How a promising athlete chose between two dreams
By W. H. Hinkley
ST. LOUIS (June 3, 2007) — Darius Manley still has a perfect jumpshot.
It’s just before noon on an unusually cool Sunday, and Manley, 32, is putting up shots you only see in dreams. They arc, rotate just enough to find their balance, then fall through the net like stones into water.
On this Monsanto neighborhood court, he can barely be heard. He glides about the asphalt with nothing more than a faint scrape. Even his shots seem to make as little sound as possible.
If you didn’t know anything about him, you’d think he were merely obsessed — a man whose game is nothing less than an art.
“I haven’t missed a shot in three days,” he says, finally stopping.
And yet, he isn’t merely obsessed. Every shot is taken with the enormous weight of a constant reminder — of the life he left behind, of the life he once unapologetically threw away.
The reason? He merely traded one dream for another: the life of a basketball star for the life of a heroin addict.
“Getting high out of my mind seemed more attractive than playing pro ball,” he says, dabbing his forehead with a towel. “So I gave it all up — no questions asked.”
He’s been clean almost five years, but he occasionally still feels a stirring inside, one he’s afraid could bring it all back. The one thing that keeps him straight is his 77-year-old diabetic grandmother, Althea, who relies on him for just about everything.
“Sometimes I’d love to escape from it all,” he says. “But I spent almost 10 years being selfish. I spent way too much of my life escaping. I couldn’t do that to her. I’m all she’s got.”
The same could be said about her. She’s been caring for him since he was 4. That’s when his mother ran off. He’s never known his father, who’s been in and out of prison the last 20 years.
Now rested, Manley takes a shot, this time from far out, and nails it. A few men on the other side of the court are staring. One finally yells, “We need this court.” Manley calmly gets off. “No use in beating a dead horse,” he says, and he’s right. Not even another lifetime of practice could make his shot any better.
▪ ▪ ▪
Sobriety is a blessing, but it takes getting used to. I still find myself getting uneasy. When you’ve been as high as I was for so long, clarity’s a strange thing.
— Darius Manley, recovering heroin addict and once-promising high school basketball star
On the table is a pile of old newspaper clippings. Manley’s been looking through them the last few hours. They’re of his days at Normandy High School, where he starred as a point guard.
“Scored 50 there,” he says, shaking his head. “Nobody scores 50 in high school.”
“Had 38 points and 10 steals that game,” he says, eagerly holding up another yellowed clipping. “I must have been fouled 20 times that game. They couldn’t stop me.”
His junior year, college scouts from the country’s biggest schools started flocking to see him. That happened to be his best year — 33 points, 8 rebounds, 8 assists and 6 steals per contest. That was also the year he dropped 50 on Sumner.
“I still can’t believe how perfect that game was,” he says with a vague smile. “My teammates just kept getting me the ball. I couldn’t miss. I was 20 for 23, 10 for 10 from the line. I made 8 of 9 from the 3-point line. I was 7 for 7 in the fourth quarter. Can you believe that?
“And the best part is, there were at least four major scouts there that day. They came out to see how I’d do against Sumner — a big, bad North St. Louis school.”
He stops for a moment, aware that he’s describing the highlight of his life.
“Can you imagine anyone having anything more going for him?” He scratches his head, then: “Better yet, can you imagine anyone having more to lose?”
The future seemed already written for Manley: assault the record books for one more year in high school; go to a big college, where the large, wild crowds would adore him; enter the pros, where he’d blossom into nothing less than a demigod — worshipped, respected, remembered.
And yet no more than a month later he’d stumble upon what he’d come to believe was a much better dream.
“I was at a party one night — it was after the season had ended — and I went into a room to take a nap,” he says, visibly angry at the memory of it all. “This guy and these two girls were shooting up. I sat down on the bed. I don’t know why. The next thing I know I’m asking them to hook me up.”
He’ll never forget what it felt like.
“Warm,” he says, shaking his head. “The nicest, warmest feeling in the world. Your eyes roll back, and then you just float and settle. Your body seems to just settle to the bottom of some quiet, warm place. And you think it’ll last until you die. You think — I must be dying. But you’re all right with that. It’s good. Dying seems good. You just lie in it and forget the world.
“It feels . . . like the world’s melting.”
▪ ▪ ▪
Manley’s grandmother is sleeping on the couch next to him. He’s looking through more old clippings, trying to find ones that spark especially nice memories.
“Oh, wow, here’s a nice one,” he says. “That’s the day we beat Affton. Triple overtime. I hit a 3-pointer to win it. Best day of my life.”
His face darkens, unable to keep his mind only on good things.
“I haven’t gotten high — haven’t even had a drink — in nearly five years,” he says. “And yet I still feel like I’m swimming out of some dark place.
“Sobriety is a blessing, but it takes getting used to. I still find myself getting uneasy. When you’ve been as high as I was for so long, clarity’s a strange thing.”
His darkest time, without question, was when he started living on the street. He began living with a few other homeless addicts in an abandoned building in West St. Louis. To get the money for their drugs, they often resorted to theft.
“I didn’t think twice about stealing,” he says. “I’d steal anything. All I could think about was the next fix.”
And then one night he made a mistake that would save his life.
“I was out of my mind,” he says, eyes wide. “One night, I was coming down from a high and I got desperate. So I stole a car — no questions asked.”
Luckily for him, he was given two years in Boonville, where drugs were nearly impossible to come by.
“I was willing to do anything for a fix,” he says. “I was willing to offer my body and everything. But no one could score me what I needed.”
▪ ▪ ▪
Manley’s grandmother is now awake. She’s sitting close to him, stroking the back of his head. A few minutes later, he gets up and goes to the back of their small apartment. He returns with her insulin kit.
“Stay still this time,” he says. With what seems like a doctor’s precision, he fills the needle, taps it for a while, and then sticks it in her belly. She winces slightly. When he’s finished, he kisses her on the head. She then gets up and heads to the kitchen to make dinner.
“I’ll be honest,” he says. “It’s always strange when I do that for her. The whole thing is strange, really — where I’ve been, what I’ve done. To think, I once used a needle to kill myself. Now I’m using one to keep alive the only person I’ve ever loved.”
How one man fought two fires
By W. H. Hinkley
MISSOULA, Mont. (Aug. 22, 2006) — Gregory Nolan is bouncing his 11-month-old daughter, Stacy, on his knee. She giggles wildly. A few minutes later, Nolan’s wife, Angie, takes Stacy in the back for her nap. When she comes back, she doesn’t look happy. “This is crazy,” she says. “This is the fifth straight day.”
“What am I gonna do — not go?” he says, appalled. “We’re spread thin. I can’t not go.”
In about an hour, Nolan will head to Gash Creek, where he and his fellow firefighters have been trying desperately to keep the flames from moving east.
This isn’t new for Nolan. He’s been fighting fires in western Montana for almost a decade now. Though most years have been eventful, the year he’ll never forget was 2000.
“Terrible,” he says. “Worst I’ve seen. Worst I’ll ever see.”
That year, flames engulfed a sizeable patch of the western part of the state. Nolan worked mostly in the Bitterroot Valley, where fires stretched southward from Missoula to the Idaho border. The fires got so bad they tossed smoke into South Dakota — over 500 miles away.
“Unbelievable,” he says. “At times, the wind was just making fools of us. And forget about rain. We hadn’t had any in so long. Trying to contain fires that have everything going for them is just laughable.”
Angie comes from the kitchen and sits across the living room from Nolan. The two aren’t speaking much these days. She stares out the window. The sky is dark gray with a hint of brown.
▪ ▪ ▪
“They’re still trying to figure out who did this,” Nolan says. He’s all suited up and ready to get to work. “But I’ve been around long enough to know there’s usually some stupid reason for it. Probably some campers who don’t know what they’re doing. . . . Or, worse, some angry teenager.”
Nolan heads out with little hesitation. He seems almost at ease with what he’s doing. Only at home does he appear tense or unsure of himself.
Nolan and his fellow firefighters are close to halting the eastern half of the fire. Those fighting the western half aren’t having as much luck.
After a few hours, Nolan takes a short break. He’s sweating like crazy. Rick Holtz, another veteran firefighter, stands next to him. The two are chugging water. To no one in particular, Nolan says: “We’ve got this one.” Holtz nods.
Smoke streams about the valley. It’s hard to imagine what the valley looked like before the fires started. Like in most of this part of the state, the ground is rocky, though plenty still grows here. Grasses and pines have provided a hearty meal for the fires.
Later, after nearly nine hours of work, Nolan gets out of his gear and heads home. As usual, he’s stayed longer than requested. He’s beat, though happy with himself.
“We’ve got this side under control,” he says. “Too bad they’re having issues out west.”
Before getting in his truck, Nolan speaks to Holtz, who tells him he’s heading over to the other side in about an hour. “They need help real bad,” he says. Nolan tells him he promised Angie he’d be home on time. He’s already late.
Driving out, Nolan looks at his fellow firefighters. Already he seems anxious to get back to work. He has tomorrow off, which makes things worse.
“I never get tired of this job . . . and it’s not because of the risk,” he says. “Most people don’t realize how safe this job really is, especially when you’ve pretty much got things under control. When things are contained, you get a thrill out of being able to stare right into the face of something so awesome.
“If you think about it, it’s the fire’s job to make our knees buckle. . . . Of course, it’s our job to make the fire buckle.”
▪ ▪ ▪
Angie is irritable, as usual. Stacy is crying. Both mother and daughter haven’t been feeling well lately. The air might have something to do with it.
“We may want to think about moving,” she says, handing Stacy to her father.
“I don’t wanna get into that,” Nolan says.
“This is getting old,” she says, then takes Stacy into the bedroom. Nolan follows her. “I wanna hold her,” he says.
“Just go,” she says, almost inaudibly.
Nolan heads back to the living room. “Unbelievable,” he says. From the feel of it, one would think tomorrow was a workday.
▪ ▪ ▪
Angie and the baby are asleep. Nolan is out driving. He’s not going anywhere in particular, just getting some air. The windows are down and the smell of smoke is heavy in the air. It’s a smell he’s come to love.
“I’ve always liked the smell of smoke,” he says. “No offense to those who’ve lost their homes, but I thrive on this. Fire’s my thing, you know.”
Up on the mountains, an eerie glow dominates. Flames that seem part of some hellish sunset can just barely be seen above the trees.
Nolan drives, and keeps on driving. He doesn’t know where he’ll go tonight. Maybe he’ll stop by Ben Clemmons’ house. Clemmons is also a firefighter. When he isn’t at work, Nolan likes being around those who “get” him.
And if the fire inside of him tonight grows a little hotter, he might even head back to Gash Creek, and help out the only way he knows how.
How one surfer got pulled from the water
By W. H. Hinkley
SANTA CRUZ, Calif. (Jul 10, 2003) — Jimmy St. Croix can still feel the teeth that stole his leg.
Sitting on his bed next to his girlfriend Tammy, he speaks of what happened with little emotion. “Like a truck hitting you, only faster,” he says.
The shark that attacked St. Croix almost two years ago was a 13-foot Great White, big enough to have split him in half with one bite. Luckily for him, after getting a taste of St. Croix’s left leg and surfboard, the shark darted off, no longer interested.
“It’s hard to explain the feeling of it,” he says, rubbing what remains of his leg. “For most of it, I was in a daze. I can’t tell you much about it. But I do remember that sudden pain in my leg. It was a sharp, cold pain — like electricity.”
The attack happened at Santa Cruz’s famed Pleasure Point, where multimillion-dollar homes have been popping up like mushrooms in recent years. One of St. Croix’s buddies, Hal Wilson, was there with him. He’s the one who saved St. Croix’s life.
“He was bleeding pretty bad,” Wilson says, beer in hand. “I pulled him out and tied my rash guard around his leg. But there was so much blood. I didn’t know how much he’d lost.”
St. Croix can remember a few moments from the ambulance ride, and he swears he heard the surgeons talking while he was under.
Every ride lasted forever. And he was pulling off some pretty sick stuff. It can be tense at places like Pleasure Point and Steamer’s, but no one messed with him. They just watched.
— Hal Wilson, on fellow surfer and friend Jimmy St. Croix
“One of them said: ‘Very clean bite. Must have happened very quickly,’” he says, his hand stroking Tammy’s hair. He shakes his head, then: “Now that I think about it, I’m not sure what the surgeon said makes me feel any better about what happened.”
▪ ▪ ▪
The last two years have been tough for St. Croix, now 25. His father got him a job working for an insurance company. At work, he sits behind a desk, mostly on the phone. The job isn’t bad. Except for all the sitting.
“It’s so far from what I was doing two years ago,” he says. “I never would have pictured myself behind a desk. Two years ago, I was surfing at least twice a day. I wasn’t a big fan of sitting, as you can imagine.”
Like a lot of young men and women in Santa Cruz, St. Croix’s dream was to be a pro surfer, a dream that almost came true. The months leading up to the attack, he was surfing “lights out,” he says. Wilson, who’s sitting on a beanbag chair, nods vigorously.
“Every ride lasted forever,” Wilson says. “And he was pulling off some pretty sick stuff. It can be tense at places like Pleasure Point and Steamer’s, but no one messed with him. They just watched.” Wilson laughs, then: “I often caught myself watching instead of surfing.”
About a month before the attack, someone from the boardwear company Rip Curl talked about being interested in signing St. Croix. He was “stoked.”
“I was, like, are you serious?” he says, smiling for the first time. The subject itself seems to melt the past away. “I couldn’t believe it. All the hard work was gonna pay off.”
▪ ▪ ▪
The next morning, St. Croix gets up early and puts on his prosthetic leg with little trouble. It’s a foam-covered prosthesis, with an aluminum pylon in the center and a soft socket that reaches to about mid-thigh. He then calls in sick to work. In about an hour, he’ll head to Steamer’s Lane to watch some of his buddies surf.
St. Croix goes to the corner of his bedroom and picks up his surfboard, the one he was on during the attack. He examines the board as though seeing it for the first time, running a finger along where the shark left its accidental calling card. He lets out a deep breath, then: “I don’t hate sharks. I think they’re neat animals.”
The ride to Steamer’s Lane is quiet. The sun, mostly orange with a splash of yellow, is half above the horizon. The air has started to warm some. As usual for this time of year, the weather should be perfect today: no clouds — just a pale blue sky and a blanket of sunshine.
When he arrives, St. Croix is greeted by a group of friends. They take turns hugging him, then lead him to a spot on the beach where they’ve got breakfast. St. Croix sits to the side and takes off his prosthesis. Everyone pretends not to notice.
St. Croix’s buddy Hal Wilson is out on the water, as is Greg Lucas, a surfer from northern California who’s made a living in colder waters as far north as Alaska. He’s also surfed big waves in Oregon and Washington State. The waves this morning are a little over head-high and breaking far off shore.
St. Croix studies Lucas intensely, nodding when he sees something he finds impressive. After Lucas pulls a few fancy tricks, St. Croix says: “I can do that.” He then looks at what’s left of his leg. His face darkens. For a moment, it seemed as though he’d forgotten.
When Wilson and Lucas start for shore, St. Croix puts his prosthesis back on and heads down to meet them. When the three come together, Lucas says something and offers his hand to St. Croix, who eagerly shakes it.
Heading towards the beach, St. Croix starts lagging behind.
▪ ▪ ▪
That night, St. Croix and Wilson are watching old videos. Some are of famous surfers. One sequence consists of jaw-dropping aerial maneuvers. The two are transfixed. “That’s just sick,” Wilson says. St. Croix nods vaguely, his mouth slightly open. Tammy’s half-asleep against his chest.
They watch videos well past midnight. Not for a moment do they lose interest.
Later, Wilson comes back from the kitchen with two beers and, instead of returning to his seat across the living room, sits down next to St. Croix. He hands St. Croix a beer, his eyes on the TV.
“Imagine being able to do that for a living,” St. Croix says after a few minutes. It’s as if the thought of being a pro surfer were new to him.