Rival Crews

Husky was a convicted criminal. I had to think long and hard about taking him on the team given the crime he had committed. He admitted to slashing somebody with a blade during a fight and snatching the victim's chain. It was difficult for me to look at that infraction the same way as a petty weed trafficking violation. I needed to take a step back before deciding on how to proceed with Husky.

Instead of cutting him off right there, I listed the expectations that I have of every player--like going to class, getting good grades, and showing up on time. I wanted to see how he would react. Husky was unfazed by my rules. He didn't even flinch or roll his eyes like some other guys have in the past. I also asked him a question that I pose to most cats who are interested in playing for me--that is, what's your greatest flaw?

Some guys can't answer that and when they're unable to do so, I regard that as a serious red flag. As I've noted in previous posts, there's no big secret to my approach with the more difficult characters. I simply look for cues that suggest an individual can be reached. If he doesn't have the slightest clue of just one flaw, for example, then I know he won't be receptive to my direction. It means he's either too stupid (or too stubborn) to look within. In either case, it's damn near impossible to help that type of person turn the proverbial corner.

Along those lines, Husky didn't hesitate to tell me that his attitude could be a problem at times. I walked away from that conversation feeling better about working with him. After a few weeks of school, I noticed that he had a "C" or better in every class so I gave him a call. At that point, I invited him to be part of the team and he accepted the offer.

Husky didn't disappoint at all on the court. He was an animal. Given our needs as a team at the time, he was just what the doctor ordered. It didn't take long for my bubble to burst, however. One night after a game, I decided to hit up a bar to grab a drink. As I sat down a former employee at the Athletic Center, Birdie, tapped me on the shoulder. She needed to talk.

Birdie: I see you got Husky playin for you. You might have some issues there.
Me: Why's that? He's doing fine so far.
Birdie: He switched gangs. He's rollin with dudes his boys used to beef with now.
Me: Huh? How do you know?
Birdie: Because my ex used to roll with him. The word is on the street. 
Me: So what does that mean?
Birdie: Really? You don't know what that means?
Me: I don't take these local cats seriously. Dude is a gangster in college. Cmon!
Birdie: Well, dudes is ready to set it on him. They're after him on some serious shit.

Slice n Dice

I believe in second chances. My coaching career has been defined by this conciliatory approach to some degree. After all, everybody is prone to making mistakes from time to time. In dealing with situations, I often ask myself how I'd want to be treated if the roles were reversed. The usual conclusion is to extend an olive branch, and see if a story of redemption comes about.

Nearly one third of the players I've coached come to me with a checkered past. During my second year, for example, one of my key players was a gang member who decided to leave his hood for a chance to play college basketball. The following season, a "stick-up" kid found his way to my program with the same resolve to turn over a new leaf. In the former case, he ultimately left the gang life behind completely, but the aforementioned "stick-up" kid didn't even make it through half of a semester with me.

The results have surely been mixed along the way. I've come to realize that I can't reach the ones who are fully immersed in "the life." The former gang member didn't change his ways because I touched his shoulder with a magic wand. Before enrolling at the college, he had already taken steps towards cutting the negative influences out of his life. My program just provided him with an outlet to cut those guys out completely. The other character wanted to have his cake and eat it too. He didn't like robbing people, but it was an easy way to get money and whatever else he needed. I also learned later that he suffered from some severe mental health issues that weren't being treated.

The most recent character I decided to take a chance on was Husky. During an "open gym" session for prospective players, he showed up and left a strong impression. Although Husky wasn't incredibly skilled, I liked that he played with passion and toughness. He stood at about 6'3 and had a very solid frame. For the entire hour that the guys played, he clearly stood out among them for his physical presence. I definitely needed him on the team.

There was a problem, however. I knew a little bit about Husky and from what was circulating in the wind, I felt like a conversation was needed before we could talk about basketball. He had a bad reputation around the community as a troublemaker who rolled with a crew in town. Since Husky took it upon himself to enroll in school, however, I figured he was salvageable.

Me: I liked what I saw out there. You're tough.
Husky: Thanks. That's just how I play, man. No fear.
Me: I can see that. What's your story, though?
Husky: What you mean?
Me: I've heard about you. Didn't you do time recently?
Husky: (surprised) Wow. Word flies like that? Yeh. I did time. Right now, I'm on probation.
Me: I'm not asking you these questions to disqualify you. I just want to know what I'm working with.
Husky: Nah. I understand. I'm just here tryin to get an education. Figured I try the college thing. Do the HVAC program and put all that other stuff behind me.
Me: What's the other stuff? Why'd you do time?
Husky: Aggravated assault and battery. I slashed somebody with a blade during a fight.

Sob Story

Lebraun roams the streets. I don't know for sure that he's doing anything illegal, but my gut tells me that I'll see him in the police blogs soon. Hopefully, I'm wrong. Lebraun played for me a few years ago. He was a nice guy, in his early 20s and on his own, who wanted a shot at being on a team since he had never gotten the chance to play organized basketball. I didn't mind his enthusiasm for the game, or his ambition to play at a high level down the road (Division I). My problem with Lebraun was that he told me his game mirrored Lebron James' even though that was far from the case. That's partially why I classified him as a Bubblee initially. The mountain of evidence would soon follow.

Lebraun isn't a bad guy. I wouldn't even go as far as calling him a liar. Like other Bubblees, he just wants the respect that comes with being great at something outside of school. Bubblees that I encounter typically don't have any ambition in the academic realm. I believe that's a function of the overall frustration with school among Bubblees. It's a restrictive place for them. Many of them have impairments (often undiagnosed) that preclude academic success.

Naturally they frown at anything that's book related. Instead, they define themselves by their hobbies (sports, artistic ability, rapping, fashion), material possessions, and/or their conquests. In their communities, revered folks are those who show out (so to speak) in one of these areas. The guy who goes on to a Division I college to play a sport is a king, for example. As a result, guys like Lebraun spend a lot of time playing sports hoping to attain that status. 

The problem is that most Bubblees I encounter expect to reap major rewards without working hard. They talk a good game. That's it. Everything is supposed to happen instantly, and when things don't go accordingly, they quit and resort to the fantasy. In the event that the fantasy comes undone for whatever reason, that's when they tank. Lebraun represents a classic case of this.

After playing one season for me, and averaging a whopping 1.9 points per game, Lebraun couldn't come back to school because his father was unable to provide the necessary tax documents for him to receive financial aid. The basketball dream suddenly fell apart as a result. In keeping with the Bubble tendency to unravel and make sudden, irrational decisions when an obstacle comes about, Lebraun became unhinged. I ran into Lebraun late one night at a liquor store and wasn't surprised to hear that things weren't going well for him.

Me: Do you still have that job?
Lebraun: What job?
Me: At the Honey Farms? The last time I saw you, you were working there.
Lebraun: Nah. 
Me: What happened? You quit?
Lebraun: No. They fired me.
Me: Did you do something to be fired?
Lebraun: Personally, I think they were out to get me anyway. It was gonna happen sooner than later.
Me: But what did you do?
Lebraun: I was on my lunch break and took a sandwich. The Manager fired me on the spot.
Me: Why?
Lebraun: Why what?
Me: Why did you take the sandwich?
Lebraun: I was hungry. 

Chronic Illness, Part 2

(Continuation of previous story, Chronic Illness...)

Instant gratification is very prevalent in the Bubble. Bubblees medicate by making split second decisions to feel better in the moment without considering the long term consequences. We're all guilty of making bad decisions and satisfying sudden urges. However, the average person doesn't continually go about doing things that way. Bubblees, on the other hand, never learn to stop operating in this knee jerk fashion. As a matter of fact, their lives come to be defined by their inability to make decisions with any sort of long-term view in mind.

That issue isn't the sole identifying characteristic of people who are mired in the Bubble. Among other perverse personality traits, they are also skilled at manipulating people. For some of them, it's how they get by in life. Eventually the truth comes to light and they proceed to find their next prey. Since we're a society of givers and takers, it's inevitable that the Bubblee will find somebody to come to the rescue. Suckers, like me, make it possible for these people to live like this.

Diego's story is a perfect example of this mentality. I truly don't think he woke up one morning and decided to find an idiot on a college campus who was willing to buy his story. I still feel like he wanted to major in Human Services so that he could help other addicts--or maybe I'm just extremely naive. My bet is that between the first time I met him and the day he called me, something happened to put him in a bad place.

Another truth about Bubblees is that they are not terribly resilient. The slightest obstacle can send them off course. In the case of Diego, it could very well be that an old friend came around with some "stuff" and he had a relapse--or perhaps somebody told him that college would be too hard and he just gave up on the dream. Either way, I believe Diego suffered some type of setback that lead him to dial my number and ask for a "loan." Instead of working through whatever issue he was dealing with, Diego decided that his relationship with me had a price tag on it.

Me: How much money are you looking for?
Diego: $50
Me: When do you need it?
Diego: Today. Listen, man. I swear to you. I'll pay it back. For real.
Me: Today?? I'm not even home right now.
Diego: Please. I'm begging you. Where ever you are, if you could bring it to me I would be really grateful. I just don't want something to happen to my mom. Know what I mean? The bus is leaving soon!
Me: (annoyed) Where are you?
Diego: I'm over by Elm Park.
Me: I'll bring you the money. Meet me by the ice cream truck.

I gave him the money. The sullen, duplicitous look on his face told the story. I knew instantly that I'd never get that money back (from him, at least)... Months later, I ran into him at a supermarket. He was with a woman. Maybe it was his new prey. Diego came over to tell me that he hadn't forgotten about his debt. I simply told him that I didn't give him the money expecting the debt to be repaid and walked away. It was sad to see a broken man burn a bridge for $50...

Chronic Illness

Everybody plays the fool. There's no exception to the rule. "The Main Ingredient" turned that century old adage into a hit in 1972, and I suspect that I won't be the last person to reference that song. Although they were lamenting affairs of the heart, the chorus applies to so many other situations in life. I often find myself playing the fool, and it's not a good feeling when I get burned. Unfortunately, my mom taught me to give without expecting something in return.

The society we live in has two types of people, givers and takers. Often times, the takers take advantage of the givers because it's how they're programmed. Givers are often slow to learn a lesson because they aren't configured to be selfish. Along those lines, I was lead to start my professional career as a Youth Counselor because I was taught that helping others is the right thing to do. After all, more than a few adults helped me back in the day and I wanted to pay it forward.

I am now nine years out of college and continue to work in a "helping profession" even though more than a handful of young folks I've helped in the past have never said thank you or shown any sign of gratitude. If getting burned left scars, people wouldn't recognize me anymore. The best example of this occurred last year during an Open House on campus where I met a prospective student who needed some extra help.
Diego was an aspiring new student who had just been released from a drug rehabilitation clinic after he was declared sober. He was so thankful for the help of his counselors that he decided to attend our Open House to begin the path of pursuing a Human Services degree. The downside of Diego's situation, aside from the past addiction, was that he lacked some very critical skills (like how to use a computer or type) that college students need to be successful. Despite that, Diego expressed a seemingly strong desire to do what was necessary to earn a degree and help other recovering addicts.

I felt like he was being sincere. During the Open House I devoted all my attention to making sure he got started on the right foot with us. I took it a step further and gave him my cell phone number when the night was over so that we could stay in touch. A few days later Diego came back to campus to look for a person I had suggested he meet with. He was on the path to enrolling at the college. Soon thereafter, on a random Saturday afternoon, I received a call from an unfamiliar number. I picked up the phone and Diego was on the other end.

Me: Hello?
Diego: Hey man, it's me. Remember me from that Open House. You helped me out big time. Remember?
Me: Of course! What's up, man?
Diego: Thank you so much you don't even understand how much that meant. 
Me: No problem. I'm just doing my job. 
Diego: I hate to do this, and I swear I'll pay you back. My mom is real sick. I'm trying to take the bus out to Springfield to see her and I don't have the money.
Me: (thinking, oh boy) How much do you need?
Diego: Listen. I swear to you that I'll pay it back. I have an interview coming up at McDonald's on Main Street and I'll be able to pay you back.

(To be continued....)

Tech Thieves

I coach at least one thief per year. At some point during the season, without fail, somebody will inevitably steal from a teammate or a fellow student. Guys come and go from here, but the tendency for one of them to snatch an Ipod, Iphone, or laptop remains the same every year. The most troubling part about this is that I'm always caught off guard by the crook, even though I pride myself on being a great judge of character.

Last year, a young man (Lanky) who I strongly recommended to another coach went to his new school and stole a laptop within the first month of school. He only got caught because the laptop had a built in tracker that lead University Police to his dorm room. Lanky was also suspected of stealing a teammate's Iphone the year before while he was on my team, but that matter was never resolved. I didn't bother questioning him because he never gave me a reason to think he would steal from a teammate. In hindsight, I should have looked into it further since the accuser was one of his friends on the team.

The worst situation occurred five years ago when a staff member at the college invited some players over for dinner. After they left, her son discovered his Ipod and some money were missing. The thief turned out to be his cousin. Initially, everybody suspected one guy because he "seemed like the type", but eventually the cousin bragged about his heist and the scheme unraveled. The sad part about this story was that the cousin lived with them. He was taken in by his aunt because he had no place to go. Years later I was told that he stole over $500 from the family during the course of his extended stay.

The most recent theft occurred in a computer lab. According to the police report, one of my guys (Curly) conspired with a friend to take a classmate's Iphone. Never in a million years would I have attached Curly to such a petty plot. He wasn't a trouble maker and always did everything I asked of him. As a matter of fact, one of the first adjectives that came to mind (prior to this) when I though of Curly was genuine. In this case, however, Curly was far from the upstanding individual I had gotten to know.

While his friend created a diversion, Curly grabbed the Iphone. Before Curly could make his way off campus, however, he was confronted by Campus Police. I'm sure he was surprised by how quickly he was apprehended. Nobody but his friend knew that he had taken the Iphone. Like Lanky, Curly didn't realize that a lot of these new expensive devices have a built in tracker.

Me: I don't get it. Why did you do it? I would've never pegged you as the type.
Curly: I have no clue, Coach. I just did it.
Me: There had to be a reason. Did you need the phone?
Curly: Not at all.
Me: Were you listening last week when I talked to the team about instant gratification?
Curly: Yup.
Me: So why'd you do it?
Curly: I really don't know, Coach. The phone was there so I just took it. 

Drinking Problem

(Continuation of previous story... "Close Call")

Alcohol releases your inhibitions. After a couple of drinks some folks can't seem to think straight. I discovered that in college after witnessing enough episodes of people getting trashed and making bad decisions. Admittedly, I've even made some highly questionable choices while under the influence. I've learned to function better, and avoid regrettable situations, over the years as my tolerance for the "sauce" has evolved. Unfortunately, some folks never learn how to control their impulses after they've put back a few.

My mom is one who believes that people use alcohol as an excuse to act on their poor judgment. I'm sure it's true in some cases, but she doesn't feel like alcohol should ever cause a seemingly innocent person to suddenly become rowdy or very sexual. My mom reasons that people who "act out of character" when they drink are simply exposing their true intentions. It's not a groundbreaking theory, but it's interesting that she believes all people reveal their true being when they're intoxicated.

Jenny's one night stand at the country music concert was the result of heavy drinking. She got hammered with her friends then suddenly discovered a penis in her vagina that didn't belong to her husband. Jenny owned up to a weakness for alcohol. It makes her feel very frisky, and sometimes leads her to have sex with guys who aren't her husband. Jenny didn't confess to more affairs, but admitted that her inner nympho comes out to play when she's drunk.

She was really upset about the situation, and confused about what to do next. Telling her husband about her romp at the country concert would tear the family apart. Jenny sought advice from her mom who offered a viable solution.

Me: Wow! What are you going to do? Is there a chance that the baby is your husband's?
Jenny: Of course. We have sex regularly. I'm pretty sure it's his but the timing is so close.
Me: That's tough. This is something straight out of Maury!
Jenny: I know, right?! I don't know how those people do it--telling everybody their business on national tv. I couldn't do it.
Me: Do you want another kid?
Jenny: Of course, but I'd want to know that both kids actually belong to my husband. I talked to my mom about it all, and she gave me good advice.
Me: You told your mom?!?! What she say?
Jenny: I tell my mom everything. We have a great relationship. She says that I should get an abortion.
Me: Are you going to do it?
Jenny: (tears) My appointment is in a couple of days.

Close Call

I must give off a counselor vibe. It happens very often that people, sometimes they're total strangers, share intimate details with me about their lives. I'm used to it by now. All I have to do is say hello and the counseling session begins. My sense is that most people have a desire to release a lot of tension, but find few people who are genuinely willing to listen--even friends and relatives.

I'm a very willing listener. My motto in life is that people learn more when they just sit back and observe, or listen. As such, when I talk to people--friends and strangers alike, my tendency is to ask questions. Some people appreciate that, while others balk at my probing ways. Either way, I don't force people to tell me anything personal. I just ask for specific answers (when people are vague), which often leads to follow up questioning that starts the deluge.

One night I ventured to my favorite bar alone to watch a preseason football game. After the starters were removed from the game, I started to lose interest but didn't want to leave because the bartender was making my drinks heavy. Instead, I sipped on my drink and texted back and forth with other friends who were watching the game. Eventually, the bartender stopped in front of me to chat. It was a slow shift so she had some down time.

Jenny wasn't a total stranger. I got to know her gradually as a regular at the bar. The strength of her drinks, and the usual complimentary beverage she slipped in, kept me coming back regularly. For less than $20, I'd have a nice buzz and a great meal. Great conversation was included as well. Whenever things slowed down, Jenny and I would converse about a range of topics--mainly her husband and child.

As Jenny talked to me, a woman walked in with a stroller. Sadly, there was a toddler in it and she ordered a drink. Jenny was clearly annoyed with the situation but had to serve the woman anyway. It wasn't long before Jenny had a completely downtrodden look about her. I thought it stemmed from her discomfort with the stroller situation.

Me: You annoyed with the lady?
Jenny: I'm not comfortable with it. Why do you ask?
Me: Your demeanor just changed suddenly so I thought I'd ask.
Jenny: Oh. You notice everything. It isn't her that I'm thinking about.
Me: What's up?
Jenny: (tears in her eyes) I didn't get to tell you that I'm pregnant.
Me: Oh wow! Congratulations! Your husband happy?
Jenny: He is, but I'm not.
Me: Don't you want more kids?
Jenny: Yeh, but it's tricky. Please don't judge me.
Me: Why would I judge you being pregnant?
Jenny: I hooked up with a guy at a country music concert, so I don't know if it's my husband's baby.

(To be continued...maybe)

Strip Search

I ventured back to the strip club. I was hoping to find Candy, but she wasn't employed there any longer. When I asked the bartender for her, he remembered Candy but was mum about why she left. I didn't want to be mistaken for a detective, or a desperate Joe, so I chose not to pry about the situation. Instead, I sat at the bar and ordered a drink. It seemed as though I had made the trip in vain until one of the lovelies sat next to me.

Initially, I thought Moca was Indian. She had long, straight black hair and her skin was the color of sand. It turned out that Moca was Puerto Rican. As I looked around the place, she was clearly the prettiest woman in there. Whether or not her figure was right remained a question. I had the slightest clue of what the contours of her body looked like since she was seated next to me at the bar.

Moca had only been working at this particular joint for a couple of months. However, as a 22 year old, she was a seasoned veteran in the game--having worked in the business for three years. She described herself as a hustler. Given the ease with which she spoke, I could see that being true. She was far more articulate and conversant than the other strippers I'd encountered before. That lead me to wonder why she was stripping for a living.

I tried to dig, but Moca wouldn't provide the level of detail that Candy shared with me. Eventually, I told her that I was a writer. It was a risky move, but I didn't have much time to waste since the spot was going to close in a half hour. I went for the gusto. That move had the potential of blowing up in my face, but it didn't.

Moca: What are you writing about?
Me: I'm writing a love story about a man who meets a woman in a strip club.
Moca: Interesting. That's it?
Me: No. So, there's this power struggle going on between them. He wants her to stop stripping but she won't leave because it's the only place where she has control.
Moca: You think women have more control in a strip club?
Me: Definitely.
Moca: I guess I'd agree with you. I was in an abusive relationship.
Me: Yeh? Was it emotionally or physically abusive?
Moca: Both. We were together for years.
Me: When did you decide to leave?
Moca: After two miscarriages and a black eye. 

White Boy Hustle

Superstars are hard to find. Coaches often look for guys who are supremely gifted on the court--essentially, players who can make their job easy. I don't think many of us scout games looking for anything less than an impact player. When I receive film on a prospect, for example, I try to determine if that player has starter potential or if he could (at least) make the team. I've written off quite a few guys on the basis of a twenty minute viewing. One player I overlooked initially has taught me a lesson that I'll carry through the rest of my coaching career.

Hustle didn't fit the superstar bill by any means. He was a local prospect I hadn't heard about until he called me to find out about the date of our tryout. I called him in for an initial workout just to get a feel for his game. He had the court all to himself for the workout. All he had to do was hit a few jump-shots and show that he could handle the ball in some different drills to make my prospect list. It would be an understatement if I wrote that he had a lackluster showing. Hustle had "Team Manager" written all over him.

With the talent I had coming in that year, I didn't envision Hustle making the team. He didn't have any redeemable "basketball skills" to help the team. I didn't look forward to cutting Hustle because he was a really nice young man. Unfortunately, he showed up for tryouts and I had to drop the ax on him. I felt bad. Surprisingly, one of my players (who I really disliked) asked to bring Hustle back during a pre-practice meeting in front of the team. I asked the other guys how they felt, and the vote was unanimous to bring Hustle back on board.

Hustle played fewer minutes than anybody on the team, but his attitude was first rate. He practiced harder than everybody and showed up first a majority of the time. Hustle really won me over after he tore his anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) in practice. I thought he would just fold up his tent and keep it moving. I was wrong. Hustle helped with the score book in every game and voluntarily ran laps with the team (while wearing a brace) when they were being punished for giving up too many points.

Ultimately, he played two years for me. He even earned consistent playing time as a sophomore. When his playing days were done, I invited him to coach with me as a reward for his attitude and commitment; he coached with me for two seasons. Despite being termed "learning disabled" in high school and graduating with a 1.9, Hustle worked his way to a 4-year college after earning an Associate's Degree in Criminal Justice. He now has a 3.6 GPA and is preparing to enroll in the police academy.

I'll never forget the lesson that Hustle taught me. Some superstars can't be identified in a stat book. 

Live Porn

I lost my innocence early. My brother handed me the apple and I took a bite. It happened quickly and unexpectedly. At the age of seven, I was too young to fully understand what was going on but the image in front of me was very real. My mom felt bad about it and tried to fix things, but she couldn't restore my lost innocence. I wasn't damaged by any means. It's just that I understood early on how grown folks got down.

I blame the system for what happened. Sadly, my parents were also complicit in this ordeal.  I know they didn't wake up one day and decide to subject my brother and I to what we saw. It was inevitable given the pressure that both of them had to pay bills and take care of us. The system compelled them to work many hours to keep a roof over our heads. Years later, I even joke with my mom about that night. She still doesn't find it funny, however.

My parents often worked overtime because they wanted to give us more than just the basics. On those days, they had to pay for a babysitter. My all-time favorite sitter was this really cool guy named Frantz. After a year or so, my parents relieved him of his duties without explaining anything to my brother and I. Years later, I found out that he was a big time drug dealer. My parents then turned to the girl next door for help. She was Haitian and my folks knew her family well. That hire made sense until something unexpected occurred.

After rushing my brother and I to bed one night, we ventured back out a short while later to see why Ms. Babysitter tried to get us to bed so early. I was ready to sleep, but my brother insisted that we spy on her. We crawled slowly to the living room and watched her on all-fours from behind the wall. I didn't really get what was going on, but my brother wouldn't let me utter a sound. Although confused, I continued to look on while my brother marveled at what we were witnessing. Ms. Babysitter was giving her boyfriend a mean blowjob on the sofa. 

Inferiority Complex

School can damage a man. This is especially true for young black men. I remember a couple of awkward encounters with teachers in high school that could have been damaging. An English teacher, who I had a great relationship with, told me to dumb down my essays because the way in which I wrote wasn't "authentically black." Before I graduated, another teacher who knew me well was shocked that I got into my second choice for college. Instead of congratulating me, he marveled at my acceptance as if I didn't deserve to get in. Both situations motivated me, but I've met others (like Red) who lost the psychological battle.

Red was incredibly intelligent. At some point in elementary school, he was tracked into Special Education because he got in trouble too often. Along with being placed into remedial courses, Red earned the classification of "BD" (behavior disorder). The tracking lingered through high school. Even though Red and I were good friends, we never took classes together because he was mired in low level classes. Students were literally throwing chairs in those classes.

He always complained that his classes were too easy, but refused to move up because the workload was so light. The only evidence of bad behavior I saw from him occurred twice, and in those instances he was rightfully suspended. Both infractions occurred outside the classroom (one of which was of the really stupid variety), however. Beyond that, it seemed to me that he had a great relationship with his teachers. Through our friendship, I never got the sense that Red had a problem that should be labeled as a disorder.

Like Red, I was tracked into courses that weren't challenging during my Freshman year. In my case, however, I continually sought to move up. During my junior year, a groundbreaking conversation with my girlfriend lead me to take a bigger leap into Honors level courses. Even though I had advocated to move from "Basic" to "Standard" level courses from freshman to sophomore year, I hesitated to take Honors courses because it seemed to be the "white thing to do"

Thankfully, my girlfriend challenged that ridiculous perspective. I was happy to have her encouragement, but it was difficult to go from being one of many black students in a classroom to the lone soldier in my new classes. I contemplated going back to my comfort zone, but chose to stay the course. Although unintended, a conversation with Red really fueled my desire to excel at the Honors level.

Red: Now you're with all the white kids. Hahaha. I'm good with all that.
Me: The classes aren't hard. It's just more homework. You should try it. I think you could do it.
Red: Nah. I'm straight. 
Me: Why not?
Red: I don't wanna be with all them white kids.
Me: That's just bogus. You should really think about it.
Red: In all honesty, between me and you, you really think we're as smart as the white kids?
Me: Of course! Why wouldn't I feel that way?
Red: There's a reason their hands are always up in class. They're smarter!

Nipple Action

Low self-esteem is a bitch. I realized that in college through numerous interactions with people who had major baggage. In my first year seminar, for example, there was a young woman (Nipples) who clearly had issues. We were usually in the same discussion groups, and each time Nipples would say some off the wall stuff to make it clear that things weren't quite right in her world. I suspected that she rambled about personal, inappropriate stuff in class because of a substance abuse issue. Nipples had the appearance of somebody who was strung out.

After awhile I got used to her random cries for help. There was one instance that really captured her mental disposition. I don't remember the exact topic we were discussing in class, but it was related to problems underlying inner-city urban education. Another student in the discussion group was making a point when Nipples blurted out something along the lines of, "when your uncle tries to rape you, it's gonna be kind of difficult to function in class." I recall being speechless. I couldn't believe she put that out there.

Despite the awkward bombs she'd dropped in class, Nipples was really intelligent. She was articulate and well-versed on a lot of the issues we were discussing. I got the sense that she was passionate about becoming a teacher. Her contributions in the discussion group were always provocative and sincere. I grew to respect Nipples as a classmate even though she lived in "left field."

The other thing I remember about Nipples is that she never wore a bra to class. I knew this because her nipples were always staring at me. Anybody with eyes didn't need an imagination to figure out what her boobies looked like. It was hard to blame her for showing them off. They were nice. The problem is that Nipple's breasts were far and away her only redeemable physical trait.

I got to the bottom of Nipples' story while I ate with a friend (Curly) one morning. During breakfast, I was sitting with Curly in the university dining hall when Nipples walked by. She talked to Curly for a bit before continuing on her way. Until that moment, I didn't realize Curly and Nipples knew each other...

Me: Yo, how do you know her?
Curly: We went to high school together.
Me: Oh. She's in my seminar class. Interesting chick.
Curly: I know she is.
Me: What's her deal?
Curly: She has all sorts of shit going on. She a nice girl, though.
Me: Homegirl be coming to class high as a kite.
Curly: She was like that in high school too. The sad part is she's still doing the same shit here. I thought she would've cut it out with a fresh start.
Me: You talking about the drugs?
Curly: Nah. She damn near sucked off every guy on her floor so far and we aint even got through first semester.

Brain on Drugs

Drugs have damaged their brains. Their parents were addicts. Some stuck needles in their veins. 
At times, I don't understand their lack of direction. I think about their childhood and the lack of affection. 
Few of them operate with any sort of plan. Tough talk is what they attribute to being a good man.
I get it. 
Dad was not around; the parents were never wedded. Dad felt no attachment, so he packed his things and jetted. 
In some cases, there was nothing at all to pack. It was just a hook-up, or a fee for liquid crack...

Armslong was a crack baby. He was raised by a church-going grandmother who also assumed responsibility for his two younger sisters. Armslong's mother went in and out of jail throughout his childhood, and his dad was an unknown. This was a classic tale of an inner-city boy who had to scratch and claw from birth. I don't know that he was ever diagnosed with a learning disability, but it was clear that he had some learning challenges. When I met Armslong, he was a 21 year-old man who could barely read, or write an essay. His difficulties ran so deep that he never picked up any of our plays the whole season.

I felt bad for Armslong. It was clear that he wanted more for himself, but his capacity to do college work or even function in an organized college basketball game was severely limited by the aforementioned barrier(s). At 21, and without health insurance, I couldn't have him tested for a learning disability. Instead, I just recommended that he go to tutoring regularly. Unfortunately, Armslong wouldn't ask for help. I think he was too ashamed of anybody knowing the extent of his intellectual deficiencies.

Armslong wasn't much of a thinker either. Although he was very polite and attentive, I could never engage him in any meaningful conversation outside of basketball. Upon recognizing that, I assigned him various newspaper articles to read so we could discuss different topics. I learned over time that he wasn't stupid. The issue was that he was under-exposed to anything outside of his world. He was, essentially, an illiterate townie. With time, I figured he would catch my drift when I attempted to talk about something outside of his comfort zone.

There was one particular exchange we had that I'll never forget. I was talking to him about networking and golf. My goal was to introduce him to the concept of networking, but my message rang hollow.


Me: I'm learning how to play golf.
Armslong: That's cool, but why? It's golf. That's mad boring.
Me: Who plays golf?
Armslong: I don't know. 
Me: Do you know people who play golf?
Armslong: No.
Me: Well, it's a way to meet people. Most people who play golf are professionals--and some of those professionals have money.
Armslong: Okay.
Me: So do you get why I'd be learning how to play golf?
Armslong: Honestly, nah. Nah. I'm not following you right now.

Drunken Tales

Alcohol can make people do stupid things. I became acutely aware of that in college during the first semester of my freshman year. There was absolutely nothing to do on the weekends, so I routinely got wrecked with a group of friends then hoped for the best. Unfortunately, somebody didn't get the note that college students can become destructive when they're bored. By the time graduation rolled around, I was happy to have escaped college without doing anything crazy while under the influence. The same can't be said for some of my players who have transferred to the 4-year world.

Hickory is about to graduate from college. He transferred to a 4-year after playing one season for me and took full advantage of the opportunity. I still remember the card he sent me after our lone season together. In the card, Hickory expressed his gratitude for the opportunity I gave him to get his life on a different track. Actually, he has sent me several text messages since then to express his gratitude. He even went as far as inviting me to his graduation party.

Hickory played for three additional years and was named a Captain as a senior. Things didn't go so well throughout his final season, unfortunately. After beginning the year as a starter, he finished the season as a bench warmer. Hickory wasn't getting the job done on the court. Once he was pulled from the rotation, his grades dipped drastically. There was even some concern on the part of his Coach that Hickory wouldn't graduate.

Somehow, he pulled things together enough to warrant participating in Commencement. He texted me recently to convey the details of his graduation ceremony and requested that I call him, which was rare. Hickory never asked to talk on the phone. A couple of days later, I received a call from his Coach who had been contacting me about some recruiting matters. I didn't expect Hickory to come up in the conversation. 

Coach: Have you heard from Hickory?
Me: Yeh. He sent me a text message the other day asking me to call him. I forgot to call him, though. Why?
Coach: Between you and I, he did something real stupid recently. Maybe he'll tell you himself.
Me: What did he do?
Coach: The other night I got a text from him out of the blue. We ended up texting back and forth for a couple of hours. I was actually surprised he hit me up because he stopped talking to me once his playing time got cut.
Me: What he say?
Coach: You won't believe this. He got real drunk one night and decided to steal from a convenience store.
Me: Are you serious? 
Coach: Yeh. He went in the store and snatched a box of Almond Joys and Skittles then ran out.
Me: (laughing hysterically)
Coach: I laughed too. The funny part is he tripped and fell while he was running so he didn't get away with a lot of candy.
Me: Did he get caught?
Coach: Well, not that day but he got caught on the store camera.



    

Baby Daddy

Spider was diagnosed with a severe case of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD). He was 18 at the time of his diagnosis. Had it not been for basketball, Spider would have never been tested. After pulling off a D in our lowest level math class for the second straight semester, I reluctantly asked Spider if he had any learning challenges. That has always been a difficult conversation to have with guys because it's such a sensitive topic. To Spider's credit, he requested to be tested by his Physician. That decision allowed Spider to turn the corner academically in a big way.

After the diagnosis, Spider's grade point average (GPA) went from a .5 to a 2.26. He graduated from high school with a GPA below 2.0 (75). On the surface, one would assume that Spider benefited from the accommodations that students with ADHD generally receive--like extended time on quizzes and tests, or testing in rooms with less distraction. On the contrary, Spider never followed through on anything his Physician prescribed. As a matter of fact, he never even popped a pill to focus better in class.

Essentially, the combination of being able to play basketball and reduce his course-load lead to Spider's academic renaissance. Prior to the diagnosis, Spider was ineligible to participate. The ADHD discovery allowed him to get on the court. There was one additional piece that really helped Spider. Through a provision in the National Junior College Athletics Association (NJCAA) by-laws, student-athletes who furnish proof of a learning disability are able to take two classes instead of the required four to play a sport.  It also helped that I checked in with Spider regularly, but he performed remarkably better without any change to his academic routine.

Post-diagnosis, he continued to struggle with organization and paying attention. He still exhibited the immature signs that his Physician explained were symptomatic of ADHD. Once the season ended, his grades slipped. Actually, the regression started a few weeks before the season ended. Not only did Spider fall behind in his classes, he also started showing up late to practice on a regular basis. Each time there was a different excuse. I let him slide a few times since he claimed to be having car issues.

After the fifth car episode, I decided to meet with him after practice. We had a stretch of three games in three nights coming up and I didn't want to suspend him. Two wins would have given us home court advantage for the tournament's play-in round. I had a dilemma on my hands.


Me: Can you tell me why I shouldn't suspend you for the next game? You've been late for the last five practices!
Spider: What you want me to do? I been havin' car problems.
Me: You broke the key while opening the trunk a day after your tire blew out? That seems a little questionable.
Spider: (silence)
Me: So, were you lying about that?
Spider: Coach, really, I have a lot going on. I'm just trying to help us get to the tournament. Please don't suspend me. 
Me: What's going on? 
Spider: Stuff, man. Stuff.
Me: Try me.
Spider: My girl is six months pregnant.

Crooks

Troops die in the battlefield. I continue to struggle with this concept, but it has become painfully evident that I have to accept defeat in the context of working with this difficult population. Wins and losses matter a great deal to me. I hate losing with a passion, but I'd rather not win on the court if it means my players will lose in real life. As such, I intentionally draw frequent parallels between what we do during the season to real life situations. In doing so, I've lost guys (like Hershey) who could care less about the bigger picture.

I'm not sure when Hershey fell off the proverbial bus. It has been my habit to hit the accelerator hard once guys get on board. I figure if I get to my destination fast enough, I'll be able to get everybody there in one piece. In doing so, I tend to look straight ahead with an occasional peripheral glance to make sure everything is okay. Hershey must've fallen off while I was weaving through heavy traffic on my way to the promised land.

It came as a shock to me when I found out that Hershey thought about quitting the team. He told me this during a late season venting session. Hershey was a walk-on guard who had to catapult a returning starter and three top recruits in order to play. As has been my custom, I gave everybody an equal look during preseason and (to his credit) Hershey seized the opportunity. He was better than the competition and emerged as my starter. Not only did Hershey start, he averaged around 32 minutes per game (mpg) as a first-year walk on. I figured he appreciated that. I was wrong. His common refrain during our meeting was that he "didn't get me" and that "things weren't about basketball."

Despite his insistence on taking poor shots at critical points of games and having costly mental lapses on defense, I stuck with Hershey. Players quit because they felt I favored Hershey, but I remained steadfast in my commitment to him. I felt he deserved a longer leash than most of our players. He didn't care. Somehow, I had wronged him. The enormity of our differences became clear during that meeting, but the gulf that existed between us became more evident during a postseason award banquet.

He showed up to the banquet with a jacket that read "Crooks" on the back. Instead of wearing a shirt and tie (which players were required to wear during road trips), he opted for some sagging skinny jeans, a button-up, and a fitted cap. I was embarrassed as he stood up to shake hands with the College President. After some contemplation, I decided to use that as a teachable moment with him.

Me: Hey man. Why did you choose to wear the "Crooks" jacket to the award ceremony?
Hershey: I just did. What was wrong with it?
Me: You don't see how the President of a college could misinterpret that? The Vice President of Enrollment and a few Deans were there. The Dean looked at me with her mouth open.
Hershey: It's just a brand, though.
Me: She doesn't know that. It just says Crooks on the back of your jacket.
Hershey: Oh.
Me: Do you see my point now?
Hershey: Nah not really, but whatever...

Naked Affair

Lala was in my bed half-naked. I was sure everything would gradually come off, but Lala's conscience got the best of her (re: Blue Balls, Part 3). Despite the fact that her bra was off, and we had spent the previous few minutes making out, Lala suddenly decided we could not go any further because she didn't want to cheat on her boyfriend. It was the dumbest thing I'd ever heard. The crime had already been committed. Instead, I politely asked her to leave.

The malicious side of me wanted to let the fellas know what went down in my room. I had the ammunition to blow up her spot on campus. The thought crossed my mind, but I chose to just let it ride. It was my bad for getting down with a first-year student as an upperclassmen, knowing that they were prone to playing those kinds of games. My anger didn't stem from being hung out to dry. I just felt like the whole episode was a game Lala decided to play since I hadn't shown any interest in her prior to that night. Once Lala confirmed my attraction, she decided to bail on me...

I've come to learn that insecure people do that sort of thing. They're attention whores. The extent to which they'll go to get some attention varies based on the level of insecurity. I didn't need to read that in a book. My interaction with Lala and Caramel , and similar stories I've heard from other people, helped me piece that puzzle together. In later years, I discovered the same pattern of behavior in some of my players. At some point, my most insecure players always do something drastic for attention. The only problem is sometimes they go way too far for their fix, and it ultimately leads to some serious drama... 

I had one trustworthy associate, Dre, who I decided to confide in about my night with Lala. Apparently, Dre had found himself in a similar situation with a coed. They met at a club and engaged in some heavy petting on the dance floor. Eventually, Dre took this young woman home believing that things were gonna pop off. According to Dre, his presumed conquest didn't utter a word of resistance until they were both naked in his room. When homegirl decided not to put out for Dre, however, things took a turn for the worst.

Me: What did you do when she told you to stop?
Dre: I told her she wasn't leaving unless something happened.
Me: And?
Dre: She started getting all loud and shit so I told her to leave.
Me: Oh. That's it?
Dre: Nah. I threw the bitch's clothes out the window!
Me: You're joking, right? Haha. You didn't really do that.
Dre: Hell yeh I did. She had to walk outside and get her clothes naked and there were mad people outside.
Me: That's fucked up, man! I can't believe you did that.
Dre: Yup, but I bet you she won't do that shit again!

Plagiarism 101

Hops was suspended from the team. He wasn't doing any work in a couple of classes, so I pulled the plug on him for five games. In the months leading up to Hops' suspension, I kept warning him that a major price would be paid if he didn't get his act together eventually. Instead of changing his tune, Hops decided to play a game of dare with me, figuring there was no way I'd suspend a starter. He was wrong.

It was a major blow to the team since Hops was our most versatile forward. At the time, he was second on the team in rebounding and our third leading scorer. His first game out we got destroyed inside by the defending regional champions. It was a close game throughout and we almost won, but their size was too much for us to overcome. I was tempted to play Hops knowing he had the size to neutralize one of their bigs, but the lesson would have been lost. I basically cut my nose to spite my face because we ended up losing that game by 8 points.

My players weren't happy with me. In their minds, I had robbed them of an opportunity to beat the defending champions. I wasn't happy with them either. The loss bothered me, but I was even more dismayed by their unwillingness to hold Hops accountable, or offer him help. They all knew Hops was failing classes and was in danger of being ineligible for the following semester, but nobody seemed to care. 

During the first few months of every season I continually tell my players that they are their brother's keeper. I share stories with them about friends in high school who helped me apply for college. I talk about the friend who hid my box of cloves when he began to fear that I was developing a bad habit. Every group I coach hears the same stories, but few of them internalize the message. Instead, they adhere to "every man for himself." All the while, they refer to each other as friends and rally around my pregame messages of playing like a family.

After practice one night, I pulled one of my leaders aside to talk about an intervention for Hops without realizing he had already attempted to help his struggling "brother."

Me: What is up with you guys? I don't understand. You all roll like a little army everywhere on campus. Y'all chill off the court. Don't you care that he's failing classes? 
Hershey: Of course I care. We need him to win. He's our only inside scorer.
Me: Okay then. Help me reach him. Your grades are good. Ask him to study with you.
Hershey:  I do try to help. As a matter fact, he had this paper due for class and didn't know what to write about, so he asked me for help.Me: Did you help him?
Hershey: Yeh. I had just did the same paper and got a "A" so I gave him my paper and told him to just copy it.

Gang Banger

Shady was a suspected gang member. When I asked him about the rumors regarding his gang affiliation, he denied them vehemently. I didn't believe him. There was this dark look in his eyes that compelled me to feel differently. I wanted to give him a chance, but my soul wouldn't let me. At the end of our brief meeting, I made him an offer. I told Shady that I'd consider letting him play on the basketball team if his grades were to my liking after the Fall semester. Essentially, he had three months to prove himself in the classroom. I never saw him again after that meeting.

Ironically, I've met several students at the college who are/were reputed gang members. Those same characters tend to also participate in the local Police Athletic League (P.A.L), which offers a year-round basketball league for young men in the city. One would think that a guy who's thuggin it would avoid a league run by the police, but in the Bubble this sort of behavior makes total sense. In the Bubble it's rational to register for college courses on your own only to never attend class, or do any work. That has been the disturbing (and sad) part about working with this population. Everything they do is totally irrational and defies logic. Shady's story is a perfect example of this.

When Shady left my office that day, I took a look at his student profile and noticed that he chose Emergency Medical Technician as his major. I found that to be interesting since the program has a very intense introduction course that meets for four hours, once a week. (The average course here meets for no more than an hour and a half.) He had also been out of high school for a couple of years and barely graduated. Somebody in his situation would have been best served taking a gradual approach, but Shady was allowed to go full throttle. He also registered for an English and a math course for added measure. By the halfway mark of the Fall semester, Shady was failing everything. He didn't return for the Spring semester.

A couple of weeks ago, as I was waiting for a haircut at the barbershop, I decided to pick up a newspaper that was on the seat adjacent to mine. There was a story about Shady on the inside cover. In addition to being charged with selling crack to an undercover police officer, Shady was also facing time for murdering a twenty-year old during what police suspect was a gang dispute. I felt bad reading the story. It made me wonder what could have been had I given him a chance two years before.

Desperate Measures

Speedy is going to drop out of college. Life has thrown, yet, another obstacle in Speedy's path and he has finally reached his peak. I felt bad as he relayed his latest challenge to me. He looked defeated. Hearing all of this was especially disappointing since I watched Speedy turn the corner academically, raising his GPA (grade point average) from a 1.6 in high school to a 2.5 at the college. He even has an offer on the table to attend a four-year college in the Fall. While dropping out isn't etched in stone, it seems likely that Speedy will have to work a ton of hours in order to support his family.

A couple of days ago I showed up to the athletic center expecting to work Speedy out. A few minutes before the scheduled workout, Speedy texted that something was going on with his mother and that he wouldn't be able to attend. Based on my past experiences with Speedy in our team practices, I thought it was bullshit. Let's just say Speedy hasn't been the hardest working player I've encountered here.

Like a majority of players I've coached, Speedy talks a great game about wanting to BE better but he has shown little desire to BECOME better. I've talked to him frequently about his awful work ethic over the course of two years, but it seems to go in one ear and out the other. As I gave it more thought, I finally concluded that Speedy probably didn't know how to work hard at anything because it had never been modeled for him.

I offered to help Speedy work on his game by personalizing a regimen that would help him elevate his game. Much to my delight (and suprise) Speedy showed up on time for five straight sessions and didn't complain once during the workouts as he did during practices. I was very pleased with his new approach to improving.

Unfortunately, Speedy had to pull the plug on the workouts because of some family drama.

Speedy: Coach, I can't do the workouts no more. As a matter fact, I might not even be able to do the school thing next year.
Me: Why not?
Speedy: Memba when I told you that something was going on wit my mom?
Me: Yeh.
Speedy: Well, she might be going to jail.
Me: For what?
Speedy: Bank fraud. It's a long story. She supposebly did something with her taxes that was shady so she's facing 20 years.
Me: Damn, man! Are you serious? 20 years?? I'm assuming this is a first offense. Can't they let her off with a slap on the wrist?
Speedy: Actually it ain't her first offense. She did two years for something similar when I was younger.
Me: I'm sorry to hear this, man. I don't even know what to say.
Speedy: I always figured something was off. She work at a convenience store yet she's always buyin me new kicks and all these other nice things. My mom's my heart. I don't know what Ima do if she has to do 20.
Me: Why do you have to drop out, though?
Speedy: They took all her money so we ain't got shit now. I gotta pay all the bills.

Blue Balls, Part 3

I was clueless about the booty call. The whole time I was playing the role of Boy Scout as I sat an entire cushion away from Lala on the sofa during our movie viewing. I expected her to leave right after the flick ended, but that wasn't the case. She wanted to hang out in my room to have some drinks. Even then, I was still in a fog about what was really going on.

As we entered my room, I grabbed the bottle of Pinot Grigio that was under my bed. Meanwhile, Lala turned on my cd player. As I looked around for a cork screw, Lala dropped a bomb on me. She asked me to show her how to dance. At that point, I came to my senses. She didn't need to drop another hint. I just needed to figure out how to open that damn bottle of wine without a cork screw.

During my college days, I was far from naive. I never had a problem sealing the deal either. In this case, however, I was thrown for a loop. Lala's interest came out of left field. She had never given any indication of being interested in me. All along she gave the impression of solely being into one of my friends.

Realizing the opportunity that awaited me, I searched my kitchen frantically for a cork screw. There was none to be found and it was too late to venture out for one. I came upon a pen as I surveyed the kitchen. A short while later, after stabbing at the cork like my life depended on it, I popped the bottle open. We were ready for lift off.

Lala and I polished off the bottle of wine as we danced in my room. We took turns putting back swigs of the chardonnay until there was none left. Gradually, our bodies became intertwined. With each song that passed, we grinded harder on each other until our lips finally connected. As the kissing intensified, we undressed each other. I unhooked her bra as I guided her swift backpedal to my bed. It was like a scene straight from a movie. Her breasts were beautiful. Lala was on fire. Suddenly, Lala pulled away and begged me to stop. She didn't want to cheat on her boyfriend.

Blue Balls, Part 2

(Continuation of "Blue Balls, Part 1")

I didn't expect anything sexual to go down with Lala. After all, a good friend of mine was determined to get in her pants before anybody else on campus. I was happy to leave all of that to him. As sexy and pretty as she was, I had my eyes on something much bigger--graduation. Finishing my degree on time was of great importance since my dad was holding on to life by a thread with the hope that he'd get to see me graduate.

I don't remember the month or exact day of my encounter with Lala, but the sequence of events is still clear as day in my mind. It was likely a Thursday evening because that's the only night I would've entertained a late night guest at my spot during the week. Lala called to ask if we could watch a movie at my place because she was bored in her dorm room. Since I wasn't doing anything, I invited her over.

In college, "let's watch a movie" was code for let's get naked and see where it goes from there. Despite that, I didn't think anything of Lala asking me to watch a movie after 9 p.m. She never gave off the vibe of being interested in me, so I took her at face value. After all, there were more than a couple of instances where I just watched a movie with girls in college, but that was usually in a group setting.

Once Lala came over, we proceeded to the living room and watched the entire movie (sitting on the same sofa) without incident. She never put her head on my shoulder, nor did I attempt to prop a hand on her lap. There was no reason for me to think something was about to go down. After the movie was over, I assumed Lala would call the campus escort service to go home since it was so late. Instead, she asked if I had any brew. My stash was low, but it turned out that I had an unopened bottle of Pinot Grigio, so we proceeded up to my room for some drinks...

(To be continued)

Blue Balls, Part 1

Caramel wasn't the first girl to play the teasing game with me. I actually had a far worse encounter a few years before that. Lala was the star of her freshman class when I was an upperclassmen. Every class has its share of good looking women, but there's always one who takes the prize. There was no debating whether or not Lala was the head of her class. The question became who would be the first to spend some quality time with the lovely redbone.

Lala was very pretty, but that's not what separated her from the others. Homegirl had a diaper booty. She was relatively thin, yet thick--meaning, she was plump in all the right places. Lala also liked to wear these skimpy shorts around campus. While the guys were all scheming on how to finesse her, I took a backseat to the hoopla. I didn't feel like investing any energy into hooking up with a first-year student even though doing so would have been well worth my time. Instead, I delighted myself in scoping her out whenever we crossed paths--which was often on the small, urban campus.

It wasn't long before I got to know Lala a little bit. Given the size of our campus, it was easy for an outgoing person like myself to connect with people. During Lala's freshman year, among many other leadership positions I held on campus, I was an Executive Board member of the Black Student Union (BSU). One of my tasks was to recruit new members to the group so I invited Lala and her cohort of friends to join the BSU.

By the mid-semester break, we were hanging out regularly on the weekends. In addition to buying her alcohol, I often gave Lala rides to parties and functions off campus. One of my boys was going hard at her, and she seemed to be interested in him, so I never gave any thought to pursuing that situation...until she paid me a visit at my apartment off-campus one night.

(To be continued...)

Repeat Offender

(Continuation of "Rape Kit" and "Sensual Seduction")

I was angry. The whole evening was one big game to Caramel, and I didn't appreciate it. I concluded that her goal the entire time was to get me hot and bothered then walk away. Even though I didn't believe Caramel was drunk (since she had driven to my place just fine), I had no intention of pushing any boundaries. Sensing that I was pissed off, Caramel went on her merry way. Meanwhile, her friend and my boy were having a blast in the bedroom adjacent to mine.

I hit the cancel button after that night. She called me a couple of times, but I didn't take her calls. I was upset with myself for giving her the impression that I'd play the chasing game. Actually, that situation deterred me from putting myself out there again in future years. I resolved that I'd only eat a meal if it were placed squarely in front of me.

A few years after that ridiculous encounter, I bumped into Caramel at a barbershop. She was with some guy. Oddly, Caramel seemed really happy to see me. She gave me a really big hug then we exchanged pleasantries. Although I had no problem talking to her, the situation was somewhat awkward because her guy was in the background looking on. He seemed uncomfortable and she didn't introduce him to me.

As Caramel turned to leave, it seemed like the entire shop followed her ass out the door. She looked mighty fine in her tight blue denim jeans. Just as Caramel walked out of the shop, my barber summoned me to his chair.

Barber: So you know that girl?
Me: Yeh. I know her from way back.
Barber: Oh aiight. My boy been seein her. That girl is a fuckin tease, man.
Me: (laughing) How do you know that?
Barber: She climbed into bed wit my boy wearing a thong and told him not to touch her!
Me: Are you for real? That's some shit!
Barber: Yeh bro. I told him he should've raped her!

Sensual Seduction

(Continuation of Previous Story, "Rape Kit")

I couldn't wait to see Caramel naked. The club was a mere five minutes away from my apartment, so I didn't have to worry about a long car ride disturbing the sexual tension between us. We jumped into Caramel's sleek four door, black Mazda sedan as a quartet (my boy and her bff were in the back seat) and sped towards my spot. I was geared up for an unforgetable night.

Just as we approached my street, Caramel's friend decided she wanted to get some Wendy's. I was annoyed. I didn't want to seem too thirsty so I played it cool. When we got to Wendy's, there was a long row of cars crawling through the drive thru. While my friend was copping feels in the back seat, I was stuck in the front with Caramel who decided that she wanted to blast her music and sing for everybody in the lot to hear her. Mindful of the possibilities that lied ahead, I started singing along too--even louder. She thought it was hilarious.

Fifteen minutes later (maybe longer), we finally got her friend's value meal. I did my part to keep the mood light the entire time. As Caramel drove, I continued to sing as she laughed at my antics. Finally, we arrived at my pad. It was game time.

We all sat in my living room as Caramel's BFF inhaled her much needed late night snack. I hit play on my "Joe" cd that was conveniently waiting in my cd player. Shortly thereafter, BFF disappeared into a bedroom with my boy leaving Caramel and I alone. She stood up and started dancing. I got up too. Every time I tried to get close, she backed off and did her own little routine. Finally, I pulled her in close to me so we could get that energy back that was raging in the club.

Eventually, I tried to kiss Caramel but she gave me her cheek. I laughed nervously. She then returned the favor and nibbled on my ear for a bit. I tried again to kiss her only to have her back off completely. All the while she was doing a little seductive dance and giving me the eye. At that point, I cut to the chase.

Me: We should just go in my room.
Caramel: I wanna keep dancing. Don't you wanna dance with me?
Me: Yeh, but we could dance in there. (pointing to my room)
Caramel: I'm more comfortable out here, and plus I'm a little drunk.
Me: (RED FLAG!!) So, what are you trying to say?
Caramel: (giggle) Just that I'm a little drunk. You wouldn't try to take advantage of me, would you??

..To be continued

Rape Kit

Caramel was a major league tease. Even though I wasn't her type, she often sought my attention in different ways. After Caramel told me that she preferred wounded men who were white (re:Wounded Bird), I pieced myself together and moved on. It was the first time I had been outright rejected, and I had a hard time dealing with it. In the span of a month, I had allowed myself to develop some intense feelings for Caramel even though I barely knew her.

Looking back, my fascination with Caramel was based on how good she looked. She had a nice caramel complexion, slanted eyes, and full lips. Her body was extremely well proportioned. It looked as if somebody had chiseled her frame. By my standards, everything was just right from head to toe--especially her ass. Knowing how plump her assets were, Caramel intentionally wore low cut jeans that revealed the lining of her thong. Her fitted tees conveniently stopped just short of covering the lower part of her stomach, and that all too tempting lining of her thong. My imagination ran wild in her company.

The teasing began when I stopped calling her. She invited me to go out dancing on a random weeknight because she was bored. I accepted the invitation with the mindset that nothing would go down. After all, I wasn't white and I had a stable job. Not only did Caramel wear a one-piece, fitted body suit to the club, she insisted on grinding her backside on my midsection the whole night. It's not like I was a novice with the whole dancing thing. I knew that most of the time a dance was just that--a dance. Caramel, however, was crossing all sorts of lines.

At one point, Caramel faced me so she could slip her hands under my shirt to rub my back. We were face to face and I could feel her heart beating. I tried to kept it cool. Finally, she whispered that I was making her hot. I decided that our night in the spot was over. She had just won a ticket to my apartment. I was ready to go. My boy, who was doing his own thing with her friend on the dancefloor, got the signal from me that we needed to leave ASAP. We all headed to my apartment for a night that I hoped would be unforgetable.

...To be continued

Trailer Park Blues

My neighbors were an odd couple. They were a seemingly indigent pair that lived on the first floor of a three family unit across the street from me. Neither the wife or boyfriend/husband were particularly friendly--especially the wife (Milly). She was a middle aged white woman who looked like she never got the note that the 1980s had come and gone. The few times I said hello, Milly didn't respond or even make eye contact to acknowledge me. Eventually I concluded that she didn't like black folks. After all, Milly and her husband (who was also white) fit the "trailer park" stereotype to a tee. I was surprised there wasn't a Confederate flag draped on their porch.

The year was 2006. The car Milly drove was a late 1980s model Crown Victoria. She also sported a Farrah Fawcett doo, but it lacked the bounce and glamour of the late great 80s icon. Milly and I usually left around the same time in the morning. Based on her attire (blue jeans, sneakers, and a white tee) I concluded that she was a waitress somewhere. On the other hand, it seemed like her guy was a homebody. When I got home from work, he was always on his porch smoking a cigarette or pounding a can of beer.

Milly's guy wasn't a man of many words. He also didn't have much in the form of threads either, as he generally wore blue jeans and a wife beater in the summer (or blue jeans and a hoodie when it was cooler out). It became clear after awhile that the couple was in dire straits financially. I concluded this when they put on a yard sale that featured everything from old records to bedroom pillows.

The summer after their yard sale I noticed that Milly's hubby didn't hang out on the porch anymore. As a matter of fact, I didn't see him on the block at all. I didn't care to find out what happened to him until Betty, the unofficial neighborhood watchwoman, offered a report of his whereabouts while sharing news about some recent criminal activity on our street (re: Cocksure).

Betty: The cops been on this street like crazy lately. Everything's happenin' at the same time, it seems!
Me: I never see the cops, though. I feel left out. Haha.
Betty: That's cuz you're at work, baby. You're missing out on all the drama.
Me: Yeh. Seriously.
(As we were talking, Milly walked out of her pad.)
Betty: That poor woman. I can't even imagine. Three kids and all. Such a shame.
Me: What's a shame?
Betty: Boy, you really don't know what's going on, do you?
Me: I'm not even pretending. Did something happen to the kids?
Betty: Naw. That man who lived with them ain't there no more. I'll tell you that much.
Me: Was he in on the cock fights?
Betty: No. He was beatin' Milly like a tambourine. Couldn't you tell? She was always bruised up!

Cocksure

I've lived in a few shady neighborhoods. As a result, it has been more common for me to see used condoms on the sidewalk than a beautiful garden in a neighbor's yard. The sound of police and ambulance sirens are far more familiar to me than birds chirping. Shopping carriages, for instance, are more useful to my neighbors than lawn mowers. After all, the latter can't be used to haul loads of empty beer and soda cans.

Betty's "buggy" (southern colloquialism for shopping carriage) was parked next to my apartment building, away from the cars that aligned our sprawling street. It was her lifeline. In the buggy were bags of empty soda cans Betty redeemed on a regular basis since the son she lived with stole her welfare check that came in once a month (re: Welfare Check). Aside from collecting cans in the neighborhood, Betty (a native of the countryside in Louisiana) had nothing else to do but mind the business of everybody else on our street.

Betty's eyes and ears were always open. She was my source of information for all that was going on even though I never asked for a report. When I moved to the neighborhood, a manly-looking woman greeted me who lived directly across the street. She had rough looking hands and wore a ton of make-up. I saw her regularly around the neighborhood until she suddenly disappeared. Awhile later, Betty told me that the woman (who was formerly a man) died of AIDS.

That wasn't the only drama to jolt the neighborhood. A year after moving into my apartment, I thought I was losing my mind. In addition to the weekday nights that Betty's son decided to blare his music, I often heard the sound of a rooster crowing around 5 a.m. It was weird to me since there wasn't a farm around for miles. I hesitated to tell anybody until Betty randomly brought it up during one of her updates.

Betty: Oh my goodness. Somebody finally did something about that rooster!
Me: (relieved) What are you talking about?
Betty: Don't tell me you didn't hear that rooster crowing!
Me: You know, I didn't know for sure if it was a rooster, but I'd hear something crow then it would stop real quick. I thought it was my imagination all along!
Betty: Uh huh. Baby, see, I'm from the deep south. I know a rooster when I hear one. That was definitely a rooster!
Me: So what's the story with that?
Betty: Well, between me and you, the cops done found out about them roosters so now we'll be able to sleep!
Me: Where were the roosters?
Betty: You ain't know? Those people right there in that house were having cock fights in the basement!

Welfare Check

My neighbor was an asshole. Gonja lived a level above me, and had no regard for anybody but himself. When I moved in initially, we didn't have any issues. I often saw Gonja going into his spot while I chilled out front on the stoop, and we'd greet each other every time. He was an older black male, probably in his late 30s, who appeared to have his stuff together. He had a pimped out silver Audi with chrome rims and tinted windows. The woman who seemed to be his girlfriend often wore scrubs, so I assumed she was working in the medical field. I had no reason to think anything less of Gonja.

For the first few months of my occupancy, I had no issues with him. Once the winter months rolled around, however, my living situation wasn't quite as cool. A few times I was awoken around 3 a.m. on weekday nights by the thumping that was caused by his stupid ass stereo. The frustrating part about it is that he never responded to my knocking at the door. I had to throw snowballs at the windows to get his attention. He actually had the nerve to cop an attitude about the snow balls once.

Aside from the stereo situation, I had an issue with the smell of weed that would seep through the floor regularly. Gonja and his boys seemed to light up at least every other hour. After some time, it became event that Gonja was selling from his apartment. The stream of customers didn't bother me until one guy knocked on my door at 2 a.m. looking to buy some trees.

Things really got weird once his mom, Betty, moved in. Betty was an older black woman with a thick southern accent. She was real "country." Even though Gonja looked fresh as ever in his attire, Betty would rummage through garbage in the neighborhood for soda cans. On a couple of occasions, she even asked me for quarters. As time passed, I became cool with Gonja's mom. Eventually, she even started filling me in on what was going down in the neighborhood (story forthcoming in a future post).

One afternoon after work, I found Betty waiting on the stoop. I knew she was waiting for me. When I pulled up, she propped up immediately and walked to my car. Something was up.

Betty: Can I use your phone, please? I need to call my daughter.
Me: Sure. You okay?
Betty: No. Not at all. I need to get the hell out of here. He's a fuckin asshole!
Me: Who?
Betty: Gonja. I've had enough of him.
Me: (thinking he hit her) Is he home? What's up? Do you need a ride somewhere?
Betty: (crying) Maybe. I just need to see if my daughter can pick me up. I can't take this anymore! He treats me so bad!
Me: I'm sorry.
Betty: (hysterical)I don't know what I ever did to that boy. I'm sittin here broke, collecting cans. Do you know every month he steals my welfare check from me?!?!

Man of Steal

Length can't keep himself out of trouble. Seven years ago, he was a legitimate Division I basketball prospect as a high school sophomore. Length had all the ingredients that were necessary to get to that level. He was 6'5 with long arms and ridiculous athleticism. The boy could fly. He could also handle the ball pretty well at his size. Length had one major barrier facing him, however; he wasn't very bright.

By all accounts, he was a brick in the classroom. Somehow he had gotten to the tenth grade without being able to read, or complete any sort of writing assignment. The basketball thing ultimately fell through because he couldn't maintain a 70 grade point average to play. It wasn't long before Length dropped out of school altogether.

I ran into Length many years later at the mall. He had gotten a job at Olympia Sports. We spoke about the possibility of him playing for me, and he expressed an interest in doing so. The only problem was that he couldn't pass the GED exam. With that obstacle standing in the way, Length resigned himself to being a sales clerk at Olympia.

After that conversation, I connected with some people in the GED prep world to see if I could help Length get over that hump. One of the local GED preparation programs had an open seat. All Length needed to do was call my contact and he was good to go. Prior to passing on the information, I decided to run a Google search on Length to see if he had been involved in any funny business. I didn't want to recommend somebody who would ultimately cause problems. Sadly, my search turned up a disturbing trend of arrests for larceny.

I decided to talk to Length about everything rather than just write him off. It seemed unfair for me to pull the plug on him without a conversation. After work one night, I decided to drop by Olympia so we could talk. I approached one of the sales representatives, who happened to be a former student at my alma mater, to ask for Length.

Me: Is Length working tonight?
Clerk: No. He doesn't work here anymore.
Me: What? Since when?
Clerk: Like last week.
Me: Did he quit? I'm trying to get a hold of him about something important.
Clerk: No. He didn't quit. He got caught stealing.

Gun Play

Action had a brush with death. He woke up in the morning fully expecting to go about his regular business (work, school, basketball practice), as we all do, without interruption. Sadly, he was mistaken. Before he could even get to school and basketball practice, Action was sitting at a police station trying to make sense of everything that had happened to him.

Most of the guys I coach have lived through very traumatic experiences. I often draw comparisons between basketball and real life with the hope that they'll carry the same mental toughness they display in one realm of life into the other. Some of the challenges they've overcome I regard as being borderline insurmountable. One guy, for example, started finding his own meals at the tender age of five because his mom was often too strung out to make sure the fridge was full.

Action had been out of school for two years before he decided to give college a shot. He was recommended to me by a former player who played in a men's league with him. Action's story was typical. He moved to a different area (an hour away from home) hoping to escape the negative influences that threatened to throw his life completely off course. In so doing, Action got a job at the local "Family Dollar" (a mid-sized, convenience store chain)as a store clerk and decided to live with his girlfriend who he referred to as a calming influence.

Action's decision to leave his hood was paying major dividends. Because of Action's financial hardship, he received a full Pell Grant from the federal government to cover the cost of school and his books. Despite some glaring academic deficiencies (which will be touched upon in a subsequent post), Action had at least a C or better in all of his classes. Things were going pretty well for Action until that near fateful day.

An hour before practice, my cell phone rang. I saw Action's name on the screen and picked up.

Me: What's up, man?
Action: I don't think I'ma make it to practice today, Coach.
Me: Why not?
Action: Some stuff went down, man. Crazy.
Me: Are you okay?
Action: Yeh. I'm cool. I'm just at the police station.
Me: What did you do?
Action: I ain't do nothin.
Me: Then why are you talking to the cops?
Action: This morning some dude rolled into my store and held the place up. I had a gun in my face at 8 a.m. this morning, coach.

Massachusetts Most Wanted

I almost coached a registered sex offender. Splash was a regular during our summer workouts but stopped showing up once Campus Police declared that they had to post a picture of him on campus since he was convicted of statutory rape (re: Say Cheese!). As with the countless other situations I've encountered as the Head Coach, that matter caught me completely off guard. For awhile, I thought I was the only coach dealing with the craziness until a colleague from another college called me with his own dilemma.

Within the first month of each season, I've found myself wanting to resign because of the daily dose of drama that comes my way. By nature, I don't have a ton of patience. I also really dislike confrontation. For better or worse, coaching has required me to deal with these personal shortcomings regularly. One of the ways I've dealt with my rougher days has been by venting to colleagues at other colleges who are often experiencing the same noneense, or worse.

One coach told me that he caught his players passing a pint of Hennessy on the team bus after a game. Another lamented about his purported star player who was jailed two games into the preseason for stealing a car. The most disturbing tale was one that threw me for a complete loop. A veteran colleague called to get my take on how he should proceed with a situation.

Coach: Hey Coach, what's happenin'?
Me: Same old, man. Just trying to deal with the daily craziness. You know how it is.
Coach: Well, I got a brain teaser for you. It's kind of a complex situation. These fuckin guys... There's always something.
Me: If you're calling me, then it must be serious.
Coach: Well, yeh. I have a sense of how I'm going to deal with it but I just wanted your take on the matter.
Me: Shoot.
Coach: I got a call from somebody in the community telling me that one of my guys is on the Massachusetts Most Wanted website.
Me: Really? Did you check it out?
Coach: Yup. I went to the site and there he was.
Me: Damn, man. What are you gonna do?
Coach: Well, I'm obviously gonna talk to him about it. From there, we'll see. I just don't get how a kid on the Massachusetts Most Wanted list gets accepted at a state college without any alert going off. It's not like he's hiding out. The kid has been coming to school and going to practice for months!

Nut Job

I made the mistake of trusting a Bubblee's judgment. Flash told me that Bubba was a solid guy, and I believed him. Initially, Bubba didn't give me a reason to have pause about offering him a spot on the team. He was 6'6 with a solid frame and great hands. Although Bubba didn't like to get physical inside, he could make outside shots and take opponents off the dribble. It seemed to me that I had struck gold--or at least silver.

Things went downhill after I watched Bubba work out. I didn't expect that at all since we had a great meeting before he left campus. He was well spoken, and seemed like a nice guy who relished the opportunity to play college ball after essentially doing nothing since graduating from high school two years prior. For months afterwards, he didn't return my phone calls or texts. After awhile, I figured Bubba got cold feet and decided to just keep idling in the hood.

Three months later, Bubba got back to me. He apologized for falling off the map and noted that some "stuff was going on" in his life. After that phone call, once again, he vanished--only to reappear two weeks before school started. He sounded remorseful, but by then the red flags were too apparent to ignore. I told him to go somewhere else. At that point, his boy (Flash) jumped in to save the day. Flash had played one year for me and was my leading scorer. He begged me to give Bubba another chance.

Bubba ended up enrolling. Within a month, he was failing every class. He even skipped preseason workouts. After I received an email from a professor about his frequent trips to the bathroom, I let him have it. Out of frustration, I put him on blast in front of some teammates and told him to write "I will stop acting like a 10 year old" 100 times.

He completed the assignment, but asked me for an apology since I had scolded him in front of the guys. I told Bubba to take a hike instead. He didn't even make it to the first exhibition game. It wasn't long before Bubba disappeared altogether. After some time, Flash delivered some news to me that I didn't expect.

Flash: Sorry things didn't work out with Bubba, Coach. I really thought he was serious. He's been my boy for a minute. I never expected this.
Me: Your boy was a mess. Thank you for that recommendation.
Flash: My fault. I guess you never really know dudes. The news keeps getting worse with him.
Me: What happened?
Flash: First off, he told my girl that I was cheating on her. He's supposed to be my ace! We grew up together, Coach! When I checked him on it, he denied it but I know my girl ain't lyin because of what she said. Feel me?
Me: Yeh. Where is he now, anyway?
Flash: He must've lost it or something after his girl broke up with him. I heard he's up in a nut house now.

Traffic Violation

My older brother surrounds himself with sketchy people. This has been the case for many years now. Sadly, his inability to extract himself from questionable company is largely the reason he has been incarcerated multiple times. I've attempted to warn him about many of these seedy individuals, but he has trouble recruiting solid people into his circle.

On a hot summer afternoon, my brother randomly decided to stop by my apartment. I was happy to see him, but had reservations about one of the guys who accompanied him. This dude, Sticky, had a really bad aura about him. Even though I didn't own anything expensive, I found myself keeping an eye on his homeboy the entire time. He didn't end up taking anything, nor did he say much to confirm my feelings, but I still felt the need to warn my brother about Sticky.

Like my mother, I'm able to sense something "more" with people. It's rare that my intuition fails me. Somehow, even though my brother is very similar to my mom in character, he didn't pick up her ability to detect shady people. The funny (but sad) part about it is that he continually gets burned by these guys. A few years ago, for example, some dude he met at a park stole $500 off of his kitchen table after he invited him over to chill.

Gradually, my brother has come to the realization that he could trust my judgment of people. Reality seemed to set in after Sticky got in some serious trouble that caught my brother off guard.

Bro: Yo, you remember that cat Sticky I came by your crib with that you felt a certain way about?
Me: Yeh. Why?
Bro: Dude was on some shit, man.
Me: What do you mean?
Bro: This nigga got arrested for beating his shit (translation: jerking off) at a red light in his car.
Me: What the fuck? How'd he get caught?
Bro: He pulled up in his car next to some lady and her daughter to show them what he was doing and they called the cops on him.

CSI: Boonies

Lefty was recommended to me as a troubled teen. I had a lengthy conversation with Lefty's Guidance Counselor about the baggage he could be bringing to my basketball program. Sadly, I wasn't taken aback by Lefty's tough home life since his story was an all too familiar tale: his father wasn't around and the mother struggled to make ends meet. As a result, Lefty felt like he had to do some shady things in order to provide for himself.

In his late teens, Lefty turned a corner. He went from barely passing all of his classes as a freshman and sophomore to earning "Bs and Cs" as an upperclassman. His Guidance Counselor recommended that he enroll at a Community College to improve his grades and develop his game. As a high school senior, he had posted multiple 20 point games and almost singlehandedly lead his team to a championship.

Prior to my meeting with the Guidance Counselor, I had never heard of Lefty even though he was tearing it up in his league. The league he played in didn't have a track record of producing big time college players so I never went to any of those games. I didn't get to see Lefty play in an official game, but we had a chance to meet at his high school. Much to my surprise, it went well. He was articulate, sincere, and polite. I took his information and told him that I'd be in touch once our season was over.

I finally got to see Lefty play a few months later on our campus. I invited a bunch of guys to play some pick-up games on a Saturday and he showed up. Lefty was tall, athletic, and agile but he wasn't very skilled. I chalked up his success in high school to his size (6'2, 165) and quickness. Since I had some better guys coming in at his position, I opted to pass on Lefty. Sadly, he decided not to enroll in school that fall...

During a visit to Lefty's high school three years later, I asked his Guidance Counselor about him. Unfortunately, the news wasn't good.

Me: How's Lefty doing? I'm thinking about taking a second look at him.
Counselor: That would be good for him, but I think he's caught up in some stuff right now.
Me: Oh no. What kind of trouble?
Counselor: From what I've heard, he has been knocking off homes.
Me: Did he get caught?
Counselor: Yeh. (laughs) He kind of did himself in during a break in.
Me: How so?
Counselor: He dropped his driver's license in the garage of one of the homes he robbed.

Death Wish

Cuervo threw the group for a loop with his confession. I was chocked up after he spoke. As the facilitator of this men's group, I was shocked by the morbid past these college students shared in common. I didn't expect to be confronted with such dark stories on a 4-year college campus.

As a recruiter at a community college, I've become accustomed to seeing the effects of trauma on young people. The bad grades that I typically see on transcripts are generally symptomatic of larger issues. In contrast, when I worked in the 4-year world years ago, I wasn't confronted with bad grades and family turmoil. That's why I was thrown for a loop during this particular session.

Mookie and Bleek set the stage for Cuervo to open up when they decided to share stories from their tragic pasts. Bleek really silenced the room when he talked about his father's admission of loving crack more than he loved his kids. As I contemplated how to proceed while Bleek wrapped up, I saw Cuervo's hand go up.

Me: Bleek, that was deep. Thank you for sharing that with us.
Bleek: These are my brothas, man. It ain't nothin.
Me: Cuervo, you wanna speak?
Cuervo: Yeh.
Me: So, who's the positive male role model in your life?
Cuervo: I guess you could say my dad, but he wasn't really around the first twelve years of my life. He said he couldn't get along with my mom. She made him a bad person so he stayed away from us.
Me: Do you have a relationship with him now?
Cuervo: Yeh.
Me: How'd that come about?
Cuervo: Before I left for school.. I was 12 at the time.. my mother told me her face would always be in the sky looking over me. I didn't know what she meant til I came home.
Me: What happened?
Cuervo: When I got home she was lying on the floor, and she wasn't moving. After about forty five minutes, I called my pops to tell him what was going on. I was in shock.
Me: How'd she die?
Cuervo: She overdosed on drugs.