Basketball

by Alexander Wolff

  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 stre
ngths. 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 has 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.”

  “I thought he would go right at me,” Rome would say later. “He knows he can get by me.”

  He did drive past Rome on a few possessions, but he refused to continue toward the rim. He either dished to a teammate or pulled the ball out to the perimeter. He attempted only three shots, missing all of them, and allowed Rome to score 13 points, mostly on little pull-up jumpers and hustle play that took advantage of Demetrius’s poor conditioning.

  “It’s sad seeing Demetrius play without any intensity,” Rome, Sr., said before the game was even over. “It’s like he is a different person.”

  Added Gerry: “It used to be that when Demetrius was playing, you almost didn’t notice anyone else. Now you hardly notice him.”

  The college coaches at the camp didn’t expect Demetrius or any of the young players to exhibit a completely refined game. When scouting kids entering their sophomore year in high school, they looked only for small signs that a prospect could make the jump to the next level. A little burst of speed, an athletic finish on a drive to the rim, or a signature skill, such as G.J.’s passing or Justin’s defense, was all they needed to see in order for their interest in that player to continue. The mental side of it was also important. Lance Stephenson’s competitiveness, even if it made a mess of games as he attempted crazy shot after crazy shot, was something the coaches wanted to see from Demetrius. They didn’t expect him to dominate as he had as a middle schooler, but they wanted to see him try.

  Demetrius gave them nothing. Even worse, he planted a poisonous seed in their minds: Was Demetrius afraid to compete? There was no room for fear in big-time basketball. A coach could teach a player to be a better ball handler or shooter or defender, but he couldn’t teach courage. Even if Demetrius was indeed sick—the college coaches did not know that he was faking—they wanted to see him fight through it. Even if he got his shot blocked five times in a row, they wanted him to attack the rim again. That was what Lance Stephenson did.

  The recruiters talked to Taylor, and he knew the extent of the damage Demetrius had done. They questioned his basketball ability and his mental toughness. Most said flatly that they weren’t interested in him.

  “I don’t know if he is a [Division I] prospect anymore,” Taylor said. “Maybe some low-major like Loyola Marymount or Long Beach [State] might get interested, but no big programs.”

  On Saturday afternoon, Phil Bryant, the director of the camp, gave a closing address. He stood at the center of the middle court, the players in a circle around him. Demetrius was on the outer edge of that circle and paid no attention to Bryant as he read off the names of the campers who had been selected for one of the two all-star games.

  “Will D come back from this? That is the question,” Taylor said. He stood with his arms folded a few yards outside the circle, looking out over the hopeful kids. “He can. There is time. But if you are asking me if I think he will, well . . .”

  His voice trailed off as Bryant ended his talk by telling the players: “Whoever it is who is responsible for you being here, say thank you.” He then urged the players to give a round of applause to their AAU coaches. Demetrius’s head shot up as the players around him applauded, and he clapped lightly three times, a nearly silent salute to the man responsible for his state.

  Once Demetrius was back in California, Keller didn’t begin working him out again as he had promised. He barely spoke to him, and when they did communicate, it was usually through text messages.

  One of the few phone conversations they had came after the start of school, in September, when Demetrius heard that The Hoop Scoop had dropped him to number 215 in its rankings of prospects in the class of 2009. There was something fishy about Demetrius’s placement. More than a dozen players who’d once played for Keller were ranked ahead of him, including Craig Payne, even though he had recently decided to focus on football, believing that was his best chance at a college scholarship.

  “How could they have me so low?” Demetrius asked Keller. “That’s bull.”

  “I told Clark to drop you that far,” Keller confessed.

  “Why would you
do that?”

  “I feel like you aren’t working as hard as you can and that I need to motivate you.”

  “You think that by embarrassing me that is going to motivate me?”

  “I don’t know what else to do. You’ve already got everything you want—shoes and stuff—so there is nothing I can give you to motivate you.”

  “That is bull. You are trashing my name. That’s like the biggest slap in the face ever. People are seeing that ranking and laughing at me.”

  That conversation triggered weeks of introspection as Demetrius focused on how Keller treated him in the present rather than what he had done for him in the past. Meeting the bottom brought Demetrius clarity, most of all about Keller.

  “You know, me and my mom have started talking a lot lately about Coach Joe, and, I mean, I start thinking to myself, like, is it ’cuz of me that Coach Joe is now living like he is? It eats me up sometimes, because I don’t really know the whole truth, but if it wasn’t for me, if I had joined another team, would Coach Joe be rich like he is now? Would his name be as big as it is? My mom says that what Coach Joe has probably has a lot to do with me, and I think she is right. ’Cuz, see, it went like this: Adidas wanted a younger kid coming up that’s gonna be good, that’s gonna be marketable. So whatever they had to do to get a kid like that, they were going to do. And at the time Coach Joe had me. Which means he got paid for it, for me. He got the Adidas shoe contract, with the Adidas money, and everything else, and now he’s got everything he wants and it’s, like, you know, I’m down here and he has no time for me.”

  He felt betrayed, used, suddenly aware that the man who often claimed to love him like a son had only exploited him to get rich. Over the next several weeks, Demetrius composed a letter to Keller on his Sidekick. During class or alone in his room, he pecked out the words with his thumbs, and he labored to get across how he felt. He was still coming to terms with his feelings, and it was natural that the finished email centered less on how Keller made him feel and more on what Demetrius felt he was owed.