From 2010 through 2014 I spent time on the asphalt with African American ballplayers in Boston’s inner-city neighborhoods in order to research the forms of experience street basketball affords. This approach gave me access to the lived experiences of these black youths, a dimension scholars often overlook.
My personal background as a Roxbury native and former streetball player also made it easier to avoid reducing players’ bodies to objects determined by fixed cultural narratives. While I did not ignore the cultural forces at play in my analysis, I became acutely aware of the ache for meaning and feeling expressed in the games. In this sense, our shared social proximity helped me to avoid stripping these young black men of their agency.
I collected data in the form of field notes. Field notes consist of an ethnographer’s ongoing observations, experiences, and feelings over the course of research. They are similar to diary entries and are usually written before, during, and after time in the field. I generally wrote field notes during and after street-basketball tournaments or immediately following an important conversation in the neighborhood. Whenever possible, I attempted to reproduce conversations with subjects verbatim and to jot down notes soon after an incident occurred. The process of writing field notes is central to ethnography since it involves ongoing data collection and analysis.
During the production of field notes, researchers begin defining units of meaning pertinent to research questions. Over the course of an ethnographic project, these units of meaning can be compared to other units as the researcher builds a fuller account of the phenomenon under consideration. In many cases, as new meanings appear, the researcher is provoked to consider a new point of view and to seek more information. This occurred early in my fieldwork when one ballplayer told me that he went to the basketball court to “let it all out”—to release pain. His comments made me reconsider standard views about hoop dreams. Once the ethnographer reaches the “saturation point” where no new data can be reasonably collected and coded for meaning, the final step is to write up the research. The process of writing is another mode of analysis that involves comparing data with previous conclusions in the literature and arriving at potentially new insights.
In addition to ethnography and participant observation, I conducted in-depth interviews with several ballplayers. I chose young men between the ages of eighteen and thirty-nine who were part of Boston’s street-basketball community. I was struck by the emotional intensity of the interviews. Bourdieu suggested that marginalized individuals might experience a field interview as an exceptional opportunity to speak freely from the usual constraints of an oppressive world. He maintained that an interview, which is “freed from the usual constraints (particularly of time) that weigh on most everyday interchanges…helps create the conditions for an extra-ordinary discourse, which might have never been spoken, but which was already there, merely waiting for the conditions of its actualization.”1 For many of the black athletes, our interview was the first time someone had expressed genuine interest in their stories. Momentarily freed from the burden of the streets, they shared experiences and feelings that may have remained silenced. Our interviews became an opportunity for “self-examination…simultaneously gratifying and painful…to give vent, at times with an extraordinary expressive intensity, to experiences and thoughts long kept unsaid or repressed.”2
In addition, I viewed and studied documentaries on basketball in the United States in general and street basketball in particular. I used these secondary sources to validate themes that arose from field notes and interviews. The visual aspects of these films offered another medium to observe basketball players in motion while simultaneously expanding my coverage of the game to include more than just the communities I directly observed.
THE SETTING: BOSTON INNER-CITY HOOPS
Three predominately black neighborhoods make up the heart of Boston’s inner-city community. These neighborhoods—Roxbury, Dorchester, and Mattapan—are adjacent geographically and contain myriad side streets and corners, government housing projects, churches, high schools, liquor stores, community centers, and basketball courts that spill across the urban landscape. To the black youth living in these neighborhoods, especially the young men, community centers, street corners, and basketball courts are prominent socializing spaces. These places are central to the institution of the “streets,” where, in addition to schools, churches, mosques, and so forth, these young men spend considerable time constructing their identities.
As a socializing institution, Boston’s streets are organized around a complex set of identity options and communal spaces where young black men spend time together. One of the most prominent identity options for young black men within the neighborhoods is gang membership. Gangs often claim specific corners, avenues, and housing projects as territory. Young men rep their street-gang affiliations by standing on particular corners, sitting on stoops, and wearing gang insignia, thereby constituting a highly visible form of black masculinity in the neighborhood. In fact, for many of Boston’s black youth, gangs are synonymous with particular neighborhoods and streets. The gangs of Boston’s black neighborhoods do not use signifiers such as Crips or Bloods to identify themselves. Rather, most gangs take their names from the housing project or street in which their members actually live. For example, Copeland Street, which is the name of a recognizable street in Roxbury, is also the moniker for its gang. In this sense, if there is a political geography of Boston’s inner city among black youth, gang members are its most prominent stakeholders.
The dominant presence and power of gangs in the streets may also be seen in the assumptions black youth make regarding gang membership and affiliation. In many cases, for a young black man to be born and raised in a particular housing project or avenue implies his affiliation with the gang controlling that area. Even if he shuns affiliation, he remains marked as a member of his neighborhood gang by youth in adjacent neighborhoods. Baron, a street-ball player who became one of my main informants, explained:
Well I mean, growing up living in Boston you had a lot of different gangs and you had to pretty much protect where you came from. Even if you didn’t have to, someone made you because I lived in the James Street Projects them years. Most of my family and my friends are all from the projects. So, James Street at the time was one of the notorious gangs in Boston, the biggest projects in Boston, and everybody knew it. So wherever I would go, I never represented James Street. I never went to places like “yeah, I’m from the James Street.” It would just be like “okay, I seen him with some James Street kids. Let’s ask him if he’s from James Street.” And my whole attitude was “yeah, I’m from James Street but I don’t have nothing to do with whatever they do with y’all.” But if you ask me again, now I know what you really want. Now I’m starting to swing. Now I’m getting aggravated. I want to get it on. That pretty much made me a fighter.
Gangs, in this sense, occupy a structural position in the streets in the socialization of many black youth. This partially explains why gang affiliation is felt to be a forced identity marker for some of Boston’s young black men. Many spoke as if they could not avoid the influence of gangs. Rather, gangs were often taken for granted as a natural part of social reality. This observation should give pause to those who assume gang membership or affiliation is always by choice.
One exception to this normative structure is granted to Boston’s street-basketball players. Gang members who control specific neighborhoods often grant ballplayers a “pass” from illicit activities. If a ballplayer becomes well known across the city, rival gangs will also show him respect and offer him relatively safe passage in the streets. As symbols of hope, ballplayers garner devotion and respect. Jermaine, a street-ball player from Roxbury, explained how his game protected him from the gangs:
One of the gangs was right behind my house. It was Avon Street Homes and it was right behind my house. Dealing with it, I tried my best to stay away from it, but it’s tough when you go to the park in the summertime and they are there and we are playing basketball. So you get to know the people in your neighborhood that are gang members and are this. And for the most part, that’s what they do and they were fine with me. I didn’t have problems. I didn’t have too many of those obstacles because that round ball, man. Basketball is a platform in the avenue to get you from anywhere. I don’t care whatever is going on, if you can do this, whatever your struggle is people will tend to leave you alone a little bit. Because you form some kind of a bond, and that is what I use as my catapult to keep the gang members off of me or trying to recruit me. They just saw that I could play a little ball so they gave me a little pass.
The collective assumption that ballplayers are predestined for greatness sets them apart from their wider communities. In this sense, street-ball players embody what the sociologist of religion Émile Durkheim referred to as the sacred, that which is “set apart” and distinct from the profanity of everyday life.3 As I mentioned, monikers bestowed on black street-ball players, such as black Jesus, indicate their communities’ adoration of street ballers as saviors.
Clearly however, the distinction between ballplayers and gang members, the sacred and the profane, is an artificial one, which is often transgressed by young men performing both roles simultaneously. As Jermaine acknowledged, street-basketball courts are generally located within gang territories. Ballplayers and gang members socialize in the same spaces and develop deep bonds. In addition, some of Boston’s street-basketball courts are closed to outsiders. In order to step on the court safely, one has to have an affiliation with the gang in that area or be so well “known” that even rival gang members will show you love. To venture onto a court without tacit permission from gang members residing there is not streetwise.
Of course, there are other identity options for Boston’s inner-city young black men that fall outside the scope of this book (such as an artist or a student). However, the majority of the young men I interviewed seemed to believe that being a gang member, athlete, or music artist, were their only options.
In addition to street basketball, community centers play an important role in supporting the aspirations of ballplayers in Boston. During the winter months, basketball moves indoors, and these spaces provide an additional outlet for young men to hone their skills while keeping some distance from the gangs. Community centers are important socializing spaces because they give ballplayers—some of whom are fatherless—access to caring adults and role models who do not subscribe to the illicit values of the streets. One community center in particular, now referred to as the Yawkey Club of Roxbury, became an epicenter for city hoops in the heart of Boston’s black community.
The Yawkey Club was the organizational hub for the legendary Boston Shootout Tournaments of the 1990s. The Boston Shootout was a nationally recognized high school basketball tournament, second in reputation and quality of play only to the McDonald’s All-American game. Major U.S. cities, including New York, Washington, D.C., Philadelphia, Atlanta, Los Angeles, Detroit, and Boston, participated each year, sending one team of their best high school basketball players to compete in games over three days. As a child, I remember sitting in New York City’s team locker room, staring at future Knicks point guard Stephon Marbury as he leaned back against metal lockers, arms crossed, listening to his coach at halftime. A few minutes later, he stepped onto the court and caught an alley-oop dunk in the middle of the lane that sent the crowd into a frenzy. During another game I sat underneath the basket enthralled as “The Truth,” Paul Pierce, dribbled the ball to the right baseline and took off like a “bird in flight.”4 He was so high that his head nearly hit the backboard. Pierce finally glided to the left side of the hoop and flipped the ball off the glass, scoring two points for his Los Angeles squad. Pierce was passionate. He screamed “ahhhhh!” in midair as the ball swished through the net and fell to the hardwood. I also loved watching Boston’s teams, which always included neighborhood stars whom I recognized from the playgrounds and local gyms. One year, I was able to witness Wayne Turner carry our Boston team all the way to the finals. A few years later, Turner led the University of Kentucky Wildcats to two national titles before signing a contract with the Boston Celtics and Harlem Globetrotters. I enjoyed watching Turner play on national television, especially since I got to shoot around with him at the Yawkey Club one quiet Saturday morning as a young man. Boston city basketball legends such as Patrick Ewing, Dana Barros, Jamal Jackson, Monty Mack, Jonathan DePina, Shannon Crooks, and Courtney Eldridge all played in the Boston Shootout games.
Although the Boston Shootout has fallen apart in recent years due to waning sponsorship, the Yawkey Club still plays an important role in the hoop dreams of Boston’s young black men. For this reason, and because of my local ties to the club, I decided to return to the center as one of my first stops when I began to study Boston city hoops. When I walked through the main doors, the elderly mother of my youth basketball coach, Manny Wilson, greeted me at the counter. “Onaje, is that you?! Hey baby! Where you been? It’s been so long. Look at you. You look so handsome! Come here and give me a hug!” Ms. Wilson beamed with joy. I reached behind the counter to give Ms. Wilson a big hug. “Hi Ms. Wilson. How have you been Mom?” I asked. “These kids are crazy nowadays boy,” she responded. “Ain’t like when y’all was growing up. They don’t listen to nobody, killing each other out here. But I’m glad you’re back my son. They need to see young men like you. By the way, I’d like you to coach one of the teams in my son’s memorial league, the Manny Wilson Basketball League. Manny would be so proud of you boy!” she remarked. “Thanks Mom,” I responded softly, as I thought about her son, the father figure I fell in love with as a child, whose chest was crushed in a car accident at a Roxbury intersection.
I was on a public bus, riding past Roxbury Community College, when I saw Manny’s mangled police car wrapped around a curbside pole. As soon as I got home, I received a call from my friend “Tee”: “Manny is gone, man. He’s gone!” Tee was crying. I was twelve years old and could not understand the meaning of death. Manny was a Boston Police officer, a basketball coach, and a father figure to countless kids in our neighborhood. I was Manny’s “favorite” in addition to another boy he nicknamed “Scud Webb” because his jump shot looked like an errant missile careening toward the hoop. Manny took us on rides in his car after Saturday basketball practice, and if there was a hoops skills clinic in the area, he always made sure I was there to learn. He played games with us too, like any father would, chasing us down the street when we punched him in the leg and ran, and he brought us his favorite candy from the local store: Sugar Daddies. We loved Manny. He was our hero.
The day after the incident, I felt confused and all alone. I didn’t really know how to grieve; all I felt was the pain in my heart. I knew that Manny was gone, but to where? No one discussed his death with me, so seeking answers I naturally went to go to the basketball court where Manny and I had shared so many warm memories. It was a Sunday morning, the day after his death, and the Yawkey Club was practically empty. Bobby, a janitor, who often referred to himself as a “poolologist” because he schooled all us kids in billiards, saw my saddened face through glass windows and let me through the locked doors. I felt disoriented when I stepped onto the court, as if the hardwood, the hoop, the ball, and my body were floating in a mass of confusion, unhinged from the ordinary laws of gravity. I dribbled and shot the ball toward the basket, but nothing seemed to move quite right. A question kept hovering around my head: where is Manny? My head began feeling woozy, and my body was filled with a strange sadness as I dribbled and went for the double-pump lay-up Manny had once taught me. Breathing heavily, I walked over to the bleachers, sat down with the ball on my lap, and stared out into the open space of the court.
“Hi, can we talk for a moment?” a voice spoke from a distance. “Huh?” I said startled, looking over to the left, near the gym entrance. “I hear that you were one of Coach Manny Wilson’s boys,” a reporter from the Boston Herald said while approaching me. I nodded my head, holding on tightly to my basketball. “What did Manny mean to you? How important was he in your life?” the reporter asked. “Manny was the father that I never had,” I responded, looking up at her face. A few years later my biological father would return and transform my life, but on that day, that was how I felt, all alone. Recently, I discovered the picture that the Boston Herald photographer took of me that day as I sat on the sidelines searching for Manny.
Source: Photo by Bill Belknap. Courtesy of the Boston Herald.
Source: Courtesy of the Boston Herald.
I was delighted to see Manny’s mother at the Yawkey Club after all those years. “Mom, it would be an honor to coach in the Manny Wilson Basketball League,” I told her. “Good baby,” she said smiling. “I’ll get you all the information now that I see you’ll be around more. How’s that Ph.D. program? Oh yes, I heard about it! Don’t think I ain’t been keeping tabs on you, doctor!” I couldn’t stop smiling. She was like a grandmother to me, a loving elder who had watched me grow up, and she adored me. The love that resounded through her voice made me feel like I was the most valuable being in the world. “It’s going good, Ma.” I said. “I am doing research on the religious dimensions of basketball. That’s part of the reason why I’m here.” “Well, good, go up and check out the gym. The boys are probably up there right now,” she pointed to the stairs. “Thanks Mom,” I agreed. “I’ll stop by to say goodbye before I leave.” “Okay, boy,” Ms. Wilson said, as she turned her attention to a few kids running down the hallway.
Source: Photo by author.
The gym seemed so much smaller now that I was older, but the walls and creaking hardwood contained memories that sent my imagination flying into the past. As I watched young men race up and down the court at the behest of an older coach barking instructions, I remembered being in their shoes. This was the same court where I had once grieved for Manny and honed my love for the game. I happened to look over toward the left and spotted a banner with Manny’s image hanging from the walls. The sign read: “Manny Wilson Basketball League: Gone but not forgotten.”
I decided to sit on the bleachers and watch the young boys play ball for a while. Their coach was schooling them in values of the game—teamwork, discipline, and self-respect—as they sprinted up and down the floor. As I observed him instruct his players, I was proud to be a part of this tradition but also very aware of how the community center imposes a particular narrative of hoop dreams on inner-city young men. Community-center counselors promote middle-class values of good sportsmanship and fair play, which gives the games a certain organized flavor. Moreover, there are many young men in the streets over whom they have no influence. Since I wanted access to the unscripted manner in which the game is played in the streets, I eventually decided to leave the Yawkey Club to experience the game in its most unregulated form. On the asphalt, the games are mainly organized by the players themselves. After spending a few more moments in the gym, I walked downstairs and spotted Ms. Wilson again. “Mom, I’ll make sure to come back soon and thanks for inviting me to coach in the Manny Wilson League.” “Okay, boy,” she said. “And you be safe out there, you hear?” “Yes, Mom.”
Gaining access to black Boston’s street-basketball courts is difficult and at times dangerous. I needed an informant with the street credentials to “vouch” for me and keep me out of harm’s way. I made a few phone calls and finally got in touch with an old childhood friend and fellow street-ball player named Baron, whom I had once nicknamed “the Body Guard” because of how he protected his teammates on the court. “B, I am doing this project on street basketball in Boston. I need your help.” “Onaje, is that you?” he asked. “Yeah, it’s me,” I responded. “You got it. You know that you don’t even have to ask,” he explained, his voice full of base and confidence. “Thanks, B. I really appreciate it, man. When is the next tournament? I’ll come see you play, if that’s cool.” “Yeah, man, no problem. Come down to the Save R Streets Basketball Classic on the hill near Memorial Middle School.” “Cool, my brother. I’ll see you there.”
BARON: THE BODY GUARD
Baron, a six-foot-two-inch, 250-pound former fighter with piercing eyes, became both my teacher and protector in Boston’s world of inner-city hoops. When we were growing up the Body Guard had a reputation for knocking people out with his fists. His role on our neighborhood basketball team was to be the protector. Whenever we played teams from other territories in Roxbury, Dorchester, or Mattapan, we felt safe after games because Baron knew almost every gang member in the crowd. In his thirties, Baron has given up fighting and focuses his energy on uniting Boston’s black community through basketball. His success in reconciling rival gang members through basketball is mainly due to his personality and the “street cred” he earned as a child moving between foster homes. Each time he ran away from a new group home, Baron would have to walk several miles through gangland just to make it back to his mother’s house in the projects. The police would be waiting for him when he arrived at his mother’s, but it didn’t matter to Baron. He just wanted to see his mother and take a break from the horrid conditions inside the crowded homes of social services. During those walks, Baron developed friendships with all types of gang members, even those from rival streets corners, and because he was fearless and could fight, he eventually earned respect from his peers. He also earned instant credibility in the streets after he survived being shot and stabbed multiple times. Baron is one of the few guys in Boston’s black neighborhoods who has the ability to walk through almost any gang territory without fear.
When I arrived at the Save R Streets Basketball Classic I could hear the rhythmic thud of rap beats vibrating in the distance. Two asphalt courts stood side by side, and in between the beat were the sounds of sneakers scratching the pavement, ballplayers yelling “oooooutlet,” basketballs clanging off rims, and onlookers screaming, “He can’t guard you, he can’t handle the truth!” Spectators were sitting on metal bleachers, hanging off stone walls, and standing around sidelines jawing with the players. Hidden behind the whole scene were gang members and hustlers, slightly out of view. The smell of marijuana wafted from behind the bushes where they huddled together, smoking and gambling. Baron was already on the court, playing for his team from Roxbury. As I moved closer toward the asphalt, a guy I did not recognize tapped my shoulder. “Damn, it’s good to see a legend out here. Onaje, I ain’t seen you in years. I like what I see,” he said with a nod of approval as he moved passed me. I was always shocked by this community’s capacity to remember its basketball stars. Stories of street-basketball players were passed down, and players’ abilities were debated and ranked repeatedly. People I had never met personally would approach and acknowledge me as a ballplayer. The recognition I received from the stranger who tapped me on the shoulder comforted me, and I gathered the courage to nestle my way between bodies standing along the sidelines. Baron was barreling down the court with the ball in his hand, playing his signature style that was at once menacing and comedic. Nearly 250 pounds, he always wanted to be a point guard. As he brought the ball up the court, smaller players bounced off him like flies. “Stop reaching!” someone yelled in the crowd. Baron finally took the ball to the right block to post-up a smaller player underneath the basket. Sweat poured from his fat forehead as he huffed and puffed, trying to bully the poor guy on his back. Baron dipped his shoulder into his opponent’s chest and bounced him backward onto the pavement. He missed the layup, but luckily the referee called a two-shot foul. As Baron stood on the free-throw line rubbing the ball between his hands, one dark-skinned young man on the sidelines who must have weighed as much as Baron, yelled out: “Baron, you’re too slow to do anything out there!” Baron dribbled the ball and released the free throw into the air: “Yeah, and you’re too fat to guard me!” Everyone busted out laughing as the shot splashed through the net.
When Baron was not playing ball, he was on the sidelines taking notice of the various gang members around the court. During tournaments there is often an implicit but fragile peace between gang members, and Baron always seemed to be monitoring the truce. Baron’s dress and demeanor are generally conservative: black T-shirt and black pants, with his round head shaved bald. Standing with him in the intermediate circle of the court, I often received an education in the hidden rules of the park. “He’s from Red Street gang, he shouldn’t be over here by himself. He’s risking his life right now. That guy right there, he is going to play ball at St. Jude’s Prep. He’s got a shot to play D One. See those two guys, they are from rival gangs, but they squashed [reconciled] it for the tournament. Yo, John, come and meet my boy Onaje. John, do you know who I just introduced you to right now?! This man, Onaje Woodbine, is a street-ball legend. If he had his sneakers on, he’d give you fifty [points] right now.” John smiled at me as if to say, “Yeah, I’d like to see him try it.” Baron is an intimidating presence, but his comedic side draws the admiration of everyone. Having him “vouch” for me as one of his boys during the course of my research assuaged any fears that I felt while approaching some players and gang members.5 Without Baron’s willingness to trust me and to explain the dynamics of the court, my attempt to examine the religious dimensions of Boston street basketball would not have succeeded.
While spending time with Baron, one of my most significant revelations regarding the “lived religion” of Boston street basketball was that nearly every single street-ball tournament is designed to memorialize black men who have died before their time. I kept a record of each tournament, their order of succession, and catalogued specific tournament themes.
MEMORIAL GAMES
Generally speaking, Boston’s street-basketball tournaments are designed to address the most pressing concerns of this community—fatherlessness, violence, poverty, illness, and racism, but pre-mature death is by far the most salient theme. The players themselves generally decide on the focus of each tournament. One of two exceptions to this is the Malcolm X League, which community organizers Rufus Faulk and David Lewis Jr. formed with the Boston TenPoint Coalition of black Christian ministers in 2011 to foster a “season of peace” in the community.6 Drawing from a historical connection between basketball and the black church, the TenPoint Coalition chose Malcolm X Park for the site of the league. Malcolm X Park is considered the Mecca of Boston street basketball, largely because of its gang-neutral location. This means that ballplayers and crowds from different neighborhoods are free to congregate, socialize, and compete. Using hoops as their vehicle, the TenPoint Coalition attempted to forge a truce between the gangs at Malcolm X Park. Rufus explained to me that pastors and players opened the first game with a prayer, and players were encouraged to have informal conversations with pastors throughout the duration of the league. A symbol of a basketball with the letter “X” and the words “season of peace” hung from the fence surrounding the court and was imprinted on players’ jerseys.
Another exception to player organization of neighborhood basketball is the Boston Neighborhood Basketball League, which is organized by the city and several community centers. BNBL is a citywide league, in which teams from each of Boston’s black neighborhoods compete over the entire summer. Each team is organized by a local community center and coached by neighborhood elders. Eventually, two teams, from separate neighborhoods, emerge to compete in a championship game. Because BNBL involves many black youth in the city, it is popular, and each summer the championship team takes home special bragging rights for their neighborhood. At the same time, BNBL is organized from the top down by various clubhouses, YMCAs, and recreational centers and is more scripted than street-basketball tournaments.
Street-basketball tournaments are designed by the players themselves and take place during consecutive weekends throughout the summer. Since the location and date of each tournament is fairly stable from one summer to the next (sometimes old tournaments give way to new ones), Boston’s street-basketball community moves from court to court within the flow of an unwritten calendar during the summer months. No matter what difficulties the young players face during the week, during the weekends they flock to the asphalt to reclaim their humanity. After attending a few tournaments with Baron and noticing that most of them were dedicated to people who had died prematurely, some violently, I asked Baron if he knew how many games were memorials to the dead. His response floored me: “Honestly, I can probably say all of them.” Over several summers, I confirmed his observation. Below are the names and themes of each tournament in their proper order.
The Chill Will Tournament, also referred to as Chill’s Diamond Ring Educational Foundation Basketball Tournament, is in early June and kicks off the summer street-ball games. Since it is held at Malcolm X Park, the best ballplayers attend. Willie “Chill” Veal, or “Chill Will,” organizes this tournament in memory of his late son, Little Chill, who was murdered in the streets of Boston. He also dedicates the games to Paris Booker, a young man who was close to the family before he was fatally hit by a car while riding his bicycle. Chill Will organizes the tournament to empower city youth, especially with information regarding financial literacy, which they rarely receive in traditional classrooms or in the home. With the Diamond Ring Educational Foundation Basketball Tournament, Chill Will has attempted to bequeath a legacy of healing and entrepreneurship to his own children and those living in the neighborhoods. During one of our conversations, Chill explained: “Basketball is my release. My family knows that I have to play basketball every week and everything stops when I’m playing. That’s how you let go of all your problems.” Played in the shadow of Little Chill, the tournament is always intense, and because teams are organized by neighborhood, their affiliate gangs are often in attendance on the outer circle of the court. Although Chill Will’s tournament is by far one of the most positive events of the summer, on rare occasions gang violence from the surrounding streets can spill onto the court. In June 2013, during a game that I was fortunate enough to miss, a young man drove by in his SUV and blasted eight gunshots into a crowd of onlookers. No one was hit, but the following day I was standing with several witnesses on the same bullet-riddled basketball court discussing the drive-by shooting. Many ballplayers I spoke with knew the person who fired the shots, but no one would say his name. They offered minimal details. He had been in a fight near the park a few minutes earlier and had lost. He drove by the court and sprayed bullets into the crowd with spite and anger. I was scared as they told the story, given that we were standing at the scene of the crime.
What really surprised me, however, was the casual nature of our conversation—the way the other ballplayers stood there discussing the shooting as if it had been normal. These young men seemed numbed to the violence. My behavior probably seemed strange to them as I glanced nervously around the court as if another shooting was imminent.
The Chill Will Tournament is followed by Dre’s Tournament, played in the memory of Dre’s late father, Emmanuel, just as the summer moves toward Father’s day. As Baron explained, “Once Dre’s Tournament starts, it goes all the way through the end of the summer.” The Save R Streets Summer Classic follows Dre’s Tournament. Three street-ball players and several others from Roxbury organize these games every year. They formed the tournament to curb innercity violence and to encourage the development of talent in the neighborhood. In 2010, these young men decided to design a ritual to honor black youths who had been murdered in the streets. During one of their games, white doves, Christian symbols of peace for departed souls, were lofted into the air to remember youth who had died of violence. By acknowledging lives lost in the past, the organizers sought to generate hope in the future. They explained that ultimately they were attempting to celebrate life and a better tomorrow.
Source: Photo courtesy of Diamond Ring Tournament.
Three young organizers of the Save R Streets Summer Classic share a special bond through hoops. One summer afternoon during the middle of the week, I caught the three of them in a heated game of “twenty-one” at Malcolm X. Park. Twenty-one, sometimes referred to as “New York twenty-one,” does not follow the rules of a regular basketball game because it is played on a half court without teams. Each individual competes against the rest. The games are rough and chaotic partly because there are no personal fouls, and rules against traveling, double-dribbling, or palming are nonexistent. This opposition to rules also gives twenty-one a creative edge because it encourages players’ improvisational abilities. As I watched these three young men express their individuality while remaining supportive of each other under the hot sun, their joy in being together was obvious. That each wore the same style and color basketball shorts adorned with a shared logo seemed fitting. Save R Streets Summer Classic is a public expression of the bond basketball has created in their lives.
Source: Courtesy of Score4More Inc.
Following the Save R Streets Summer Classic is the Community Awareness Tournament organized by Russell Paulding. This tournament is held every summer in the memory of three deceased black youth—two of whom are Marvin Barros Jr. and Eric Paulding. Russell always leaves the third spot on the banner open in anticipation of a new murder victim each year. Similar to Carrie Mae Weems’s photographic depiction of an “empty chair” inhabited by the spirit of the dead in her Sea Island Series (1992), Russell saves an empty place on the banner, until it is eventually occupied by the face of one of Boston’s black and newly deceased.7
Marvin Barros Jr., who became a big brother to me through basketball, died at twenty-one due to complications from the blood disorder hemophilia. Before his death, everyone said that he had an “old soul,” and he often mentored black youth, even though they were sometimes close in age. Marvin was six-foot-four-inches tall, skinnier than a telephone pole, dark-skinned, and four years older than me when I was a child. “Mom,” I said one day when I was ten, showing up after school with Marvin by my side. “This is Marvin. He is my friend and he wants to stay the night. Is that okay?” “Uhhh, yeah, I guess it’s okay, Onaje. Did he call his mother?” my mother asked, wondering what I was doing with a friend who was twice my size and a teenager. Since that day when we confused my mother, Marvin never left me. No one ever saw us apart. He would stay over at my mother’s apartment for months at a time. When he was ready to leave, I would follow and spend the night at his parent’s place for months. Marvin loved the game of basketball and because he touched so many young lives, the Yawkey Club named its teen center after him when he died.
Being around young people and basketball gave Marvin courage to deal with his crippling disease. He could hardly play the game himself because of his fragile joints, so he lived vicariously through us. From the sidelines, Marvin defied others’ expectations, creating artwork and writing poems, especially about how God could use basketball to transform people’s pain and suffering. When NBA star Earvin “Magic” Johnson was diagnosed with HIV Marvin felt a special kinship with Magic, who also faced a blood-borne illness that took him off the court. Especially moved, Marvin wrote a poem for Johnson entitled “Let it Be Magic,” in which he recognized NBA stars as biblical prophets who were sent by God to empower humanity to overcome obstacles. For a fifteen-year-old boy from Roxbury, the poem was a sensitive exploration of the convergence of hoops, religion, and the human condition. Years later, after Marvin’s death, Marvin’s mother shared his poem with me and to my surprise, written on the page in Magic’s own handwriting were the words: “Magic Johnson #32. I hope all your dreams come true.” Magic Johnson had actually read his words and felt moved to send him a note. Marvin’s mother supplied me with a copy of the original poem, which I have transcribed below.
LET IT BE MAGIC
In the beginning God brought us to
the center of the world when he
brought us the hustle of Big Bill
Russell.
He brought us a goliath of a man
When he named Wilt Chamberlain.
Who’s rule brought order to the land
Who’s rule brought order on the court.
God brought us to dream, a vision of
ways and means, his name reigns
supreme, life’s shining star, his
name is Kareem Abdul Jabar.
He brought us “Moses,” Moses Malone
Who towers as high as Mount Sinai.
The man who brought the ten commands
to the courts “promise land.”
He created a bird,[8] one “Larry Bird”
who’s message is to deliver the
deliverance for all to see and for
all to hear.
God brought us the prophet “Isaiah,”
Isaiah Thomas, a man of promise in a
big man’s world to keep them honest.
A smile of pearls that rules both
worlds.
God brought us “Jordan,” Michael
Jordan, like a river he flows
through every heart like a fine work
of modern art.
Then came the virus H.I.V. then came
the “plague” called AIDS. If we are
to [handle] this crusade we’d have
to add another disciple to the
bible, and let him be immortal, to
keep us all strong with the will to
go on.
Then “Let it be MAGIC”
Then “Let it be MAGIC”
So, God chose Earvin “super magic”
Johnson.
Marvin Barros Jr.
Source: Courtesy of Doris Barros.
Eric Paulding, the other young man whose face adorns the Community Awareness Tournament banner, was only a high school student in 1997 when, in one of Boston’s most violent neighborhoods, he was murdered with one gunshot to the chest. According to news reports, he was an aspiring teacher who participated in Harvard University’s Franklin Summer Program where he mentored marginalized youth. One Harvard student who knew Eric well explained, “What most Harvard students probably don’t realize is that Eric has been involved with Harvard probably longer than any one of us students.”9 Yet Eric could not escape the violent reach of the gangs. Apparently out of their jealousy, gang members shot him at point-blank range as he left his beloved girlfriend’s house.
Eric was Russell’s cousin, and for the Community Awareness Tournament, Russell created a video to express his intent. The film opens with a frame of ascending clouds, as if the viewer is being pulled violently toward the heavens. Clouds then cover a sky awash in rain as the sorrowful words of soulful R & B singer Jim Jones bellow through the background: “Nigga, we too close, can’t stop praying now. Though it seems there’s no end to this pain. Every time I close my eyes I pray for rain. I pray for rain to wash away the strain…You couldn’t understand how much the pain weigh. So in the hood we love the rainy days, ’cause subconsciously we know the sun’s coming.”10 As the song continues to call for the healing waters of rain, the words “In the memory of Marvin Barros and Eric Paulding” flash across the clouds. Then the pictures of others who have died far too young in the streets—James Lee Teal and Tyrus Elijah Sanders—appear on the screen with the words “rest in peace.” Russell begins to speak about the purpose of his tournament: “I’m representing my brother and my cousin…Community Awareness is to let people know about what’s going on in our world, from AIDS and HIV all the way down to heart failure, all the way up to just people in everyday life not knowing to get a check-up, not knowing what’s going on with their body…that’s why we call it Community Awareness. Everybody enjoys themselves, no fights, no violence…no detail [police], only one cop, almost a thousand people. That speaks volumes. It’s our fifth year, we haven’t had any issues.” Then the video cuts to actual footage of games with the icon “Highlight Heaven” on the bottom-right corner of the screen, the name of the local video-production company that helped produce the short film. Intermittently, between the highlights of street ballers catching alley-oop dunks and performing blazing crossover moves, the video cuts to people reminiscing about Marvin Barros Jr.’s life and how he helped them.
Then the most solemn moment of the film: Russell kneels down at the gravesites of Marvin Barros Jr. and Eric Paulding as the song “I’m Missing You,” by Diana Ross, plays in the background. A black hood over his head, he touches each headstone and blows a kiss goodbye. There is silence. In the next segment, Russell laments the disproportionate premature deaths of black boys in the streets and questions God’s benevolence: “People are not dying like they’re supposed to. I know God has a will…but give life a chance.” As the film ends we see Russell gesture toward the basketball court: “All our problems and answers are right here. We can solve all our own issues. We need to work together doing it. And if I can be a big part of that and I can help in any way possible, that’s what I’m going to do until the day that I go upstairs, man, that’s what I’m going to do.” The film fades to Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come”: “It’s been too hard living but I’m afraid to die. Cause I don’t know what’s up there beyond the sky. It’s been a long, a long time coming, but I know a change gonna come, oh yes it will.”11
During Russell’s tournament players express a range of emotions. At halftime, he calls forth the mothers and family members of Marvin Barros Jr. and Eric Paulding in order to acknowledge their loss and to show them that their loved ones have not been forgotten: “Everyone has to come into the gym,” explained Russell. “The intention is y’all are the reason why we’re here. I want to let you guys know that we haven’t forgot as a community. I haven’t forgotten as a brother, a cousin, a friend, and this is for y’all. Every year I try to give that up. So the community comes in the gym, claps, you hear some cries, you hear some ‘I can’t believe it’s been ten years, twelve years, fifteen years, a year,’ whatever it is, they do that and then people lose their mind and [it’s] definitely emotional, but it’s something that has to be done because every year so far there’s been a different face on that banner. Those are the main two between Eric and Marvin Barros, but I always put an extra friend on there who I’ve lost throughout the year.”
Source: Courtesy of Russell Paulding.
The Community Awareness Basketball Tournament is one of the most emotionally charged and electrifying experiences of the summer. In 2014, I was allowed to play in the tournament, and being in that space, dedicated to my late best friend, helped me release some of the guilt and pain I had carried with me for all those years.
Following the Community Awareness Basketball Tournament comes the Louis Saunders Memorial Tournament, which often takes place at Madison Park High School in Roxbury. The Louis Saunders Memorial Tournament is organized by James Hall and dedicated to his late mentor. Hall also involves Louis Saunders’s son, Anthony, who often shares his father’s legacy with the crowd to open up these games. One local writer describes the opening ritual for the tournament: “A moment of silence was held, a moment to Louis Saunders’s memory and legacy. At that moment, you might have heard the sound of basketballs being dribbled; that was actually a thousand heartbeats thumping in memory and in tribute.”12 The tournament brings together Boston’s inner-city community, local street-ball players, teams from other cities in the Northeast, and professional ballplayers for a weekend of intense competition.
Source: Photo by author.
Source: Photo by author.
The Suave Life Tournament, which comes next, is dedicated to the Mattapan murder victims (see chapter 1). During these games, a banner with the faces of the victims hangs on the steel beams guarding the court. It reads “In Loving Memory.”
Two moments during the 2012 Suave Life Basketball Tournament illustrate the ongoing tension between street violence and the search for something greater in Boston street basketball. The sun baked the blacktop as the black-skinned bodies rhythmically turned and twisted with the ball across the court. The tournament was held at Malcolm X Park in front of a raucous crowd. The sunken court at Malcolm X Park is defined by cement walls and raised iron beams. All walks of life from the local community stood hugged against the iron, their faces pressed between the gaps in the fence. There were ballplayers waiting impatiently for their turn to cross the threshold from the intermediate ring and to jump down onto the asphalt stage. Motorcycle riders rested on bikes after being chased by police down side streets or popped wheelies at sixty miles per hour along the main road for the entertainment of the crowd. An older woman sold homemade slushies for a dollar to the children playing on the sidelines, as they dreamed of playing ball at center court. Food trucks blared their sirens and emitted inviting aromas of fried chicken and fries in the hot air. Every so often, the crowd erupted into ear-piercing applause, which from a distance sounded like an ocean of waves crashing against the shore. There were so many people around the first three sides of the court that it was difficult to see the action inside. However, the fourth side of the fence, near the back of the basketball court, remained conspicuously empty.
To the casual observer, the absence of audience members along an entire side of the blacktop made little sense. This was especially true since that side of the park was shaded from the hot sun. But there were obvious reasons for avoiding that side of the asphalt. Just behind the trees were gang members and hustlers, slightly hidden from view. Perched on the rocks and small hills resting in between the trees, these young men were gambling on the games, smoking marijuana, and drinking alcohol. Their presence raised the stakes for the fans and especially for the athletes who were playing for teams that hailed from neighborhoods represented by specific gangs.
As I leaned on the fence next to Baron, it became clear to me that the gang presence was affecting the performances of two ballplayers. Both Marques and Paul were playing for the Stone Hill projects team. Stone Hill was getting crushed by the Mason Street team, and in the process Marques was losing his status as a “known” ballplayer. In order to save his reputation with gang members from Stone Hill projects in the crowd, Marques decided to turn this game into a performance of toughness and masculine prowess. When the ball was put in play, he snatched it out of the air and charged toward the basket hard, head down, muscles flexed, determined to punish whoever got in his way. When he lost the ball and the referee did not call a foul, he glared in his direction and stalked down the court in a rage: “Call the fucking foul!” On the next play, Marques retrieved the ball and raced down the court. He took the ball directly toward his defender, crossed over in one sharp motion from right to left, and made a sweeping jump step to get inside the lane under the basket. He must have been only five-feet-seven-inches tall, but in that moment his body seemed to burst at the seams. As he gathered himself to lift off from the pavement, two sweaty hands gripping the ball, an opposing player hacked down hard, slapping Marques’s forearms instead of the basketball. A loud “pap!” reverberated throughout the crowd. The whistle blew, but Marques was already unbuttoned. He stomped around the court, glaring at refs and other players. His clenched his fists and mumbled words under his breadth. His team was down by double digits (they had effectively lost), yet it was clear that Marques had much more to lose than the game. Still irate, he stepped to the free-throw line and managed to will two shots into the basket. One of his teammates called a time-out from the worn wooden benches nailed into the concrete floor on the sidelines.
Instead of joining his teammates, however, Marques stomped angrily toward the crowd. “This is bullshit!” he yelled so fans would notice. Then in a symbolic gesture of his desire to exchange his athletic identity for a “street” identity, he tore off his basketball uniform, displaying a six-pack of stomach muscles and protruding dark chest. Marques sat down in the crowd, signifying his new status. Through the movement of his body on the court and into the crowd, he displaced one masculine role and occupied another. He implicitly understood the “rules of the game,” and this was his attempt to salvage a respectable status among peers. Given the limited identity options available to him, it was an ingenious calculation designed to maximize his capital in the neighborhood.
During the time-out, some of Marques’s teammates followed suit and tried to distance themselves from the injury to their masculine status this embarrassing loss had produced. While sitting on the bench, Paul lambasted another teammate, yelling loud enough for the crowd to hear: “You play like a girl, fucking pussy. Fuck that!” reclaiming his masculinity in misogynistic terms.
Eventually the referee blew the whistle for players to return to the court. When Marques heard the sound he slowly put his jersey back on and walked onto the asphalt. He was obviously experiencing some level of role ambiguity. As the ball moved up and down the court at a rapid pace, Marques moved slowly, his attention caught between the crowd and the game. When the final whistle blew he immediately walked over to several audience members to complain about the referees and the outcome of the game. As I watched his performance unfold, I turned to Baron. “Baron,” I asked, “what do you think was happening there?” Baron turned to me and whispered: “Onaje, the number one killer out here is pride.”
The Suave Life Tournament games were informative and a few hours later I decided to jump down onto the asphalt where I could obtain a better view. When I landed on the blacktop, several onlookers were already crowding beneath the basket, their toes almost touching the baseline. One of the main differences between street basketball and more organized games is the loose boundaries between audience members and players. Whereas in more organized settings interactions between observers and players are discouraged, in street basketball they are an essential part of the contest.
During heated games, audience members literally stand around sidelines, sometimes forming a human out-of-bounds-line. Without warning, one of these onlookers might feel compelled to jump onto the court to dance or to make fun of a player in the game. Players too, go into the audience to celebrate, gloat, or even to cry. These interactions are infectious, and over time the rhythmic call-and-response between players and audience members generates an intensely shared experience. One rare but clear example of this in professional basketball was film director Spike Lee’s famous back-and-forth banter with Hall of Fame NBA players such as Michael Jordan and Reggie Miller at Madison Square Garden. Of course, Spike Lee is familiar with the street-basketball subculture, having directed a film on urban basketball in New York City where the main player is a savior named “Jesus Shuttlesworth.”13 Spike Lee is especially well known for talking trash to Reggie Miller during the 1995 NBA Eastern Conference finals, which pushed Miller to score eight points in the final eleven seconds to beat the Knicks. Nevertheless, the difference between an NBA game and street basketball is that fans do not have to be millionaires to have intimate contact with players.
When I dropped down onto the court, I noticed a friend from years earlier, who had been standing on the baseline all along. He talked loudly and held a bottle covered in a brown paper bag. Between comments, he sipped the bottle and busted into loud conversations or screamed at players on the court. I walked toward him. He noticed me immediately and slapped my outstretched hand: “Naje, what’s up my nigga? Yo, I heard you writing a book on basketball. I was thinking about this the other day. You know how some nigga from one gang, be playing with a nigga from another gang. And because they playing on the same team, right, they become cool. Like yo, I was coaching two cats from different gangs and I saw them on the bus and before it would have been a fight, but yo, they had respect for each other because of basketball. Yo, Naje, you got to find a way to work that shit into your book, yo for real, man!” I told him I would try to mention it.
Almost as soon he said those words the crowd erupted in frenzy: “Ohhhhhh shit!” A light-skinned, left-handed ball player with a handsome face had gone the length of the right side of the blacktop, jumped off the asphalt, hung in the air, leaned sideways with his right side toward the basket, and dunked on somebody’s head. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the place. My friend, who had been facing the court, almost spilled his beer. He screamed in with the entire crowd. People were holding their mouths saying “Oh my God” and the noise reached such a crescendo that, suddenly, I felt like I was in a different world. The young man who performed the dunk was staring right at us as he began running back down the court on defense: “Yo,” my friend screamed in his direction, “I see you, my nigga! I see you!” The dunker responded: “I told you, my nigga! I told you!” In that moment of recognition, an individual dunk had become a shared experience. Within the euphoria I felt connected to everyone at the park, including my drunken friend who could not keep his beer from spilling to the ground. I cherished that sense of belonging because, at least for a time, we had left the ghetto behind us.
Once the Suave Life Tournament is over, Boston’s street-basketball community moves to the location of the C-Murder Tournament, dedicated to the memory of a young man nicknamed C-Murder who was killed while trying to break up a fight between two men in the streets. “That was my boy. He didn’t bother no one,” explained the organizer of the tournament. “He was actually just trying to calm things down and ended up getting killed. He was a good man!”
Subsequent to the C-Murder Tournament is the Melvia Wright Patten Tournament, which used to be held in the infamous Bromley-Heath Street projects, home to one of the city’s most violent gangs. Melvia Wright Patten was the director of the Bromley-Heath Infant and Toddler Daycare Center and became well known as the “mother” and caregiver of Bromley-Heath’s children. She was an educated woman, deeply committed to changing the lives of marginalized youth through her love and dedication to teaching. Once she passed away, her son Marvin, who is now a Boston Police officer, created the tournament to celebrate her legacy of teaching Boston’s inner-city youth. Through sponsorship and community support, the tournament helps generate $5,000 each year for Boston city youth to attend institutions of higher learning. The tournament was recently moved to the Franklin Field housing projects, home to another notorious Boston gang.
In May 2010, a fourteen-year-old honors student, Jaewon Martin (not affiliated with the Melvia Wright Patten Tournament), was shot to death on the Bromley-Heath Street project’s basketball court. According to news reports, two rival gang members mistook Martin for a Heath Street gang member. As Martin and his friends played ball, the killers approached and shot him in the chest. When his friends ran, gang members followed and shot at them as well, wounding one.
The Boston Globe reported that after Martin’s murder, community members turned the basketball court into a makeshift memorial shrine. Streams of residents stopped by half-court to place teddy bears, candles, and other special items. At the time, the Bromley-Heath community center director suggested that the basketball court was a place where Martin’s friends “can go back and probably talk to Jaewon.” One young man named Anthony Upchurch grabbed a basketball and shot jump shots in honor of Martin: “It was his way of honoring the 14-year-old eighth grader, who played on the same court.”14 It is difficult to say why the community chose center court to build a shrine for Martin. Of course, in many religious traditions, the center point between the four cardinal directions symbolizes the meeting place between the sacred and the profane. Although the Melvia Wright Patten Tournament technically ends Boston’s calendar of street-ball tournaments, new tournaments always arise. In the summer of 2013, for example, there was the Merrill Court “Fathers Are Champions Too” Basketball Tournament. The organizers designed the tournament with fathers and sons playing back-to-back games.
Source: Photograph by Yoon S. Byun, “Playing Scared: A Neighborhood Reflects as Teen Killed on Court Is Mourned,” Boston Globe, May 12, 2010. Courtesy of the Boston Globe.
I made the pilgrimage through Boston’s memorial games each summer and learned that these contests expressed far more than a search for the American dream. After all, these tournaments were not named after NBA stars. They were dedicated to African Americans, most of them men and most of them young, killed violently and before their time. In this sense, Boston street basketball had become a way of life, a set of practices arising out of these young men’s lived experiences. The participants were wrestling with existential questions on the court: What is the meaning of death? What happens to murder victims after they die? Are these people still with us, and if so, how should they be acknowledged? What does it mean to be a mother, father, daughter, or son in the absence of intact families? What is God’s plan and do I have a purpose? These young men had performed their collective histories on the court, turning their bodies into altars of the past in the hope of a future without violence.
Source: Photo by author.
