Excerpt: ‘The Assist’

The NCAA assigns college basketball programs to one of three divisions, based on their size and the resources devoted to their athletic program. Division I teams, like BC's, tend to be well funded, with lots of athletic scholarships covering the full cost of tuition, room and board, plus other resources for players, such as tutors and first-rate travel accommodations. Division III colleges offer no athletic scholarships, though at many of them, athletic talent is the ticket in, and then financial aid can take over from there. Division II programs occupy the space in between, usually providing some full scholarships and some partial ones, and travel accommodations that tend to be more Red Roof Inn than Hyatt Regency. Even within those categories, though, there's lots of variation.

But to the kids who grew up on the courts of any big city in America, nursing their hoop dreams, D-I is the only one that counts. Only Division I teams have a shot at being invited to the Big Dance, the NCAA tournament whose games are broadcast on network television during "March Madness" and become the preoccupation of office-pool bettors everywhere. Never mind that most low- and mid-D-I teams have as good a chance of scoring one of the 64 coveted invites to the Big Dance as an average schmoe does showing up at the box office to buy Super Bowl tickets. The point is: at least they have a shot, and every year there's usually one Cinderella arrival from Gonzaga or George Mason, or some other basketball program no one has ever heard of, going toe to toe with a powerhouse like Indiana or Kentucky. 

Of the handful of seniors on the Charlestown team, only Ridley was a D-I prospect. But given BC's perch in the upper reaches of D-I, the school seemed out of Ridley's grasp, especially in early fall, when most programs were still chasing their dream players. Standing beside the bleachers, C.J. Neely, an assistant with Division II Stonehill College, a small Catholic school located half-an-hour away, watched as the star of the day tossed up beautiful jumpers. "We'd love to get Ridley," Neely said, "but I think he'll go higher." As for Hood and Spot, the other players O'Brien was hoping to help snag scholarships, Neely wasn't impressed.

While many of the assistant coaches were content to hang toward the back of the bleachers, Toledo's Stan Joplin made sure he got the best view of Ridley, sitting right near the baseline. He'd gotten lost trying to navigate his rental car through the confusing side streets of Boston, doing battle with the city's infamously gnarled traffic and unforgiving drivers, an experience that stretched a 15-minute drive into more than an hour. After watching Ridley, he would be hopping in the car and heading back to the airport. He was dreading the return journey. Ridley had better be worth it. Joplin had made the trip at the urging of one of his assistants, who had coached Ridley a few months earlier at the Eastern Invitational Tournament in Trenton, New Jersey, one of the biggest meat markets of the summer.

For the first time in a long while, Joplin's mind was also on keeping his own job. He’d been a star during his own playing days at the University of Toledo, leading the team to the Sweet 16 round of the NCAA Tournament in 1979, the best performance in school history. But the team's post-season record during his eight years as head coach had been far less impressive. He was feeling the heat, and knew he had very little margin of error for his next class of freshman recruits.

After the drills were done, the Charlestown players took turns using a Gatorade towel to wipe the sweat from their faces. Then they pulled their jeans back up over their shorts and walked across the court to shake hands with each of the coaches before leaving the gym. After years of prodding from O'Brien, the players automatically said goodbye to strangers with a handshake — even those strangers who held no power to determine their college futures. The handshakes with strangers were always brief, and usually wordless, unlike the elaborate hand and body gestures the guys would use when they "dapped up" each other. But they were handshakes nonetheless.

Afterward, Joplin found O'Brien. "I'm not disappointed," he said.

ONE MONTH LATER, AT 5:50 A.M., Ridley rolled out of bed. His room was near the front entrance of a first-floor apartment in a three-decker with gray peeling paint. He and his mother shared the place with the people she took in that no one else would. At this point, the roster included a pair of young brothers who were her godchildren and a former neighbor in his 70s who could no longer afford his rent and now slept on their living room couch.

Ridley shuffled down the hall to the bathroom, past the dining room that his mom decorated by hanging 24 framed plaques her boy had collected over the years, from basketball awards to perfect-attendance certificates. He returned a couple of minutes later, grabbed the Right Guard, chose a pair of Jordans from the stack of a dozen Nike boxes near his bed, and pulled up his jeans. He always showered at night, to make the mornings less brutal.

By 6 a.m., he was outside with his black hood over his head. He walked 15 minutes in the dark along the side streets of Dorchester to catch the 21 bus on Blue Hill Avenue, which would take him to the Orange Line subway stop at Forest Hills, which would take him to the 93 bus in Sullivan Square, which would, if everything went well, deposit him a block from Charlestown High, nearly an hour and 20 minutes after his commute began.

Just an ordinary weekday, but this one was different. The night before, the Boston Red Sox, who had broken hearts for generations, had miraculously captured their first World Series in 86 years. The city would operate in dazed exhilaration for weeks, but Ridley was oblivious to all that. Like his teammates, he followed the NBA, not Major League Baseball, and his team loyalty was always based on individual players, not hometown geography. Something completely different was on Ridley's mind as he walked in the middle of a side street with one of the boys who was crashing at his house.

During the weekend, he had made an official recruiting visit to the University of Toledo and he had liked what he saw of the computer engineering program. (His Charlestown teammates all had PlayStation 2 consoles in their bedrooms, but no computer. Ridley was the opposite.) He liked the campus. But most of all he liked what Stan Joplin and Toledo were offering: a full four-year Division I scholarship worth well over $100,000.

There are two "signing periods" when the NCAA allows colleges to get their recruits to commit, one in the fall and one in the spring. O'Brien usually advised his players entertaining high-level offers to sign early and settle their heads. But with Ridley, he wasn’t certain. He didn't know much about the Toledo program. BC was noncommittal. And the other Division I school showing the most interest, Robert Morris University outside Pittsburgh, already had three of O'Brien's former stars competing for playing time. So he recommended that Ridley wait until the spring, to see what opened up.

Ridley, though, was nervous. What if he got injured? What if he had another lackluster season? A few days after returning to Boston, he called Toledo and told them he would sign.

"I knew that scholarship would go to someone else if I waited," he said as he crossed Blue Hill Avenue, "and I didn't want that to happen."

By the time the 93 bus exited the Sullivan Square, the morning light had risen behind the Schrafft's candy plant, which, after the Bunker Hill Monument, was the most familiar fixture on the Charlestown skyline. For decades, Schrafft's, with its Willy Wonka-like clock tower, had been a pillar of the town's bustling industrial corridor along the Mystic River. Now it provided vanilla office space for generic small companies. The bus stopped in front of a Spanish variety store a block from Charlestown High. Dozens of kids shoved their way off and piled into the cramped market. Ridley bought his regular breakfast, an empañada meat patty and a 20-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew, and then made his way to school.

From the Spanish store, Ridley could walk down either Elm Street or Polk Street to get to the high school. Elm Street brought him by restored row houses that had gone condo, with flower boxes under the windows and Saabs in the sloped driveways. This was the typical housing stock of contemporary Charlestown now that white yuppies had largely replaced the white working class. Polk Street brought him along the edge of the Bunker Hill housing development, Boston’s largest project, where almost all of Charlestown’s black and Hispanic residents lived. The kids in school called the project “the bricks” because its 1,100 grim units were spread across a host of flat-roofed brick buildings. Some of the kids who lived in the bricks went to Charlestown High, but many others traveled to some other part of the city. Pretty much none of the kids who lived in the restored row houses went to Charlestown High.

Ridley took Elm Street. Once inside the school, he climbed the stairs to get to the cafeteria, where, as usual, O'Brien and his assistants were waiting for him. All the players were expected to check in with the coaching staff in the morning before heading to their first class. Ridley shook hands with O'Brien and dapped up assistant coach Hugh Coleman, an exuberant 27-year-old former Charlestown star who had graduated from Bowdoin College, married Ridley's favorite aunt, and then returned to teach at his alma mater.

Ridley hustled through the crowded stairwell to get to his Forensic Science class on the third floor. He was a few minutes late, but plenty of other kids, including Hood, filed in after him. The class was designed to convert the popularity of shows like CSI into interest in science. Ridley never watched CSI, but he liked the class because it was a lot easier to take first thing in the morning than English or Pre-Calculus. His teacher, a stocky 40-year-old with a goofy laugh, knew how to keep the kids’ interest. The makeup of the class mirrored that of the overall school: about half black, and the rest split between Hispanics and Asians, with a white kid here and there.

A chatty Hispanic girl named Janice sat across from Ridley, complaining about her Spanish class. She said it was a waste of time because she knew more of the language than her teacher.

"I know, me too," Ridley said.

Janice raised one eyebrow, and then her voice. "You? You Spanish?"

"Yep," Ridley said. "Both my mother and father."

"What kind?"

"Honduran."

MORE FROM BOOKS

Books Section Front

Brother West: ‘Being true to the funk of living’ ‘Viagra Diaries’ explores dating among 60+ set Murder, he wrote: Al Roker pens mystery novel Al Roker’s new mystery novel asks, who did it? Over 50? Simple secrets to grow younger Carl Reiner yucks it up in 'Just Desserts' What was the greatest moment in sports history?   Book chronicles most beautiful sights Alex Cross is back in Patterson’s latest thriller Palin offers readers insight into ’08 ups, downs Books Section Front   Add Books headlines to your news reader: