Interesting article by Joseph Swide in the Classical.
On Jamal Crawford's involvement with his HS alma mater:
On the current team:
On Jamal Crawford's involvement with his HS alma mater:
Inside, everything is drenched in Beach basketball's blue and orange. On the far wall, retired numbers for Phil Heath—a basketball player from Beach who later played at the University of Denver before becoming a bodybuilder and winning three straight “Mr. Olympia” titles from 2011-2013—Terrence Williams, Nate Robinson, and, of course, Jamal Crawford line the space next to the “CRAWFORD COURT” scoreboard. There is no doubt as to who paid for the renovations to the gym. Everywhere is branded with “CRAWFORD COURT” signage, as if a populist emperor had rechristened his capital.
Crawford still lives just walking distance from the court bearing his name—there are actually two Crawford Courts, since he also funded the renovation of an outdoor court at a local park—and he spends just about all of his off time here. Crawford was, for instance, at the Vikings' win on February 15th. Even when not here, he tweets support after every Vikings game for his #BeachBoyz.
Crawford's mythic high school career at Beach as a guard-slash-demigod culminated with the 1998 state championship— the second in the school’s history—and sparked the school’s era of dominance. Rainier Beach has won five state championships over the last 12 years. In that time, Crawford has done as much as anyone to support Seattle basketball and cultivate the familial bond among the community of local stars from here to Tacoma that calls itself “The Home Team.”
On the current team:
Those most recognizable student is 6’7” senior and Louisville commit Shaqquan Aaron, who moved all the way from California to go to high school at Beach. Strange as it this seems if framed in a non-basketball context, such a thing would have been entirely unthinkable a few years ago.
Aaron, flanked by two teammates, surges down the court on the fast break. But instead of finishing at the rim himself or laying the ball off to a teammate, he sort of just tosses a lob into the empty space towards the basket and leaves the scene—like a referee tossing a jump ball or the machine from Jurassic Park delivering a hapless cow to velociraptors— trusting that one of his teammates will finish. He was correct. A couple possessions later, someone throws a lob to a cutting Murray that looks far too overcooked and surely he can’t get to—and oh my God how is he still climbing higher and how is he catching that and yeah he just dunked that didn’t he yikes. Behind me, that college student seems to be realizing that the truth is surpassing the legend. “I haven’t seen real basketball like this in a long time,” he says.
But this isn’t real basketball. It can’t be. This is like one of those over-the-top sports movies in which every play is a thunderous alley-oop or swaggering pull-up three. In the second quarter, senior forward Dajuan Piper gets out on a fast break with no defender in front of him and unleashes a ridiculous two-handed rock-the-cradle number. As he lands and turns to run back up the court, he stays hunched over low with his arms outstretched, staring into our section with a confrontational expression that says something like, “Oh word? You didn’t think I could do that?”