The Fab Five

by Mitch Albom

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

Recounts the remarkable story of University of Michigan basketball players Chris Webber, Jalen Rose, Juan Howard, Jimmy King, and Ray Jackson, and chronicles their success in the NCAA tournaments of 1992 and 1993.

Release date: September 26, 2009

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 360

Sample

Traffic is at a standstill. Horns honk. Music blares. People line around the block, and beefy security guards in white T-shirts
that read “Panther Protection Service,” are holding back the mob. Something huge is happening inside the State Theatre on
Woodward Avenue in downtown Detroit, June 30, 1993. It must be huge, because you don’t get this many people out on a Wednesday
night, not even in the summer.


“LET US IN!”

“CHRIS INVITED ME!”

“I’M ON THE LIST. YO, MAN. CHECK THE LIST.”

Such commotion! And such women! It’s as if every black female in the city aged 18 to 25 has shown up in a tight dress, plunging
neckline, gold jewelry, poufed hair. The men respond in olive and maroon suits, with neat gold tiepins, and shoes that shine.
Together they form a hurricane that swarms the theater, engulfing it, like one of those early rock-and-roll concerts in the
1950s.


The marquee reads, “CHRIS WEBBER DRAFT CELEBRATION.”

The front panel says, “The Best Party in the Free World.”

And here comes the man of the hour.

“IT’S CHRIS!”

“YOU THE MAN, CHRIS!”

“CONGRATULATIONS, CHRIS!”

Chris Webber, 20 years old, who grew up a few miles from here and as late as a week ago didn’t have enough money in his pocket
to buy a full tank of gas, now steps out from a new vehicle in a fine Italian camel-colored suit, with a rust handkerchief
peeking out the front pocket. His shirt is tailored. His tie is silk. On his shaved head is a cap reading, “Golden State Warriors,”
the team that will make him rich. He waves at the crowd and hears it roar back at him.


“WHOOO, CHRIS!”

“ON YOUR WAY, CHRIS!”

Four hours earlier, before a nationwide TV audience, Webber was selected No. 1 in the NBA draft, meaning, at the very least,
a $ 35-million contract, endorsement deals, an appearance on The Arse-nio Hall Show. His father cried. His mother cupped his face when he kissed her. Chris, who still looks a lot like his fourth-grade picture—
soft features, big eyes, and a winner’s smile—had rented this theater in advance, because he felt sure something good was
going to happen to him. Something good always happens.


Now, surrounded by an entourage, he eases through the lobby, parting the crowd like a shark fin.

“GOIN’ TO THE LEAGUE, CHRIS!”

“DON’T FORGET TO HOOK ME UP, CHRIS!”

“WHASSUP, CHRIS?”

Flashbulbs explode. Everyone wants a hug. He stops to talk to a TV camera, the hot light blinding him momentarily.

“How’s it feel?” a reporter asks.

“It’s my dream,” he says.

He moves to the staircase marked, “VIP Section, Passes Required,” where two Panther Protection people grant him immediate
passage. Up the stairs now, gawkers pointing, his entourage behind him like a bridal train. He’s here! He’s here! Music is thumping from the main room, rap, R&B, party music. A girl in a low-cut, red sequined dress sidles up to him, whispers
“Hi.” He says “Whassup?” and smiles.


“CHRIS! CHRIS!”

The mob, many of whom have never met Webber, is cheering now, urging him forward—“GO ON IN, CHRIS!”—and as he steps into the
balcony that overlooks the already packed main floor, a king above his subjects, every eye in the place turns to spy him,
the dancers, the drinkers, the videoids who’ve been watching a wall of TV sets replaying his brief but brilliant college career:
Chris slamming a dunk, Chris blocking a shot, Chris going the length of the floor in his bright yellow Michigan uniform, baggy
shorts, black shoes.


The DJ on the microphone can barely contain himself.

“The MAN is IN the HOUSE! The MAN is IN the—”

From the corner of his eye, Chris spots them. They stand out, taller than the rest. There’s Jimmy, in a pale blue sports coat,
and Juwan in a silk shirt, and Jalen in some kind of turquoise suit, the kind of suit only Jalen could wear, with his bald
head and his earring. Only Ray is missing—he couldn’t get a plane up from Texas—but Chris thinks of Ray when he thinks of
them all, and when the others see him, their eyes lock in that group telepathy, and for a moment, all the noise in the theater
swirls into the background, a seashell pressed against their ears. It’s the same noise they heard when they were center of
the storm in the national championship games, those huge domed stadiums, the whole world watching, and there they were, the
young guns, the Shock the World boys, their throats dry, their nerves jangling, but somehow still tossing alley-oop passes
and slam-dunking and hanging on the rims, the crowd going “ A A A A AHHHHHHH!”


“Chris?” somebody asks, but he ignores it. He is moving toward them now as if no one else exists, and they are moving toward
him, the smiles bursting—“You made it, boy!” one of them yells, and the others join in, “You made it! You made it!”—and they
hug like soldiers on the plane ride home. Chris hugs Jalen. Chris hugs Jimmy. Chris hugs Juwan.


The DJ’s voice echoes in their ears.

“The MAN is IN the HOUSE! How about it for CHRIS and the boys from the FAB FIVE!”

At the same time, not far away, in a small, single-level house on Bramell Avenue in Northwest Detroit, Michael Talley flops
on his mother’s couch. His droopy eyes are only half-open. The pop bottles are empty. The potato chip bags are down to crumbs.
His friends from the neighborhood have gone, and his wife is off at her mother’s place. She’ll take care of the baby tonight,
which is good; Mike doesn’t feel like dealing with that crying right now. He is staring at the TV set, which flashes quietly.


“Damn,” he says to himself. He had been hoping to hear his name from that box during the NBA draft tonight, hoping to hear
some team say, “We want Michael Talley, we want the senior guard from the University of Michigan.” Deep down, he knew it was
a pipe dream. He had no agent. He’d gotten no calls. Unlike other seniors in college basketball, his playing time went down
in his final year, because, well, the Fab Five needed their minutes, right? Now the league was looking right through him,
an invisible commodity, him, Mike T, of all people, the kid they’d recruited out of high school so desperately you’d have
thought he was the Messiah.


Tonight, with each passing pick, his friends told him, “Aw, you’re better than that guy, Mike.” “They’re screwing you, Mike.”
He watched Chris Webber get drafted first, watched him take those long strides down that red-carpeted walkway, raising his
fist like an Olympic hero. Sure, Talley thought, Chris gets his. And Talley had helped recruit Webber in the first place! Took him around on his campus visit. Said, “Come to school here,
we’ll both get a championship ring.”


But Mike was two years older, and he was there first. He keeps saying that to himself. I was there first. I was there first. He grows angrier with each recital. He was once a hot recruit, he was once voted best high school player in the state, same
as Webber. Why didn’t things go in order, same as they always had? / was there first!

He remembers how his life changed when those kids showed up in the autumn of ‘91, Chris, Jalen, Juwan, Jimmy, Ray, how everything
changed when they showed up, the coaches, the media, his career, everything. The Fab Five. Give us the Fab Five! Fab Five
Fab Five Fab Five Fab Fi—


The hell with the Fab Five, he figures.

He reaches for the remote control, flicks off the set, walks up to his childhood room, and goes to sleep.

This is a story about extremes, city meeting suburbs, veterans meeting rookies, white meeting black, noise meeting quiet.
It’s a story about the Greatest Class Ever Recruited in college basketball, the Fab Five, and how a group like them will never
come along again.


It’s about youth, fame, basketball, media, ego, trash talk, and shocking the world.

But mostly it’s about what happens when everyone’s dream shows up at the same time.

And there’s only one ball.

Rinnnng! Rinnnng!

Steve Fisher, the head coach of the Michigan Wolverines, held the phone to his ear. His eyes darted nervously. Let’s hope
the kid is home, he thought. Rinnnng! Come on. Be home. At least the phone was ringing. Sometimes you got a busy signal all night. That was when mother or father
got fed up and took the phone off the hook, or when the jealous younger brother pulled the cord out of the wall, or when the
star recruit had his girlfriend over and didn’t need to hear any sweet talk from coaches, not when he could get it from her.


Or maybe it was another school stealing the kid away?

Rinnnng.


Come on!

Around the corner from Fisher, in the other Michigan basketball offices, Brian Dutcher, the assistant coach, was also on the
phone talking to a recruit, and Mike Boyd, another assistant coach, was also on the phone talking to a recruit, and Jay Smith,
the youngest assistant coach, was also on the phone talking to a recruit. Their desks were stacked with brochures and tip
sheets. As they spoke they made notes and checked 3 by 5 cards for references. Their voices all had the too-interested tone
of someone trying to sell you something. If you eavesdropped from room to room, it sounded like a time-share pitch for condominiums
…


“We sure would love to have you.”

“This could be a great place for you/’

“You’ll love it here, the others do.”

… or insurance salesmen …

“If you have a problem, we’ll be therefor you.”

“A lot of the others promise you this and that, but can you trust them?”

… or political canvassing …

“Ask yourself, do you want to go four years under that guy?”

“The only reason they’re bad-mouthing us is because they’re jealous of our program.”

It was, of course, none of this. It was simply another black-coffee night in the Great Recruiting Chase, the method by which
college sports teams replenish their stock. Each fall and spring, they go to the well. And there was a sense of desperation
in the empty buckets of the Michigan basketball team in the early fall of 1990. Last year’s team did not win a conference
title or go very far in the NCAA tournament. The current team did not look good. And while every program has a dip now and
then, if you dip too low or too long, suddenly they’re taking your name off the office door.


Back in Fisher’s office, a breakthrough.

“Hello?” the voice said, answering the phone.

“Hello, Chris?” Fisher said, leaning forward.

Success!

“Coach Fisher here, Chris. Just calling to see how you’re doing? … Uh-huh … Getting ready for the season? … That’s good …
How’s school going? … Uh-huh … Talked to your dad last week, told him how much we wanted to have you here, I guess you know
that … So are you still thinking about signing early? … Yeah … Well, I know this is the place for you, Chris, I know it, I
just have to convince you of it … Uh-huh … Well, you’re a special kid, Chris, and we all think that here, me, Coach Boyd,
Coach Dutcher, Coach Smith, we were talking about you just this afternoon …”


Fisher rubbed his jowls and did his best to sound upbeat. Never let them hear your frustration. Never sound too desperate.
As he listened to his latest recruiting fantasy speak, he happened to glance at the wall, a picture of the greatest basketball
night of his life, the 1989 national championship. There he was, holding his blond-haired sons, Mark and Jonathan, and standing
next to his wife, Angie. His own hair was sweaty, his smile was a mile wide. The picture was so real that when he looked at
it, he almost heard noise coming from the background …


“THIS IS IT! THIS IS FOR THENATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP!”

Here was Steve Fisher, eighteen months earlier, inside the Seattle Kingdome, in front of 64,000 people, sipping water to calm
his nerves. It was overtime in the national title game, the place roaring with noise, Fisher’s own heart thumping so hard
it was ready to burst through his rib cage. He stood on the sidelines, with that cup of water, as his point guard, Rumeal
Robinson, launched a free throw that would tie the game.


Up … and … GOOD!

Fisher clapped. Robinson raised a fist, then went back to the line and shot another—up … and … GOOD!

Michigan had a one-point lead.

And three seconds left on the clock.

Seton Hall threw the ball in bounds. They tried a desperation shot. It was a high arching jumper and as it fell toward the
basket, Fisher thought it was going to kill him, he thought it was going in. Had it gone in, his whole life would have been
different. He might never have become famous. Might never have become rich. Might never have the job he has.


A whole life, riding on the arch of a basketball …

It missed.

“MICHIGAN WINS THE NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP! MICHIGAN WINS THE NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP!”

Fisher turned to the stands, still holding the water cup, and looked for his wife. He shook a fist in the air as if banging
on a bomb shelter door. They’d won! They’d won! He spun back to the court, the dancing players, the camera lights, and suddenly
Steve Fisher, in only his sixth game as a head coach, was hit with this rush, this euphoria, a tingling he had never felt
before.


There is no feeling like it. It is a drug. The purest high in sports. Ultimate victory. Champions of the world. For one moment,
you face the best on the planet and you leave them behind.


Coaches would die for this feeling. And to taste it once is to want it forever. Fisher bathed in it all night long, when his
players hugged him, when Angie kissed him, when his children leapt into his arms, when Brent Musburger from CBS patted him
on the back and asked, in front of a worldwide audience, how the rookie coach felt.


“Brent, I am the happiest man alive,” the rookie coach replied.

The happiest man alive. Oh, if Steve Fisher could live forever in the snapshot from that drizzly Monday night, April 3, 1989,
devoted husband, loving father, and, let’s not forget, the winner, the champion, the best in the business.


What could be better than this? Today he was perfect.

Then came tomorrow.

Fisher hung up the phone and rubbed his neck.

“How we doin’?” he asked back in the office.

Dutcher, the assistant and recruiting specialist, gave the thumbs-up sign. “Good conversation. Juwan’s still looking strong,
Fish.”


“Good,” Fisher said. “Hey, Mike, how we doin’?”

“Spoke to Ray Jackson. Still trying to get the King kid on the phone,” Mike said.

“I can’t believe we have a chance with Jimmy King.”

“Trust me, we do. How’d it go with Chris Webber?”

Fisher shrugged and looked at him, with a long silent gaze, the way he often looked at people with a long silent gaze. In
this case, he didn’t need to say what he was thinking. They needed these kids. They needed players desperately. The coffeepot
was empty and the junk-food bags were tossed in the corner. Entries had been made in the recruiting logs—


Called Ray Jackson … Spoke with him, spoke with father … Father had a cold … Mother’s birthday coming up …

Jay Smith came over with an artistic creation, a photo of Chris Webber, the No. 1 player in the country, overlaid on the Michigan
emblem. He was thinking of sending it to Chris, maybe get his attention a little bit.


“What do you think?” Smith asked.

“If it works,” Fisher said, “I love it.”

He went back to his office and dialed another number.

Understand that Fisher never would have gotten his magic night in Seattle if his boss, Bill Frieder, hadn’t been fired just
before the tournament.


Frieder had been an eccentric and somewhat suspicious basketball coach at Michigan, who liked to write recruits as early as
eighth grade. A jumpy guy by nature, Frieder was getting even jumpier with the new athletic director, Bo Schembechler—the
football coaching legend—who would pound his fist and holler, “GOD DAMN IT! I WANT A SQUEAKY-CLEAN BASKETBALL PROGRAM. IS
THAT UNDERSTOOD?”


Frieder understood. Bo didn’t trust him. Although Frieder had never been found to have committed any violation, he liked to
run a loose ship, let the kids be kids, let the boosters be boosters. He felt Bo’s stare on the back of his neck like a laser.


A job opened at Arizona State, sunshine, easier academic standards, great money, big fat contract.

And no Bo.

Frieder grabbed it.

Unfortunately he grabbed it two days before the start of the 1989 NCAA tournament, which, for many teams, is the only part
of the season that really matters. Frieder flew to Phoenix, accepted the job, then telephoned back to Ann Arbor to inform
Schembechler.


“Now, don’t worry,” Frieder told him, “I’m on my way back. I’ll coach the team through the end of the tournament.”

“The hell you will!” Schembechler snarled, the blood rising in his temples. “No Arizona State man is going to coach this team.
A Michigan man will coach this team.”


Exit Bill Frieder.

And enter Fisher, the 44-year-old assistant, an apple-cheeked fellow with thinning brown hair, gentle eyes, and a Barney Fife
voice, who took his son to school in the morning and went to church on Sundays and who had never been a college head coach
in his life. Fisher had grown up in a small town in southern Illinois, learned basketball the old-fashioned way, from his
dad. And as a coach, he taught with the passion of a father working with his son in the driveway.


Had Frieder stayed, Fisher probably would have left for a small Division I school somewhere, tried to build a program.

But now Schembechler was handing Steve Fisher the Michigan Wolverines, one of the premier college basketball teams in America.

Temporarily, of course.

“Here,” Bo said, “coach the tournament. Do the best you can.”

Well. In the first weekend, the Wolverines beat Xavier and eased past South Alabama. They came back the following weekend
to outlast North Carolina and blow out Virginia. They came back a week later at the Final Four and stunned Illinois with a
last-second basket, then beat Seton Hall in overtime on those Rumeal Robinson free throws.


And they cut down the nets.

National champions.

“MICHIGAN—KING OF THE COURT,” read the cover of Sports Illustrated. The Wolverines were everybody’s favorite underdog. They went to the White House, shook hands with the President. Fisher appeared
on Good Morning America, ESPN, CBS. He was hailed as a breath of fresh air, an anathema to thejoyless businessmen many college coaches had become.


After a brief waiting period, Schembechler did what most people expected: he gave Fisher the job full-time.

“You did a hell of a thing in that tournament, Steve,” Bo told him. “You’ve earned the position. I’m raising your salary from
$ 42,000 to $ 95,000. You’ll have a shoe deal, a summer camp deal, and a TV and radio deal, which I will negotiate, if you
like. The whole package should be worth between $ 300,000 and $ 400,000. That OK?”


OK? Was he kidding? The new head coach at Michigan? With six games on his resume? Fisher was dizzy. Nothing like this had
ever happened to him before, and he tried to approach it with his typical steady, even-gazed approach. But that was like capping
an oil well. Head coach? National champions? Six games?


President Bush invited Steve Fisher and Angie back to the White House. Fisher even phoned his alma mater, Illinois State—who
had been interested in him as a coach—from the back of a Secret Service limo. “Sorry, I really appreciate the offer, but I’m going to take this little job here at Michigan …” The back of a Secret Service limo?


Fisher got a six-figure shoe contract from Nike, and was invited to their annual party weekend in Newport Beach, California.
Here he was strolling in the cool sunshine, chatting with Michael Jordan and Charles Barkley, getting the star treatment from
hotshot Nike execs.


Back in Ann Arbor, Fisher got a nice car to drive, and he bought a beautiful house with his suddenly large income. People
slapped his back, said, “Hi, coach.”


What a life.

All he had to do was live up to his legend.

Which, of course, was impossible. He learned that the next year. The Wolverines lost the first game of the season, and they
lost the last game of the season, and six more in between. They were eliminated in the second round of the 1990 tournament
by a little-known, hotshot team named Loyola-Mary mount.


And Fisher, like a pageant queen who surrenders her crown, was suddenly in search of an identity. He was no longer the Best
in the Business. He was just another coach trying to get there.


The exodus of players began. Three seniors, Robinson—the hero from the championship game—plus big men Terry Mills and Loy
Vaught went off to the NBA. And junior Sean Higgins, whom Fisher sorely needed to return, jumped to the NBA as well.


Suddenly Michigan had craters in its lineup. What made matters worse, the Wolverines most-desired high school recruit, a 7-foot
scoring machine named Eric Montross, whose father went to Michigan and whose grandfather went to Michigan and who was supposed
to be in the bag for Fisher, chose North Carolina instead. Some said it was unavoidable, that the kid was under too much pressure.
Others said Fisher blew it.


Whatever. It worried Fisher. A veteran head coach knows the ups and downs of his damnable life. He has a swig of whiskey,
chews a Maalox, bites the bullet. But Fisher had just had the rainbow in his lap, and now it was gone. He saw how quickly
glory could evaporate. He went to the Nike affair, but the attitude was different: he was just one of the masses. And around
Ann Arbor, he could hear whispers: “We made a mistake. He can’t recruit like Frieder. See what happened with Montross? Without talent, he’s nothing, just a dressed-up
assistant coach.”

Fisher may be, in his own words, “pure white bread,” but he isn’t dumb. He was scared. With a year-to-year contract—Michigan
has never given any coach a long-term deal—and with a weak team coming back, he knew that patience was not something he could
count on. There is only one way to improve your lot in college basketball: improve your personnel. And so there was one thing
and one thing only that could save Fisher, get him back to the nirvana of the 1989 snapshot.


The best recruiting year anyone could imagine.

The Greatest Class Ever Recruited.

“We’re focusing on one thing next year,” Fisher had told his staff earlier in the summer. “Recruiting. Everyone is gonna work.
Everyone is gonna push. We’re gonna stay up late, we’re gonna make all the calls, make all the visits. This is our emphasis,
our No. 1 priority. This is what we need.


“We need players.”

Players.

Players.

Players.

And the most important would be the first.



of Top Fifty High School Senior Basketball Players

Hometown: Chicago, 111.

“Jammin’ Juwan” is rated the #1 prospect in the Windy City, and he was the most impressive senior player at last summer’s
prestigious Nike/ABCD Basketball Camp in Princeton, N.J. Yet another of the many outstanding power forwards in this class,
Howard has the size and heft to successfully play on the block at the collegiate level. He is an excellent inside-outside
scorer, and has a soft, accurate shooting touch with true three-point range. He is very mobile and runs the court extremely
well. According to Coach Richard Cook, “Juwan takes great pride in his game and always plays very hard.” He is a solid student
and plans to study business management or radio-TV communications in college. He serves as president of the Senior Boys’ Council
at Vocational High. Howard narrowed his long list of colleges to Michigan, Arizona State, Pittsburgh, DePaul, Illinois, and
Dayton.


—from Bob Gibbons’ All Star Sports newsletter, 1990–91,a tip sheet for college recruiters


“These look good, Ms. Howard,” Brian Dutcher said, staring at his plate. He had a smile plastered on his face, the Official
Recruiting Smile, and even though the plate was full of watery greens with a rather pungent smell, you couldn’t wipe that
smile off with sandpaper.


“Collard greens,” Jannie Mae Howard said, chomping her cigarette. “You mean you ain’t never had no greens before?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well, you gonna have some tonight.”

She laughed, and so he laughed, and they all laughed—Dutcher, Steve Fisher, Mike Boyd, Lois Howard (Juwan Howard’s aunt),
Richard Cook (Juwan’s high school coach), Donnie Kirksey (his high school assistant coach), Juwan himself, and most important,
Jannie Mae Howard, his grandmother, the woman in charge, the woman who could Sway the Decision. In recruiting, there was always
one person who could Sway the Decision, and without that person, you were dead.


“Yeah, coach, you gonna have some greens tonight.”

“Coach Dutch gonna have him some soul food.”


Dutcher, a devoted member of Fisher’s staff, with Kurt Russell looks and boundless energy when it came to recruiting, laughed
again and took his seat at the table. His plate was packed with pork roast, spaghetti, corn bread, and, of course, the greens.
He pawed a forkful, chewed, and made a happy face, like out of a soup commercial.


“Hey, these are great.”

“He likes them greens, Grandma.”

“Course he like ‘em.”

“Really, these are great.”

Dutcher was thrilled. Things were going well. Juwan Howard, the tall, neatly dressed kid with the thick eyebrows and the goatee,
well, he could be The One! The big name Michigan signed to get the ball rolling! He was 6 foot 10, with a deep voice and a
sweet jump shot, and was ranked the No. 1 high school center in the country. Lots of schools were after him. But Michigan
had been following him longer than most. Dutcher had spotted Howard as a sophomore in a Chicago summer league, had watched
the way he moved without the ball, none of the awkwardness you usually see in young kids his size.


“Steve, this kid can play,” Dutcher reported.


Those are the magic words.

The pursuit began. Letters. Phone calls. Dutcher called almost every day during Juwan’s junior year, just to say hello, talk
about life, school, girls, whatever.


“Michigan would love to have you, Juwan.”

“You could do great things here.”

“We can’t wait for you to visit.”

Dutcher also mailed Juwan at least two handwritten notes per week. He sent articles that spoke of Michigan’s excellent academic
reputation—“Thought your grandmother would like to see this”—and he cut up make-believe headlines on mock USA Today sports sections.


Go Blue!

Coach Dutcher

Still, the biggest thing, the most important element of the Great Recruiting Chase—at least according to Dutcher—was to let
them see you. So, during the 30-day visitation period in the summer of 1990, Dutcher had watched Juwan play 28 days in a row—and he wasn’t even allowed to speak to him. Those are the NCAA rules. Lookee, but no talkee. The NCAA has rules about everything.


So here was Dutcher, in his shorts and very noticeable Michigan T-shirt, standing like a sentinel on the side of the court,
watching Juwan, smiling at Juwan, never saying a word, but making sure nobody else got to say a word either.


Twenty-eight days?

“Hey, that’s the way the game is played,” Dutcher would say in his snappy, salesmanlike voice. Every major college coaching
staff has at least one guy like Dutcher, the “recruiting expert,” the guy who specializes in throwing his net into the water
and coming up with a catch. As the son of former Minnesota coach Jim Dutcher, Brian had spent hours as a boy in the Gophers’
basketball office, listening to his father’s assistants deal with recruits. He had learned the lessons well. In fact, he claimed
to have a whole system now for body language when he went to see a recruit play. If the kid waved, it was a good sign. A smile
was even better. Two smiles meant you had him.


The Nod and Wink Show!

“Don’t waste time on kids who don’t want you,” Dutcher would declare, as if reciting the Scouts Oath, “and don’t waste time
on kids who don’t have the grades to make your school. But if you find a kid who can play, and he wants you, and you want
him …”


Go after him like a bloodhound.

And know his biggest influence.

For Juwan Howard, the report read, “Grandmother.”

“You think I could have some more of these, um … greens, Ms. Howard?” Dutcher said now, holding out his plate.

“Coach,” she said, laughing, “you like ‘em so much, you go on and help yourself.”

Jannie Mae Howard, the daughter of sharecroppers in Belzoni, Mississippi, had four babies by her nineteenth birthday, so she
knew about motherhood, particularly young motherhood. When her teenage daughter Helena came home one night complaining about
nausea, Jannie Mae sighed.


“It’s that food down at the restaurant where I’m working, Mama,” Helena said. “The smell of it makes me sick.”

“It ain’t the food, Helena. You’re pregnant.”

The doctors confirmed it. Helena quickly married the father, Leroy Watson, Jr., a phone company worker who had just come back
from the army. And they lived for a while in the upstairs room at Jannie Mae’s place on Chicago’s South Side. But when Juwan
was born, it was obvious the responsibility was too much for them. Helena was only 17, a junior in high school. When she brought
the child home from the hospital, they d