1.

Looking Back

Today

 

The past doesn’t just birth the present. It colors or darkens it. Nurtures or neglects it. Clarifies or muddles it. Magnifies or diminishes it. Inspires or dulls it. Reflecting upon and coming to terms with my story, set in the past, has colored, nurtured, clarified, magnified, and inspired who I am today, what the events of the 1990–91 school year shaped me to become.

Make no mistake, this is my story even though it gets set into motion and becomes weightier with the recruitment of T.R. Ward, a top collegiate basketball prospect. T.R. remains quite capable of telling his own story.

The 1994 movie Blue Chips featured cameos by real hoop- sters Shaquille O’Neal, Larry Bird, Penny Hardaway, and Kev- in Garnett. Famous college coaches appearing included Jerry Tarkanian, Rick Pitino, Bobby Knight, Jim Boeheim, and Dick Vitale. The Nick Nolte film depicted a world in which the best college recruits, Blue Chip prospects, fell under the sway of unscrupulous parasites. As my tale tells, college athletics had already become big business at the expense of those involved and the sport’s promises of equitable play.

The label “Blue Chip” emerged with a nod to blue poker chips, typically the most valuable. Companies and stocks earned Blue Chip designation when recognized as having a history of sound financial performance, weathering market storms and yielding high returns. The equivalent high school basketball recruits promised to make lesser basketball programs signifi- cant and perpetuate more renowned ones. If an open market existed to procure their talents, they’d have been high-priced commodities.

T.R. Ward, a heavily recruited student-athlete at LaSalle High School in Sacramento, became one of California’s first Blue Chip prospects.

Not surprisingly, though not as sophisticated as today’s re- cruitment of athletes, legal and illegal, unsavory manipulation existed throughout the 1980s. Americans during that decade, after all, responded to President Ronald Reagan’s business-first attitude that led to economic expansion and booms but also excesses and crises. Deregulation, scandals, and insider trad- ing emerged from that time’s Wild West, anything-goes view of reality in money circles and life. By 1990–91, the notion of “following the money” had become explicitly tied to sports at all levels.

1994’s Blue Chips did a fair job, albeit primarily from a coach’s point of view, of capturing a sporting world transitioning to today’s norm where our most powerful sporting leagues get sponsored by gambling sites. My story, with the perspective of the intervening years, provides a historical insight into how we got to today’s recruiting world. In our time, big-time col- legiate prospects play for high school basketball prep schools/ programs promising to fast-track participants to college schol- arships and benefits and, ultimately, professional basketball careers.

Today’s Blue Chip prospects blatantly get financially recruit- ed. They can legally weigh offers of financial incentives, “play for pay,” provided by boosters and other entities even beyond the control of academic institutions. The recent approval of NIL (the acronym stands for name, image, likeness) allows com- pensation paid to N.C.A.A. student-athletes to “promote, part- ner, or represent brands.”

The NIL approval by the N.C.A.A., and even the Supreme Court, allows so-called student-athletes to get paid for provid- ing autographs, developing their own merchandise, promoting products or services, and appearing at events, all as a result of their personal celebrity. High school kids can now initiate their own brands, endorse brands, and become their own brands. In a sense, they become like branded cattle, another expensive commodity, even when they think they’re controlling every- thing.

Where did it start?

Was T.R. Ward nothing but a commodity? Did some of the rest of us in this story, even more unwittingly, become commod- ities also, recruited by various people, in the thrall of various causes and values, without realizing it?

After decades of teaching high school English at LaSalle, I’ve decided the time’s right to tell my unvarnished story. Not just along for the ride during this story’s events, I saw hopes, relationships, and values change dramatically. This narrative, told from the third person point-of-view I embraced after discov- ering New Journalism, discloses the unfolding story of how I, and others, also became Blue Chip prospects, if often unknow- ingly, along with T.R. Ward.

2.

Late May

Junior Year

 

The LaSalle Lance trumpeted the return of basketball to cam- pus after a two-month absence:

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Cagers Prep for Summer League By: Patrick Kiernan

While most Sacramento youth sweltered under the hundred- degree sun at the American River or Folsom Lake, next year’s edition of the LaSalle Lancers basketball team sweated under the watchful eyes of veteran coach Jerry Burke at Brother Arnold Gymnasium.

The Lancers, led by T.R. Ward, a major college Blue Chip prospect, are fresh off of a campaign that saw them finish sec- ond regionally. Many pundits predict a berth in next year’s state championship game at the Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum Arena.

Burke’s arduous end-of-the-school-year workouts prep- ping for the City Summer League are the first steps toward that goal.

Coach Burke, while downplaying his team’s prospects, sees this time as valuable. He noted, “C.I.F. state rules don’t allow organized practices after school’s out until November. Kids will work out on their own during summer and the first wo months of the school year. These last couple practices before summer will focus us on the team concept so that everyone learns his role. Also, players taking the minutes of graduating seniors can get acclimated.”

Burke can’t coach the independent summer league team but will leave it up to his players to reinforce the concepts and principles they’re learning these last few school days while improving individual skills.

An improvement by Ward, who averaged 21.2 points per game while sweeping nine rebounds a game, will make him a potential All-American. Many colleges, judging by his mail, have already placed him on their most wanted lists.

LaSalle loses two seniors, Tim Roan and Wallace Banks. The Lancers, however, should more than compensate with talent up from the champion J.V. squad.

“I feel good about our prospects,” said Coach Burke. “Still, we have to pay attention to details, not get affected by hype, and ward off outside influences,” he concluded, chuckling at using T.R.’s name in a different context.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

The LaSalle Lancers, sporting club jerseys, albeit with the green and white colors of the school run by the Christian Brothers, a Catholic teaching order, shot the ball up court so fast it might have been a pinball. T.R. Ward, the Lancers’ awesome center, took the last crisp pass, soared toward the hoop, and jammed the ball as effortlessly as a kid dumping a rolled-up paper into a garbage can. Though no crowd cheered and no scoreboard numbers spun, the players knew they had reached toward the perfection Coach Burke sought.

Burke blew his whistle. The veteran leader understood the value of ending practice on the right note. The quick, pinpoint passes and final rip through the net by the man on whom for- tune would rest made this seem like midseason.

Burke glanced at his watch as T.R. strutted alongside at mid-court. “C’mon, Coach. Can’t get better. That’s a ten.”

Burke smiled. His troops knew he glanced at his watch for their benefit, but he had a different game in mind. His loud, raspy voice rose from somewhere around the sox on his short, hairy legs. “Okay, Tony. Intended to end ten minutes early, but you haven’t even worked up a sweat.” T.R., mopping his brow with the bottom of his warmup jersey, stopped abruptly. “What d’ya say, guys?” Burke raised his voice to make sure all heard. “You have as much energy left as the big fella?”

Mock groans echoed throughout the small gym, but T.R. controlled the situation. This was his team. The two seniors were at graduation practice. T.R. needn’t worry about over- shadowing upperclassmen, though his skills had done so for two years. This was truly his team, even during practice. Burke enjoyed the exchange, which gave notice his once-shy super- star intended to lead, even if his leadership manifested itself by ribbing the coach at the end of a relatively insignificant workout.

“C’mon, Coach, gotta get home to study for finals. We flunk out, we won’t be around to make you look smart.”

“Sounds like you’re the smart guy, Ward,” Burke snapped, his grin betraying his tone. “Tell you what,” he addressed the youngster who towered a foot above him, “let’s bring back an old tradition. You get one free throw. Make it, practice ends. Miss it, we do baselines.”

“Baselines,” T.R. shrieked. “You’re gonna kill us.” The two straddled the mid-court line. Other team members, with some- thing at stake personally, gathered around.

“Course, you could have somebody else shoot.” Burke’s needle was well placed. T.R., 6’8” and 235 pounds, devastated oppo- nents near the basket. Moreover, his jump shot improved all through his junior year so that he stroked the ball well from within twenty feet. He dribbled like a pro, ran like a deer on the break, and willingly passed like a guard. But free throws?

T.R. had hit 68% during the year. Respectable for a big man, but not a sure thing.

“Baselines! Not fair.” Anybody on the team might have shout- ed it. The notorious conditioning drill—starting under the basket and sprinting to a line a quarter way down the court, then back, halfway down the court and back, three-quarters of the way down the court and back, and finally full court and back— must have been a drill sergeant’s innovation. Baselines after practice were like studying the minute a test ended.

“’Course it’s fair,” LaSalle’s captain refuted as he strode toward the free throw line at the far end of the gym. The oth- er players clammed up. Even Sammie Spear, the feisty little guard who had grown up with T.R. on Sacramento’s rough South side, knew better than to open his mouth. Ward played to his teammates: “If Loyola Marymount’s Bo Kimble could hit a free throw lefthanded in this year’s N.C.A.A. tourney game to honor teammate Hank Gathers, who died on the court a few weeks before, I can nail this one. T.R. in the clutch. Let’s do it!” Burke loved it. 

T.R. wasn’t going to back down. Pressure now would make pressure more easily handled in-season. Make or miss, the team would coalesce behind their captain. Burke sprinted ahead of T.R., like a ref preparing a technical foul shot. “What about Larry or Sammie shooting? Same stakes. They hit about eighty percent.”

No answer. T.R. approached the line. Burke bounced him a ball. The rest of the team followed respectfully behind their coach and star as if afraid to get in T.R.’s line of fire.

“I make it, we split, right?” “One shot. It’s on the line.”

T.R. cradled the ball in his coffee-colored palms. He bounced the ball a few times. The rat-tat-tat echoed like gun fire through the still gym. “Bet them recruiters love this.” T.R. jerked his head in the direction of the other end of the gym.

“Yeah, my man,” Burke acknowledged. “You up for it?”

T.R. breathed deeply and sighted the basket. His right toes played with the free throw line. The ball shot toward the basket and nudged a little iron but found mostly net. Thudding to the floor under the basket, it split the silence like a drum starting a parade. T.R.’s shouting teammates practically carried him the short distance to the dressing room. Ward grinned widely as the team jostled past Burke. “Had it all the way, Coach. Gotta believe,” he enthused.

“A good bounce, Tony,” Burke joked, looking like a loser but feeling like a winner. “Now get showered, all of you. And go hit the books. I got to talk to a few people.”

“Helluva way to end practice, Coach,” the recruiter ap- proached, hand held out.

“Not bad at all,” Burke’s enthusiasm bubbled over now that the kids had departed. “We should be pretty fair next season,” he downplayed.

“Mike. Mike Webber. Met you at the coaching clinic down the Peninsula. Webber,” Like a politician, Webber pumped Burke’s hand. “Webber,” he repeated. “Webfeet. Oregon Ducks. Oregon Webfeet. Easy to remember.” Burke didn’t. “The kids seemed pretty happy,” Webber waved toward the dressing room from where laughter and loud talk spilled out. “Cripes, that Ward’s a stud. Handled pressure well too.”

“Hi, Jerry.” Carl Schipper, reporter for The Sacramento Star, the only daily paper covering prep sports in depth in the area for years, knew he was doing Burke a favor by cutting in on the conversation. “Let’s talk. I’m considering a big offseason piece on your team. The Monarch and Trib are trying to horn in on our turf when they realized the story your team might be.”

“Sure, Carl.” Burke, who didn’t suffer fools or college reps

gladly, appreciated the gesture. “Mr. Webber. It was Mr. Webber, right?” Burke needled.

“Yeah, Webber,” the nattily dressed young man echoed. “I’ll introduce you to Brother Curt, our Dean of Discipline.”

Burke ushered the visitor to the entranceway of the gym, en- gulfed by the presence of a burly, thirtyish African American wearing a flowing back robe set off by a white collar in the shape of Ten Commandment stones. “Brother Curt, meet Mr. Webfoot from the University of Oregon. I think he’s looking for some good LaSalle students. Specifically, Ward. He probably heard what a good student he is. That right?” Burke wheeled toward Webber, already pumping the hand of the Christian Brother while correcting his name.

“Yeah, a few minutes,” Webber stammered.

“Can you introduce him when T.R. comes out? Give him a few minutes before Tony goes home to study. I have to talk with Carl.”

“Gotcha,” Brother Curt boomed. “The other kids too. At La- Salle, we do things as a team.” Students called Brother Curt “the enforcer” for good reason, not the least being his imposing appearance. He dealt with all discipline matters in the school. Firm but fair, he commanded instant respect and, from some, a bit of intimidation.

“That’d be great.” Webber looked beaten. “Thanks, Coach.

See you around. During the season.”

Burke didn’t have his own office in the gym. Despite nine- teen seasons and three hundred and forty-seven career wins, he accepted LaSalle’s Spartan facilities. He moved to shower and change in the Athletic Director’s Office, which during any basketball activity was his, in practice if not in name. “Thanks, Carl. Thought I was stuck with the guy. C’mon in.” He turned the key to unlock the door of the tiny office.

“Those guys get to you, don’t they?”

“Yeah. Cookie cutter types. Young. Handsome. Wearing big people clothes. Really, like butchers examining sides of beef. Users.”

“A job, Jerry,” Schipper soothed. “A tough one. You know the pressure on college programs. Produce. Right now. Instant success. Like the world of business and investing. These guys making initial contacts have the toughest job.”

“Contact, sure, but recruiting’s a plague. Then the big sharks, the coaches with reputations, come in for the kill.” Burke kicked his shoes off.

“What better way? Public school coaches, administrators, and alums think you guys and Loyola do the same with ele- mentary school kids, attracting guys like Ward.”

“You know we don’t recruit illegally, Carl.”

“No need. Your reputation recruits for you. Still, with the colleges, schools try to keep it clean, but it’s impossible. Kids love the attention. God, some of the kids haven’t had it so good.” “Tell me!” Burke jerked his sweatshirt off. “I’ve walked with these kids for years. We need to keep them away from the wrong people.”

Schipper fidgeted. “Looked good today. Sammie was really moving the break.” He knew Burke would appreciate the men- tion of another Lancer besides T.R. Though clearly realizing Ward’s talent and potential, Burke had built his reputation molding great teams without superstars.

“Yeah, off the record, a good chance to win it all next year. It’s a good class, even beyond the team.” Burke also taught So- cial Studies at LaSalle. “The whole chemistry’s right if outside influences don’t screw it up. Tony’s sensitive. I don’t want him hurt. It would hurt us all.” Burke stepped gingerly around the corner toward the shower stall. Schipper amused himself by paging through the completed season’s Lancer Press Guide.

“This guide was impressive,” Schipper offered when Burke returned while toweling off.

“Yeah,” Burke replied absently while dressing, “good talent there too. Kiernan did most of it with advice from our English/ Journalism guy, Wilson. Kiernan’s a great kid.”

“I know. Hate to tell you, but I’m recruiting too. I want to offer the kid a job.”

“Summer job?”

“Yeah. School year too. Sort of an internship, but paid. A great parttime job and a real break for him. Hear from Wilson that the money wouldn’t hurt either, with his mom raising him by herself. He told me he thought Patrick would love it. Any objections?”

“You too hustling kids?” Schipper flipped the pages of the suddenly closed guide, feeling like a player Burke was ques- tioning after a bonehead play, though it was just a courtesy running the hire by Burke.

The coach’s frown turned to a smile as Schipper looked up. “Just kidding, Carl. Sounds great for Patrick. Wilson has him set up on a special schedule so he can still help us next school year. I think he’s getting an independent study besides his regular newspaper class and all his A.P. classes. Sort of assistant S.I.D.”

“Didn’t know you had a Sports Information Director,” Schipper boomed, feeling as if he had just wriggled off a hook. “Don’t. Just a lot of assistants working together. Wilson did

a lot this year and will again next year. Even Brother Charles realizes we’ll be in the spotlight next season. He’s freed Wilson from moderator duties and one class to give him more time to work on publications and public relations. And Kiernan can help a lot, even if he’s writing for you after school.”

“Sounds great. Patrick can handle it. His writing’s impressive. I’ll talk to him. Saw him watching out there.”

“Probably waiting for Tony,” Burke combed his hair. “They’re in charge of planning the traditional end-of-the-year dance tomorrow night. A rite of passage for the rest of the student body as the juniors replace graduating seniors as leaders.”

Schipper stood up, putting the Guide aside. “They good friends?”

“Yeah. This school usually works well at bringing kids from different backgrounds together. Maybe we’re not the brain factory that Loyola is, but …”

“Except for the coaching staff,” Schipper interrupted.

Burke chuckled. “C’mon, Carl. You already got what you came for.” Burke tossed his wadded-up towel into a basket as he often had his opponents over the years. “We get smarter kids than fifteen years ago, but that’s not the main thing. You see a white kid like Patrick, into writing and literature, and a guy lke Tony, Mr. Popularity, the school athlete,” he pronounced the word with reverence, “and they get along well and make each other better. I’m proud I’ve spent my career here.”

Schipper pondered offers Burke had supposedly entertained to move to the collegiate level as an assistant after his initial years of coaching. Next year’s club would surely bring him back into the limelight if that’s what he really wanted. Maybe even a shot at being a collegiate head coach. “Should be quite a year, Coach. Can’t wait.”

Outside, Burke moved to check on Webber as Schipper spot- ted Patrick Kiernan, changed out of school attire and sporting a red GAP pocket-T over white gym shorts and his knock-off white Vans. “How ya’ doing, Patrick?” Schipper greeted. Though he was in his thirties, Schipper’s rumpled look, his unpressed khakis and faded Sacramento Kings sweatshirt, made him look like an old-time newspaperman.

“Hey, Mr. Schipper. Not bad. Good practice, huh?” Patrick stepped away from T.R. and a few of the other players that Brother Curt had arranged to be with Webber.

“It’s Carl. Mr. Schipper’s my father.”

“Sure, Carl,” Patrick shrugged. “Here to do an article on us?” “That’s part of it. Also wanted to offer you a job.”

“On the paper?” “Yeah. The Star.”

“Doing what?” Patrick’s interest flashed in his eyes. “Copy boy? Stringer?”

“No, assigned stories. As a paid intern. Think you could be objective covering prep sports? Even LaSalle games? I don’t want those Jesuits at Loyola after my backside.”

“God, sure I could, or at least give it a good try,” Patrick gushed. “Sounds great.”

Carl Schipper extended his hand. “Thought you’d like the idea. You’d start now covering summer league basketball and some summer baseball games. Prep or J.C. football in the fall. By then, you should be ready for the big time, maybe sidebars on LaSalle games. And, game stories when I can’t make it.”

“Wow. Can’t believe it.” Patrick finally shook Schipper’s hand, which he had been clasping. “I was just going to do some odd gardening jobs this summer. This is great. It’s a deal.”

“Don’t you want to know the pay?” Schipper smiled, bask- ing in the kid’s exuberance. “I mean … ten cents an hour …” Schipper stopped himself. “Seriously, we’ll take care of the paperwork and details—hours, pay, that stuff. For the hours and contract in mind, don’t have to worry about a union card. I’ll arrange it so you’re an independent contractor, but, in my mind, I want it to be a pretty good time commitment, a solid parttime job.”

“When do I start?”

“How ’bout today? I have a story in mind.” “Sure. About what?”

Schipper chuckled. He knew he could give the kid a story about the local elementary school’s dodgeball team and make him happy. “Well, this guy Webber gave me an idea. Why not something about recruiting from the player’s point of view? About T.R. Not too thorough yet. More of a ‘puff piece’ to start. We’ll do something in-depth in-season. For now, just highlight the rules Jerry’s set up for the process. He did set something special up, didn’t he?” Schipper knew he had but wondered what, if anything, Kiernan knew.

Patrick looked up. “He did. I’ve talked to T.R., but I’ll check again. I’ll see him tonight anyway. And I’ll interview Coach Burke today before he leaves.”

“Good. Try to get me the piece in a couple days.” “Length?”

“Don’t worry about that. Inverted pyramid; we can cut it anywhere.” Schipper fished into his coat pocket for a scrap of paper. “What’s your home phone number?”

Patrick told him, though, in his excitement, he had almost forgotten.

Schipper dashed off while Patrick trotted over to T.R. He couldn’t wait to tell him about his new job. They were both going bigtime next school year—together.