Most top prospects would never have considered Oregon State, as it would do little to boost their profile to sign with a team that had not won a conference game the season before and played in the out-of-the-way hamlet of Corvallis. But Robinson focused Roberto on a consideration far more important than a school’s winning tradition or media exposure: playing time. If Roberto went to Oregon State, he would likely be the best player in the program the minute he arrived on campus and play major minutes as a freshman. “How many guards does UCLA have coming back?” Roberto said, knowing well how crowded the Bruins’ backcourt was. “And the way I look at it, UCLA will win with or without me. If I lead them to a Final Four, it’s no big deal, because that’s what is supposed to happen at UCLA. But if I help Oregon State win, well, I’d be like a legend up there.”
Bruce Nelson, Roberto’s father, wanted Roberto to attend UCLA, but by November, when Roberto signed a letter of intent with Oregon State, Bruce was in no position to counsel him. He was locked up in Tehachapi State Prison after being convicted of sexually assaulting two women he cared for at the rehabilitation facility where he worked. If paroled as soon as he was eligible (in December of 2011), Bruce would likely get to see Roberto fulfill the dream that he never realized: starring for a major college basketball team.
Aaron Moore did not play basketball in what should have been his senior year in high school. He was talked into taking classes at a community college by Barbara and ended up at a school in Oklahoma, placed there by the coaches at Cal State Fullerton. After several months, he returned to Riverside and was promptly kicked out of his mother’s home once again. In the final weeks of that school year, when his former Team Cal friends were attending proms and graduation parties, he was squatting in a vacant home in a subdivision in Fontana not far from where his nearly two-year-old son lived with his mother. “I talked to the coach at Riverside [Community] College, and he is setting me up with work-study, and I can get some grants and go there and play for a year or two and then transfer,” he said on a rare day when I was able to get in touch with him. “I’ll get my school stuff taken care of there and then go to a [Division I] school. I know it is going to work out. I just know it.”
Rome Draper, Jr., spent his senior year at a continuation school. The teachers and coaches at Etiwanda High tired of his disregard for classes and practice. When he ran into one of his former teammates at the mall or elsewhere, he often said that he intended to play basketball again, but they only had to look at him, his eyes hazy and his body soft, to know that was unlikely. The coach at Barstow Community College knew Rome from when he played for Keller and convinced Rome to enroll there. Rome told friends he still hoped to land a scholarship to a Division I school.
Joe Keller continued to build his empire, and by 2009 there were 312 Jr. Phenom Camps in five different countries, including Japan, Mexico, Canada, and Puerto Rico. He also operated seven national camps for boys and girls in San Diego and employed thirty-seven people.
Keller contentedly ran his business, but his interest for basketball waned. Though he would not admit it, he missed the way he felt coaching the boys, the best team in America that one wonderful season in 2004, and he missed being the underdog. Now that he was wealthy and comfortable—or, as he would put it, “big-time” all the time—something was missing. The climb up from the bottom, from installing car alarms to becoming a millionaire, was the best part, and Keller couldn’t reminisce about those days with the people who had made the journey with him. He was never again close to any of his former players or their parents.
He eventually found a new outlet for his notorious competitiveness: his son Jordan’s baseball career. Youth baseball was in the early stages of growing a grassroots system similar to the one for basketball, and Keller dove right in, placing Jordan on a traveling team. At first he resisted the urge to coach Jordan, but he couldn’t help himself. He also helped finance the team, worked to lure talented players from other squads, and came up with its catchy name: Team Phenom.
Jordan’s team quickly became one of the best in the area, then in the state, then in the country. In the summer of 2008, the group of eight-year-olds won a national tournament, after which Keller called to deliver the news. “National champions!” he shouted over the phone. “Once again Joe Keller brings home a national championship!” I asked him how Jordan had played. “He was the best player in the whole tournament. And he’s younger than most of these kids too.” Then he lowered his voice, just as he had done eight years earlier when he let me in on the secret that was Demetrius. “I’m telling you, Jordan is the real deal. You should see him. You gotta come down here and see him play. He will blow you away. He’s gonna be playing for the Yankees someday. Sports Illustrated is going to put him on the cover. … I’m telling you, my son is a phenom.”
Demetrius Walker verbally committed to USC a week after returning from his final grassroots event in Las Vegas. He heard that the Trojans were hosting two 2009 recruits who, like him, were guards, and he panicked at the thought of losing the one scholarship offer he considered viable. News of his pledge spread quietly among recruiting services and the media that followed USC basketball. Reviewers called him a “solid” get for the Trojans but not a major addition, and Demetrius was equally lukewarm about the union. After informing USC coach Tim Floyd of his decision, he did not call friends with the news or throw a party. “I went out to dinner with my uncle, but it wasn’t like we were celebrating or nothing,” he said. “We really didn’t even talk about USC.”
A month later, Tom Stengel pulled Tommy out of JSerra and enrolled him at Mater Dei, the latest move aimed at netting Tommy a scholarship offer. Tom saw no reason to continue supporting Demetrius. If he wanted to spend his senior year at JSerra, Demetrius would have to pay the rent on the apartment in Aliso Viejo and cover the other expenses Tom had fronted.
Demetrius had no choice but to move into the home his mother rented in Surprise, Arizona, a suburb of Phoenix, and he enrolled at St. Mary’s, his third school in three years.
Leaving Southern California put some needed distance between Demetrius and his grassroots past. He didn’t love Arizona, but he grew to like that his reputation as the failed “next LeBron” didn’t follow him to the Valley of the Sun. Coaches and teammates on the St. Mary’s basketball team marveled at his athleticism and scoring ability, judging his abilities in the moment rather than by what he was supposed to be. It made the transition to yet another new school easier and also led him to second-guess his decision to play for USC. “I don’t know if I want to go back to L.A.,” he said. “There, man, it’s like people are always talking shit about you, picking you apart. Here I can just be who I am and people are cool with that.”
Without Barrett around to lobby hard for the Trojans, Demetrius took an unfettered look at the USC program, and he didn’t like what he found. Floyd and the Trojans were under NCAA investigation for alleged infractions involving former player O. J. Mayo, and Floyd was a noted over-recruiter, meaning he always looked for players to bring in who could bump the ones he had out of the way. This was not unusual in college basketball, but Floyd was particularly merciless. For a player like Demetrius, whose confidence was still on the mend, Floyd was a bad fit. “If Demetrius goes to USC, within a year or two he’ll be gone, transferred to a school like Long Beach State or Loyola Marymount,” Sonny Vaccaro said. “Floyd will run him off.”
Demetrius also kept hearing that Barrett advised him to go to USC only so he’d get money from the school. “Pat, Joe, they are all the same,” Demetrius said. “They are just out for themselves. Pat doesn’t care about me. He cares what he can make off me.” It was a simple realization, but for Demetrius it was a watershed. After nearly a decade growing up in the grassroots-basketball machine, Demetrius finally understood the motivation of the men running it.
The NCAA provides a weeklong window in November of a basketball recruit’s senior year to sign a letter of intent with a school. If a player doesn’t sign during
that period, he must wait until the spring. Schools push players to sign in November because they want their recruiting classes set early, and most players don’t want to wait either. Demetrius’s realization that USC wasn’t a good fit came just two days before the start of the November signing period. “I don’t think I should go to USC. I know that now,” he said. “But I can’t wait until the spring to sign. That’s too risky. There might not be a scholarship left at a school I like. I don’t know what to do.”
I asked him if he had heard from any other coaches since he verbally committed to USC (no) or if he had a school in mind that he hoped would take him (no again). “People at [St. Mary’s] keep asking me about why I didn’t choose Arizona State,” he said. “I know a coach from there talked to Pat about me a long time ago, or at least that is what Pat said, but I don’t know if that is true of if they would still want me now.”
I told him to call Herb Sendek, Arizona State’s coach.
As luck would have it, Arizona State had just released one of its recruits, shooting guard Jared Cunningham of San Leandro (California) High, from his verbal commitment because of a low SAT score. Sendek and the Sun Devils had a scholarship available and a need for an explosive backcourt talent. “We would love to get you on campus for a visit,” Sendek said, but the soonest that could happen was two days after the signing period began. USC would expect him to sign on the first day, which meant he had to stall the Trojans long enough to visit Arizona State and decide if that school was a better fit.
On the first day of the signing period, officials at St. Mary’s set up a table in the lobby of one building for Demetrius and two other players to sign letters of intent. A local television crew and a few reporters showed up to chronicle the moment. Demetrius never joined his teammates at the table, telling his coach that he didn’t want to sign that day. He stood in the back of the room while his teammates signed their letters.
It took until that evening for USC to realize something was awry. An assistant coach left Demetrius a message, and Demetrius waited until he knew the coach was out of his office to call him back. The coach left another message the following morning, and then Barrett, who undoubtedly had heard from the Trojans’ coaches, called as well. “I’m having second thoughts about USC,” Demetrius told Barrett. “I don’t think it is the best fit for me.” Barrett had panic in his voice as he pleaded with Demetrius to sign with the Trojans, repeating his earlier talking points and again failing to mention the program’s obvious drawbacks. He then tried to guilt Demetrius, saying Demetrius had given Floyd his word and breaking his commitment would be dishonorable. Recruits and schools break verbal commitments to one another all the time, and Pat Barrett, of all people, was in no position to counsel Demetrius on integrity. In the past, his words would likely have swayed Demetrius, but not now. “Fuck Pat,” Demetrius said after their conversation. “I gotta do what’s best for me.”
A few hours later, Floyd called.
“So what is that I am hearing about you needing time to make a decision?” he said to Demetrius.
“Well, I couldn’t sleep last night, Coach. I was tossing and turning, and my gut feeling was that it just wouldn’t be right to sign right now. I need some time to think.”
“You’ve been committed to us for four months,” Floyd said. “Why are you having these feelings now?”
“I don’t know, Coach. I don’t know why I am having these funny feelings, but it’s how I feel.”
“I don’t really have time for this,” Floyd said. “There are other guys out there we can recruit. I don’t have time to be waiting around for you.”
“Well, that’s your choice. I don’t want you to sign anyone else right now. I’d like you to wait, like, two days, just give me some time to think.”
Floyd accused Demetrius of wanting to look at other schools. Demetrius denied it, and then the conversation deteriorated.
“I see what kind of person you are,” Floyd said. “You are a liar and you are not a man of your word. … I thought you were a player like O. J. Mayo and DeMar DeRozan, not afraid of coming in and competing for a spot, but you’d rather be given a position instead of earning one.”
“Coach, I’m not afraid of anybody.”
“Yes you are. And I’ll tell you this: If any NBA teams interested in you come talk to me first, I am going to tell them who the real Demetrius Walker is.”
Before Demetrius could fashion a response, Floyd hung up.
Demetrius was so distraught after the conversation that he had difficulty retelling what Floyd had said. “Can Coach Floyd do that? Can he tell NBA teams not to draft me?” he asked. “If that’s true, I’ll just sign with SC. I don’t want to fuck up my future. Oh, man, this is fucked-up. I fucked up.”
I assured him that if he was good enough to make the NBA, teams wouldn’t care about the feelings of a man who had never coached him. Still, he was shaken by Floyd’s threats, and it dampened the excitement that surrounded his signing with Arizona State a few days later, which was big news in the local press. (The following summer, Floyd resigned as USC’s coach, following more allegations of NCAA violations committed by his program.)
As the school year wore on, Demetrius grew more content with his college choice. Away from Barrett and the rest of the profiteers, he played his senior season unencumbered by his past and without worry for his future. The competition in Arizona was a step down from what he’d faced the year before with JSerra, and he dominated most opponents. To see him play during his senior season was to be reminded of his golden days with the Inland Stars and Team Cal, when he played with joy and confidence, surrounded by his friends.
Demetrius ushered St. Mary’s through the playoffs and into the 5A Division I state championship game against Gilbert Highland, which was the top seed. “My school has lost in the state finals, like, three times in the last four years,” he said. “So for me to deliver a state title would be big.”
In his last game before going off to college, Demetrius conjured up a performance reminiscent of the best he’d ever played. On St. Mary’s first defensive series, he swatted a player’s shot into the stands, and his intensity in guarding Gilbert Highland’s best player, Indiana-bound guard Matt Carlino, bled over to his teammates, who played with emotion befitting the most important game of the season. He scored in such a variety of ways that Gilbert Highland had no means to stop him: near the basket, using the post moves he’d learned as a young boy; from the 3-point line by employing the jump shot taught to him by Fontana High’s Ryan Smith; on fearless drives to the hoop that showed how he had improved as a ballhandler, the fruits of hours of work in the gym at St. Mary’s.
When it was over, after Demetrius tallied a game-high 27 points and St. Mary’s won 70–62, he stood in the middle of the court surrounded by his teammates and looked toward the ceiling of the arena in Glendale. He let out a loud scream, a roar, and he pumped his fists. Moments later he was handed the state championship trophy, a block of dark wood with a gold ball on top. He walked off the court holding the trophy over his head, one of the nets draped around his neck, and then he stopped at the base of the stands where Kisha stood. She walked to him and they hugged, and he kissed her on the cheek and whispered into her ear.
“I did it, Mom. I did it.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I was fortunate that this book came to the attention of Mark Tavani at Random House. His understanding and excitement over what I was hoping to achieve inspired me, and he enriched the text with his suggestions. The guidance and support that my agent Andrew Blauner provided as he patiently waited for this book to take shape was invaluable. I owe him a great debt. Terry McDonell, the editor of the Sports Illustrated Group, twice allowed me to take time off work to write this book, and he has always encouraged ambitious projects such as this one. Craig Neff of Sports Illustrated has been a great editor and friend.
I would not have a career in writing if it weren’t for Emilio Garcia-Ruiz, Bill Dwyre, and Kerry Temple. The fr
iends and colleagues who helped me with this book and over the years are too numerous to list, but a special thanks to Lowell Cohn, Grant Wahl, and Michael Silver.
Richard Sheehan from the University of Notre Dame gave me a crash course in economic theory that enriched several chapters. Walt Harris, Julius Patterson, Keith Howard, Dave Taylor, and Darren Matsubara informed my understanding of the grassroots-basketball system, and Sonny and Pam Vaccaro spent countless hours contributing to and challenging my understanding of youth basketball. I first interviewed Sonny when I was a twenty-two-year-old intern at the Los Angeles Times, and in many ways the seeds from which this book grew were planted that day.
I met my wife, Sharon, five years into this project, and without her I would have struggled to finish it. The final stretch included brain surgery (for me), a wedding, and the birth of our daughter, Jessica. During that time Sharon read every chapter, gave smart advice, and was my biggest advocate. I am blessed to have such a committed partner.
Greg and Natalie Dohrmann, Erika and Todd Chapman, Joan Dohrmann, and my parents, George and Suzette Dohrmann, provided countless hours of dog care during the many days I spent on the road. Maddie and I thank you.
Joe Keller took a leap of faith when he allowed me to follow him and his team, and for that I am grateful. He won’t be pleased with everything I have written, but I hope that he will come to appreciate that he has a straightforward and honest account of this period of his life. If I could not visit the Inland Empire and drink Coronas, eat Mexican food, and talk basketball with Coach Joe, it would be a great loss.
Kisha Houston, Carmen Hawkins, Bruce and Roberta Nelson, John and Shelly Finn, Rob and Lisa Bock, Rome Draper, Sr., Sharon Patton, Bill Howard, Gary Franklin, Sr., Tom Stengel, Rachel Carter, Barbara Moore, Violet Keller, Brian Beard, and Gerry Vilarino welcomed me into their homes and into their lives. Thank you for your trust and cooperation.
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