“A ball hawk,” said a fourth.
“Let’s go Andrew!”
Mr. Hart was the loudest person in the stands every game. He was built low and sturdy, with thick arms and calves and a chest like an oil drum. He looked like a jail guard, which he was, and you could easily imagine his voice echoing through the long cement-and-steel halls at Rikers Island. One father joked that, when given the choice, Mo Better’s coaches always picked the sideline opposite the bleachers because “they don’t want Hart’s mouth over here.” Mr. Hart bellowed a constant stream of enthusiastic support, every game and every practice since the first day his son joined the program three years earlier. Yet his son sometimes questioned the depth of his enthusiasm, especially in the hours before a practice, whenever Hart was loaded with homework or had an essay or school project due. You better finish your work or you ain’t going to football, Hart’s father would tell him. Hart would put up a fight, but Mr. Hart would stand firm, and eventually Hart would give in and bust ass. He’d heard the “academics first” message from his dad long enough that he considered it fact. While he usually got his stuff done in time, every now and then, his dad would have to make the phone call Hart dreaded: “Wassup, Coach. This Mr. Hart. Andrew’s not gonna be able to make it to practice today. Yeah, sorry ’bout that, just got too much work to do tonight.”
But Mr. Hart understood the long-term value of football, too. It could be a ticket to a private high school. One Mo Better parent described the difference between private and public high schools in New York City as “lobster or crawfish.” For middle-class folks like the Harts, the $38,000 yearly tuition at Poly Prep was imposing. Getting recruited onto the high school’s football team meant a very good chance at a financial aid package large enough to cover the full cost. From there, a college scholarship opened the next path. And in the numbers game of college scholarships, football is king: a Division I college has 85 scholarships to allocate to football players, compared to 13 for basketball and 12 for baseball—much less for any nonathletic enterprise. Football talent could compensate for a family’s money problems, though this particular avenue was open to sons and almost never to daughters––the latter path cleared only in April 2017 when Becca Longo became the first woman to get a college football scholarship, signing with Division II Adams State University.
While football scholarships could make the coming years easier, Mr. and Mrs. Hart were adamant that they would do what they had to do to get their children into good schools regardless. Generations of kin had worked hard and sacrificed much for Andrew Hart to have the opportunities he was born into. His grandparents had grown up poor, in the South on his mother’s side and in Brooklyn on his father’s. His parents had grown up less poor, working class, in rough areas of Brooklyn, and they had climbed into the middle class. They both worked steady jobs and built careers, and then in 2006 bought a modest three-bedroom house in South Ozone Park, Queens. Now their two children, Hart and his little sister Brianna, were growing up in a quiet, safe neighborhood with a good public grade school a few minutes away by car. Hart’s teammates loved coming over to his house. They played basketball on a hoop set up in the small cement yard out back. They played video games in Hart’s second-floor bedroom, which had a Spiderman poster on the wall, an Avengers blanket on the bed, and more than a dozen trophies on a shelf. They watched football or basketball on the big screen TV in the basement. They ate large portions of Mrs. Hart’s food. “They cook up a storm,” said Oomz. “They house mad big too. And as soon as you walk in the door you gotta do 25 push-ups. That’s the rule.”
For Hart, many afternoons were a mad scramble to grab a bite, finish homework, and get to practice. The drive from the house to the park took around 30 minutes, but it was closer to an hour if traffic was bad. Around a third of Hart’s teammates lived outside Brownsville. Three times a week their fathers and mothers flocked in from middle-class enclaves like Bensonhurst, Kew Gardens, Westchester County, and Staten Island, rolling through tolls and traffic to get their sons to a dilapidated field in one of Brooklyn’s roughest areas by 5:45 p.m. Some of these parents brought sandwiches for the other boys or donated their sons’ old cleats. Some families helped pay the cost for families who could not afford the $350 annual fee, which covered equipment maintenance and Pop Warner registration.
These fathers and mothers, who had themselves grown up in rough Brooklyn neighborhoods, believed their childhood environment had given them the psychological tools they used to rise to the middle class. They worked harder than their peers because of their hunger to escape the environment. They managed their money well because the poverty they had seen as children taught them to appreciate the value of a dollar. One father, who worked in the corporate world, observed that the sharks in white-collar shirts were no less criminal and no more fierce than the sharks in tall white tees who operated drug rings in Brooklyn. To survive their neighborhoods, these parents had learned how to negotiate with sharks.
Now the parents worried a middle-class upbringing would spoil their sons. Mr. Hart knew his kids had everything they wanted. He had installed a merit-based system in his household. He would only get them things if they behaved and got good grades. And they always did, so they were always getting things, and he wondered if they had too much. His son had a PlayStation and an Xbox—“most kids don’t even have one!” His son had “more sneakers than I do!” But in Brownsville, his son could see and experience another way of life. Line up next to kids in beat-up hand-me-down cleats who didn’t take a single blessing for granted, hungry kids who didn’t think twice about falling face-first into the hard dirt because they’d been playing tackle football without pads on this field since they were old enough to run. Kids like Oomz.
“Football-wise, it’s harder here. It’s tough,” said Dorian’s dad, Dwight, a Port Authority police officer who made the hour-long trek to Betsy Head Park from Bergenfield, New Jersey. “You play on this field, you can play anywhere. Here they get the fundamentals of life.”
Seven miles west of that hard dirt field, a breeze swept across Poly Prep’s artificial grass, fluttering the championship banners on the fence. Two minutes to go in the Junior Pee Wee game. Mo Better had the ball near midfield. Many of the fathers had left their seats in the bleachers to stand along the front railing. They watched the offense run the ball on first down for no gain. On second down, quarterback Naz dropped back to pass and the ball landed incomplete, far over receiver Chaka’s head. Another incomplete pass on third down, not even close to the target.
“Why we passing?” a father shouted at Coach Mohammad Esau, Chris’s deputy in charge of the Junior Pee Wees. “C’mon, Esau!”
It wasn’t Mo Better’s style to pass the ball. Not only that, passing the ball rarely worked at this level of football. Passing plays were sophisticated choreographies of joint parts, and every part needed to go right for a play to work. It took accurate throws from the quarterback, crisp routes from the receivers, sound footwork from the lineman, all skills that most kids this age had yet to develop. On top of all of that, it took precise timing that required more hours of practice than most youth football teams could spare. But Coach Esau had hoped to innovate his offense. He was young but a brilliant football strategist. He studied the game and had many ideas. Wide-open offenses that spread the field with deep passes and option runs. Aggressive defenses that blitzed from multiple angles. A standout player at Mo Better in his younger days, he’d joined the coaching staff and impressed Chris so much and so quickly that Chris decided to have him run Mo Better’s most talented team. This was his first year as head coach and, because of his inexperience, parents were skeptical of the promotion. But Esau wasn’t short on confidence. While Vick had three assistant coaches helping him with the Mitey Mites and Chris had two with him for the Junior Midgets, Esau’s staff consisted of only his right-hand man, Coach Andrell, a former Mo Better player who was even younger than Esau; Andrell played wide receiver at a junior college, and wasn’t always able
to make it to Junior Pee Wee practice.
On fourth down, Mo Better had no choice but to pass. The defense was ready and the ball fell incomplete, ending the hopes of a comeback. The loss confirmed the parents’ skepticism and shattered any presumptions that the Junior Pee Wees would dominate the season.
As the boys made their way to join their parents in the bleachers, the Junior Midgets took the field. Their faces glum, Oomz and Hart stood along the front railing, chewing on sunflower seeds, shouting encouragements to their Mo Better brothers lining up for the kickoff. Noticing that the eldest team was missing its best player, Oomz shot Hart a look of bewilderment, and said, “Where’s Gio?”
AGAIN, THE JUNIOR Midgets lost badly. Only six of their players showed up to the next practice that Tuesday. The turnout disappointed Gio, and he ran through the warm-ups and drills in a sour mood. A current of frustration was running through Betsy Head that evening.
“Why even show up if nobody else is?” said one Junior Midget father, who sat on the long green bench alongside other parents. “We can’t practice with six guys!”
All three teams had lost on Sunday, and none of the parents at the park seemed happy with the direction of the Mo Better program.
“They got their butts kicked,” said one father.
“For one thing, the other guys had more players, but we’ve got to improve our play,” said another.
“The thing is, they scared.”
“Boys gettin’ soft.”
“If that’s the case, shouldn’t be out there.”
“Shouldn’t be out there. Yup. Because that’s a rough game, and if you don’t look to hurt somebody—“
“They gon’ hurt you.”
“They gon’ hurt you. That’s right. That’s the bottom line.”
“You cannot let a boy be soft. Cannot. Can’t let it happen.”
A loud noise from the street interrupted them. It was mumbled and static-y, as if from an AM radio station just out of range. Heads turned, and they saw a black van with a speaker on the roof, slowly rolling down Saratoga.
Somethingsomethingsomething Vote for someone! Somethingsomethingsomething Vote for someone!
“It would help if we could understand it,” said one of the mothers.
It was Election Day, and the Democratic Primary for mayor was said to be a close race.
“Have you heard anything about the results?” said a father.
“We’ll know tomorrow morning,” said another.
“What’s his name’s gonna take it. De Blasio, he’s got it locked up.”
“They keep saying de Blasio’s winning, so it’s almost like a sure shot––he’s gonna be the Democrat running.”
The parents had a mild and guarded interest in Bill de Blasio. He had given speeches about improving the lives of working-class and poor people. Ending stop-and-frisk policing, more money for public schools, slowing down the development pushing up prices across the city. But those speeches and promises felt far removed from this park, this neighborhood. While this de Blasio seemed to make better promises than the other candidates, and far better promises than Michael Bloomberg, the current billionaire mayor, they were still just promises from a rich man running for political office. The parents had sensed, more and more with each year, that their city was racing down a track that could no longer be changed. They looked back and saw a past of violence and struggle, but they looked forward and saw a future that had no room for them, and neither the starting point nor the end was particularly appealing. Brownsville locals took pride in the community they had built over the years, a community of unity and strength forged even despite the oppressive forces working against them. They had little faith that this candidate, or any other, was capable of preserving the character and virtues of their neighborhood when the borough’s economic development—the restaurants, condos, boutiques—lured in a new, wealthier population.
“No, I’m not excited,” said one mother. “I had enough of that.”
“This year,” said another, “I’m just a little jaded with the candidates. All of them.”
“Just a bunch of thieves and liars,” said a third.
“It’s always blah blah blah blah blah, what we will do, what we will do,” said a fourth.
“They pull the levers and control certain things,” said a father. “But in my house, there’s certain things that I control, you understand?”
Several heads nodded, and the parents shifted their eyes back to football practice. Chalky brown clouds floated above the park. The Junior Midgets jogged off the field and formed a line at the base of the red cement steps. Coach Chris blew his whistle. They sprinted up, then jogged down. Many took off their cleats for better traction. A few slowed down after five or six rounds to rub the soles of their feet. Others tip-toed to avoid stones and twigs. The only two boys who ran hard without pause were Gio and Isaiah.
“I don’t care about no barefoot!” Chris boomed. “Our forefathers had to get up every morning to pick cotton! Your forefathers ain’t have no shoes. Nobody feels sorry for us! Nobody feels sorry for us! They didn’t have no Nike! Go back up! Not this crying and something’s hurt! Let’s go! Let’s see who quits first!”
BOYS BEGAN QUITTING halfway through the season. Some of those who didn’t quit simply stopped showing up to most practices. By mid-October, there were rarely more than six or seven Junior Midgets at practice, and only 13 or 14 were making it to games. It was embarrassing. In years past, the oldest team had been the program’s flagship, the culmination of years of playing together and improving under Mo Better’s vaunted system. This year, the oldest team was ending the season with a string of forfeits. Rather than waste the day, the coaches on both sides would agree to unofficial scrimmages. Gio was more dominant each week.
He didn’t miss any more games, but he now occasionally skipped out on practice to hang with friends. With few teammates attending and the season in free fall, practice no longer felt urgent. Gio welcomed this new freedom. He’d begun to feel more comfortable around the neighborhood. He had a group of friends who’d taken him in, older boys looking out for him, girls he was crushing on, places to go when he wanted to get out of his apartment, which was quite often. His building, known locally as the Castle, had a notorious reputation. “That’s a rough place, man, even for Brownsville,” said Coach Vick. “Roughest of the rough come outta there. That’s where the Boogeyman lived.” Built in 1926, the apartment complex was now mostly used as temporary housing. The city paid the building’s manager, a nonprofit called the Acacia Network, to take in people who had nowhere to live; the city’s shelter system had been filled for years. In 2014, three city agencies tallied 48 total code violations in the Castle. “It’s a hellhole,” Chris said. “They live a little different over there. It’s not a place you wanna be.” Many rooms in the building housed homeless families, people with felony records who couldn’t qualify for public housing, and people fresh from prison looking to get back on their feet. Gio stayed away whenever he could.
One night after an October practice, Coach Chris ran into Gio’s mother at a takeout spot down the street from the park. A line of teens and Mo Better boys stretched from the counter, which was behind bulletproof glass, to the open doorway. A small boy at the front of the line playfully spun the revolving food slot, through which servers passed boxes of fried chicken wings, greasy pizza slices soaking through paper plates, and piping hot meat-and-cheese patties wrapped in napkins.
“What happened to Gio today?” Chris asked Gio’s mother, a kind-eyed woman wearing a paisley blouse, black slacks, and kitten heels. “He wasn’t at practice.”
“He wasn’t at practice?” she said, confusion on her face. “He told me he was going to practice. I don’t know where he went to!”
She shook her head gravely and told Chris that this wasn’t the first time Gio had misled her. He wasn’t home as much, and when she asked where he was going or where he had been, he offered only vague replies, with a typically te
enage don’t-worry-about-it tone. She didn’t know who he was spending his time with, but she noticed that her son’s demeanor had turned a bit hard, a bit distant. Perhaps it was a natural development as a boy approached his teenage years and yearned for independence. He disobeyed her orders to finish his homework before football practice. Instead, he’d go straight to the park or meet up with friends after school. Some nights, he had to stay up past midnight to get his homework done. She was worried about him, she told Chris. Her son’s transition into the neighborhood was even harder than she had expected, she added.
“I’ve been trying to talk to him,” she said to Chris. “I need your help.”
“We’ll talk to him,” Chris said.
“I just don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know. I need to do something.”
“He’s a good kid.”
She nodded. They stood there silently for a moment, both knowing full well that sometimes being a good kid wasn’t enough.
IT WAS A bad season across the board. The Mitey Mites lost nearly every game, and alums wondered if Coach Vick had lost his touch, maybe even his drive. The Junior Pee Wees stood as the last hope to save the year. By mid-October they held onto an outside shot at making the playoffs if they finished strong. They did not. Against Newark’s Brick City Lions, their biggest rival in the North Jersey Pop Warner League, they played tough and kept the game close through the first half, then fell apart in the second half and lost 35–0. They were out of the playoff race. It was the first time anybody could remember a season without at least one Mo Better team in the playoffs.
Rumors began to spread that the program would disband at the end of the season. Parents complained that the coaches were disorganized, unsure of practice schedules and game locations, and that Mo Better’s time had passed. There were not enough kids coming out. There was not enough money to keep paying for fields and bus trips. And there was not enough success to justify further effort. Coaches from other programs contacted parents, trying to poach players for next season, circling the dying carcass.
Never Ran, Never Will Page 8
