In 1994, the summer between my freshman and sophomore years, I had the great fortune of sprouting seven inches. Now, not only was I six nine, but my coordination and agility had no problem keeping up with my height. Being at Christ the King was great for my visibility, but I was still very much an unknown prospect. Over the summer my game began to blossom exponentially, largely due to playing in the Riverside Hawks Amateur Athletic Union (AAU) program, which assembled some of the best AAU teams of all time, with several of its alumni going on to success in the NBA.
I started playing with Riverside that summer, which is when I first met a rambunctious, six-foot-six, do-it-all wing from Queensbridge named Ron Artest. His energy and effort on the court were like nothing I’d ever seen. He could handle the ball, shoot, and play the finesse game all while running you over like a bulldozer. His mood could fluctuate wildly, but we all just thought he was wild by nature.
One of the best big men in the country, Elton Brand, a soft-spoken, pensive six-foot-ten behemoth, anchored the middle. Oh, and we also had Erick Barkley to run the point. We would go around to all the big-time tournaments in New York and steamroll the other teams. If Erick didn’t have the ball, it was in my hands. I’d push it up the floor and direct traffic and dazzle the crowd with an array of passes.
That’s when my profile started to rise locally, and I first began to get comparisons to Magic Johnson. Recruitment letters started trickling in from local colleges like Hofstra, Manhattan, and Fordham. Other AAU coaches also picked up on my emerging talent and became interested in my services.
My sophomore season at Christ the King started out on a high note, especially on the defensive end. I was just erasing people’s shots. In an early season game in December, I recorded seven blocks. One for each inch I had grown over the summer.
By January, I was fully blossoming on the basketball court, averaging fifteen points, eleven rebounds, six assists, and four blocks. I was more than halfway to breaking Christ the King’s record for blocks in a season with ninety-five. We were 11–1 and climbing up the CHSAA rankings.
That same month we played Bishop Ford in their gym in Brooklyn. It’s a game that stands out in my mind because it was one of the first times that I felt truly unguardable. I got into the lane with ease. I beat double teams with my dribble and the pass. It felt like I was flying on the break. The stands were packed, and I felt like a star. I notched my first triple-double, something that would become a staple of my career, with seventeen points, fourteen rebounds, and ten assists. Ford had Trevor Diggs, who was one of the best players in the city and would go on to play at UNLV. He put forty on us, but after the game all eyes were on me.
The opposing coach came up to me and shook my hand but didn’t say a word. I had left him speechless! I didn’t know it, but two people in the stands that night would affect the course of my career and life for the next few years. Gary Charles was one of the biggest AAU coaches in the country. His team, the Long Island Panthers, was one of the first dominant AAU programs on the East Coast. If you played for the Panthers, you were legit.
Gary was there to scout me, and he brought along one of his players, his de facto right-hand man, a five-foot-ten junior point guard from Queens named Greg Nunn. They called him the General.
“This kid is a monster,” said Greg. “How are we gonna get him?”
“Don’t worry about it,” replied Gary. “I have a plan.”
“But he plays for Riverside. They don’t just let players get away that easily.”
“His grandmother wants him to play for a black coach.”
Gary always knew little bits of inside information like that. Having your ear to the street is what makes an AAU coach successful. He knew every angle, every hustle. Riverside put bomb-squad rosters together every year. The team that I played for was no joke. Riverside’s head coach, Ernie Lorch, was old and white. Gary was young and black. That was Gary’s play.
After the mobs of newfound fans began to scatter, I saw Gary and Greg standing on the court. Gary was precise and to the point. He wanted me to play for the Panthers next summer. He introduced me to Greg. We exchanged a quick dap and nods of respect. No hugs or flattery . . . just a very quick New York greeting. I gave Gary my grandmother’s number so he could make his pitch to her, and I kept in touch with them during the school year.
Meanwhile, Christ the King had unfinished business to attend to. By the time the playoffs rolled around, we were a sterling 22–3 and one of the top-five ranked teams in New York City. On March 14, 1995, we headed to St. John’s University for the Catholic High School Athletic Association’s semifinal. I had nineteen points in a closely fought game against Harlem’s Rice High School. We won 70–61.
Four days later at Fordham University, we faced Bronx powerhouse St. Raymond High School for Boys for the title. We were amped up. Maybe a little too much. We were overaggressive, fouling unnecessarily. We turned the ball over and couldn’t seem to do much of anything. By the end of the first quarter they were up 22–6.
Then we settled down and I took over. I made play after play, setting people up for corner threes or swooping to my left to finish at the basket with thunderous lefty dunks. I blocked shots into the stands. Every time I touched the ball, the spectators moved closer to the edge of their seats. The roar of the crowd gave me strength. In the end, I would make New York City basketball history by setting the CHSAA record for points in a championship game, breaking the mark held by Power Memorial’s Lew Alcindor (who would later change his name to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar). I was named tournament MVP and finished with a game-high thirty-six points along with ten rebounds, five blocks, and four assists.
I became a star. I was on the covers of newspapers. Girls began to flock in herds. The guys from Big Willies, a local club, even invited me to party there, despite the fact I was five years away from being legally able to drink. Grandma Mildred’s phone wouldn’t stop ringing. College coaches I had seen for years on TV came to my games and tournaments.
I thought about the cold nights at Lincoln Park. I thought about what it would be like to shake NBA commissioner David Stern’s hand on draft night. I was somewhere in between the memory and the dream, but I was on my way toward fulfilling the dream.