I grew up as a student-athlete in Los Angeles and spent most nights in high school inside the old gym at Washington Prep High School. The place was a cracker box: hot, muggy, dusty, grimy, and dangerous — a place where hidden potential and broken dreams intermingled regularly. “The Prep,” as we call it, has some tradition. Famed rapper W.C. is a graduate, he’s known around the world as Ice Cube’s right-hand man and easily has the coolest version of the “Crip Walk” on the face of the earth. Eva Marcille is also a graduate; she won America’s Next Top Model and has had a respectable run in Hollywood. Denzel Washington even portrayed one of the school principals Dr. George McKenna in a 1986 television film entitled The George McKenna Story.
I lived on the eastside of Los Angeles, which means east of the 110 FWY and north of Century Blvd but I went to a small, private elementary school on the westside, on other side of Normandie, directly across the street from Washington. My 5th grade teacher, Mr. Ray Baker, was a Reverend at the school and an assistant coach of the basketball team for the Generals. He would pack us up in his van and have us at the school all the time. Although I didn’t play there for my ninth and tenth grade years, to the disappointment of Mr. Baker, I did transfer in for my last two years of high school and made my way back home.
I can still smell the stench of liquor, sweat, and marijuana from the OG’s outside when walking through the doors and the sound of 6x9 speakers blasting as participants argued over who had the next game. In the 80s and through to the 90s, it was where many of the City’s best young players worked out to develop their skill set, gain an understanding of the game and develop toughness.
Darryl Lott, the gym’s manager, had one rule: Whatever team won three games straight, received free sodas. To this day, I have never seen anyone fight and claw harder than the men who competed for sodas nightly at the Prep. Neighborhood characters like Big Steve, Blowpop, and Killa-Hoe shared the floor with up-and-coming Division 1 talents on a nightly basis, often doing more than holding their own. The experience set the tone for my athletic foundation, forcing me to develop a defensive identity, an unshakable toughness, and a comprehension of offensive spacing and attack.
In the old gym, value revealed itself in nontraditional ways. One’s reputation, origins, or stats were worthless. If you didn’t compete with heart or defend like your life was on the line, you were exposed and humiliated immediately. It was the type of place where giving up multiple baskets could result in a black eye, where the kids would create their own NBA jerseys by cutting the sleeves off T-shirts and drawing numbers and last names themselves. It felt like an old boxing gym, a mythical basketball dungeon where hopefuls and hasbeens prayed to murals of John Starks and Penny Hardaway.
One night, Los Angeles native Jason Hart was in the gym… I wouldn’t go as far as to say he played there regularly, but he was around more than occasionally. His older brother was a well-respected graduate and would come back to workout from time to time. Hart had just arrived home from Adidas ABCD camp, a prestigious basketball event where the nation’s best and brightest compete in front of Division 1 college coaches for recruitment. After the workout, he gave an account of his experience during the camp, and I clearly remember him stating, “I passed the ball to Tim Thomas every time… I’m going to Syracuse.”
Hart’s high school career wasn’t one that would be considered legendary. He was known around town as a rangy, aggressive, defensive-minded, non-shooting, hard-nosed, football-playing point guard. He was never known as a phenom, and truthfully speaking, he was arguably the third or fourth best player on a really good team during his first three years of high school. From the outside looking in, Hart’s defensive prowess, leadership, and game organization skills were vastly underappreciated. But in 1995, his high school team at Westchester suddenly endured a mass exodus. All the squad’s top talent bolted and found spots at different schools in the City, and in ’96 Hart found a home at Inglewood High School.
As their featured star, Hart showcased his defensive motor while displaying the ability to make open shots (he would drive for pull-ups from the top of the key), rebound, and make his teammates better. The change of environment reflected his strengths, boosted his stock, and propelled him to ABCD status . His game didn’t change much, but the alternative environment spotlighted and enhanced his value.
Hart went on to have a long and prosperous collegiate and NBA career. He was a primary member of the USC coaching staff and has been responsible for recruiting several future NBA draft picks. Last I heard, he was a head coach in the NBA’s G-League.
Around the time I began reflecting on Hart’s story, I was navigating a transition of my own. After 13 long years in the fire service, I found myself stepping away. I wasn’t only stepping away from a job, I was stepping away from an identity, a version of myself that I had grown accustom too, a sense of self that felt safe. For a long time, my value had been defined by that uniform, that lifestyle, that badge. Was I ready to transition? Did I have what it takes to thrive outside of that environment?
The other night, while scrolling through Instagram, which studies have shown is an extremely healthy practice, I came across a video featuring the late Virgil Abloh. Abloh was a highly esteemed fashion designer and trained architect who spent time in the highest level of the fashion industry, working at Fendi, (Kanye West’s) Donda, and as the artistic director of Louis Vuitton. In this small clip, he offered his perspective on value by showing a candle in an old, dented container:
“If I put this candle in an all-white gallery space, it looks like a piece of art. If I put it in a garage, it looks like a piece of trash… Someone would throw it away; it’s dented… I can either design the candle… or I can design the room it sits in…”
As I pondered his perspective and placed myself in the equation, I considered which role I played. Was I the candle, or was I the designer? When I decided to write my thoughts and look for synonyms for the word designer, the term “creator” appeared.
The thought arose that maybe we are both the candle and the designer. We all have dents, some more than others, but our responsibility lies in creating and inhabiting environments that enhance, encourage, reflect and increase our value. I have earned every dent on my container and would not change anything, but I haven’t always considered myself the designer of my light’s placement. Lights shine regardless, no matter the environment, but the surroundings of each candle can be a huge determinant of whether that flame is fanned or dimmed.
The more I think about Hart and Abloh and reflect on the idea of value, my perspective continues to shift. I’ve concluded that value is nothing without context and rarely exist in isolation. The real question is not simply whether the candle is good or bad but whether it has been placed in the right environment.
Many of us start in musty, dirty, rough places that add dents to our containers. Those small towns, dangerous neighborhoods, and toxic families shape us, toughen us and many times diminish our light. Still, as we grow, we also inherit the responsibility of creating and inhabiting surroundings that encourage our flame. Hart’s change of environment propelled him to the heights of his profession. Sometimes, the talent has always been present, it simply needed the right room so it can be properly featured.
In my younger days I felt like there would be a time where I had all the answers, and after a half of a lifetime I’m still reflecting, learning and evolving. I am getting better at understanding when the redesigning the candle or the room needs to take place. I’m growing in my understanding of the value of grace, accepting my dents, both seen and unseen and accepting the responsibility of the designer, knowing that sometimes the work is improving the candle itself and other times its simply finding another room.
