Mo’s Note:  During the middle of my fifth year at Northwestern, after having “Hip-Hop Cops” published the year before, I wanted to write another feature.  I had heard and read the hoops hype surrounding a high-school star who had moved from South Carolina to Chicago for his senior season.  Wearing my letterman’s jacket, and a pair of sneakers just in case, I walked into the front doors of Farragut High School, looked up at a 6’11” student.  I introduced myself to Kevin Garnett in the chaos of the hallways, and later Kevin and I started talking as we waited for the end of a gym class.  He politely asked if he could flip through Sports Illustrated that I had tucked under my arm.  When I gave it to him, and he opened up the magazine, he said, “I’ve always wanted to be in Face of the Crowd.”  (Garnett ended up on the cover that June.)  Humble, reserved and smart enough not to trust anyone, Garnett chatted a bit about life and hoops.  An assistant coach came over, pulled me aside, and told me that Garnett was boycotting the media, and he wouldn’t talk.

At the end of what resembled a poorly organized open gym, Garnett and I started shooting around, and he started telling me about the details of his life.  Not sure where we stood, I said, “Let’s play a game of HORSE, and if I win, you talk.  On the record.”  He smiled and agreed.  After I won, he looked at me and said, “I would have talked to you anyway.”

Daily Herald
Friday, March 17, 1995

FLEET ADMIRALS
Garnett and Fields:  Full speed ahead for Farragut
By Maureen Holohan

Attending a Farragut Admirals high school boys basketball game is like sitting through an action film.  You just don’t know what could happen next.

The five-star display of athleticism, the control amid the fierce intensity, and the Slamma Jamma of oh-my-lawd dunks, leaves the incredulous crowd shaking their heads and smiling in appreciation.  You must give it up, no matter how hard it is to believe.

It’s not fiction.  It’s not in the theatres.  It’s live in Chicago.  The cast consists of two phenomenal All-Americans backed by a promising supporting group—on a team ranked No. 1 in the state and No. 4 in the nation—all looking to carve their place within the upper echelon of Chicago basketball history.

It’s the city’s hottest hoops show since the days when Mark Aquirre and the DePaul Blue Demons danced their way into the Final Four, or when Michael Jordan danced on the scorer’s table with the NBA championship trophy.

Last weekend, standing-room only crowds packed the UIC Pavillion two days in a row for the Public League finals.  Outside, tickets were being scalped for as much as $30.

When the Admirals anchor their ship in Champaign today for the state quarterfinals, it’s possible there won’t be an empty seat in the house.  If that happens, it would be the largest state finals crowd at Assembly Hall in more than 20 years.

But beneath all the hype is a story of two teen-age boys—one reticent and the other flamboyant, originally from different places, now together in Chicago with a passion for playing ball and winning it all.

KEVIN GARNETT is all arms, all shorts, and in every sense of the hoop slang, his game … is all good.  On the floor, his repertoire is complete, from a smooth downtown jumper to an omniscient court sense.

Defensively, his endless wing-span accompanied by his 35-inch vertical leap make even the boldest fear the KGZ—the Kevin Garnett Zone—where the machine-like shot-swatter goes to work.

In almost every game, it comes to a point where it becomes grossly unfair.  Almost like an adult holding a ball out of a boy’s reach, teasing the flailing child and then swiping the ball away.  Feeling he has nothing to lose, the child soon begins to cheat, by climbing and fighting his way to the ball, similar to the tactics used to dismantle Garnett.

But once in a while, the child will find a way.  Kind of like a player from Lincoln Park High School did when he stunned even himself by dunking on Garnett earlier this season.  For a moment, a look of pressure surfaced on Garnett’s usually stoic game face.  Seconds later, during a break in the action, the weight was visibly removed when he smiled along with his teammates who were saying, “He got you pretty good.”

To err is human.  And to be human for Garnett is to be like and dream like every high school kid.  During a gym class at school one late afternoon before practice, Garnett watched silently as other students learned the fundamentals of the game.  They each took turns, awkwardly dribbling too high and looking down at the ball.  Not one word of ridicule came from Garnett.

“I do it to be normal,” said the 6-foot-11 Garnett.  “So people won’t think stuff.”

Later, flipping through a Sports Illustrated, he turned to the “Faces in the Crowd” section, which gives a brief paragraph on amateur athletes.  “It’s always been my dream to be in Faces in the Crowd,” he said.

This from a kid who has been featured on ESPN, all over local news stations, newspapers and magazines.  A down-to-earth person so much of a celebrity in the city that he needed a police escort to get out of Alumni Hall after the Hoops in the Loop tournament at DePaul in January.

As exciting as all the attention may seem, it is not simple or easy being Kevin Garnett.  Pressure is not being the best high school player in the country with gifts good enough to pack virtually every gymnasium he steps in.  Nor is it when college or NBA scouts are in those stands.

“I have problems—like family problems, personal problems,” said the taciturn Garnett.  “Like this year, I had three close friends pass.  It didn’t take a toll on me, but I won’t every forget it.”

“You’ve got family problems, divorces, income problems that can always get you.  Especially when you don’t know where your next meal is coming from.  A lot of people think I don’t have a worry in the world.  I say, ‘If you only knew.’”

Growing up, Garnett resided in New York, Atlanta, and various places in South Carolina.  Before coming to Chicago this summer, he lived in Maudlin, S.C.—a small middle-class town outside of Greenville—since the sixth grade.

But relentless pressure and media attention made Garnett want out of his small-town life.  “My goal was to just get away from South Carolina for a year and focus on things I needed to focus on.  I could have gone anywhere and played basketball and had the same success.  This is all about KG, the man in the mirror.”

While Garnett is living and playing in Chicago, his heart goes out to certain people in his hometown.

Like his best friend, Jaime “Bug” Peters, who convinced Garnett in sixth grade to put down his first love—throwing a football—and give basketball a shot.  They began by watching basketball videos like Michael Jordan’s “Come Fly With Me.”

They taught each other the perfect shooting form that Garnett holds to this day.

“I was garbage,” he said in describing his first days of playing.  “Sometimes I still think I’m garbage, but back then I was super garbage.”

It wasn’t until seventh grade that Garnett knew he and basketball were meant to be.

One hot summer day, Garnett was on the playground running with the big boys, including highly touted Louisville freshman LaBradford Smith.  Garnett picked up a loose ball in the open court and felt Smith on his heels.

“You know how scared you get running from a dog?”  he recalled.  “That’s how scared I was.  I’ll never forget it.  I never ran so fast and jumped so far in my life.” 

With Smith on his back, Garnett hammered a dunk that sent the crowd of 500 into a frenzy and Garnett to the ground.  He picked his skinny self up, wiped off the dirt and ran down the floor not saying a word.

“I’ll never forget it.”

He and Bug would hit the blacktop at wee hours of the morning before school and then play deep into the night.  Playing ball was a serious matter.  Soon it became everything.

Garnett befriended Bare “Big as a Bear” Franks, a 6-foot-5, 290-pounder who would “hit you in the head with the ball five times and then dunk on you.”

When Garnett’s mother told Franks that her son was staying out way past curfew on school nights, it didn’t happen again.  “He was the father in the neighborhood,” Garnett said.  “My mother told him that I came in around 1 a.m. on a school night.  I hung out with Bare the next day.  Then he asked, ‘What time you get in last night?’  I said, ‘Around 11 or 12.’  Bare said, ‘Well that’s funny, because I was at your house at that time.’”

Garnett knew he was caught in a lie, and Franks didn’t let him off the hook easy.  “I’ve been in my share of fights, been hit in the head with a brick,” Garnett said.  “But man, I’ve never been hit so hard in my life.  I went home and apologized to my mom.  From eighth grade to 10^th grade, I was in bed by 9:30.”

While Bug was his best friend, Franks kept Garnett in line.  “Bare told us to stay away from drugs, don’t drink,” Garnett said.  “He always told us to stay out of trouble, when he was in the most trouble in the neighborhood.”

Garnett recalled Franks’ thoughts about school.  “His attitude was college needs me, not I need college.”

Garnett’s outlook is quite the opposite, something that Franks had hoped for.  He meets with a tutor during the week and is improving, yet still trying to pass the ACTs.  Those close to Garnett agree that he has not reached his potential as a student.

“I’m going to pass,” said Garnett, hard on himself when it comes to school.  “I think I’ve messed up sometimes.  Like not going to school as much as I should have. 

“What do I care more about than anything else in the world about you?”  he asked the mild-mannered and talented freshman guard Jamel Rome sitting across the table.

“ACTs,” Rome lamented.

“I don’t want him struggling on his ACTs his senior year,” Garnett said.  “He should be sitting back, chilling, getting all the girls by then.”

Garnett is trying to chill as much as he can despite the many things in his life.  Before games, he isolates himself in a world of music, pumping his mind with thoughts of doing what he does best on the floor.  When game time rolls around, he is all business, both reveling in his skills and alleviating his frustrations.

He takes pride in his nickname, “Mouth of the South,” given to him for his non-stop trash-talking he learned on the courts of South Carolina .

“That’s my name and I love it.  I’m not going to let you drag me around the court.  Nobody is having a cakewalk when I’m out there.”

His habits include writing numbers or letters on his sneakers, like “S.C.” or the name of his neighborhood or street back home.  “You never forget where you came from, “ He said. 

Garnett almost always wears rubber bands on his wrists, an idea he borrowed from former Kodak All-American Dawn Staley, a workaholic point guard who led Virginia to two women’s Final Four appearances.  Whenever Staley made a mistake, she’d snap the rubber band on her wrist as her own form of discipline.  “If I do something stupid on the court,” Garnett said, “I pop ‘em.”

Freshman Michael Wright has the unfortunate yet potentially rewarding task of guarding Garnett in practice.  “He’s a positive person,” Wright said.  “He wants me to be my best.”

Positive, personal, friendly are all Kevin Garnett.  But sometimes it’s hard to be all those things.  It’s difficult to please so many people.

“In South Carolina, this guy Pete (a reporter) wanted to see what it was like to be me,” Garnett recalled.  “So he followed me around for like two days.  When I was up, he was up.  When I moved, he moved.  When I talked, he listened.  He even wanted to go over to my girlfriend’s house with me.  I’m not embarrassed by the way I live, but I don’t think he could understand what’s going in the G (ghetto).  I was like, this is no fairy tale, no game.  This is life.  Me and my boys went down to the courts and we started wrestling.  Pete thought we were fighting.  He hopped in his raggedy car, went up the hill and got out of there so fast.  Haven’t seen or heard from him since,” Garnett added with a smile.

Garnett has accepted that he is not “normal,” and as hard as that may be sometimes, he hopes that it will all pay off someday.  “I don’t try to live for nobody,” he said,  “I’m just a kid, more watched and appreciated than others.  I can’t just go out and do anything.  I know kids look up to me.”

He knows whose advice to cherish, who his confidants and most influential role models are—notably his grandmother and sister.  He knows who cared for him when he was just like everyone else:  a bear and a Bug.  Barely into adulthood, he’s already learned grown-up lessons.

“At first, I thought everyone was my friend,” he said.  “I thought that everyone wanted to be down with KG, because he was KG.” 

But now KG cannot go around handing out trust.  He tries not to get caught up in all that’s said about him and who’s saying it and is concerned about just being himself.

“But used to say, ‘Instead of wanting to be the next Magic or Isiah, why don’t you be the first KG.  The first Kevin Garnett.’  That’s my whole mentality.”

ADMIRAL RONNIE FIELDS does the other half of leading the Farragut troops.  He wears No. 23, which would make another former Chicago basketball player proud.

After all, he can fly.  But this 6-foot-3 junior’s most striking quality is a toss-up between the shine from his bald head and the flash from his wide smile.

The smile can disarm the Red-West division’s most pugnacious competitors.  Ronnie, he’s my boy.”  Garnett said.  “But, man, he loves to show those teeth.”

The shine is reflected not only of Fields’ warm personality but of his play.  In the open floor, he possesses the uncanny ability to life fans out of their seats, as if they were going up for the ride along with him.

Out of nowhere, he pulls a tomahawk, windmill or a reverse surprise like he keeps them in his pocket.  Before each slam, his arm hangs loosely at his side, then like a sledgehammer, is swiftly swung over his shoulder so hard that he practically puts a hole in the floor with the ball.

Clearly one of the most exciting athletes around, even Garnett said he would pay to see Fields play.  But Garnett gets to see Fields for free everyday, where he is repeatedly amazed by his all-around play.

“The first thing I think about Ronnie is that he is helpful on and off the court,” Garnett said.  “He passes, blocks shots, plays defense.  But off the court, if you don’t have any money for a pair of sneakers, he’ll buy them for you.”

Fields is as gregarious as he is athletic.  “He’s lovable,” Garnett added.  The combination of the two make him a crowd favorite.  In the closing seconds of a victory over Crane, the referee waited for the crowd of early exiters to cross the baseline. Fields, ready to take the ball out, stood there high-fiving those who reached out.”

While sitting under the baseline at a DePaul game, a chubby boy draped in a Toni Kukoc jersey approached Fields.  The boy had watched so many people pass he could not restrain his curiosity any longer.

“Who are you?” the boy asked shyly, hiding his face behind a cup of soda.                

“I’m Tony Kukoc,” Fields smiled.  “Who are you?”

That’s Ronnie—Mr. Congeniality, and the comedian.  “I like kids,” he said.  “And if a kid walks up to me, well, I know that means a lot to them.”

Fields is a kid himself—a Chicago kid.  Back in the sixth grade he tried out for the team at Mason Grammar School.  But when the coach said he’d like him to play on the B team, Fields said no thank you.

The following year, now about to dunk, he made the team.  By eighth grade he was “The Man” who led his team to the city’s final four.  As a freshman at Farragut, he scored 38 points against talented Westinghouse.

He spent every summer watching NBA players putting their game on at Kennedy-King College and playing against the city’s best.

He has never been on a losing team, which makes him appreciate team play.  After games, he and Garnet argue over who had more assists.  And in the crunch, Field relishes the pressure.

“Ronnie won’t let anyone outplay him,” said assistant coach Ron Eskridge.  “He has the ability to take it to another level.”

While he takes an active role on the court, Fields is more passive in the classroom.  He, like Garnett, will start working with a tutor in preparation for the college admission test.  He takes great pride in how smart his sister, Meisha, 13, and brother James,  6, are.

“Ronnie has the capacity to be a good student, but he is not as a student the best he can be,” said Farragut athletic director, Leon Walker.  “There’s still a lot of growing that has to be done from a mental and emotional standpoint, just like any other child.  He’s been pushed to the forefront without being allowed to learn the other intricacies that go along with the amount of attention he’s getting.”

At school, Fields—and his inseparable best friend Jerome “Rony” McBride—are aware of the role the basketball team has played in easing tensions.

Farragut, 85 percent Mexican and 15 percent African-American, has its share of gang troubles, which gives it a bad rap.  But as of late, trouble has been minimal, thanks to an increase in security, a dress code, new principal Edward Guerra’s crackdown on unacceptable behavior, along with two successful teams around which the school unites.

“It seems like we’ve always had a negative reputation,” Guerra said.  “But with the team doing so well, along with track team (tops in the city), we’re getting positive write-ups in the papers.  Everyone is gathering around them and embracing them as one of their own.”

“We’re role models of the school,” McBride said.  “They follow in our footsteps and say, Well, if they’ve straightened themselves up, we can too.’”

DUE TO THEIR LOCAL AND NATIONAL SUCCESS on the basketball court, Fields and Garnett find themselves in leadership positions at school.  “They’re role models not only for African-Americans, but also for Hispanics,” Guerra said.  “Neither Kevin or Ronnie are conceited and let this all go to their heads how good they are.  And people respect them for that.  They’re so famous and they’re only 17 years old.  They look like huge men, but they’re young kids.”

At this age, so much attention causes concern among those close to Fields, who is sometimes bothered by other’s vigilance.  “A lot f people don’t want me going places,” he said.  “But I don’t want other to think I’m changing.  I’m still the same Ronnie.”

He’s still the same jokester who at the Danville tournament in November, tired to capture his teammates and shave their heads.  After running and locking themselves in the bathroom, everyone eventually escaped.

“If we win state, they all just better line up,” Fields said.  “Make it easier on me.  I’m gonna get ‘em.”

The time for Farragut to take care of state championship business has arrived.  Even with players like Fields and Garnett, it will be no easy task.

“I’ve seen great teams,” Eskridge said.  “This is a very good team that still hasn’t reached its potential.  They do little things that are entertaining, but not good basketball.  When they all stay on the same page, they are easily 20 to 30 points better than any team in the state.”

Not only is Farragut a talented basketball club, it’s also a unique group.

KG, Fields & Co. talk family about this team.  But like any family, Farragut has its share of problems, especially when all of Chicago is peeking in its windows.  Problems like putting a disciplinary leash on so much explosive and exciting talent.  Problems like the pressure every time down court for every move, every play to be perfect.

Postscript:  I went to about seven games that year, and even took a road trip to the state finals in Champaign, IL.  I often traveled with our team manager or my boyfriend, though it never bothered me to go alone, the exception being one game when security pointed to me, far in the back of an all-black crowd waiting to get in to see a game.  The white guard looked past all the people in front of me and told me that I could come in.  I did not move.

It was big-time, intense, proud inner-city hoops—gyms packed with so many people that toes were touching the perimeter of the court, and when the final buzzer sounded at Westinghouse, where Garnett pulled off an incredible 40+ point performance while being ill with the flu, fistfuls of money were held up in the air.  There were hip-hop dance offs in the stands during timeouts.  Some of the toughest gang members in town high-fived KG and Ronnie before, during and after the games.  And as for me, the ballplaying reporter, the boys and the coaches always made sure I got in my car and out of the neighborhood without any problems.

 After “Fleet Admirals” ran in the Daily Herald, Rick Telander, a former NU alum and athlete whom I’d gotten to know as a writer and pickup player, told his editors at SI who were looking for Garnett that I knew where to find him.  Senior NBA writer Jack McCallum—one of my favorite writers—called me up one day and asked if I could ride around town with him and help him find Garnett.  I had a blast meeting Jack and tagging along, but unfortunately, we never found Garnett in Chicago, only his coaches and a few contacts.  Jack later tracked him down in South Carolina, and after handing in his story, he convinced SI to pay me $300 for the solid effort, in addition to receiving a contributing credit at the end of the story.

It was anybody’s guess at the time as to whether or not a high school kid could make it in the NBA.  I told Jack that there were moments when I watched Garnett on the court—I can still remember one turn-around baseline jumper he hit during a game at DePaul—and I just knew by his grace and prowess that he would make it.  As much as Jack, like most, speculated on his chances, I kept telling him that I’d also seen how shrewd and smart Kevin was in making his decisions off the court.  He was an intelligent, respectful kid who followed the invaluable and essential instinct to not trust people outside his very tight circle.  Ronnie Fields, however, because he trusted everyone, left me with the distinct impression that he would hit every possible obstacle, and he did—from a gang rape charge to a controversial car accident that almost killed him.  Though I heard he’s still playing in the developmental leagues, his career has been more than a minor disappointment.  I’m not sure anyone in Chicago, aside from possibly Jordan, could have matched the springs in Ronnie’s legs and his wingspan.  Ronnie Fields—at 6’1” or maybe 6’2”—took off so hard not only on his dunks, but on blocks as well, that he often lifted fans, including objective and mild-tempered observers like me, out of their seats as if we all wanted to go up for the ride with him.

The flirtatious Ronnie hit on me at every possible opportunity, and I capitalized on it by inviting him, and Kevin, up to Northwestern’s campus to play in the frat boys annual Hoops-For-Hearts tourney the following May.  I had not been allowed to play in the tournament until my career was over due to NCAA restrictions, and after a mediocre senior year, I wanted to leave Northwestern on a win.  Ronnie and another 6’6” kid showed up—Garnett was not available for he was weeks away from the draft—and we entered our team.  In the finals, we played against two football players and a friend of mine.  Ronnie took the ball on the last play for game point, threw it off the backboard to himself and dunked on both varsity athletes.

Jack mentioned my name to Garnett during one of his most recent interviews, and Garnett said he remembered me.  When I see him again, and hopefully I will catch a Celtic game at the Garden, I want him to know that I was officially the first white woman to fall in love with him long before he was a rich celebrity and one of the finest athletes in the world.  It was his game, his style and the respect he seemed to give everyone, including a white female reporter who sunk him in a shooting game.  Even when I watch him now, I think to myself, what a damn good kid.

“We all may be talking, arguing, cussing at each other out there,” Garnett said of the occasions when tempers flair and attitudes emerge.  “But it’s because we care about each other.  If one person starts something, all of us are going to end it.”

For most, the much-anticipated ending of this script will be written this weekend.  As for the few, like senior Daniel Sierra, it’s all a very simple story.

Sierra, who has been on the team for two years and in the United States for three, spends most of his time on the bench.  With his comprehension of English still improving, he nodded when asked if it’s frustrating playing so little.

But what about five or 10 years from now when you will be able to say …

His smile mid-question says it all.  He knows how special the time is.  And the company.

Another note: Never a team with any kind of chemistry, just two totally awesome players, Farragut lost in the semi-finals after simply being outplayed by a far more disciplined team.  I’ll never forget watching Farragut’s press breaker:  Kevin Garnett stood at midcourt and the kid standing out of bounds just threw the ball as high up in the middle of the court as possible.