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!