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Gravatar UsersAs Cavaliers fans put a bitter split behind them and celebrate LeBron James coming home, Akron, Ohio, knows the truth: He&never&left
By Dan Robson in Akron and Cleveland
Photography by Sean Sprague
“Man, I never even liked LeBron!”
The words are spaced out so he can pound his hammer on each nail: He. Never. Even. Liked. “I don’t really care if he comes back or not,” the boy says. He’s 12 and leaning on a bike at the front of the pack, in a black tank top and grey shorts, holding a basketball.
“I never liked LeBron ever in my life,” echoes another.
But he’s from Akron, they’re reminded.
“So what?”
Who’s your favourite player then?
“Kevin Durant,” they say.
It’s a sweaty afternoon, and the friends have just spent a few summer hours playing pickup on an outdoor court with the LBJ logo painted in big red letters at centre court. They’re gathered at the doors of the Summit Lake Community Center, about to continue their game inside, and debating the best players in the game today. “I like Kobe,” says one. Another argues: “Nah, I’m about OKC.” They walk under two small LeBron James posters from his early days in Cleveland, tacked above a door to the atrium and past a plaque commemorating his NBA rookie of the year win in 2004. While his LBJ logo is painted on brand-new courts in rec centres and city parks across Akron, Ohio, these are the only reminders that this gym is where James learned how to play the game.
The court is exactly as he left it. The same dark-blue walls, the paint of the keys chipped away under the baskets. The same two rows of inset bleachers, the same fading mural of local basketball legend Nate Thurmond. The same sounds of thumping balls, screeching sneakers and an ongoing loop of trash talk. The same arcs of jumpshots that trace the dream of a boy who once found a home here, on his way to becoming a legend.
When James announced his return to the Cleveland Cavaliers in a letter this summer, he wrote: “Before anyone ever cared where I would play basketball, I was a kid from northeast Ohio&.&.&.&People there have seen me grow up. I sometimes feel I’m their son.” The path James took to NBA stardom winds through the streets of Akron—from the hard realities of a life in the projects to a swift rise to international fame. Squashed between the two was a brief period of carefree boyhood, where James thrived under the love and guidance of people who gave him the opportunity to play the game. It was the only slice of normal he has ever really known. Four years ago, James departed Cleveland for a new job in Miami. While he was away, he realized something: “My relationship with northeast Ohio is bigger than basketball,” he wrote. And while the move sent shock waves through the basketball world and brought hope back to Cavs fans, to those who cared for him through those early years in Akron, it only proves what they’ve known all along: James never really left at all.
yes closed, heads down, hands held tight, they say a prayer for Akron. “Father, we ask that each and every one that we serve today are blessed, are touched, are encouraged in their hearts to know that you have not forgotten about them,” a middle-aged woman says. “We thank you right now for all things great and small.”
“Amen,” they say together.
Several dozen people, mostly teens, stand around a small stage in the Akron Urban League’s meeting hall. They’re split into groups at the direction of Tanesha Walker—a 26-year-old Ph.D. candidate in counsellor education and supervision at Kent State University, whom James calls his sister. The group piles into cars with supplies of food and water that they’ll deliver to the people living in the hot spots of need across Akron. Tanesha gives out some last commands as she stands in the doorway before turning and saying goodbye to her father, Frank, who leans against the wall wearing an LBJ baseball cap, a black LBJ track suit and the smile of a father watching his daughter do something remarkable. Walker is the Urban League’s custodian, and he stays behind as the caravan of cars filters out of the parking lot. Not long ago, he says, city officials located a tent village in the woods that run through Akron. People were living there—mothers and fathers and sons and daughters—scrounging and scrapping to stay alive in northeast Ohio. “You think it’s just people dealing drugs or whatever, but when you see families out there, it’s a whole other thing,” he says, shaking his head.
Frank Walker grew up next door to the Urban League in an area where drugs and sex were easy to buy and bullets were easy to catch. He learned early the importance of a stable life, and he and his wife, Pamela, sought to provide that for their three kids.
Economic disparity in Akron is nothing new. The city was once dubbed the rubber capital of the world for its booming tire industry, which crumbled through the 1970s and ’80s, leaving pockets of affluence but a surfeit of longing. One street will be lined with small, shabby homes and overgrown weeds, while a few minutes away are the long, leafy lawns of mansions on Portage Path.
For the first few years of his life, in the mid-’80s, James lived on Hickory Street, a tree-lined boulevard near downtown Akron, in a four-bedroom Victorian house his family owned. Gloria, his mother, gave birth to James when she was 16; his father has never been a part of his life. Gloria went back to school, and James’s grandmother, Freda, took care of the baby. Then, on Christmas morning when James was three, Freda died of a heart attack. She was 42. The house fell into disrepair without her. Bills went unpaid. Eventually, an eviction notice came. Gloria and her son were cast out. The house was condemned and torn down.
James and his young mother moved a dozen times over the next five years, shifting from couch to couch, one-room apartment to one-room apartment through the projects of Akron. He switched schools frequently, a transient student unable to form lasting relationships. At each new single-bedroom apartment, James was largely left to care for himself as his mother worked nights. “Sometimes I went to bed not knowing if I was going to see her in the morning,” he wrote in Shooting Stars, his autobiography. Sometimes, he would go a few nights without seeing her at all.
When he was seven, James and his mother were about to be evicted from another housing project when Bruce Kelker, a local football coach, noticed them on the steps outside the apartment and asked if James would like to join his youth football team. The East Dragons were James’s first opportunity to play organized sports—his first experience with structure. It changed everything. James was a serious, unsmiling kid when he showed up at the football field. There were too many years behind his seven-year-old eyes. But he opened up on the gridiron. He had a natural gift for the game. He was fast and strong. It was fun, and he loved it. It was where he met his first close friend, Frankie Walker Jr.—the son of one of the team’s coaches, Frank Walker.
Walker didn’t realize the new kid would become part of his life until Christmas that year, when James came to stay for a night and ended up staying through the entire school break. “At the end, I was like, ‘OK, it’s time for him to go home! Enough is enough!’” Walker says, laughing. “But I noticed that he didn’t really want to go home because he didn’t have anywhere to go.”
There’s no place like home Swensons, a burger joint James always visits when he’ the Walkers’ former house, where James lived for several years
When James was nine, Walker heard that he needed a place to live so he could register for school. He’d already missed most of the year. Frank and his wife, Pamela, decided they could make it work, and Gloria saw the value in letting James move in with them. The Walkers enrolled James at Portage Path Elementary with their kids—Tanesha, Frankie and Chanelle. They lived in a two-storey blue house on Hillwood Drive. James shared a room with Frankie. They plastered posters of Michael Jordan and Allen Iverson on their walls and played Madden and NBA Jam. Pamela woke the kids up before 7 a.m. every morning. James scarfed down bowls of cereal. After dinner they did the dishes, swept the floor and finished their homework before going out to play. James never pouted, always looked for ways to help out, Walker says. The family had a basketball net on the old garage and a makeshift court made of dirt in their backyard. Big Frank, as James knew him, took the boys and taught them how to play the game in the evenings. “I taught them the fundamentals,” Walker says. He had them do dribbling drills and layups with their left hands. “You can’t play basketball if you can’t go both ways,” he told them.
“I can’t go left!” James would say, frustrated at only being allowed to use his weak side during the backyard sessions.
“You ain’t got no choice,” Walker would say. “If you’re going to play this game, you’re going to do it right.”
After showing his son and James the basics, Walker would go inside and watch them through a window to see if the boys did what he taught them. James always did. “That’s his greatest gift,” Walker says. “His comprehension. If you teach him something, he’ll apply it to his game.” James and Frankie would stay out on that dirt court for hours as nine-year-olds, playing by the light from their elderly neighbour’s patio. She put barbed wire on the fence to keep the ball out of her yard.
Every weekend, Gloria would come by to bring her son money and to spend time with him. “Whatever she could come up with, she made sure he had it in his pocket,” Walker says. “She was there all the time, just checking in on him.”
When James was in middle school, he’d refer to Walker and his father as his daddy and granddaddy. Tanesha became his sister, Frankie his brother. Pamela and Frank treated James as a son. The family would spend Christmas Eve together—Frank watching It’s a Wonderful Life while the boys pretended to sleep in their room. Santa brought all the kids a present on Christmas morning. The bike James received one year was his favourite.
James remained at the Walker house off and on until 2002, when he was 17—his junior year at St. Vincent-St. Mary High School. That was the last normal year of LeBron James’s life. He was already a rising star, but that year he became a sensation. His high-school games aired nationally and had to be moved to a university gym that could meet ticket demands. His carefree, simple childhood was being truncated by teenage celebrity.
After visiting the Walkers for Christmas Eve that year, James went home to the new apartment he shared with his mother in Spring Hill. It was the first Christmas morning he hadn’t spent with the Walkers since he was eight. “That’s the last time he’s coming over on Christmas Eve,” Frank told his wife that night. James hasn’t been back for the family tradition since.
But even amid the whirling fame, James remained a part of the Walker family, visiting often. He can still hear Walker’s whistle from the stands when he’s in a packed NBA arena. When he’s missing free throws, Walker reminds him to follow through. When James stops by the Walkers’ new house, Frank still treats him like one of the kids. “Get that damn trash out,” he’ll say, pointing to the garbage near the door. “You’re no superstar! Take that trash out!”
Walker chuckles, thinking about the absurdity of it. He answers a question asked earlier, before he’d drifted away on this stream of memories.
Why is James coming back to Cleveland?
“He’s not from Cleveland,” Walker says, correcting a common mistake. “He makes sure people know that. He’s got ‘330’ right on his forearm—that means he’s from Akron, Ohio. He never liked people saying he was from Cleveland. It’s close, but it’s not Akron. This is where he’s from. This is home,” Walker says. “There ain’t no place like home.”
ong before he became a star,” John Reed says, pulling a team photo of the 1993 Summit Lake Hornets out from the shelf under his coffee table. In the picture, nine-year-old James, No. 7, tilts his head to the right, standing in the back row, next to the only girl on his team, who is three inches taller than him. Reed rests the photo on the table next to a copy of Sports Illustrated from February 2002 with that “The Chosen One” headline next to a picture of a 17-year-old James holding a basketball. “LBJ 23, First Coach Reed” is written in black marker on the ball.
Reed adjusts his glasses and leans back into his couch. He was a spry 41 when he taught James everything he knew about the game. Today, a middle-aged paunch rests comfortably on the band of his track pants, under a sleeveless grey Ohio State T-shirt. “It gives me goosebumps to know that I coached that young man,” he says.
Reed was head coach of the Summit Lake Hornets when Frank Walker brought eight-year-old James to the rec centre to join the team. Walker was an assistant coach. James wasn’t living with the Walkers yet, still jumping from place to place. Reed worked in construction during the day and would get off work at 4 p.m., in time to pick up any players who needed a ride to practices or games at the Summit Lake rec centre, where he worked evenings for the city’s parks and rec department. James would leave messages on Reed’s answering machine letting him know where he’d be that day, usually in one of Akron’s inner-city projects like Spring Hill or Elizabeth Park. Every time Reed rolled up in his old blue Toyota Corolla, James would be waiting with his jersey and shorts on—covered by a puffy jacket in the winter—as well as Converse high-tops. He’d be holding the worn basketball the coaches from Summit Lake gave him from the equipment room. He took that ball everywhere.
From left to right: John Reed, James’ James Blair, LeB Frank Walker, James’ Jason Herron (right), Cavs fan/jersey burner
During practice, Reed made everyone play every position, from centre to point guard, regardless of their size. “If you want to play basketball, no matter how tall or small [you are], work on the weakest part of your game,” Reed told his players. “That is what will make you better.” James would post-up in one quarter and distribute the ball in the next. That was the most important role—the passing role. Reed enforced a strict team-first approach to basketball. If a player is open, you pass the ball. “Expand your game!” he’d say.
After practice, James and some other kids would stick around Summit Lake while Reed finished off his evening duties as the facility’s manager, until he could drive them home. If there was a pickup game with older players taking place, James would try to jump in and get a run. Sometimes, Reed would bring the women’s team he coached down to Summit Lake and let them destroy the team James was playing on.
“I hate losing to girls,” James would say.
“Man, these are grown women!” Reed would reply, “Don’t take it so hard.”
But James always took losing hard. Even when he was the youngest on the floor, which was often the case in pickup games, James always wanted to be the best player. When he wasn’t playing with his team or shooting around at Summit Lake, James was over at the “big gym” in the Elizabeth Park projects, a full-size court with no bleachers where older kids and adults played pickup. Players would put their names on a sheet and wait to get picked. Still a kid, James was rarely selected. He took it as a slight. “Oh, he was mad,” Reed says.
After other practices, James would challenge Reed to a shooting competition. Reed would line up at half court in the tiny gym and shoot jumpers. After a while, James started to hit a few in a row, gunning for Reed, who rarely missed. After practice one evening, James announced that he was going to beat coach Reed and that he was going to the NBA. The volunteer coaches laughed off his bravado, though they could tell he had the talent to maybe make it to college. But James went shot for shot with his coach until Reed missed, and James hit the final one. “I’m going to the NBA,” James said emphatically and walked off the court.
During that season, the Summit Lake Hornets’ rivals were a squad from the Ed Davis Community Center who called themselves the Dream Team. They were led by Dru Joyce III—a diminutive point guard with a fearless approach to the game—and through those two years of Akron rec league he became one of James’s fiercest opponents. A year later, the two joined forces in AAU basketball and high school, foreshadowing an alliance James would eventually form in Miami. “That’s what he’s been doing all along,” Reed says, referring to James’s decision to form a triumvirate with all-stars Chris Bosh and Dwyane Wade in Miami.
Reed leans forward from his couch to pick up a newspaper clipping that’s lying on the coffee table. It’s an article he wrote and submitted to the Akron Beacon Journal after the undefeated Hornets beat the Dream Team in the city championship—a double-overtime win. He squints his eyes and reads it: “LeBron James scored 17 points and had five assists…”
“Over the years, I basically became the John Wooden of the league,” Reed laughs, referring to the legendary UCLA basketball coach. “My teams were good, but he just made that team exceptional.”
When he looks at the six-foot-eight, four-time NBA MVP today, Reed says he still sees a little boy who’d already witnessed far too much of life—a boy who came to Summit Lake and learned to be a kid. For those few precious years, that rec centre gave him a sense of childhood he’d never had. Even though he’s fixed-up courts across Akron, the gym at Summit Lake looks exactly as it did when James left it. He’s told several people that he wants to keep it that way, because when he returns it reminds him of when he was a kid who found a home there.
James hit that final shot and walked off the Summit Lake court—“I’m going to the NBA,” he told his coach. He went, but he never really left. Even when he went to Miami, Reed says. “He never turned his back on us.”
he sun is falling over two packed basketball courts in Perkins Park, in the heights of West Akron, overlooking the city. The courts are identical to the one outside Summit Lake Community Center, about 15 minutes away on the other side of town, with an LBJ logo at centre court—a mark found across Akron. Taunts and jeers and cackles come from metal bleachers next to the court where older teenage boys play. Groups of younger kids fumble with basketballs on the court beside it.
“It didn’t bother me. It was his choice,” Tim Anderson says of James’s departure for Miami as he leans back in a lawn chair at the edge of the outdoor courts. The 54-year-old, clad in a black track suit, watches his five-year-old grandson shoot around on the court beside him.
“We relate to it,” says Timonte Anderson, Tim’s 20-year-old son, who’s sitting next to him. “People like us, we’d probably do the same thing. Who wouldn’t want to go to Miami?”
“People hated him in Cleveland,” Tim adds. “But he’s from right here. Everyone understood.”
The Perkins courts are across the street from the Ed Davis Community Center, where the Hornets’ rivals played. The gym inside the red-brick building is completely refurbished with a pristine floor, professional-grade nets and red lines that match that ubiquitous LBJ logo.
Since he turned pro, James has poured time and money into his hometown. He’s refurbished most of the rec centre and outdoor courts around Akron. After winning the NBA championship two years ago, James made it back to Akron to play in a charity kickball game. When the Heat visited for a Christmas Day tilt, he sent buses to bring 250 kids and their parents to Cleveland as his guests. Each kid received LBJ shoes and a sweatsuit, says Audley McGill, who was the director at Summit Lake and helped coach when James was a regular there. Another time, he rented out a local water park and filled it with local kids who would never get to go there otherwise. There was no media, no attention—just the kids. It wasn’t just the standard pro athlete photo-op. It’s personal, says McGill. James sees himself in these kids. His foundation sponsors hundreds of inner-city third-graders. He was in the fourth grade when the Walkers took him in.
Who’s got next? Kids play on one of many Akron courts that James has poured money into fixing up
Today, James lives in a large white house just outside of Akron. It’s easy to find—one of the first houses on Idlebrook Drive, just off Highway 77 en route to Cleveland. There’s a large fence around the property, but the house doesn’t sit far from the road, and eager fans often stop by to snap photos. He met his wife, Savannah, when they were in Akron, and he says he wants his kids—two boys, and a girl on the way—to grow up here.
When he’s in town, James regularly stops in at a Swensons drive-in—a local burger chain that he used to bike past as a boy, a place he wished he could afford to eat. According to the waiters who dart between cars taking orders, James always orders a banana shake when he rolls up. After announcing his decision, the restaurant had “Welcome home, LeBron” on its entrance signs. But beyond the few signs acknowledging James’s return, there’s been little ceremony surrounding the decision.
When he walks down the streets of Akron, he’s not mobbed in the same way he would be in Miami or Cleveland. “People have been used to him being a star since he was in high school,” says McGill. People stare, of course. People stop and smile and maybe shake his hand, McGill says—and sometimes they just ignore him—but it’s not the same as it is in other places, where he is LeBron James, the celebrity. “They just look at him as LeBron James, the kid from the neighbourhood.”
et’s get this team going! Let’s go! On the hop!” Willie McGee runs in circles on the football field behind St. Vincent-St. Mary Catholic High School, whooping up excitement for a line of eight-year-olds at his YMCA sports camp. “You a linebacker—keep everything in front of you!”
McGee, a former member of the Summit Lake Hornets, was once a better player than James, his teammate. Today, he’s running this camp on a sweltering afternoon with longtime friend Sian Cotton. Both McGee and Cotton were members of the “Fab 5” basketball team at St. Vincent, led by James as he shot toward fame. Their journey to three state championships in four years was featured in the documentary More Than a Game. McGee is now an assistant basketball coach at Chowan University, a small school in North Carolina, and Cotton is a recording artist. They help out with the camp in the summer, supporting the kids because “this city will chew you up and spit you out,” says Cotton—and because, like James, local volunteers gave them similar opportunities when they were young kids in the inner city.
The group are still close friends, and both McGee and Cotton joined James for a trip to Las Vegas at the end of the NBA season, when he made the decision to return to the Cleveland Cavaliers. “We were trying to get something out of him, but he didn’t really let us know anything,” says McGee. “But I always thought he was going to come back. I thought he’d finish his career here.”
When James left for Miami in 2010, he didn’t expect the vitriol he received from Cavs fans. It hurt him, McGee says.
As The Decision aired across the world, the magnitude hit LeBron in real time as ESPN streamed footage from a bar in Cleveland where fans were burning his jersey. Jason Herron, a car salesman in his late 30s, started the bonfire. “For him to go on the air…and stab us in the heart, he deserves everything he gets,” Heron said into an ABC news camera at the time. “He’s one of our own, that’s what makes it so painful…LeBron can never come back.”
The sentiment was shared by most Cavs fans. Even Cavs owner Dan Gilbert wrote a caps-heavy Comic Sans indictment of James’s character online.
McGee was in the stands when LeBron returned with the Heat for the first time on Dec. 2, 2010—the arena erupted in a storm of hatred. LeBron put up 38 points in his return as fans chanted “Akron hates you” and yelled obscene comments about his mother.
But over the course of four years and two titles, the wounds started to heal. The boos grew quieter each time James returned. Eventually, they were mixed with cheers and long-odds hopes that maybe he could return after all.
James Blair, 22, plotted that thought out in his bedroom, which is a shrine to all things James. He’s been following James since he was nine, when his dad took him to watch St. Vincent-St. Mary games in Akron. His allegiances went south to Miami when James did, but he held out hope that James might return to Cleveland. In March 2013, Blair went to the Cavs game at home against the Heat, sitting 13 rows behind the Miami bench at Quicken Loans Arena. He wrote “We Miss You” in big black letters on the front of his grey T-shirt and “2014 Come Back” on the back. With eight minutes to play in the fourth quarter, Blair bolted for the court and made it past security. He ran up to James, holding out his T-shirt as he was finally corralled. James saw his T-shirt and stopped security from dragging him away. He extended his hand to Blair and said, “I respect you.” After Blair spent the night in jail, James sent a tweet out thanking him for his bold support.
It wasn’t necessarily the moment that changed everything, but it showed that the rage was fading, that wounds do heal (though Blair is still banned from Quicken Loans Arena). When James announced that he would forgo his final season with the Heat to return to the Cavaliers, he did it in a letter that waxed nostalgic about his relationship with northeast Ohio (note: not Cleveland, specifically). Cavs fans—flush with incredible luck with the draft-lottery balls—rejoiced with the same passion with which they had cursed James just four years earlier. The treatment still angers some close to him.
Sitting at the same bar in Cleveland where he and his buddies watched The Decision, the man who led the initial torching of James’s jersey and declared that James can never return admits his emotions took over. “I said a lot of things I regret,” says Herron. “I said he was ‘dead to me,’ and the next day they were playing that as a sound bite on the radio.” When Herron found out James was coming back, he felt a reversal of the pain and rage he carried when James left. He went back to the bar in Lakewood where the “bronfire” took place, and had friends burn a bunch of boxes, staging a ceremonial “rising from the ashes” by pulling James’s Cavs jersey out of the burnt pile.
After football practice, under the bleachers at St. Vincent-St. Mary, McGee gives a sad chuckle at the flames The Decision sparked. “It was an overreaction. [James] had no ill intent,” he says.
Neither he nor Cotton sees James’s return as an attempt to make amends with Cleveland or to market himself as a good guy returning home to right a wrong. It was just inevitable. Something that had more to do with his relationship with Akron than with Cleveland. “When you’re born and raised in Akron, it pulls on you a little bit. It’s that sense of home, that sense of family you can’t get anywhere else,” Cotton says. “Even though he’s LeBron and can go other places, you can’t get the same love that you get from the city—they remember you from when you could barely dribble. It’s family. It’s home.”
Of course, James can love Akron from anywhere. But those who know him say it runs much deeper than that. It’s not just about loving the place you’re from—it’s about being there, it’s about reaching back, says Dru Joyce II, the father of James’s former teammate, now a coach at St. Vincent-St. Mary. “This is bigger than basketball. It’s not just about running up and down the court,” says Joyce. “It’s about what you’re giving back, what you’re doing to help the next person along.”
It’s about the words that James had painted on the wall inside the gym at St. Vincent-St. Mary, which is now named in his honour, just behind the bleachers where Cotton and McGee sit: “I promise to never forget where I came from.”
t Summit Lake Community Center, a teenage boy cuts in a few steps from centre court to the three-point line. It’s just a ball, the hoop and him. The two narrow rows of bleachers sit empty. A bright angle of light shines in from an open exit next to a faded mural of a local legend and stretches across the dusty hardwood floor. Nothing is regulation. It’s just a couple of feet from the sidelines to the walls. He dribbles coolly twice between his legs—once left, once right—and strides toward the net. Then he jabs back to his left and pulls up for a shot, leaning to the left.
A few others enter the gym with their basketball gear as the boy collects the ball and circles back toward half court. It’s almost 5 p.m. on a bright August afternoon. Heated pickup games will run until well after dark, just like they always do.
The boy cuts back across the court against an imaginary defender. He fakes left and goes right—slashing to the paint. The boy comes here every day. Early, before the others arrive, working on his jumper, his dribbling, his game. This is his court. His home. The notebook for the story he’s writing. The game’s going to take him to college, he says, and then to the NBA. It’ll take him right out of Akron. It’ll put his own mural on the wall, right next to the one of Nate Thurmond. They’ll say, “Man, that guy could play.”
One day, one day, he says, you’ll see—they’ll tell stories about him, the way they do about LeBron James. About how it all started here, dribbling up and down this old, beaten court, sketching out his dream. And then they’ll think, “I’ll be like LeBron”—no, no. “Better than that,” the boy says. They’ll think of J’Veon Hogg, who played in this very spot, in his sleeveless grey shirt, blue shorts, with a killer cross. They’ll know this place belonged to him.
The 16-year-old takes another shot. “Stick around,” Hogg says. “You can see some talent here.”
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{* newpassword *}
{* newpasswordConfirm *}
{* /newPasswordForm *}
Thank you for verifying your email address.
Sorry we could not verify that email address. Enter your email below and we'll send you another email.
{* #resendVerificationForm *}
{* traditionalSignIn_emailAddress *}
{* /resendVerificationForm *}}