Boys Among Men

by Jonathan Abrams

  19.

  There is no single trait shared by the high schoolers who reached their preordained stardom and those who fell short. There are certain commonalties, of course, among those who succeeded. They were generally mentally and physically mature beyond their years, had received strong guidance from family members or coaches they respected, and possessed an inner desire to improve their skills. Paul Silas was not the only one who accurately predicted a bright future for LeBron James in the NBA. The passage of time is the only accurate forecaster. A good part of an NBA executive’s job—when all the analysis and tape study is done—is guesswork and crossing of fingers. “We all think we’re geniuses,” said Masai Ujiri, Toronto’s well-respected general manager. “It’s luck, in my opinion, a lot of times.”

  How else do you explain the enormous gulf between the careers of LeBron James and Ndudi Ebi? Kevin McHale and the Minnesota Timberwolves took Ebi with the 26th overall selection out of a Houston high school in 2003—the same year James was drafted. Ebi was long and athletic, viewed as the second coming of Kevin Garnett. McHale made the decision largely after watching Ebi aggressively defend James at a practice before the McDonald’s All-American Game. “I thought we’d take a runner on him and just see what he could do,” McHale recalled. “He was just one of those guys that wasn’t ready.” Ebi seldom played during his first two years and scoffed at a demotion to the NBA Development League. “You can quote me on this: I’m not a developmental player,” he told the St. Paul Pioneer Press in 2005. “I’ve been playing against NBA guys since I was fifteen years old. I’m not a developmental player. Period.”

  He never played in another NBA game. Minnesota waived Ebi after he had spent just over two years with the organization and absorbed the remainder of his guaranteed contract.

  McHale had originally hoped to bring Ebi along slowly and mentor him, as he had done with a teenage Garnett. McHale believed he had selected a gym rat, but those who had been close to Ebi noticed a difference in him once he entered the NBA. Greg Glenn coached Ebi at Westbury Christian School. Ebi was born in London and raised in Nigeria before relocating to the United States as a teenager. Back then, Glenn remembers Ebi always trying to improve himself. Ebi would lift weights after practice, even when Glenn pleaded with him to allow his body time to recover. Ebi carried a notebook full of self-scribbled motivational passages that he read for inspiration. Ebi matured quickly as a basketball player. He accepted a scholarship to the University of Arizona before changing course and setting his sights on the NBA. After Ebi announced his professional intentions, a reporter asked Glenn his thoughts. Glenn answered honestly and said he did not think Ebi was ready for the jump. The response bothered Ebi and frayed their relationship. “My agent told me there would be haters like you,” Glenn recalled Ebi telling him.

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” Glenn said. “I was asked for my opinion and I gave it. I apologize if it hurts your feelings. I just answered the question the best I could at the time with what I thought at the time. It doesn’t mean I don’t want the best for you.” Glenn went from being a confidant of Ebi’s to being ostracized by him. “For someone who invested as much time and energy and even love for the kid, I was now the bad guy,” Glenn said. “I hate that. I thought we had more to our relationship than that.”

  Ebi never advanced beyond his status of being a project. He appeared lost on offense and displayed little interest in playing defense. He sulked at riding the bench. After his truncated NBA career, Ebi played internationally in countries like Italy, Israel, and China. He had little he wanted to say about his NBA career when reached by phone. In a conversation during the summer of 2013, Ebi seemed defensive. He alternated between saying he did not have a story to tell and expressing a desire to write his own book. Finally, he summed up his thoughts. “What did I learn in all my years in the NBA?” he asked. “You know what I’ll tell you? The Staples Center has the best nachos.”

  He became regarded as an example of how a player can tumble when drafted on potential and assured millions. Flip Saunders coached both Garnett and Ebi in Minnesota. “That’s the difference between a Kevin Garnett and a Ndudi Ebi,” Saunders said. “That’s what you learn. Kevin Garnett used to keep notes on players when he was younger, keep stats on what a guy did for their next meeting. Ndudi Ebi, he didn’t have that. Part of it was that Kevin never felt that what he got, that he was owed that. He felt that he had to earn everything, where Ndudi Ebi, like a lot of those guys, felt that they were owed something. When you feel that you’re owed something, you’re never going to respect the game the way it needs to be respected.”

  Ebi was one of five high school players drafted by NBA teams in 2003. James became a star. The rest had no shoe companies bidding for their endorsements or commercials trumpeting their NBA arrival. They fought for their NBA survival and collectively stumbled during their rookie seasons, combining to play for just 82 minutes in 2003–2004. James topped that by himself by his third professional game. They were not viewed as immediate franchise cornerstones, but projects stashed away with the hope that one day they would develop into dependable NBA players. Kendrick Perkins, a prepster from Texas, was tapped as the next Shaquille O’Neal when Memphis took him and dealt him to Boston. “We felt like he was a project,” said Danny Ainge, Boston’s president of basketball operations. “He needed to develop his body. I really liked him as a kid and his work ethic. But he was sort of a heavy, lumbering kid.” Travis Outlaw was a sky reacher with an explosive game when Portland landed the Mississippi native with the 23rd overall pick. “When I first saw Travis Outlaw, I had serious concerns that he would ever make it as an NBA player,” said John Nash, who by then worked in Portland’s front office. “His stamina wasn’t very good. He did not shoot very well.” The pair never came close to reaching those lofty expectations, but bounced back from rocky NBA introductions to carve out sustainable NBA careers as role players.

  James Lang was the final high school player selected in the 2003 NBA draft. He was a gentle giant with a quick smile and a dream of one day playing in the NBA. He is now partially paralyzed, the victim of a massive stroke the day after Thanksgiving in 2009 that left him mostly incapable of talking.

  “It’s tough for him because he loves sports,” said Wanda Harris, Lang’s mother. “LeBron and everybody that he went to [the] McDonald’s [All-American Game] with, he sees them and that’s all he watches. They bonded and he’s always watching them. Can’t get their names out, but he said, ‘I know them.’ I know he knows them.”

  •••

  Dr. Levan Parker first noticed about half of James Lang as Lang approached the double doors, while Parker conducted Bible study with students at Birmingham’s Central Park Christian School. They are going to have to open both doors for this giant, Parker thought. Instead, Lang opened one and maneuvered his massive frame inside the room.

  Lang was not big. He was mammoth—probably the largest kid his age that Parker had ever seen. Lang stood 6 feet 10 inches and weighed nearly 400 pounds. He had already made a mark in basketball in two years at a high school in Mobile, but struggled academically. Wanda Harris wanted Lang to succeed in both school and basketball. She knew her son likely had a professional future in basketball. She also recognized that a sports career does not last forever. She had been recommended to Parker’s program by a friend. Parker was the school’s headmaster and basketball coach, both judge and jury, and a person Harris figured would be as concerned about Lang in the classroom as much as on the court.

  She allowed Lang to transfer schools and live with a host family. Harris offered Parker a warning before departing. “Sir, what I want you to know is that you have to monitor him all the time,” Harris warned Parker. “You have to check his shoes because he’ll hide candy in his shoes.” The request caught Parker off guard. He enjoyed pushing the game’s tempo to its limits by having his team guard the entire floor. He wondered if Lang could adapt to his style. He also was not going to inspect Lang’s shoes
. “You can call me Big Baby,” Lang informed Parker.

  “You don’t think I’m going to call you that, do you?” Parker asked.

  “Yes, I do,” Lang replied. “I got that name in kindergarten and I’m proud of it every day. I go home and my mom says I am a big baby and I am.”

  Parker decided that he would not cater to Lang. Lang would have to meet the team’s conditioning requirements, just like every other player. “I’ll give you a little time to get in shape and work on it,” Parker said. “But you’re going to do it. You can do it if you want to. You can drink all the Cokes that you want to, but you are going to make these times if you want to play.” Parker found Lang to be one of the nicest kids he had ever coached. Lang was innocent and quiet. His large frame hid a kid who seemed younger than his teenage years. Wanting to please his mother, Lang shed nearly 70 pounds the summer before his senior year of high school. He was still heavy and sometimes labored up the court, but he showed energy in sustainable spurts. He had soft hands and could maneuver in traffic. The results proved disastrous for opponents. College coaches started attending Lang’s games. Tubby Smith of Kentucky showed up. So did Rick Pitino, the Louisville coach. They were soon joined by NBA personnel. Lang heard he could make the jump straight to the NBA and started seriously contemplating the decision. He decided that it had been a lifetime goal. If he could reach it, why delay it?

  Lang knew he had much work left in improving his conditioning, diet, and play. Had Lang been drafted in the first round, he would have been the recipient of a three-year guaranteed contract and enough time to incubate properly. Instead, Lang landed at the Hornets in the second round with no guarantee of making the team. Tim Floyd had wound up coaching in New Orleans by then and could be excused if he had already had his fill of the high school experience following the disaster of introducing Tyson Chandler and Eddy Curry into the NBA and the Bulls organization. Bob Bass, the executive who drafted and traded Kobe Bryant in Charlotte, initially saw promise in Lang. But Bass came to the conclusion that Lang would not work himself onto the active roster anytime soon. Lang spent the first part of the season on the injured list before being released near Christmas. He played some minor league basketball and bounced around leagues in Spain, Canada, and elsewhere. The Atlanta Hawks and Toronto Raptors signed Lang to 10-day contracts, although he never made an appearance with either team. Fatigue and conditioning always held him back. Players talk about hitting a wall and pushing through it when they’re tired. Lang stopped when the wall hit him.

  In November 2006—more than three years after being drafted—Lang made his NBA debut for the Washington Wizards. He had been inactive for the team’s previous 13 games. He had only been in the team’s official uniform for the annual team picture. That November night, Lang did not expect to play against the Hawks. He was eating in the arena’s media room when a team staff member broke the news. Lang finished and put on his uniform. He did not play much—less than a minute. But his dream, even fleetingly, had been achieved. Lang played nearly 20 minutes in his next game, a mark that would serve as the high for his NBA career. The Wizards waived Lang in January. He later conceded that he ate himself out of the league by regularly consuming fast food before and after games.

  Lang kept dim hopes of a return flickering into 2009 when he signed with the Utah Flash of the NBA Development League. The Flash released him for what the organization described as “medical reasons.” He was not heavy—weighing about 280 pounds—but was constantly fatigued. A couple of trips up and down the court tired him out. Brad Jones, the Flash’s coach, told the Washington Times that Lang’s heart had tested abnormally and he had high blood pressure.

  Lang suffered a massive stroke in November while celebrating Thanksgiving at his grandmother’s home in Alabama. Doctors did not know whether he would survive the night. Blood was coagulating throughout his body.

  •••

  Wanda Harris remained practical in a stressful situation. Her family called her tough and that may be an understatement. Harris said that, following the stroke, Lang had “one [clot] on his brain the size of a softball. He had one on his heart. He had them all the way down his side.”

  The doctor, Harris said, cried when he learned Lang was only 26 years old. He had a son the same age. “Look, you need to get yourself together,” Harris recalled telling him. She asked for another doctor. Joseph, her husband, stepped outside the room at the Mobile Infirmary Medical Center to compose himself. Wanda Harris told him to be strong. She went window-shopping, possessing that much faith that her son would survive. “Our job is when we get home,” she told her family. “Y’all go ahead on. The nurses got him. They’ll call me.”

  Lang survived and is still recovering. A colon cleanse, designed to accelerate weight loss, and Lang’s failure to take his blood pressure medicine, likely contributed to the stroke.

  The NBA riches that Lang had hoped for never materialized. Life had to go on for Wanda Harris as it had all along. She still had other children to raise. Lang enjoys watching basketball and has a girlfriend who spends hours with him. The family harbored few regrets about Lang’s basketball experience. They felt as though they did not take any shortcuts and Lang did everything he could for his career. They could have taken shortcuts when the colleges came to recruit Lang, Wanda Harris said.

  “At that time my husband was ill, they had certain doctors that they could get him recommended to. Our vehicle wasn’t working…” Harris said about the offers from some college coaches. She declined to specify from which schools.

  “That’s just not who we are. My husband and I, stuff don’t make us, we make stuff,” Harris said. “That didn’t impress us…I guess they feel like if you’re poor and you’re black you’re just going to jump for the win. No.” The agent the family hired, Tony Dutt, treated Lang like a member of his own family, Harris said. It was up to Lang to produce. “It’s common sense,” Harris said. “If McDonald’s hired you to be a manager, you’re going to have to do what the franchise said to do. If you don’t do that, they’re going to get rid of you. It doesn’t matter how many times they call your name and call you Big Baby and showboat you around. It’s business at the end of the day.”

  Harris did acknowledge one change she would have made. “I would’ve told him, though, that he couldn’t go to the NBA, that he had to do two years in college,” she said. “I would’ve declined [to let any NBA coaches come] to see him. That’s what I would’ve done, but he had to make some decisions by himself.”

  •••

  That reflection is one arrived at through the passage of time.

  Earl Smith Jr. offered a contrasting stance when his son contemplated the same decision.

  Smith’s son, J. R. Smith, entered the 2004 McDonald’s All-American Game known more as a local talent in New Jersey than a national phenom. At the All-Star Game, J. R. Smith buried several long shots to score 25 points and claim co-MVP honors with Dwight Howard at the Ford Center in Oklahoma City. Smith decided soon after to pass on his college commitment to North Carolina and enter the NBA draft. Smith Jr. had played college basketball in New Jersey. The way he saw it, the longer a prospect remained in college, the more his draft stock sank. “Come out of high school and [you’re] in the top thirty of the NBA draft,” he said. “You go to college, you get exposed. Now, you’re out of the draft. You’ve got to get to the money when you can go and make a few million dollars without doing that manual labor. You can get an education later. I know how hard it is. I worked a long time to even try and make a million dollars. It don’t come easy.”

  J. R. Smith was part of a landmark class of high school–to–pro players. The New Orleans Hornets took him 18th overall as one of 8 high school players drafted within the first 19 selections. Howard, a tall prospect from Georgia, headlined the class, becoming the third high school player taken first overall in four years when the Orlando Magic tapped him over Emeka Okafor, a proven college player. Howard immediately showed his promise as a rookie. Th
e rest of the class stumbled early on—some never recovered to sustain their NBA careers. In New Orleans, Jim Cleamons served as an assistant coach on Byron Scott’s staff. As a player, Cleamons helped propel the 1972 Lakers to a championship as a reliable defender, following a collegiate career spent at Ohio State. He advanced to coaching, sitting on Phil Jackson’s benches in Chicago and Los Angeles. Cleamons said it was nearly impossible for a high school player to properly understand the NBA’s ebb and flow, both on and off the court. He watched, and often tried to step between, J. R. Smith and Scott as they bickered over playing time and work habits.

  “There’s so much about the game that they do not understand, that you cannot tell them that they don’t understand because it’s basketball and they’ve been playing basketball since they were in elementary school,” Cleamons said. “But they haven’t played it at this level against grown men who they haven’t heard about and don’t have any respect for, but are actually pretty good, even though they are not All-Star, marquee players. You’ve got a young kid straight out of high school trying to run around and negotiate screens, fight around picks. They’ve never been attacked that way on the defensive end. They’ve always been the guy who’s been getting the screens set for them.

  “It’s not J.R. It’s the system,” Cleamons continued. “We’re talking out of both sides of our mouths and they’re caught in the middle because they are impressionable because they want to play and they want approval. We want to talk about them doing things and then when it doesn’t happen, we want to throw them under the bus and say, ‘They haven’t done this. They haven’t done that.’ Well, is it their fault? Or is it the way we teach them? Is it our expectation of what we want from them? When I say we, I’m talking about the coaches. And then, you’ve got to go back to the agents. What are the agents telling them? What are the general managers saying in contract negotiations? What are the people they trusted growing up telling them? What are Mom and Dad telling them behind the scenes? What are girlfriends and wives talking about when they show their rings and coats and what they’re driving? It’s the whole kit and kaboodle. It’s pure, unadulterated American capitalism on one hand versus coaches trying to win ball games and championships, and the kids are caught in the middle.”