Play Their Hearts Out Read online

  “That’s Monica DeAngelis,” Keller told the younger coach. “Her dad is smart playing her against boys. She’ll be in the WNBA someday.”

  The last line was a definitive statement; most of what came out of Keller’s mouth was not up for discussion, not that the young coach would have disagreed. He was clearly deferential and at one point folded his arms in front of his chest and widened his stance, striking the same pose as Keller. Talk turned to the point guard for the team from Orange County, an Asian kid with whom the coach was clearly impressed.

  “He’s killing people,” the coach said. “You like him?”

  “I don’t do Asians,” Keller responded quickly, as if he’d anticipated the question.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Asians don’t get tall enough. That kid is fast, sure, but how tall is he going to be? Not tall enough.”

  The young coach wasn’t sure Keller was serious. “That kid is blowing by everybody, Joe. You wouldn’t want him on your team?”

  “Nope. I don’t do Asians.”

  Keller liked the way that sounded and that he was enlightening a younger colleague. The guard again broke free for a layup, and Keller looked at the coach and while shaking his head said, “Still … no Asians.”

  One could sense the young coach taking notes in his head. He next brought up the portly center on the Orange County team, the tallest player on the court. This prompted a dismissive glance from Keller that suggested he had never heard a dumber question in his thirty years.

  “That kid’s a truck. He can barely move. Look at his legs. They’re stumps. He’ll be lucky if he ends up six foot two. If that kid was on my team, I’d tell his parents they needed to think about switching him to football.”

  As if on cue, the chubby kid missed a layup while alone under the basket and then knocked the ball out of bounds while trying to rebound his own miss.

  “That kid might be retarded,” Keller said, laughing, and he segued into a story. Six months earlier, in a tournament near San Diego, Keller’s team had faced an opponent that included a center who was mentally disabled. “I mean, he was wearing a helmet. I’m serious. A fucking helmet. A couple times, my guys blocked his shot into the stands.” Keller laughed vigorously for several moments, clapping his hands in front of him as if impersonating an alligator’s bite. “What kind of coach sends a retarded kid out there? Why do that to a kid?”

  There were only seconds left in the game, and Keller fell silent as Monica’s team tried for the winning score. Coming off a high screen, she got free on the right wing for a clear, albeit distant, look at the basket. Her body scrunched downward like a jack-in-the-box; the elbow on her right arm dipped so low it seemed to touch her knee. She then sprang up and slightly forward in one sudden motion—more of a heave than a release—and it seemed unlikely a decent shot would emerge from such an ungraceful motion. Yet the result was a high-arcing shot with silky backspin. Monica hopped a little on her left foot as the ball floated toward the rim, and for a moment it looked good. But the ball grazed the front of the rim and rattled within the hoop before bouncing out.

  As the Orange County team celebrated, Monica put her hand to her forehead and rubbed down her damp brown hair. She bent at the waist and placed her hands on her knees, staying there even as the next two teams to play circled the court, beginning their warm-ups. One of those teams, the Arizona Stars, wore white uniforms, and its players were a mishmash of gangly and squat, black and white, athletic and awkward. In short, they were a team of children, not unlike the two squads that had finished playing moments before. The other team, the Inland Stars, was something else. Every boy was African American, and they were bigger and taller. From just watching them circle the court twice, it was clear none possessed the clumsiness one associates with rapidly growing boys. They wore black warm-ups over black uniforms and black shoes, an intimidating ensemble that contributed to my first impression: There was no way they were in the same age group as the other team.

  As Keller’s team divided into two lines for a layup drill, one of the tallest players broke ranks and walked over to where Monica stood. She was still bent over, despondent over her miss, and at first she didn’t notice him. He placed his hand on her back and she looked up. He said something only she could hear and pointed toward the basket, as if to show her how close her shot had come to going in. Monica straightened up and put her hands on her hips, listening as the tall boy, who wore number 23, went on. He was smiling the whole time, a wide smile that flattened his thick top lip, and he continually shifted his weight back and forth. Finally the boy said something and Monica shook her head, as if shaking off the defeat, and then she smiled too. The boy stuck out his right hand and Monica slapped it. Mission accomplished, he pivoted on his left foot and literally jumped away from her, bouncing back into line with his teammates.

  Keller had pointed this boy out earlier. His name was Demetrius Walker, and Keller spared no hyperbole in describing his abilities. He was “the best ten-year-old in the country,” so good “he could start for most high school teams right now,” and “an NBA first-rounder for sure.” This was the boy Keller believed would be better than Tyson Chandler, the child who would bring him success and riches.

  At first glance Demetrius appeared to be unique. He had a large head and well-defined cheekbones, which could be evidence that he was taller and more athletic than other boys only because he matured earlier. But his arms, shoulders, chest, and legs were those of a prepubescent boy, smooth and lacking definition. Unlike his teammates, he didn’t let his shorts sag to his knees. He pulled them up to his true waist, and that gave the impression that his legs bypassed his hips and connected directly to his chest. His arms were unusually long, and one could imagine opposing coaches describing him as a kid who was “all arms and legs.” In other words, he looked like a kid with a lot of growing left to do. There were other indicators I learned about later, such as his shoe size (14) and the height of his relatives (his mom was six foot one, his uncle six foot eight), but at first I was not sure how to judge his potential. Few endeavors are less exact than trying to forecast athletic greatness in still-developing children. Keller might have unearthed something special, but how could anyone say for sure?

  Keller sidled up to me as Demetrius and the rest of the Inland Stars continued their warm-ups. Away from the young coach he’d been schooling, Keller’s demeanor changed. “Look, I don’t know how we are going to play today,” he began. He said the boys had been lethargic in practice the day before and a few were nursing minor injuries. He alerted me to a player he’d recently added to the team, a smallish guard named LaBradford Franklin. “The kid’s got balls, but he is a year younger than my guys.”

  His remarks felt sincere—as if he was providing important information—but also calculated. He badly wanted me to see Demetrius and his players as he did, to validate his beliefs, but he was also ready with a bagful of excuses just in case I didn’t. With the game about to start, Keller left me with one final caveat: “I know what you are going to say after the game, and so I’m saying now: Please don’t say I’m crazy like Bobby Knight. I know that is what you’re gonna think, but don’t say it.”

  Just before the start, the Inland Stars gathered in a circle around Keller in front of their bench. As he spoke, he scowled and punched downward, as if he were hammering a nail with his clenched fist. “Take their hearts out!” he shouted. “Take their fucking hearts out!” His words reverberated around the gym, and no one—not his wife, Violet, who sat near the door, or the little kids playing under the bleachers—could have missed his directive. Apparently, Keller didn’t see the rules painted high on the west and east walls of the gym, one of which read:

  Many different age levels use the gym and Community Center. Please consider your language—No Profanity.

  Most of the Inland Stars had their heads down as Keller spoke, but Demetrius looked down the court, sizing up the Arizona Stars. They had two guards who looked athletic but oth
erwise didn’t match up. This was most obvious when Demetrius stood facing their center for the opening tip. They were the same height, but the Arizona center had chunky legs accentuated by white socks pulled up to his knees. When the referee stepped between them and tossed the ball skyward, the center didn’t (or couldn’t) jump and just tried to swat at the ball. Demetrius exploded off the floor, getting to the ball more than a foot above the Arizona player’s hand. He tapped the ball to a teammate, who cruised in for an uncontested score.

  Keller’s team set up in a half-court trapping defense, and as the Arizona Stars inbounded the ball, he jumped up and down, screaming something incomprehensible even from where I sat fifteen feet behind him. Whatever he said, it was clearly a command for the top two players in the press to trap the ball handler. His players reacted instantly to his barks, moving toward the opposing guard with such speed that they overwhelmed him. He panicked and aimed a pass across the court to a teammate, but Demetrius stepped in front of it and walked in for a layup. The next two possessions ended with similar results, and I began to wonder if Arizona would ever get the ball across half-court.

  Despite his team’s immediate dominance, Keller screamed nonstop, reacting negatively to almost everything. If one of his players missed a shot, even if it was a good attempt, Keller berated him. If an Arizona player made a miracle 3-pointer, Keller went ballistic. He reacted so strongly to perceived mistakes that he lunged forward as if he were going to run onto the court, grab one of his players by the jersey, and rip him out of the game.

  After one of his forwards missed a jump shot from the baseline, Keller stomped his feet and screamed, “Goddammit, Rome!”

  After the Inland Stars’ point guard failed to see Demetrius open in the post and instead launched a long shot that missed, Keller wiped his face with his hands and shouted, “Drew, you’re an idiot!”

  After LaBradford turned the ball over, he bellowed, “Jesus Christ!” and turned and directed a cross look toward LaBradford’s father in the stands.

  This was all in the first four minutes of the game.

  After each of those supposed mistakes, Keller pulled that player and substituted another. He ran players to the scorer’s table so frequently, it became difficult to keep track of who was in the game. It was something I had never seen before: a coach who thought his team should never miss a shot, never give up a score, and never commit a foul. Even Bob Knight wasn’t that unreasonable.

  At the end of the opening quarter, with his team leading 18–5, Keller told his players, “Pathetic effort right there. Get a drink and sit down.”

  With his team ahead 33–13 late in the second quarter, Keller was whistled for a technical foul after running three steps onto the floor (toward a referee) while protesting a reaching foul.

  Throughout the game, the officials reminded him to stay on the sidelines, and after each warning he snarled. “Pay attention to the game, not me!” he yelled at one official. Later, “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  Near the end of the third quarter, the Inland Stars led 52–26 and it was clear the Arizona players were beaten; they even fought over who had to bring the ball up against the press. On one possession, however, Arizona was able to get the ball across the midline and settled into an offensive set. It was such a rare occurrence that the game slowed down and the possession took on an air of importance.

  The Arizona guards swung the ball around the perimeter a few times before it ended up in the hands of the bulky center with the white socks. He was on the right side, his back to the basket and Demetrius. He slowly inched closer to the hoop by slamming his butt into Demetrius, whom he outweighed by at least thirty pounds, and then backing into the space created when Demetrius flew backward. It was a graceless three-stage motion—dribble, slam, back step—but effective. The Arizona center had started twelve feet from the hoop but butted his way to within a few feet. He then bumped Demetrius one more time and spun to his left, pushing up a shot while Demetrius was still falling backward.

  With Demetrius off balance and out of position, this seemed a rare moment when an Arizona player would find success. But Demetrius sprang upward, not toward the Arizona center but slightly away from him, going with the inertia created from the bump he’d received. It was an odd scene—he jumped away from the ball—but he elevated so high and his reach was so long that he still managed to get the tips of his fingers on the shot, redirecting it upward. The ball lingered in the air between him and the Arizona center, and it appeared as if Demetrius had only given his opponent an easier shot. The bulky center would surely collect the ball and, as Demetrius descended, lay it in unobstructed. But as the Arizona player set himself to jump, Demetrius was somehow back in the air, corralling the ball with his left hand. Before the Arizona center knew what had happened, Demetrius had touched down, gone back up, and grabbed the ball, and then suddenly was on the ground again, turning up the floor.

  The game had been played predominantly on Arizona’s side of the court, and I hadn’t had an opportunity to see Demetrius run the floor. He burst forward, breaking from a crowd around the basket with three dribbles and three long strides that put him near midcourt so quickly that only two Arizona defenders were able to get in front of him. Demetrius met the first defender after one more stride and simply pushed the ball to the left, a redirection of only a few degrees that befuddled the Arizona guard. By the time the guard reached for the ball, Demetrius was already past him. The final defender, another smallish guard, saw this and slid over, hoping to push Demetrius far to the left and buy enough time for other defenders to get back and cut him off. But Demetrius sliced sharply to the right, cross-dribbling the ball so close to his body that he reared up a little to avoid running into it. The move so surprised the Arizona defender that his legs crossed and he fell backward to the ground.

  All that was left was the finish, and Demetrius didn’t disappoint. Just inside the key, he jumped off two feet and twisted his body a little so he attacked the basket straightaway. He rolled the ball into the hoop when the fingers on his right hand were only a few inches from the rim.

  To see a ten-year-old block a shot when he was out of position, retrieve the ball when others had a better line on it, and maneuver upcourt with such agility and speed—it was startling. Keller spun around and looked at me as Demetrius laid the ball in. He raised his chin a little and, though I tried not to react, he saw something in my eyes that delighted him. He clapped his hands as he turned back to the game, just in time to bark out orders as an Arizona Stars guard inbounded the ball.

  The Inland Stars didn’t give up a basket in the fourth quarter and won 80–26. After the teams shook hands, I approached the Arizona coach. I wanted to get his opinion of Demetrius, and I thought two of his guards had played reasonably well and guessed he’d like to hear a compliment after a rough defeat. “If you think my guards played well, then something is wrong with your eyes,” the coach said, and he huffed away.

  As Keller addressed his team behind one bench, I walked toward the exit, where Violet sat behind a metal folding table. She took the admission (four dollars for adults, three for kids) and carefully placed the money in a small metal lockbox, knowing exactly how much more she needed to make the $795 rent on their 750-square foot apartment. Also on the table were Gatorades and Skittles she sold for a dollar apiece. Violet had long, straight brown hair and a round face and brown skin and, on this Saturday afternoon, dark circles under her brown eyes. She had been at the gym since 7:00 a.m. setting up for the tournament, which Keller organized and tabbed the Super Showcase. Tournaments such as this were the family’s primary source of income, which didn’t sit well with Violet—her father, who was born in Mexicali, had worked at the same company for twenty-two years—but she was a dutiful wife. Asked if she was a basketball fan, she thought for a minute and then answered in carefully chosen words: “I would say I’m still learning to like basketball.”

  A beaming Keller found me a few moments later. When he was still ten f
eet away, he clapped vigorously and shouted, “Now you see it, now you see it. Is Demetrius the real deal or what?”

  I shrugged, not sure how to respond. Keller stopped short and slowly looked me up and down. “You’re crazy if you can’t see it.” He folded his arms and waited for me to say something. After a few long seconds, when he realized a compliment wasn’t forthcoming, he broke into a wry smile and started nodding. “Okay, I see how it’s gonna be. Now I see how it’s gonna be. Well … you need to come with us to Portland, then. There is a tournament there with some of the best teams on the West Coast. Come to Portland and you’ll see. After that, if you don’t believe, well, then something is wrong with you.”

  2

  Kisha Houston and her son, Demetrius Walker

  Demetrius grabbed a ball and walked outside the 3-point line on the left side of the court. He wiped the bottoms of his shoes—a white Adidas model called Bromium II—with his hands and began mashing the ball into his right palm, rotating it slightly the way a sculptor does when working a piece of clay. As he searched for a good grip, his teammates moved to the outer edges of the court, creating a clear line to the hoop.

  The gym at a middle school on the outskirts of Portland had two levels. On the upper court a game was in full swing; a referee’s whistle and the occasional cheers from the crowd echoed throughout the gym. On the lower court, the Inland Stars warmed up before their game against Seattle Rotary Select. Their parents sat in the stands against one wall, looking tired from their flights into Portland late the previous night. Among them was Kisha Houston, Demetrius’s mother, and she entertained the others with a description of her airline experience. “I’m afraid to fly, so when they closed the doors, I wanted to scream, ‘Get me off of this thing!’ ” She spoke loudly and raised her right hand for emphasis, as if she swore her words were true. “No, I mean, I was really afraid. When the plane took off, I was sure that thing was going to crash.” Other parents talked of delays and nearly missed flights, but then Demetrius retrieved a ball and slowly walked seven steps from the basket and everyone went quiet.