“But I want to stress that going to one of these camps … he shouldn’t do it unless he is ready. Maybe he is ready now. That is what I hear, but if he isn’t, there is nothing wrong with letting him grow some more. What happens at these big camps and these big tournaments is that Roberto gets assigned a number. I know he already has a number from Clark Francis and these other people, but he goes there and they are going to all put a new number on him, and we gotta make sure he is ready to handle that number. It’s not important that he gets a high [ranking] now. That’s not important. What is important is that he can handle whatever [ranking] they give him. Look at that poor kid he used to play with, what’s his name … Demetrius, right? The worst thing that ever happened is that Demetrius was [ranked] number one. That poor kid, people are going to see him as a failure the rest of his life. That doesn’t mean he won’t go to college, won’t have a good career, might still play in the NBA. That doesn’t mean that at all. But he is carrying this burden, and it will get to a point, if it hasn’t already, where he won’t be able to look his peers in the face anymore.”
Bruce mentioned that Nike and Don Crenshaw were pushing California Hoops and that they were leaning toward that team.
“Okay, now you are in Sonny territory. This is great. From what you told me earlier, your son has friends up in Santa Barbara he likes to be with and, you said, he likes to play golf and might play football too. Well, let him be with his friends! Let him play golf! Let him play football! Nothing is going to happen for him playing AAU ball with the Pumps or this Nike team, California whatever Hoops. Nothing matters this year when he is, what, only a freshman? The only reason to do it would be to get Ben [Howland] and coaches like that interested, and we already know they are interested. After this summer, Roberto has two more years of this. Plenty of time. What you don’t want to do is break him. You don’t want to put him in a situation where he is unhappy, where he’s not playing or whatever. That makes it tedious, hard, and he could stop loving the game the way he does now.”
Vaccaro acknowledged that his advice ran contrary to his mission with Reebok. He should have pushed Bruce to have Roberto play for SCA or another Reebok team. “[But] I’m not going to lie to you,” Vaccaro said. “Hey, I invented the whole damn thing, and I am telling you that your son doesn’t need it right now.”
Bruce told of St. Bonaventure’s advances and how he regularly received calls from parents or coaches at Westchester, Mater Dei, and other schools. It was enticing to put Roberto on a team with a chance to win a state and section title. “If Roberto doesn’t win enough games in high school, could that hurt him?”
“He could lose twenty games a year in high school and it won’t matter,” Vaccaro said. “And he could win three state titles and that wouldn’t matter either. There is no need for him to go to one of those schools. And, thank God for Roberto, you don’t live in Westchester or Compton. So, maybe that means you don’t get in the L.A. Times every week. So what? You live in this beautiful place and Roberto can just grow there, away from all this shit.”
By the conclusion of their three-hour meeting, Bruce was nodding enthusiastically at every word. As Vaccaro led Bruce downstairs, he made him promise to return in a few weeks with Roberto.
After giving Bruce a hug and watching Pam do the same, Vaccaro said, “I bet one of the things that makes your son a good player is he doesn’t care what other people say about him.”
“That’s true,” Bruce said.
“Well, then, you need to be more like your son. Just be a good father, stay involved, and don’t worry about what other people think.”
Back in Santa Barbara later that night, Bruce and Roberto came to a decision: Roberto would play for Mike Lewis and California Hoops, but only in events of his choosing. If at any point he wished to play for the Pumps or Barrett or another team, he would do it, regardless of how Don Crenshaw or anyone at Nike felt about it.
Throughout the spring, players, parents, and coaches asked Roberto what AAU team he had chosen, and his response was always “No one.”
“No, I mean, are you playing for a Nike team or an Adidas team or a Reebok team?” they would say, as if Roberto were confused.
“Not Nike or Adidas or Reebok,” he would answer. “I play for me.”
27
Joe Keller and Demetrius Walker in 2006
He’s hiding in the bathroom, Joe,” Dave Taylor said into his cell phone. “Did you hear me? He’s hiding in the fucking bathroom, in a stall.”
On the other end of the line, Keller sighed.
Taylor looked around. A few yards from where he stood in the gym at the Suwannee Sports Academy were more than 100 of the best young basketball players in the country, and he didn’t want them to overhear his remarks. He wasn’t shouting, but his statements were firm. He had been around Keller long enough to know that he didn’t respond to subtleties.
“Do you understand what I am saying, Joe? He’s in the bathroom. Right now. Hiding.”
Keller was across the country, in his home in Moreno Valley, but the distance did not lessen the gravity of the situation. Demetrius Walker, the prodigy Sports Illustrated had labeled the next LeBron, the young soul Keller often bragged was “like my son,” was hiding in a bathroom on the third day of the 2006 Adidas Superstar Camp, the most important event of his grassroots season. College recruiters lined the walls of the gym, and many had circled Demetrius’s name in their programs, anxious to see if he’d improved from the previous summer. Now, with his future hanging in the air like a ball on the rim, he cowered in a bathroom stall.
“I don’t know if he can ever come back from this, Joe,” Taylor said into his phone. “Do you understand, Joe? Do you hear what I am saying? This is it for him. This is it! It’s the bottom. Demetrius has hit the fucking bottom.”
The bottom came during a July week of overcast days, the air thick with the promise of rain and a wisp of southern wind. It reminded me of the week of Nationals in Memphis, when on the last day a storm knocked out the power and it looked as if the finals against the War Eagles would never be played. That day ended with Demetrius asleep on the plane, the glass-bowl trophy in his lap, Keller next to him sipping a beer and reveling in how far they had come together.
Joe and D.
Their partnership had taken them to wondrous heights, but in Memphis greater achievements seemed certain. There was Keller, his shoe deal in place but his Jr. Phenom Camp riches yet to come, his financial fate still moored to his young star. And there was D, the number-1 player in the country, as hard a worker as any of the boys, fearless and full of himself in that way that great athletes have to be.
There had always been something worrisome about their bond—a coach who’d been no father to his own son, Joey, leaping into that role for one of his players—and a happy ending was never preordained. But the broader strokes of Demetrius’s failure couldn’t have been predicted. It came so soon—two months before he turned sixteen—and Keller was so utterly absent, so unwilling to do anything but let their partnership dissolve. Even in the grassroots game, where tragedies outnumbered successes, this one was epic.
In the months leading up to the Superstar Camp, Demetrius sensed that his great undressing was afoot. “I really don’t want to go,” he said. “[But] I know Adidas wants me there, so I guess I just gotta suck it up and play. But, you know, I haven’t been playing a lot lately.”
Roberto, Justin, Andrew, Jordan, and the other Team Cal kids played a packed schedule with their new grassroots teams in the spring and early summer when Demetrius had played only sparingly, and once again Keller was to blame. Keller realized his contract with Adidas stipulated that he operate a grassroots team and enter it into the top tournaments. He created a shell of a team and hired Dave Taylor to coach it. Taylor lived in Sacramento and naturally recruited players from that area and held practices there, few of which Demetrius attended. Keller also operated the team with an eye on keeping costs down; he entered it into the minimum number of
events.
If you saw Demetrius walking the street, he appeared as fit as ever. He was sinewy and his biceps were bigger, as he’d recently begun lifting weights. But inactivity had left him in such poor shape that he got fatigued early in games, making it impossible to sustain solid play. He would make a few stellar plays in a game’s opening minutes but then grab at his shorts or put his hands on his knees during stoppages. That was the signal that his energy was gone, and he would do nothing of consequence the rest of the game.
Contrasted with the year before, when Keller considered the Superstar Camp the ultimate judgment on himself and his star player, his disinterest in even attending the event bespoke the change in his goals. His financial interests were no longer tied to Demetrius, and thus he couldn’t be bothered to get him physically ready for the challenge.
Demetrius was not without friends at the Superstar Camp. Rome and Rome, Sr., were there, G.J. and Gerry as well. Dave Taylor also kept an eye on him. Compared to a year earlier, however, when Keller had watched his every move, Demetrius felt alone. On Wednesday, when the players learned what teams they were on and scrimmaged together, he looked around the gym at the many coaches—Mats, the Pumps, Jimmy Salmon—and said, “Everybody’s got somebody here but me. It’s like I got nobody in my corner anymore.”
In his two games on Thursday, Demetrius attempted a total of twelve shots. Most players were so eager to get the attention of the college coaches that they gunned without even thinking. Demetrius acted as if shooting was a risk he couldn’t afford.
“He’s hiding on the court,” Taylor said. “He’s not doing anything that will draw attention to his game.”
Taylor gave him a brief pep talk on Thursday night, during which Demetrius made a statement that alarmed him. “You know, D.T., I don’t know if I want to do this anymore,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“This camp. I don’t know that I want to come back next year. I just don’t see the point anymore.”
There was no guarantee that there would be a Superstar Camp the following summer. Adidas’s purchase of Reebok eleven months earlier had shaken up the grassroots landscape, and the joint company talked of reconfiguring how they went after elite players. The camp model, where hundreds of kids were invited to one place, was inefficient.
“Don’t worry about next year, worry about right now,” Taylor told Demetrius. “People are wanting to see if you’ve improved from last time you were here, and you need to show them that you’ve gotten better.”
The next morning was key, Taylor knew, as the coaches would watch the individual drills closely; they were better gauges of a player’s abilities as a ballhandler, shooter, and defender than the games. Already a coach from Xavier had mentioned to Taylor that he was eager to scout Demetrius.
On Friday morning, just before the start of the day’s first drill, Taylor scanned the gym. His gaze moved from one hopeful basketball player to the next as they stood two-deep around one side of a court, dressed in identical black-and-orange uniforms. Across the court were the college coaches they hoped to impress—Ben Howland, Bill Self, Bruce Pearl—so many that they almost outnumbered the players. In a few minutes, the instructor running the drill would yell out the names of two players, and they would be the first to be judged. Being called out first could be a blessing or a curse. Everyone remembered the opening duel, and it set the tone for the rest of the session.
Taylor had arranged for Armon Johnson, a guard he knew from Sacramento, to be one of the first two players selected. Taylor was awarding him prime placement to show his abilities, and now he had to decide who to match him against. Taylor’s eyes moved down the sideline, finding some of the best talent in the country—Eric Gordon, Nolan Smith, Jerime Anderson—before finally stopping on a six-foot-three kid so eager to get under way that he jumped in place. Lance Stephenson’s presence at the Superstar Camp was one of the most anticipated developments of the summer. He was a Reebok kid, one of Sonny’s boys, but at the last minute he switched from the ABCD Camp to the Superstar. (Vaccaro claimed that Adidas cut a sponsorship deal with his AAU coach and high school that exceeded $100,000.) It was a major get for Adidas, and Stephenson arrived with a camera crew in tow, as his every move was being filmed for a documentary. The full wattage of the New York spotlight had found him, but it hadn’t changed the way he played, at least not yet. In a game the previous day, Stephenson picked up a loose ball and broke down the court, and the fans rose in anticipation of a thunderous dunk. But Oscar Bellfield, Justin’s teammate on Taft, caught up with Stephenson and blocked his shot from behind, sending it out of bounds. The players, fans, and even a few of the college coaches hooted in delight. It was the most talked-about play of the day. What Taylor thought of as he considered pairing Stephenson with Armon was how Stephenson had reacted after being embarrassed. He immediately demanded the ball and used a screen to isolate Bellfield. He faked as if he were going to drive on him but then shot a 3-pointer over him. As the ball fell through the net, Stephenson got into Bellfield’s face, jarring at him, and then he checked Bellfield with his shoulder as he ran back on defense. His instinct after being showed up was to go right back at Bellfield, to erase a humiliating moment with a spectacular play of his own.
Taylor saw a probing look in Stephenson’s eyes, as if he were searching the gym for the next challenger to his throne. It’s tempting, Taylor thought. If Armon showed him up, that would get the attention of the coaches. But then a better choice came to mind.
Demetrius.
Pitting him against Armon could boost Demetrius’s stock and his confidence. They were about the same height and weight, and although Armon was a better shooter, Demetrius was more explosive and a little stronger. Most significantly, Demetrius had played with Armon. He knew his game, his strengths. He couldn’t possibly fear a challenge from Armon.
Taylor looked around the gym for Demetrius. He knew he was there; he had noticed him when he got off the bus, because Demetrius wore different shoes—blue Promodels—from the rest of the campers. That had annoyed Taylor at the time, but it would now make Demetrius easier to find.
Taylor moved his focus to the players’ feet, hunting for those blue shoes. He was still searching minutes later when the coach leading the drill called out Armon and then, after getting no indication from Taylor of who else to pick, selected a player at random.
Where the fuck is Demetrius? Taylor thought. There was no way for him to go back to the hotel, and the trainer’s table was visible from where he stood. If he wasn’t at one of those two places, that left only one possibility.
Taylor strode across the gym and pushed open the door to the bathroom, stopping just inside. No one was at the sink or at the urinals, and it looked as if all the stalls were empty. Then something caught Taylor’s eye, something in the second-to-last stall. He took a step closer and leaned down, and then he saw them: the blue shoes. The accessory Demetrius had chosen to stand out had given him away.
Taylor quickly left the bathroom and sat in a chair near the door, positioned so Demetrius couldn’t rejoin the group of players without passing him. He looked at the time on his cell phone. There were fifty minutes left in the two-hour session of individual drills, and he guessed Demetrius had been in there since the start.
The minutes passed and Taylor assumed Demetrius would emerge only after the final drill was complete, when he could blend in with the rest of the campers as if he’d never been gone and catch the bus back to the hotel. At the thought of this, Taylor dialed Keller’s number.
Prior to the start of the camp, Keller predicted that Demetrius would feign injury or sickness to avoid competing. On Friday morning, when Taylor called Keller while sitting outside the bathroom waiting for Demetrius, Keller reminded him of his earlier comments.
“So you were right, Joe. So what now?”
Keller didn’t say anything.
“Joe, kids like Demetrius are why people say all these bad things about AAU basketball. What ha
s happened to him makes everyone look bad. He shouldn’t even be here. He’s afraid to compete.”
Keller remained silent.
Demetrius emerged forty-five minutes later, just as the individual drills were breaking up, as players headed to the exit and the waiting buses. Had Taylor not been sitting there, Demetrius would have joined the rest of the campers, and his absence might have gone unnoticed.
“You been in there the whole time?” Taylor said.
“Yeah, my stomach is messed up, D.T.” Demetrius put his hand to his belly.
Taylor led him to the bus and told him to get some rest back at the hotel.
“He’s quitting, Joe,” Taylor told Keller in a later phone call. “He’s not even a sophomore in high school and he’s giving up.”
Keller offered another “I told you so” and called Demetrius “soft” and “weak.”
“That’s not good enough, Joe. Tell me what you are going to do about it. Saying D is fucked-up is not enough. You are responsible for him. Don’t just tell me how fucked-up he is, tell me how you are going to fix him.”
Taylor pushed hard enough that Keller made hollow-sounding pledges. I promise I am going to take D back under my belt. I’m going to refocus him and get him back on track. I promise you that, he wrote in one text message. I love that kid like my own son.
The final game Demetrius played at the Superstar Camp came Friday afternoon. There were games scheduled for Friday night and another round Saturday, but he would skip those, citing a stomach illness. The final impression he would make would come against Rome’s team, and at the start he walked to the center of the court and playfully stuck a finger in Rome’s chest and said, “I got this guy.”
Play Their Hearts Out Page 37