Living proof - basketball player Ben Wilson

Oak Wood cemetery is right on the outskirts of Chatham, the neighborhood in Chicago where Ben Wilson and I grew up. It is just a few strides from his home and mine. It is where Ben was buried after he was shot to death at the age of 17.

I went to visit my friend Ben's tombstone on a wet, chilly day. A light drizzle was hitting the ground with the sound of nets popping the way they did when Ben was hitting jumpers from the comer.

Ben Wilson was the best high school basketball player in America in 1984. He was 6 feet 8 and as a junior led Simeon High to the state title. He went to the summer camps and dominated. The Sporting News Yearbook listed him as the No. 1 recruit.

He would have been 28 years old next Saturday and just entering his prime as an NBA star, but as he walked down the sidewalk outside Simeon High on November 20, 1984, he bumped into two gang members. He said, "Excuse me," but they pulled out a gun and shot him. I was in class when the principal made the announcement. "One of our students has been shot. Ben Wilson . . ." We couldn't hear the rest. We were sure he was going to make it. Ben was a winner and he would win this battle.

But he died the next day.

Ten years after Ben's death, kids who were too young to know him play in the Ben Wilson Memorial Gym. They want to wear his number, 25, and live up to him. They didn't know him, but do know that it is something special to be from his school and to wear that number.

There are two professional players who wear his number and play in his name. Hoop gurus, players and admirers still discuss him. He is very much alive.

Nick Anderson is on top of the world. He is sitting in the Hyatt Regency overlooking downtown Chicago. He is being paid $3 million to play for the Magic, the best team in the NBA In his sixth season, he is starting at guard and averaging 16 points per game.

"I think about him all the time," Anderson says. "Besides us being teammates in high school, we were best friends."

There is a gold and diamond "25" hanging from a gold chain around his neck. He also wears the number 25 on the court, something he started doing at the University of Illinois. "People know the reason I wear 25," Anderson says. "When I put on my jersey, I tell them it's a part of me, it's a part of Ben. My basketball career is dedicated to the memory of Ben Wilson."

Anderson went to the University of Illinois because "I knew Ben was going there." He started wearing No. 25 while at Illinois.

Following Anderson's lead, Simeon High's best players wear Ben's number. "Nick probably the focus on wearing 25 and exeplaining reason why he wore it," says Bob Hambric. the coach at Simeon.

Mario Bailey wore the number in 1989, the year the gym opened. "(Hambric) took the number out of retirement and I wore it," Bailey says. "At first I was kind of nervous about it." Bailey continued to wear the number at the University of Illinois at Chicago.

Deon Thomas wore No. 25 at Illinois. When his career ended last season, Thomas was told he was worthyof having his number retired. He said he didn't want that, that he wanted to keep the tradition and Wilson's memory alive. "He was one of the greatest players I have ever seen," he says.

Bryant Notree, a freshman, wears No. 25 for Illinois this season. He was in the third grade when Ben was killed. He vaguely remembers it. "I really didn't think nothing about it," he says. He started to when he got into high school and realized "this was the school Ben went to."

"The reason why I wear no. 25 is because I saw all the people (from Simeon) that went to a big-name college wear 25. So I felt, `If I go to a big-name college, I'll wear number 25, too.'

"If s just a legacy. It's just a tribute to Ben Wilson. I think I need to respect that. I'm part of Simeon tradition, so I'm going to wear 25."

Kevin Garnett moved from South Carolina to Chicago a year ago. A 6-11 senior at Farragut High School, Gamett is the best player in the city. He never met or saw Ben but read about him and in tribute writes "BW" on his sneakers.

Ben was 180 pounds, which, because he was 6 feet 8, made him look like a finesse player. But his heart made him a tough inside player. He was not just the tallest player on the team, he was the best. He could handle the ball and penetrate, but he was especially good at hitting his jumper.

His jump shot was the thing that stood out about him. He could hit them over and over and from long range. They didn't have the 3-pointer in games for him, but that was his range. I once saw him during practice, without making a big deal of it, go to the comer and hit seven in a row.

Anderson says, "There is no doubt in my mind that if Ben was still living today he would be in the NBA" Thomas goes further: "He would definitely be an All-Star in the NBA."

There have been great players in Chicago, but only Ben has a gym named after him.

"Hopefully, people can understand what his legacy meant - not as a basketball player, but as a person," says his younger brother Jeffery.

Jeffery is the closest sibling to Ben in age, six years younger. He is independent and serious, like Ben.

As proud as he is of Ben, Jeffery tried to remain incognito when he went to Simeon, where he played basketball briefly. He concedes that he "couldn't handle the pressure of being a star" like his brother. He had to find his own place, which he did, in broadcasting.

"Benji would have been a millionaire, but it's not about the millions," Jeffery says. "People miss the basketball player. I miss my brother. He taught me a lot. I get emotional just talking about him."

Jeffery and the family put out a biography, "To Benji With Love." Jeffery says "a motion picture is the only way to justify him" and he is planning to do one.

Ben's celebrity lasted just two years. He didn't start his freshman year at Simeon High. "We all saw him as just a skinny freshman," says classmate and friend Michael Long. But Ben sprouted from 5 feet 10 to 6-5 over the summer. "I didn't even recognize him," Long says.

He became larger than life to the outside world, which knew about him from the media. But to the rest of his school, he remained the same size.

He was the only person I knew when I arrived at Simeon. I didn't realize he was the basketball player that he was. To me he was the same tall kid from Martha Ruggles Elementary School, where he was two grades ahead if me. To him, I was a friend worthy of the same respect as a giant. He took me under his wing.

I can remember one night just before the summer break in 1984. 1 went to a talent show at Mendel Catholic High School with my brother and some friends. After the show, we were gathered in the parking lot when Ben and a couple of his basketball buddies came through. When he saw me, he came right over. He was a star and down to earth.

His handshake was special. It was finn. It was real. It was honest. His handshake conveyed his integrity. There was never any indifference. It was never weak or limp.

I went to Simeon with dreams of feeding him passes. He was already the team star when I went through the tryouts, but he was my personal cheerleader. I was just over 5 feet tall and weighed 100 pounds before sweating. More than 100 other freshmen were trying out for the team, but Ben said I could do it. He whooped it up every time I touched the ball. But I shot an airball and dribbled the ball off my foot I didn't make the team. "That's OK" he said, giving me a firm handshake. "Keep your head up."

His mother, Mary Wilson, says, "He was always there to pat you on the back if you needed, and he was there to tell you, "That's not the way' if you needed it."

Tim Bankston knows. A childhood friend of Ben's, Tim scored 25 points for Simeon against highly touted Everett Stephens of Evanston in the state championship game. They were important points; Ben was struggling that game. "Ben told me, `You have got to take over. You're the best guard in the state. You're better than Everett,'" says Bankston.

"He was grown early in life," Mary Wilson says of her son.

There is a majestic aura about Mary Wilson. She speaks loudly without raising her voice. She left Bobby Knight speechless and as red-hot as his sweater by telling him he was "out of control" and that she didn't want Ben around him. At 5 feet 10, she stands taller than all five of her 6-feet-plus sons. She still stands tall even though a few years ago multiple sclerosis put her into a wheelchair.

She did not cry when she talked to me about Ben. "There are seven steps in the grief and mourning process. I didn't go through the denial state. I always faced reality," she says.

She adds, "If the Lord chose to let me live - and I could have been gone and I didn't do anything so wonderful that I need to be sitting up here - I just feel that I ought to be able to lift somebody's spirit.'

When her son died, it was her soothing words at the memorial service that initiated the healing process for the student body at Simeon High. There were cameras and news personalities everywhere. Everyone's eyes were wet. The service was in the gym, where we usually gathered for pep rallies.

There was talk of retribution, but she told us that day. "Keep strength and love alive." She still believes that. "(Oprah Winfrey) said, `You mean to tell me you don't have any anger?' I said I didn't say that" she says. "Yes, I've been through that stage of anger, but I saw that it was cruel and would serve me no profits, so I let it alone."

Michael Ingram led Proviso West to a victory over Simeon in a tournament that first season after Ben died. "Everybody was telling me we should have let them win," he says. Ingram was named tournament MVP. Later he was chosen player of the year in Illinois. Far from being upset that Ingram had beaten Ben's team, Man, Anderson presented Ingram with the trophy "I don't have any doubt in my mind Ben would have had that (award)," Ingram says.

She often goes out in her wheelchair and speaks to youngsters and asks them What is the greatest gift?" She gets good answers Uke "parents" and "grandparents," but insists that "life" is the greatest gift. Her living room - which is appropriately named in this case - is a constant reminder of Ben. Perpendicular to the sofa is a bookcase with a sampling of Ben's trophies and family photos. An Air Nike he wore is bronzed and sits in the center of the coffee table. Above the big screen television is an enlarged. poster-sized, framed picture - not of Benji the bad player, but of Benji the graduate.

"He documented one of Rich D. Henton's sermons to me," she says. "I told him about those three words (omnipotent, omniscient and omnipresent). He looked them up and said `I looked up those three omnis' and `I liked omnipresence because it's so comforting to know that wherever I am God is. That's important to me. I know he's powerful. Momma you don't have to go to a certain place at certain time on a certain day to find God. He's wherever you are. You gave me the words, do you know what they mean? Are you really serving the Lord or are you just going to be in your clique or club (when you go to church)?' He took my words and slapped me in the face with them."

There were 741 homicides in Chicago in 1984. Ten years later, the number has perpetrators are getting lower. More violence is projected. Kids don't expect to live past the age of 21. They are customizing their own funerals before they are slain.

The pictures in the paper are almost uniform. Black and white. Mostly black. To me, the victims look just like Ben.

There was another victim last month. Moshe Rogers, a player at Aurora Central Catholic High, was shot and killed as he drove home after a game. I happened to be at the hospital when I heard of it. The first thing that jumped into my mind was how similar it was to Ben.

William Moore was 16 when he shot Ben. Omar Dixon was 15, when he said, "Let's shoot this punk." Moore was sentenced to 40 years in prison, Dixon to 30. Ben's girlfriend, Jetun Rush, testified that they were walking down the crowded sidewalk when Ben said, "Excuse me" and stepped around Moore. Moore said Ben bumped him. Moore and Dixon tried to rob Ben. He wouldn't let them go through his pockets. That's when they shot him. Moore received a longer sentence because he did the shooting. A friend of Dixon's confirmed Rush's account.

Life is full of actions. Death is the reaction. if it can happen to Ben "it can happen to anybody," says high school teammate David Knight.

He knows. "It happened to me." Four years after Ben's death, Knight was shot and paralyzed.

In fact, the first edition of the Chicago Tribune of November 21, 1984, had the headline "Young superstar fights for life." The story was about Ben Wilson, but was mistakenly accompanied by a picture of David Knight. "I thought it was lame," Knight says.

It was also quite eerie: Four years later, Knight was shot. A headline could have been written, "Young superstar fights for life." Like Ben, State basketball player and his team won a state championship. Both had been recruited from grammar school the same year.

Both ended up as gun-crime stats.

Ben Wilson's legacy isn't just the "25" disciples and a cycle of slaughtered youths. It is a love for home and a commitment to the children.

You can see it in the acts of the people who knew him. "I always go back to my neighborhood where I grew up," says his best friend, Anderson. "That's the one thing that I make sure that I do." Anderson helps his neighborhood. For example, he sent football, baseball and academic standout Shamari Daley to Northern Illinois University in 1994 after he wasn't offered a scholarship.

Anderson, Kendall Gill and Charles Oakley started the Boyz from the Hood Foundation in 1992 to fight the violence on children and help raise money for sports programs in schools. "I will do this as long as I can," Anderson says. Every summer the foundation hosts an all-star game and concert with the proceeds benefiting youth organizations of the area such as LaRabida Children's Hospital, Uhlich Children's Home. Little Center Food Bank and the Children's place for HIV-infected children.

The first charity game and concert was a success despite a car jacking/kidnapping/police chase after the concert that ended on my block. All ended well since there was no bloodshed, no casualties.

Chicago Mayor Harold Washington knew Ben. He greeted Ben and the Simeon team when they returned from winning the state title downstate. At the celebration, he saw the shoebox of a gym at Simeon. He said it wasn't worthy of a champion and promised to have a new one built.

Eight months later, he reaffirmed that promise at the memorial service for Ben Wilson, which was held in that same gym.

To reach the Ben Wilson Gymnasium, you leave the main building at Simeon and walk down a long hallway and up a flight of stairs. Once there, I get the feeling I am on sacred ground. There are portraits by the school's commercial arts class and photos and trophies. This gym rivals some college arenas. It definitely does Ben Wilson justice.

Mayor Washington died before the new gym was built. He is also buried in Oak Wood Cemetery.

There is a sketch of Ben on his grave marker. He is facing the basket poised to make a chest pass, giving the ball to someone instead of taking the shot himself.

Ben's tombstone reads, "In God's Care/Benji Wilson/Best in the Nation/Mar 18, 1967-Nov 21, 1984." It looks like the other tombstones, but it is different. The other tombstones form a library of history books, all with endings. Ben Wilson's story is different. His death was a beginning.

Echoes from the past

The cycle of violence has not ended in this country, nor in the Chicago area. Young people - young athletes, too - continue to be killed in gang-related violence.

On February 17, Moshe Rogers, 17, a senior co-captain at Central Catholic High School in Aurora, a city 35 miled west of Chicago, was shot to death as he drove home from a game, just 10 1/2 years after the killing of Ben Wilson Chicago.

There were tragic echoes to the Wilson case:

Wilson was a 17-year-old basketball player who had been recruited by major colleges before declaring for Illinois. Rogers was a 17-year-old basketball player being recruited by major colleges, including Georgetown.

Wilson was shot on the street as he left the school building. Rogers was shot as he drove home from school after a game.

Wilson was with his girlfriend. Rogers was with his brother and a friend.

Wilson was shot by two teens who were not students at Wilson's school and who were described as gang members. Rogers was shot, police say, by two teens who were not students at Rogers' school and who were described as gang members.

Wilson was said to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Rogers, too.

There were 19 murders in Aurora, a city of 100,000, last year, 10 of which police say were gang-related. Rogers' killing was the third this year in Aurora and all were gang-related, police say. Between 1983 and '92, Aurora's violent crime increased 72 percent.

Pastors in town have formed an ecumenical group, the Prayer Coalition for Reconcialition, to answer gang violence. It holds vigils at the sites of slayings and monthly prayer meetings. It is raising money to relocate young people who want to leave gangs. "It's not the answer," says Rev. Dan Haas, a founding member. "But it is something concrete we can do."

COPYRIGHT 1995 Sporting News Publishing Co.
COPYRIGHT 2004 Gale Group