Risky Business

Poyo shared his secret with me. I was actually surprised that Poyo opened up to me since we barely knew each other. In the moment, I felt like a priest listening to an anguished sinner's plea for forgiveness. I didn't judge his trespasses, nor did I suggest that he recite the Lord's prayer or ten Hail Marys for forgiveness. I felt bad for him. It seemed to me that he wanted a different life, but he wasn't blessed with what most people take for granted.

Poyo has been mired in developmental courses at the college. He started his educational journey here in the lowest levels of English and Math because his placement test scores were abysmally low. In general, many cases exist here where students have placed into remedial classes simply because they pulled an "abacadaba" on the test so they could make it go away, or they simply don't take computerized tests well. Poyo, on the other hand, really has low skills in math and english despite having graduated from high school--albeit an alternative school that the local school district developed to graduate the most troubled teens in the city.

During his first semester, he withdrew from his Intermediate Writing class and recorded an F in Basic Reading. This didn't come to me as a surprise since all of his text messages tended to be incoherent. The following term, as a result of attending many tutoring sessions, Poyo pulled off a C in Basic Reading and a D in Writing. He was thrilled when I told him he passed both classes. It seemed like a gorilla was taken off of his shoulders.

Me: Good job, man. You did it!
Poyo: I know. You don't understand how hard I tried. The D isn't good, you know, but least I don't have to take that class again.
Me: Exactly! You have to do some reading outside of class to improve your comprehension and writing. That doesn't happen on its own. Do you read at all?
Poyo: Yeh. I read the newspaper, but I zone out a lot when I read. Got a lot on my mind.
Me: Like what?
Poyo: Just life, man. Always somethin'. I'm tryin to get a job and stuff, but it's hard to find one, you know?
Me: Where are you looking?
Poyo: Well, I'm posed to be workin at a factory. Me and my boy is going down for interviews and stuff. It pays real good. I hope I get it.
Me: What do you do in the meantime for money? How are you getting by?
Poyo: I'm only tellin' you this because you seem cool. I'm not proud of it or nothin. I make some moves here and there.
Me: Moves like what?
Poyo: I sell trees. Been doin it for awhile, and I'm tryin to stop. I really am. Nobody's tryin to hire me though. 

Daddy Daycare

Femme made a huge mistake years ago. Several years later she can't recall what was going through her mind when she decided to have a baby (much less, lay in bed) with her son's father. Other than being tall and handsome, her baby daddy has absolutely nothing going for him.

A lot has happened since Femme let him in her crevices. Years ago, I'm sure she couldn't have fathomed how much she would come to regret having her baby daddy's genes running through her son. Today, she's a college student pursuing a degree in Radiology. He, on the other hand, is an unemployed adult who is aimlessly grasping at a hoop dream.

Years ago, he enrolled here and played for the team but his impulsive, immature behavior lead him to be dismissed from the team. He was out of control. Subsequently, he dropped out of school before enrolling elsewhere and failing again. Sadly, he's now merely a regular in the local police logs.

Femme's son is not fairing too well in school so far. Her son is getting ready for the first grade. At the end of this past school year, unfortunately, Femme was asked to enroll her son at a different school because his behavior was frequently poor. As she puts it, he can't control himself. This has been a drain on Femme since she has no support from her baby daddy with these matters.

Femme couldn't help but vent to me about all of this. She has been trying to figure out the root of her son's problems, and why his behavior is getting worse despite being punished repeatedly. One conclusion she has arrived at so far is that her son is acting out because his father isn't involved.


Me: Why don't you have him spend more time with his father?
Femme: That's not an option.
Me: Why not?
Femme: Because he's an idiot and my son doesn't like being around him.
Me: Did he tell you that?
Femme: A lil while ago he told me that he likes me because I want him around and he doesn't like to visit his dad because he doesn't want him around.
Me: Damn. That sucks. How about keeping him connected with his dad's family?
Femme: Hell no! Those people are crazy. All of em! There's something wrong with every last one of em!!
Me: What do you mean by that? lol
Femme: They're literally all crazy!

Stressed Out

Many of these students are depressed. Unfortunately, many of them haven’t been diagnosed with depression. I’m not an expert by any means, but I happen to feel like certain red flags are obvious. Then again, I don’t have a Master’s Degree in Psychology so I’m not in a position to steer anybody accordingly.

Femme is a single mother who takes classes year-round. She gets no help from her son’s father. He’s too busy blowing up the local police logs to take care for his son. Femme gets help with childcare from her mother, who she lives with, but they don’t have the greatest relationship. As a matter of fact, Femme was raised by her father because as she puts it, her mother wasn’t the affectionate type.

In the fall and spring, Femme is enrolled in four classes each semester and plays on the Women’s basketball team.  During the summer, she takes one to two classes per session in an effort to graduate from school as soon as possible. The problem with all of this is that Femme really dislikes school and is trudging along academically as she tries to meet the requirements for the Radiologic Technology program.

Femme called me randomly late one morning because she was stressing about an upcoming Biology exam. She was extremely anxious about taking the test after having failed the first one a few weeks before. I asked her to meet me for lunch so we could talk at length about the many concerns she attempted to ramble through. It was clear that she needed more than a good pep talk on the phone.

Me: Are you passionate about Radiology?

Femme: Not at all.

Me: So why are you enrolled in it?

Femme: I have no idea. It seems interesting and you can make money but I hate these classes.

Me: What are you passionate about?

Femme: I have no clue. School is going nowhere.  Nothing is going good for me. My kid stay acting up in school. I don’t have my own spot. I live with my mom. I can’t find a job.

Me: Have you worked in the past couple of years?

Femme: Yeh. I worked at a food pantry and Macy’s doing make-up.

Me: You like helping people and you’re into cosmetics?

Femme: Yeh.

Me: So then that’s what you’re passionate about. I can tell you’re into make-up and all that. Why aren’t you still working there?

Femme: Ehh. Some stuff happened. I got in a situation outside a club and got arrested for disorderly conduct then I lied about it when I called in the next day. Before that, though, I missed work because I couldn’t get out of bed.

Me: What do you mean you couldn’t get out of bed?

Femme: There are days where I can’t get out of bed even though people are waking me up. There was a time where I’d sleep straight til 2 o’clock everyday. I wasn’t happy. It felt like I was in a hole. I just wanted to sleep all the time.

Me: Have you told your doctor this?

Femme: No.

Norms

I have a strict dress code for the team. Everybody is required to wear slacks, a dress shirt, and a tie for road games. They also have to wear shoes unless snowy conditions necessitate boots or sneakers. This rule has been consistent since my first year as the Head Coach. My predecessor had the same dress code requirement when we traveled as a team, but my reasoning for the shirt and tie rule actually originated from something a player said while I was an Assistant Coach on the staff.

During my second season as an Assistant Coach, we earned a berth in the national tournament as a result of winning our region. Prior to leaving for the trip, one of the players (Skip) asked me to bring a tie for him. When I asked Skip why he didn’t have his own tie he explained that shirts and ties weren’t his thing. As a matter of fact, Skip went as far as declaring that he wasn’t a “shirt and tie kind of guy.”

A couple of days after that exchange the team was invited to eat with the other tournament participants at a banquet. I was stunned and saddened by what I witnessed.  Skip had terrible table manners. Not only did he suck on his fingers repeatedly, he also used his index finger as a knife to get food onto his fork. I was embarrassed for him. In many ways, that singular moment shaped the way I decided to run this program subsequently as the Head Coach. I decided then that I would infuse many life skill components into my own program someday...

In my program, the shirt and tie rule for road games is about making sure my players have dress clothes for job interviews. It has nothing to do with basketball whatsoever. I also want them to be comfortable in formal clothing. I explain this to every group of incoming players. Five years after Skip I continue to meet players who are not “shirt and tie guys.”Most, not all, have to buy their road attire before the season starts because they don’t own anything I’d deem appropriate for travel. From there, the resistance varies.

Some will wear everything, but choose not to tuck in the shirt until they board the team bus. Others sag their pants and loosen the tie.  There are also the ones who try to get away with not wearing a tie by zipping their jacket to the top. Looking formal just isn't cool to some of them, even if it's just for two hours.

Flash was not a fan of the dress code. He didn’t like rules, in general, actually. His look was very important to him. Another rule I have is that guys can’t wear fitted caps in class. I peek into their classes regularly to make sure they’re in compliance. Before school starts they’re all told that wearing a cap in class will result in a lot of running. Flash violated the rule three times in a span of two weeks, and each time he was punished for it. He had to run for a mile and a half on a cool morning at 8 a.m. before he decided to fall in line--or so I thought.

I assumed we were done with the hat violations until I received an email from one of his Professors. Immediately after reading the Professor’s feedback about his academic progress, I called Flash into my office.

Me: Can I ask what the fuck your problem is?

Flash: Damn, coach. Why you swearin?

Me: Because you’re a grown ass man looking for attention!

Flash: What you mean? What I do now?

Me: Why are you still wearing a hat in class?!!! Haven’t you run for this a few times already?!!

Flash:  I only wear it in one class, matter of fact, and the teacher gave me permission.

Me: Oh yeh? I’m looking at his email right now where he’s referring to you wearing your “stupid hat all the time in class.”

Flash: Nah. Get outta here. He ain't write that.

Me: (Hand him print out of email)

Flash: Wow. Are you serious? He really wrote, "his stupid hat." Yo, for real, Coach. I swear to God he told me he don’t mind me wearin the hat. I’m not tryin to run no more. He told me I could wear it, Coach!

Me: Why’d you ask him for permission to wear the damn hat after I told you not to wear it?!?!

Flash: Cuz I’m comfortable with it. It’s my hat. I wear it everywhere.
Me: I already told you that professors don't like hats in classes. It's considered to be rude. Did you read the part where he commented about your appearance?

Flash: So he don’t like my clothes either?

Me: Lets go to my boss’ office so we can see what she thinks of your “look.”

Flash: Aiight..

Me (to Boss):  Can I bother you for a minute?

Boss: Sure

Me: What do you think about his appearance for class. Would you let him wear his hat in class?

Boss: He doesn’t look bad. I don’t think he looks right for class, though. I wouldn't let him do the cap.

Flash: Why not?!?! What's wrong wit the way I look? lol

Boss: Your pants are way under your ass and your hat is covering your eyes. It’s not a good look for class. That’s all.

Flash: So what you expect me to do? Lol

Boss: Pull your pants up. Tuck in your shirt, and take off your hat. Lol

Flash: Oh nah. Hell nah! Y’all tryin to have me look like a sucka! lol

Mommy's Boy

I wrote "Women's Team Room" across the top of our white board. As more issues occurred among the guys, I started decorating the board with flowers. Eventually, I colored the flowers in. It felt like I was coaching a bunch of little girls.

My first year of coaching was brutal. I spent way more time putting out fires than actually going over Xs and Os. It was totally unexpected. Guys would start false rumors about teammates, then deny it vehemently when they were confronted. The guys who were getting playing time didn't talk to the guys that didn't play. One player went as far as making it his business to get with women his teammates expressed any sort of interest in. I had never seen men behave this way until I started coaching.

After a few months of the nonsense, I erased "Women's Team Room" and all the flowers from the board. It was a poor strategy on my part to get them to behave like "men." Few of them really respected women based on their interactions with them, and I was only fueling that fire by suggesting that all women embody petty behavior.

Even though I had erased the intended slight from the board, I still couldn't understand why they behaved as they did. With each year that passed, I continued to encounter the same antics from different players. From my own vantage point, they didn't act like men. It took a few years for me to wrap my mind around the possible reason for their boy-ish antics.

Recently, I decided to send a mass text to a bunch of my players asking them to identify a male role model. All of them replied similarly, but one particular response stood out.

Me: Tell me who your male role model is and why?
Stumps: I don't have one.
Me: You gotta have at least one. How about your dad?
Stumps: Don't know him.
Me: You don't have any uncles or cousins that you look up to?
Stumps: Honestly no.
Me: A coach?
Stumps: No. My mom is all I ever looked up to. Men never held me down like that.

Lucky Me

Pure luck has gotten me this far in life. It took years for me to realize that. The fact that my father got to be in my life for 23 years was luck. The youth program (SPES) I got involved in from the fifth grade through high school was a lucky discovery on my part too. Oddly enough, I was even lucky to lose the friends I made during elementary school who are now either in prison, deported, or leading a shady life. Unfortunately, my older brother didn’t get the lucky breaks that I’ve had thus far.

My parents started seeing each other after they met in a laundromat one afternoon by chance. It just so happened that my father was good friends with my mother’s older brother, which means there’s a strong likelihood that they would’ve met each other at another point in time. They were just meant to be, I guess. Although happy for the most part, they had their share of issues throughout my childhood. One of the main reasons they never divorced was because my mother chose to weather the storms since she had already left my older brother’s father years earlier. She didn’t want to be the single mother of two boys with different fathers. 

My older brother grew up without his biological father. Actually, he has never even met his dad. My father never got too involved with my brother even though they lived under the same roof. Many times my father required me to do something academic before I could go outside, like writing a response essay to an editorial or doing some math problems. My brother didn’t have to do that. I never thought anything of this dynamic until my brother vented to me one day while I was visiting him behind bars...

I attended St. Matthew’s School in Dorchester for three years (3rd through 5th grade). At St. Matthew's, I learned about SPES, which was an after-school enrichment program for inner-city boys. The Program Director (Riccobono) and Founder (Haferd) have been equally instrumental in my development as a man since I met them twenty years ago. In addition to the positive influence of my father, I was lucky to have those two additional male role models in my life. Through SPES, I alsoo learned how to play the trombone and traveled throughout the country to play in concerts. 

Shortly after I joined the program, my parents took me out of St. Matthew’s because of the long commute from Brighton. If I had left prior to the fifth grade, which was a strong possibility because of my parents' concern about having me ride the train alone for forty five minutes everyday, I would have never met Riccobono or Haferd. It's very likely that I wouldn't have ever played the trombone either...

Twenty years later, Riccobono and I are still friends. I still consider him to be a mentor. I met many other adults in that program, like Haferd, who helped shape me into the person that I’ve become. My older brother attended St. Matthew’s before I did, but he left the school before SPES was launched.  By the time I joined at 10 years old, he was already 14 and doing his own thing. While I was at band camp in Vermont with SPES, my brother was spending summers in Providence with his cousins on my mother’s side of the family. The cousins he was closest with have all been to jail at least once...

Jude was my best friend in the second grade. He was four years older than me when we met on the school bus. I noticed he didn’t have any friends so I gravitated to him. Eventually, he became my “brother from another mother.” If we weren’t hoopin' in my backyard, I was at his place playing Sega. We became so tight that even our fathers became close friends. Jude and I were best friends until I moved from the neighborhood.

Years later when Jude moved closer to me, I was in my pre-teen phase and he had gotten mixed up in a different crowd. In some ways, we had grown apart. I had a new group of friends. He and my brother started hanging out. Before Jude got deported back to Haiti following a conviction, he was literally pimping a woman and doing other petty crimes.

Luck has defined my life so far. I’ve been spared a very different life because of the shear timing of when my family moved from one neighborhood to the next. My brother, who grew up in the same household as I did, has been incredibly unlucky. His life has followed an entirely different course as a result. Today, I’m a coach, admissions counselor, teacher, and mentor. My brother is an ex-convict.

Academic Integrity

Slasher is going to struggle academically. He graduated from high school with a 1.5 GPA. That comes as no surprise since all of the local stars I’ve coached enroll here with checkered transcripts. What continues to astonish me is how they earned passing grades to even get to this point.  

The saddest moment of my coaching tenure occurred off the court when I asked my star power forward (Loco) to read a paragraph to me. It took him five minutes to read ten sentences. He had trouble pronouncing every word with multiple syllables, and had no clue what any of them meant.

These weren’t what I would’ve called SAT words either. I had to compose myself. I didn’t want to cry in his presence and have him feel worse about not being able to read well. Despite my best efforts to push Loco academically, he failed 7 out of 8 remedial classes. The most distressing aspect of it all was that he had an IEP and still couldn’t pass those classes despite receiving extra accommodations…

Dealing with Loco’s situation has helped me work better with players who are academically at-risk. Slasher stands to be a beneficiary of the lessons I’ve learned from past years. For instance, I used to brush it off when a guy would send me borderline incoherent text messages. Today, I use that as an indicator of academic ability. I ask guys to text me in plain English. If they’re unable to do so, I conclude that they either can’t write well or they’re too stubborn to comply. Either case isn’t good.

Slasher and I were texting recently when I picked up on some obvious red flags. Prior to this text exchange he and I had a conversation at his high school that offered a major clue. I asked what books he was reading in English class, and he told me they were reading books by “some guy that wrote a lot of confusing plays back in the day.” It didn’t take long for me to figure out that he was talking about Shakespeare.

Me: You need to take the placement test before you could work out with the team.

Slasher: Okay, but don’t I need to study for that?

Me: There’s a study guide, but for the most part, you either know the stuff or you don’t. The math part has some older stuff, but the English section should be straightforward.

Slasher: What do you mean?

Me: The boy rode the red bike. What’s the verb?

Slasher: Rode the bike?

Me: No. The verb is rode. What’s the adjective?

Slasher: The bike? I don’t know. Smh

Me: The adjective is red. How many paragraphs make up a good essay?

Slasher: Umm. 3?

Me: At least 4, but 5 is usually better.

Slasher: I guess I do need to study.

Arrested Development

I have lost one major prospect before each season. One year, a guy decided not to enroll shortly before classes started because Campus Police informed him that, as a registered sex offender, he had to have his photo posted in a prominent area of campus. Another year, a player tore his achilles tendon a week into preseason training. There are a few other examples, and the reasons vary, but five years into this I fully understand that there is no such thing as an absolute when it comes to working with these guys.

Smoove had game. He could flat-out score. Unlike every other guard I had encountered at the time, Smoove possessed a mid-range shot and he could drive the ball against a variety of defenders. He also seemed to be far more mature than the average guy I had grown accustomed to dealing with here. I loved the thought of adding him to the roster as an older, skilled player. The only problem was the amount of layers I had to deal with in order to get him back into school.

Smoove was 22 when I met him. He was a few years removed from his first failed attempt at doing the college thing. Prior to my tenure here, Smoove played for the team, but quit before the season had started. To his credit, Smoove stayed in school. However, he failed most of his classes. He re-enrolled for a second semester, but made the mistake of dropping out halfway through the semester without officially withdrawing from his classes. That left him with a $1600 bill and a row of "Fs" on his transcript.

After doing some heavy lobbying for Smoove, I was able to broker a deal with Academic Advising to lift his academic suspension. They agreed to place him on academic probation instead which would allow him to enroll in classes and get financial aid again. All Smoove needed to do was pay the $1600 so the Business Office could lift the "hold" that was placed on his account.  He was excited about the possibility of starting over.

A month before school started, Smoove disappeared. I was alarmed. Up until that point, he was showing up to meetings on time and checking in regularly. Since he had a good gig working as a Relief Counselor at a Group Home, I assumed Smoove was on a different path. He was even saving up to pay off the $1600 balance. After two weeks of calling and texting, I gave up on Smoove until one day he showed up at my office unexpectedly.

Me: Where have you been? I've been trying to reach you for two weeks.
Smoove: My fault, Coach. I don't got my phone no more.
Me: Where is it?
Smoove: It got took at the park while I was playin' in this tournament.
Me: Oh okay. I thought you had bailed on me. You still good to go?
Smoove: Nah man. Some stuff happened. I don't know. Stuff just went down.
Me: What happened?
Smoove: So, I was pumpin gas in my car, right? While I was pumpin the gas I peeped Po-po scoping me out.
Me: Why would they just be watching you? You do something? You have a record?
Smoove: I been arrested before, but they was followin me before I got the gas. I think it's because my windows is real dark.
Me: Okay?
Smoove: I got in my car and started driving then Po-po started following me again and then they pulled me over. And honestly, coach, I figured they was just gonna bust my balls for the window, you know? When I rolled down the window the cop started askin me questions and stuff then he said he smelled trees and to get out the car.
Me: Were you smoking in the car?
Smoove: Yeh but that was like a hour before. So I stepped out the car. I knew he wasn't gonna find nothin but a blunt in there. All of a sudden, he pulls out a bunch of dime bags from under the carseat that was in the back.
Me: I thought you told me you don't mess with that stuff.
Smoove: I don't, though. No lie. I gave my niggas a ride to this game we was playin in and I think one of em left the stuff in my car.
Me: You know whose it was?
Smoove: Yeh, but I ain't dimin' my nigga out.