court, pointing to the small grouping of Team Cal supporters in the stands. Though Aaron finished with more points—19 to 10—Demetrius’s strong finish made him the star. Kids ran down the bleachers to slap his hand, and one asked for his headband. Seeing this, Soderberg walked briskly to Aaron. He placed his arm around his shoulder and leaned down so he could be heard over the cheering crowd.
“Aaron, you played a hell of a game. You are the reason we are still alive.”
In the locker room, as the players changed out of their game shoes and slipped on sweat suits, Keller cut a speech short for the first time in his life. “Go back to your rooms, ice your knees or do whatever you gotta do for treatment, then get some sleep. Tomorrow’s the biggest game of your lives.”
17
Rome Draper, Sr., Joe Keller, and Gary Franklin wait to hear if the 2004 National championship will be played.
Walt Harris was not a striking man, yet he carried himself in a distinguished manner. He had a raspy voice with a thick Tennessee drawl, the perfect voice-over for a cigarette commercial, even though he didn’t smoke. He also didn’t drink or curse or miss church. He had lived in or near Memphis all of his forty-two years, and, prior to 1992, people knew him mostly as an honest real estate agent and a good neighbor.
Harris liked to do favors. He helped people find jobs, loaned money, came to the aid of people he didn’t know. His wife liked to tease him about the time he lent his truck to a friend of a friend who said he needed to haul a dresser across town. Harris handed over the keys, even though he didn’t know the man’s last name. Three days passed before the man returned, yet Harris never reported the truck stolen, nor did he doubt he would get it back.
His kindness could not be mistaken for naïveté. Harris was a smart man, aware of what he called the “wickedness” of the world. But he simply refused to succumb to that wickedness, to believe it ran so deep that he couldn’t loan out his car or lend $100 to a friend. His faith in humanity would never be dulled, no matter how many people failed to pay him back, no matter how long before his truck was returned. A favorite line of his was “I believe in goodness.” He didn’t say it as boldly as Joe Keller said things, but it felt more solid. That certainty, he said, came from the teachings of his father. “No one was more giving than my daddy.”
It was no surprise that Harris’s introduction to AAU basketball began with a favor. In 1992, his twelve-year-old nephew, Tony Harris, was one of the best young players in Memphis. He was short but quick, and he had such control of the ball that it was like he had it on a string. Tony’s father, Walt’s brother, wanted his son to play AAU basketball but feared handing him over to a coach he didn’t know. He asked Walt if he would coach him, and there was no way Walt was going to say no to family. And so the Bellevue (Tennessee) War Eagles were born.
It surprised no one that Harris was a good coach. He had been a fine high school player while growing up in Bellevue, and he was patient and diligent and threw himself at the task. He didn’t have to recruit players; parents brought kids to him. They heard about the honest man whose nephew was a pass-first point guard and beat a path to his door. The War Eagles won an AAU national title in only their second year. In the championship game, Tony and teammates Robert O’Kelley and Cory Bradford led the defeat of a team of 13-year-olds from Southern Cal that featured six-foot-eleven twins Jason and Jarron Collins, who would go on to Stanford and then to the NBA. Two years later, playing in the U–15 division, the War Eagles won a title again, defeating a team from Michigan led by Shane Battier, who became the college player of the year at Duke in 2001.
Tony earned a scholarship to the University of Tennessee. Robert O’Kelley played for Wake Forest. Cory Bradford became a star at Illinois. In the grassroots world, Harris was hot. He coached in Memphis, a boomtown for talented players; he had two AAU titles, and he had just sent three kids to major Division I programs.
Had Joe Keller been in Harris’s position, he would have leveraged his success with Tony’s team into a shoe deal and then used the money and clout to reload an Under–17 team. But what Harris loved was coaching, not money or power. He enjoyed teaching, seeing a twelve-year-old kid run a play to perfection, something they’d worked on for hours in the heat of the summer in a dingy middle school gym with no air-conditioning. He didn’t care if some famous Division I coach sweet-talked him, and he didn’t care that other coaches had SUVs nicer than his truck. He cared only about his boys, and that led him to make a decision most grassroots coaches would have called foolish.
“I decided I would start a new team but only take the boys up through Under–Fourteens,” Harris said. “After Fourteen-and-Unders, it becomes a business. The shoe companies get involved. The wrong people start trying to get close to the kids. The parents start caring more about what they could get rather than the basketball. Someone else can coach them After-Fourteens, when all the wickedness starts.”
With that decision, Harris assured that he would never be an AAU power broker. He stopped having sway over prospects at precisely the moment others saw value in them. To the shoe companies, to the agents, to the college recruiters, he was useless, a fool motivated by—get this—the joy he got from teaching the game to children.
As Team Cal made its way to the finals of the 2004 Nationals, Harris’s latest team also claimed victory after victory. He found it difficult to enjoy their success, however, as early in the week of Nationals, his father was admitted to Baptist East Hospital. His father had battled cancer for several years, and Harris knew this was the end. He visited his father between games and sat with him late into the night, often arriving at the gym straight from the hospital. He resisted telling his players, however, not wanting to distract them. But before the War Eagles’ final game in pool play, he determined that he couldn’t afford to be away from his father, as he could die at any minute. Harris informed his team on Tuesday night when they gathered at his house, which they did before every game, to eat and pray together. “I am sorry, but I need to be with Daddy,” he told the boys, and tears streamed down his face.
Calvin Duane, one of Harris’s quietest players, got up from the couch and put his hand on his coach’s shoulder. “You go be with your daddy. We’ll go out there and win this game for you and for him.”
And they did, 53–37.
The following morning, Harris’s brother called and told him to come to the hospital immediately. Harris made it to Baptist East just in time to see his father take his last breath, to kiss him on the forehead and then on the hand, and to tell him, “Daddy, go be with God now. He is waiting for you.” Harris’s brother, his mother, his sisters, uncles, and aunts filled the room, and moments after his father passed, Harris felt a rush of heat. “I have to leave, I just have to,” he told his mother, and he ran out of the hospital room and down the hall. He left so quickly, ran with such purpose, that his sister would later say, “It was as if he was chasing after Daddy’s soul.”
Harris climbed into his truck and drove. He didn’t know where he was going but led the truck—instinctively, perhaps—to the nearest basketball gym: Ridgeway High School. He entered the gym and went to the far side of the court, where the old wooden bleachers, stripped of varnish and worn down to their original almond stain, nearly reached the ceiling. Harris scurried up the steps, dodging kids and parents watching the game below. He sat on the top bleacher and put his hands to his face and cried. Not the way he wept in front of his team earlier in the week, but loud sobs that would have drawn attention had anyone been seated near him. Harris cried until it became hard to breathe, hard to hold himself up, hard to see the good from the wicked, and then he opened his eyes and looked down at the young boys playing on the court.
Play Their Hearts Out Page 23
