Ministers With Balls

Timley's aunt, Sharon Oliver (who is also Pooh Oliver's aunt), says Timley loved basketball until the end but had stopped playing in the community centers. She remembers telling Timley to get off the street. He had a son to care for. By dealing drugs, she says, Timley was bound to end up perpetuating the cycle — going to jail, then returning home to a son who'd grown into a man without him.

"If you live by the sword, you're going to die by the sword," Oliver says. "If you walk in the right path with Jesus, you know, he has his angels around you."

She remembers how Wainright took in her nephew so many years ago. "If we could get someone to help, get these kids off the streets and steer them in the right path, I'm all for it."

It's a cool, sunny Thursday afternoon in mid-March, and Clarke is driving down the streets of the neighborhood where he has lived his whole life. Heaps of trash and broken glass line the curbs. Scattered houses look ready to collapse.

He pulls to a stop at the wrecked corner of 41st Street and Prospect, which buzzes with motion. Dozens of people are walking about while souped-up cars cruise slowly through the intersection, gold rims spinning and bass speakers thumping.

Three teens are sitting on a bench next to the bus stop. But they don't get on when the bus pulls up. Instead, they concentrate on the cars that pass by. Occasionally, one leans his head into a car stopping at the corner.

Clarke walks to an abandoned white brick building and peers through the barred windows. Below the "For Sale" sign is a bullet hole.

He says there's a prospective buyer in talks with the bank. But if the bank denies a loan, the owner, pastor Thomas Pickens, says he'll rent it to Clarke, Wainright and Smith. It would be an ideal location for the center, half a block from the bus line that stops in one of the worst areas in the inner city.

Pickens pulls up in a rickety pickup and says he still hasn't heard whether the building is going to sell. He smiles. One of Pickens' front teeth has a cross emblazoned in gold.

A couple of blocks down Prospect, a fat young man in a red sweatshirt stands outside a car wash, screaming obscenities at a car in the intersection.

Clarke parks and stares down the fat guy. He's a drug dealer who hangs out on the corners most afternoons, Clarke says.

When the traffic moves forward, Clarke inches out and turns to look at the loudmouth. Clarke addresses him, sounding nonsensical but tough.

"Hey!" he yells. "You better stop cussin' — I got my grandmother's picture in my wallet."

The man gives him a blank look and shuts his mouth.

Next to the fat man is a tall, slimmer man about the same age. Clarke tries to recruit the other man, telling him about a basketball game Saturday at Satchel Paige School. The man smiles and nods (but won't show up for the game a couple of days later).

Clarke drives on.

Later that evening, Wainright greets the college kids arriving for pickup games at King Middle.

Midway through his spring break from Missouri Western, Pooh Oliver strides in to team up with four other men about his age. His hand is cold; he misses three shots the first game. The players on the court scramble in a graceful, fluid game that's less team-oriented and more a ballet of one-on-one showdowns below the basket.

Oliver's team loses the game, and he walks off the court. "I'm not gonna lose again," he declares calmly.

When his team is up again, he takes control, moving slowly, then bursting to the basket with unexpected speed. Before he gets under the basket, he dishes off, and his teammate scores. Time and again, he fires no-look passes past multiple defenders, and he lands a dozen high-arcing three-pointers that seal five consecutive wins for his team.

After he completes his degree in physical education next year, Oliver plans to return to Kansas City. He, too, wants to help kids find a way out.

Oliver could have gone anywhere for his spring break. Wainright wonders why he's spending it back in the ghetto.

"You should be off in the Bahamas," Wainright tells him.

"This is my Bahamas," Oliver says, tightening his laces for the next game.