T he most popular outdoor basketball court in New York City is half the regulation size, offers no place to sit, and has sidelines bounded by a chain-link fence 20 feet high. Those who play here are literally encaged. Yet this ridiculously inadequate court, on West 4th Street in the heart of Greenwich Village, has drawn the likes of Denzel Washington and Julius Erving for pickup games. And the summer league based here is probably the most prestigious in the city. Each year, the West 4th Street League attracts more than 30,000 spectators--city-dwellers and tourists--who stand in blistering heat just to glimpse their favorite players and snap up league T-shirts at $12 apiece.
West 4th Street basketball owes its popularity to the inner-city leadership of its volunteer commissioner, a limousine driver named Kenny Graham. With little support from city hall or local civic groups, he has spent the last 18 summers building the league into a New York institution. Lloyd Daniels, Mario Ely, Anthony Mason, Rod Strickland, and Jason Williams honed their skills here before going on to N.B.A. careers, and some of them still show up during the off-season. Former pros like Detroit's Kelly Tripuka mix it up with high-school dropouts.
Midday Basketball
West 4th Street has developed its share of stars, but this is not the league's true purpose. In an era of commercialized sports, it is important to understand the contributions of a community league composed primarily of players whose glory days are over--25- to 35-year-olds with talent and pride, but no N.B.A. contracts. The league and its fans cherish players the media overlook, while putting sports and sportsmanship back into the community. It is midnight basketball played in broad daylight and without government handouts.
A recent documentary film called Hoop Dreams dramatizes the pathos of the nearly-great athlete. William, a high-school phenom from Chicago, ponders his future as a scholarship recruit. In the final moments of the film, William reflects on all the people who've asked him, "Will you still remember me when you're a big star in the N.B.A.?," and says, "I should've asked them, `Will you still remember me if I'm not?'" Promising inner-city players are typically groomed from the age of 12 or so. This process has obscured the virtues of athletic competition and replaced them with illusions of easy wealth. For a lucky few, lucrative professional careers represent a materialistic triumph and escape from the neighborhood.Graham's league, on the other hand, showcases those who cannot escape, who must remain behind and make their community work.
"I started working there refereeing league games for $10 a game," Graham recalls. "The next year the league was falling apart and no one wanted to take over, so I decided I would be commissioner."
Founded in 1968, the league had struggled along for several years with only eight teams, unreliable funding, and a shortage of referees. Today, Graham runs the oldest summer-basketball program in New York City. There is a game every day of the week in June, July, and August, five on Saturdays and Sundays. Each year, more than 600 players altogether participate in the 24-team men's division, a women's division of six teams, and an eight-team division for boys 15 and under. Its prowess is known nationwide. Last year, the Summer Pro-League outdoor championship, sponsored by Nike and shown on ESPN, was won by the defending champions from New York. But that team, which defeated a Chicago squad in the finals by 30 points, had finished second at West 4th Street.
Youth teams have come from as far away as Seattle and France to play in the preliminary games before the seniors begin, but collegiate players rarely play here because the league is not sanctioned by the N.C.A.A. In his youth division, Graham prefers to work with younger, pre-high-school players, because high-school-age youths are often spoiled and difficult to control. "We have trouble getting teams with responsible adults to control the players," he says. "It can be very difficult to talk to them. Last summer, we had high-school-age girls' teams, and fighting became a problem. At age 13 to 14, the kids will listen."
The tiny court must hold two referees and 10 quick and often large players, so personal fouls proliferate. That makes refereeing difficult. "No one wanted to come down there to ref because West 4th Street was very rough," Graham says. "The first year I was commissioner, we had only one incident, and I took a stand. The players knew right then that I would not walk away from a problem." Arizona Pearson, who has played in the league for 11 years and now directs its youth program, has watched Graham keep the peace. "Kenny gets in the middle," he says, "but you have to do that, you have to be in control. With Kenny, it takes a lot to get him upset. If there's shouting and threatening, people apologize afterward."
The cramped conditions also make ball control extremely difficult. Passing lanes are limited, and it is much easier here than in the N.B.A. for a defensive player to abandon his man to attack the dribbler or the post-up man waiting to turn and shoot. At the same time, the New York style of playground basketball frowns upon the staid jump shot in favor of the driving lay-up, with its infinite possibilities for blind pass-offs or shot creation. These factors produce a game of ferocious strength, speed, and competitiveness. The discipline and control of this style amazes outsiders and accounts for the league's popularity.
West 4th Street smoothes the transition for many of the 98 percent of New York's good collegiate players who do not make it to the pros. The close of a competitive career can prompt an emotional letdown and demoralize young men with leadership abilities. Tony Hargraves was the co-captain of Iona College's basketball team in 1984-85 and was named an Honorable Mention All-American by the Associated Press, but he could not get a professional contract. Now an operations manager at Bear Stearns with a home and family in the suburbs, he continues to play regularly in the cage. "Good players still have a desire to play against people at their own level," Hargraves explains, "and West 4th Street offers this." When N.B.A. players show up, regulars treat them with respect, but they also relish the chance to show up the pro athletes.
"The small court makes you do all the right things," Hargraves explains. "It improves your game. This is a place where you cannot continue to make mistakes. Anthony Mason [a power forward with the New York Knicks] is a prime example. West 4th Street defined his game. He learned he had to move much more quickly. He became one of the stronger players in the city, and now he's one of the stronger players in the N.B.A."
Respect Without Fear
I first became drawn to these players in the early 1980s, when I saw in their character something missing in the bright young MBAs at our big Wall Street trading firm. I saw in young players like Tony Sherman (who still plays) and Mario Ely (who won a championship ring with the Houston Rockets last year) awe-inspiring toughness, masculinity, and personal pride. These players are courteous but not chatty, fearless but disciplined. The better players have grit and a capacity for physical exertion that, I fear, our increasingly computerized society seems to devalue.
Pearson sees the role of competitive basketball in the city quite clearly: "Of course it is fun, you can work off frustrations. But it's really about getting respect. That's what living in the city is about, you know." At West 4th Street, that means being looked up to by others. It's not the same as the fashionable notion of "self-esteem," which is of little use on the streets.
Kenny's idea of respect is not built on fear. "I'm not militant and I'm not a cult leader," he explains. "I want people to learn they gain respect if they give respect. That's the bottom line.... Often black organizations are poorly run, and I tell players, `When you carry on, you reinforce stereotypes. If you make us and the league look bad, we could wind up with no league--and then you would have no chance to showcase your talents, we want a mutual respect for peers.... And respect for a program and an organization.... You can teach respect. I do it by talking, by challenging a person mentally. People judge others by their behavior, and I tell people that in their actions they represent their heritage, their culture, their race. A lot of so-called black leaders won't challenge black people about their behavior. It's easier to tell them [their problem is] white people."
Fans must arrive early to reserve a good spot at courtside. For big games--the playoffs or the all-star game--youngsters sit on the fence or hang from tree branches. Graham or one of the staff wits uses a bullhorn to announce the games, and their commentaries are humorous, improvisational performances.
The league has become an integral part of the lives of its 600-plus participants. Most of the players do not live in the neighborhood. They come mainly from Brooklyn, Harlem, or the Bronx to the playground here because they like to play before the big crowds in the Village.
Sid Jones, a Brooklynite who has been coaching winning teams for 15 years, is particularly attuned to the sense of community the league has developed. "Generally, people don't spend time getting to know each other, but at this park, you meet people," Jones says. "The people you meet may help you in other parts of your life. Kenny and the league have been bringing people together for years, and it's now a community. You wonder, why can't people get along like this outside of sports? --Just about every subway line stops here, so you get people from all walks of life. It's a real melting pot. Players will come here when they won't go everywhere else. And I'll tell you, when you win a big game down here, you don't want to go home."
The city government provides the league nothing except a permit to play. "They are not that concerned with us," Graham says, "because they see we are doing OK. They are worried about their own programs. Occasionally a mayor will come down here to help get some votes. ... But they are not here to help the league."
Graham never passes the hat. He and a few of his staff were once granted the status of part-time employees by the New York City Parks Department, but that was discontinued years ago. Money to run the league now comes exclusively from entry fees--$500 per team--and corporate sponsors. The principal sponsor for the last two years has been Fila Inc., a sportswear manufacturer, which subsidizes uniforms and gives sneakers to each team. Since 1986, Nobody Beats the Wiz has provided television sets for the winners of the Most Valuable Player and Sportsmanship awards. The nearby McDonald's feeds the staff more than 500 free meals each summer. The maker of Olde English 800 malt liquor provides a scoreboard and money for trophies and shorts.
None of the league's successes--its local following, corporate sponsorship, and national recognition--would be possible without its reputation for serious, disciplined basketball. So Graham insists upon high standards of behavior. A public league held in a public park draws all kinds, and no one can be refused admission, but Graham works hard to maintain the dignity of the league. Sometimes a player or fan will challenge this. "One day right after a game, a guy on one of the teams dropped his pants," he recalls. "I didn't think it was funny. I laced into him something fierce. I embarrassed him right on the spot. What he did was totally wrong." As commissioner, Graham's decisions are final. If a player starts fights or disgraces the league in any way, he is banned for the season.
Graham is a gifted leader who embodies positive thinking--necessary for entrepreneurs, but rare among administrators. Graham also takes great pride in delivering what he promises. Once when the TV prizes were held up due to a clerical snafu, he didn't hesitate to cover the costs. (Eventually, he was reimbursed.)
Graham's devotion to excellence and good manners filters throughout the neighborhood. Good-humored and charismatic, he can quickly summon dozens of helpers to do whatever is needed--keeping score or sweeping the court before games. Afterwards, they leave the whole area cleaner than before. In this way, even street people become part of the league culture. "We take all kinds," says Graham. "We're all human beings. Sometimes people will tell me to get rid of a guy who maybe has a drinking problem. I say, if a man has a problem and I can help him, I will. Everybody can't be on the level we'd like them to be. Some guys have gone through their whole lives being rejected, but I will help somebody who wants to be helped. I can deal with them."
Creating an Identity
Graham is proud of the fact that the league plays a part in the lives of many players and staff, even those who do menial work. "Many guys down here are not part of anything but a joint or a bottle of wine," he says. "We give them an identity above that stuff." Graham, who shuns smoking and alcohol, does not allow even surreptitious drinking in the park during games. He has also been known to chase smokers away, even though smoking is legal. He feels it creates a bad atmosphere for the kids who come to watch. He often reminds players that they are "guests" in the neighborhood.
Even those who never became professional grow as players and as individuals. One of these is Tony Sherman, one of the best players in the league never to enjoy a good prep career or go to college. "He used to live down there," says Hargraves. "Every day at 3 o'clock he'd be there working on his game. He's now a great player, and he's done it without a good high school record or any college experience.--At the park he became popular and he gained respect. That's a big thing in New York City." Pearson agrees: "Sherman's grown a lot. He could have been a troublemaker, but he watches his mouth now."
Graham says Sherman has gradually earned the recognition he craves for his talent. He has come to follow the example set by Graham and some of the older players, and takes defeats with dignity.
"Sherman was once the king of the park," says Graham. "Many guys respected him out of fear. Now he's older, he's got responsibilities. I think he's realized that people give him respect. It's an important difference."
Last year, then-Governor Mario Cuomo inaugurated the New York State Midnight Basketball League at a celebrity function in uptown Manhattan. The governor told the out-of-school, out-of-work youngsters for whom the league was created that "we have not done well by you, [but] we'll try to make it up to you." This was not the spirit that made West 4th Street. Graham is not driven by paternalism or guilt, nor even by altruism. Like his players, he is motivated instead by a need for personal recognition and respect from the players and the basketball community. "It's nice to have people say, `I'm glad you're back,'" he says. Players and staff alike seek the rewards that come with excellence, not charity. "I tell them you don't have to love me--but you should respect me."
Graham believes that other communities can duplicate the success of West 4th Street. First, he says, "develop a following. Develop a symbol. Our symbol is West 4th Street, playing in a cage. Our shirts are known all over New York--every kid wants one." Second, "develop people with character. You've got to let people know that you don't have to be out there, you've got a job and other things in your life. They can't just do what they'd like to."
Sociologists like to point out that chaos and disorder are common aspects of malfunctioning inner-city families. One of Graham's greatest talents is for organization: it is he, not some government agency, that provides continuity for these New Yorkers. The order originates within the community rather than being imposed from without. There are lots of Kenny Grahams in every community. If such leaders are encouraged, they will come.
