“I couldn’t say what teams were playing. I couldn’t tell you the score or how old they were or even the color of their uniforms,” Harris said later. “But watching those boys, just watching them play, something came over me. It has always been in the gym, when I am with the boys, when I have felt the best, where my mind has been clear and free. I don’t know what it was, but suddenly I felt free. I watched those kids for maybe half an hour, just watching, and everything felt all right.”
He stood up and walked down the bleachers, skirted back across the baseline, and walked out of the gym and got into his car. He might have returned to the hospital, to his family, but instead Harris sped east, in the opposite direction, toward the home of one of his assistant coaches.
“That was where my team was.”
————
Two days after his father’s death, Harris scouted Team Cal’s semifinal victory over Chicago And1. It was the third time he had seen Keller’s bunch, and his impression hadn’t changed. At the U–11 Nationals in Cocoa Beach in 2002, he concluded, “That team has got more talent than anybody.” At the U–12 Nationals in Newport News in 2003, he remarked, “If they put it all together, they are the best team in the country.” Watching the semifinal in Memphis with one of his assistants, he said, “They’re the most athletic team we have ever faced. And that number twenty-three, I’ve never seen a kid that good at that age.”
Harris considered his options. He did not have a player who could single-handedly keep Demetrius from going to the basket, so the whole team would have to do it. Memphis’s best athlete was five-foot-eleven forward Keshun Cowan, and that’s where the defense would start. Cowan would guard Demetrius straightaway. The other players, particularly his guards, would be the second line. Whenever Demetrius had the ball, they would be ready to cut off the lanes to the basket. Harris was telling his whole team that their first responsibility was to stop Demetrius, and their second was to keep an eye on everyone else.
It seemed like a classic mistake. Pay too much attention to Demetrius, and the other boys—especially Aaron—would beat you. But Harris recognized how the other players fed off Demetrius’s success. When he was scoring, all the boys ran faster and went to the basket harder and played fiercer defense. Harris’s plan wasn’t simply to stop Demetrius from getting to the basket but to stop him from boosting Team Cal’s confidence.
“If we are going to get beat,” he said, “someone other than that number twenty-three is going to have to do it.”
On the Sunday morning of the finals, a thunderstorm crept toward Memphis. The championship game was scheduled for 1:30 p.m., but three hours before the start time, the storm knocked out the power to the gym. A small glitch, it seemed, but then the starting time came and went and the power remained out. The players lingered outside the gym, in cars with the doors open. Keller, meanwhile, sat in an office, talking to AAU officials who were intent on holding the game at the gym that could seat the most people and in which the largest collection of merchandise was on display, no matter how long it took to get the power turned back on.
Weeks earlier, Keller had booked the team on a 7:00 p.m. return flight, believing that even if they made the finals, that left plenty of time to get to the airport. But as the hours passed, Keller and the parents realized they might need to choose between catching their flight home and playing the game. Staying meant changing flights (at a cost) and another night at the hotel. When Keller presented his dilemma to Bobby Dodd, president of the AAU, he was told he shouldn’t have scheduled the flights so early.
Keller found Harris in the parking lot and explained his dilemma. “That’s not fair,” Harris said, and he suggested that if Team Cal had to leave, it would be only right for the teams to share the title. Dodd, his belt straining to hold his gut inside his tan pants, stepped up on a metal folding table of merchandise and announced that if Team Cal left early, the War Eagles would be crowned champions. He then refused to answer a television reporter’s question about why the game hadn’t yet been moved to a different site. As Dodd scampered back into the office, Aaron’s mom, Barbara, screamed after him, “Run away, then! Run like a roach!”
An hour later, around 4:00 p.m., Dodd emerged again and finally moved the game to a gym with power. But Keller thought it was too late. “What do you want to do?” he asked the parents in the parking lot. Rome, Sr., wanted to stay, no matter the cost. “The boys have worked so hard,” he said. Bruce was on the fence; his flight was even earlier than the rest and he couldn’t miss it, because he had work the next day. Barbara was so upset with Dodd that she contemplated not letting the boys play just so the AAU wouldn’t get the money from the game’s gate. The parents were split, so the final say fell to Keller. He looked over at Demetrius, who stood talking to Rome next to one of the cars. He was in uniform but had on a black sweatshirt with the hood over his head. Rome tugged on a rubber band wrapped around his left wrist and swayed to whatever music came from his headphones. Those two boys had been with Keller since the beginning, and they’d heard every speech he’d given about winning the ultimate prize: the glass-bowl trophy given to the national champions.
“Fuck it, we’re going to play,” Keller abruptly announced. “I may go broke, but we’re going to play.” Then he screamed at the boys, “Get in the damn car!”
Harris was in his car when a tournament organizer called him with word of the new site. When he heard the AAU official say Ridgeway High, he believed it was providence. The final would be played at the gym where, days earlier, he had found peace after his father’s death.
The biggest game of the boys’ lives started in an odd fashion. Most of the fans that would fill Ridgeway to near its 2,500-seat capacity were still outside when the game started. AAU officials had announced the site change before they had people in place to sell tickets. Fans were held at the door by security until someone showed up to take their five dollars and stamp their hands. Warm-ups were condensed to five hurried minutes, and there was no time for pregame speeches. Harris and Keller sent their teams onto the floor cold, with no final words or instructions, and it showed. The play was sloppy. Aaron scored twice inside, but both scores were put-backs of misses. Leslie McDonald, the War Eagles’ center, who was a few inches shorter than Aaron but more explosive, put in two baskets by using his quickness.
Though his team struggled to find a rhythm, Harris was content leading 11–9 at the end of the first quarter. To his coach’s eye, it was a smashing start. Team Cal was clearly confused on offense. Demetrius had scored only once, and McDonald had matched Aaron basket for basket. Hard as it may have been for others to see, the game was going just as Harris had mapped it. During the brief intermission, he looked down the court and saw Keller urging Demetrius to attack the basket, and he smiled. Keller was falling right into his trap. “Keep it up. Keep it up,” Harris told his players. “No drives to the basket. Cut off the lanes. And everybody rebounds.”
As Demetrius walked onto the floor to start the second quarter, he looked up into the stands. By that point, a fan cheering passionately for the War Eagles filled every seat. He then looked behind him, where the stands were also full and all but the cluster of Team Cal parents hoped he’d fail. Closer to the court, Keller shouted after him, “Do your thing, D!” In that moment, who could have blamed Demetrius for wanting to be somewhere else? He didn’t ask to be the star, didn’t request that an opposing coach like Harris design a defense with the solitary goal of shutting him down, didn’t wish for defenders to clutch him and push him and grab him, following orders to do anything to stop him. “Come on, D!” Keller screamed one more time, and with that, Demetrius took a long breath and held it, his cheeks full like a trumpeter’s. Then came an exaggerated exhalation as if he were blowing more than air into the gym. And then back to work.
On Team Cal’s second possession of the second quarter, Demetrius got the ball on the left wing and did exactly as Keller had instructed. He took a quick step toward the basket, past Cowan, but M
cDonald and another player rotated over and he had to retreat to the baseline, where he was stranded. He wheeled around, looking to unload the ball, bending backward so much it looked as if he’d fall out of bounds. It seemed certain that he would turn the ball over, but then he spotted Rome. With the ball in two hands atop his head, Demetrius whipped a pass toward him.
Since the arrival of Aaron and Roberto, Rome had become even more of a facilitator, reduced to moving the ball around to get them open shots. But in the biggest game, he broke free. As he caught the ball, he stepped toward the basket, into the hole created when the defense had converged on Demetrius, and after one quick dribble he pulled up for a 14-foot jump shot. It was not his favorite spot—he preferred shooting from the baseline—but it wasn’t a bad spot either. As Rome released the ball, Rome, Sr., sitting at the end of the team’s bench, inched up from his seat. He was leaning forward, between standing and sitting, when the ball went through the net. For a moment he didn’t know how to react. “Rome!” he yelled finally, but his son didn’t look at him. He was sprinting back on defense as if it was just another made shot, just another 14-foot drop in the bucket.
After Duane scored quickly for Memphis, Gary brought the ball upcourt and immediately looked for Demetrius on the right. Seeing a horde of defenders cheating that way, Gary faked Demetrius a pass and then flipped the ball to his left. Once again, Rome didn’t stop to think, didn’t consider that Keller might yell if he missed, might reduce him to tears like he did a year earlier in Baltimore. He caught Gary’s pass, stepped forward, and released another high-arcing shot with perfect backspin. “Rome! My boy!” screamed Rome, Sr., as it fell through the basket. Again Little Rome acted nonchalant, acknowledging the pass from Gary with the pointing of a finger, then backpedaling to play defense. On Team Cal’s next possession, there was no question where the ball would go. Gary sped upcourt and immediately fed it to Rome. Rome released the ball as quickly as he could. Another 14-footer from the left side, three in a row.
Rome finally reacted, but only for a second. He looked to the bench, to his father, and he shrugged his bony shoulders and smiled. Rome, Sr., yelled, “Keep it up, son! Keep it up!”
Harris could not have foreseen the effect Rome’s three makes would have on his teammates. The forgotten Roberto, whom Keller hadn’t run a play for since the victory over the Virginia Panthers, scored on consecutive possessions, making a six-foot runner and then a five-foot floater over McDonald’s outstretched arm. On defense, Team Cal’s intensity led to four consecutive scoreless possessions by the War Eagles. Harris had thought stopping Demetrius would sever Team Cal’s supply of confidence. He had not counted on them finding it in Rome.
Team Cal led 21–19 at the half, despite not getting a single basket from Demetrius or Aaron in the second quarter. The players on the bench smothered Rome and Roberto as they ran off the floor toward the locker room. Justin practically knocked Rome over by leaping on his back, and Keller stuck a finger in his chest. “Big-time, Rome. Big-time.”
Near the midway point of the third quarter, Demetrius put back a miss by Aaron, tying the score at 29. There was nothing special about the play; he outleaped McDonald to grab the ball and flipped it in before McDonald could reset himself. But as the ball fell through the hoop, a wave of relief swept over Team Cal and its supporters. Demetrius had gone scoreless for more than sixteen minutes. If someone had told Harris or Keller that Demetrius would have only four points after two and a half quarters, both would have predicted that the War Eagles would be winning in a rout. But Team Cal was very much in the game, thanks to Rome and Aaron (six points apiece) and Roberto (five). But they needed Demetrius, and so when he finally ended his drought, the Team Cal parents yelled from the stands. A possession later, when Demetrius scored again on a drive to the basket, it looked as if he was on the verge of one of those magical stretches that always ended with a Team Cal victory. But Harris was too smart to let that happen. He ordered the War Eagles back into the soft-man defense from the first quarter designed to stop Demetrius.
Keller or Soderberg might have called a time-out and reminded the team how Rome had taken advantage of this strategy in the first half, but they seemed to not notice the change. They continually shouted for Demetrius or Aaron to get the ball when they no longer had the space to operate. After two short jumpers by a guard put the War Eagles up 33–31, all the energy generated by Demetrius’s brief scoring spurt evaporated.
Gary Franklin, Sr., sat two seats down from Keller, biting his lip, trying to urge on the boys without giving actual instructions. It had been that way since he and Gary joined Team Cal. He’d leap off his seat, ready to yell something to the players on the court, then catch himself and sit back down. During time-outs, he sought out certain boys and gave them advice. In the first half, he’d told Craig to look for Aaron cutting if he caught the ball low. Like clockwork, Craig got the ball right after he entered the game, saw Aaron cut, and threaded the ball into him for an easy layup. Before the start of the third quarter, he told Gary not to be afraid to go past his defender and right at McDonald. “He’ll go for the block. Protect the ball and finish strong, and you will at least get the foul.”
Something clicked in Gary as he brought the ball upcourt, his team trailing. As his defender approached, Gary noticed he was leaning toward the right, toward Demetrius’s side. So Gary burst past him on the left. He didn’t stop until McDonald crashed into him as he threw up a shot that just missed. The referee gave Gary the foul and he netted both free throws, despite loud hoots from the Memphis fans, several of whom banged on drums. After another short jumper put the War Eagles back ahead, Gary repeated the play, blowing past his defender and leaping toward the rim. McDonald reacted so late that Gary was able to finish the layup untouched, which tied the score, 35–35, as the third quarter ended.
“Keep going right at them. Right at them,” Gary, Sr., told his son in the break before the final quarter. “Don’t look for someone else to score. If you believe you can get your shot, then take it.”
When Rome inbounded the ball to Gary to start the final quarter, Gary didn’t bother looking in Demetrius’s direction. He flew past his defender, got into the lane, and went right at McDonald. He put the ball in his left hand as McDonald came over for the block, and as McDonald lunged for the ball, Gary brought it back inside and scooped it under McDonald’s arm, off the backboard, and in, getting fouled in the process.
Keller was more crazed fan than coach at this point. When Gary’s shot fell, he thrust his right fist in the air. When Gary made his bonus free throw, Keller turned and looked down the bench at Gary, Sr., his eyes wide, as if to say: Where did this come from? Gary, Sr., just nodded, knowing his son had it in him all along.
At the other end of the court, Harris faced a dilemma. Like Rome in the first half, Gary had made the War Eagles pay for focusing on Demetrius. Even as Harris watched McDonald score again to cut Team Cal’s lead to 38–37, he knew he was stuck. “Straight man!” he yelled at his team, knowing that by switching defenses again he was inviting Demetrius to drive. “I didn’t have a choice,” he would say later. “That little guard was killing us.”
Because he was such a breathtaking athlete, Demetrius rarely got credit for understanding the nuances of the game. Players of his skill were often so in love with their abilities that they believed they could score no matter the defender or formation. One of the benefits of pitting Team Cal against older teams during the regular season was that Demetrius faced kids bigger and stronger and, at times, coaches more creative at stopping him. During those games, Demetrius had learned—on his own, really—how to probe a defense and catch slight changes in strategy. When Harris called out the shift, his players lined up in a defense that looked no different from the previous one. But Demetrius saw the change and noticed that the players behind his defender were now up tighter on their men—on Gary, Rome, Aaron, and Roberto. When he got the ball along the baseline with 6:51 left, he instantly went on the attack. He dro
ve past Duane, who was so helpless he simply slapped at the ball. The referee called the foul and Demetrius calmly made both free throws, boosting Team Cal’s lead to 40–37. After McDonald scored inside, Demetrius got the ball on the right side and slashed to the hoop again, picking up his dribble at the free-throw line, then hopping past Duane and into the key, seemingly changing direction in midair. McDonald helplessly knocked him down before he could even shoot, and Demetrius stepped to the line and sank both free throws to boost Team Cal’s lead back to three.
The War Eagles were matching Demetrius’s scoring but had to work harder for points. They held the ball for long periods, moving it around the perimeter until McDonald got open or someone found a clear jumper. One of the War Eagles’ guards made a 13-footer with 5:04 left, but then Demetrius quickly drove upcourt, penetrated into the lane, and slipped the ball through two players to a wide-open Aaron for a score. Demetrius was dictating play on both ends. On defense, he chased after loose balls and rebounds, snatching a few out of Aaron’s hands. On offense, the question was what he would do once he got to the rim: shoot or pass to a wide-open teammate. But just when he was finally in control, Demetrius slipped up. After a War Eagles miss, he got so excited about the possibility of pushing the lead to five that he barreled over Duane on his way to the basket. It was a clear offensive foul, and now both he and Aaron had four fouls, each one whistle away from fouling out.
Play Their Hearts Out Page 24
