Reaching the highest point: On faith and the NBA

It’s not quite 8 a.m. in Ocoee, Florida, but the humidity is in midday form and Andrew DeClercq’s bright orange shirt is already darkened by sweat. The chirping of cicadas nestled somewhere in the knee-high grasses has softened as the sun and temperature slowly rise. Ocoee, located about 20 minutes northwest of Orlando, is smack-dab in the state’s center so there are no salty breezes from either coast. The stagnant air clings like a damp overcoat even if you’re just standing still, and DeClercq, moving frenetically across the parking lot of Spring Lake Elementary, most certainly is not.

He grabs trash bags and tools from a rented truck before darting behind a dilapidated wooden fence in long, purposeful strides. DeClercq emerges seconds later, piles boards and bundles of chicken wire on still-broad shoulders, and then disappears again. The steps are repeated — grab, go, stride — only disrupted by the occasional question from volunteers asking how they can help, too.

The dozens gathered here are a mix of family, friends, churchgoers and even a local Boy Scout troop. DeClercq, normally as affable as can be, seems somewhat harried by the questions but at 6-foot-10, they’re looking up to him, both literally and figuratively, for answers. He carved out a 10-year NBA career despite being, as he admits, not the most talented, athletic or gifted player so it’s not a surprise he doesn’t want to stop and talk. He’d rather just lose himself in the work that needs to get done.

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Those seeking answers can keep looking up at the 7-foot-tall Keith Tower, currently addressing a teenaged crew carrying paint rollers and trays instead of the phones normally affixed to their hands. Even as they rub sleep from their eyes, Tower’s clear voice helps keep them focused, explaining their mission as they walk gingerly through the path known locally as “Pig’s Valley.” They’ll be painting over the fences that have just been repaired, slapping a fresh coat of light teal over the obscenities that normally provide the area’s décor.

The Alley is a walkway about a quarter-mile long that has fallen into steady disarray for years. No government agency wants to be responsible for its upkeep so it goes ignored and unmaintained. “Truly a no-man’s land,” rues Tower but that’s not entirely true, since it belongs mostly to the drug dealers and users that frequent it at night. In the mornings, it’s usually empty except for the kids walking carefully past the discarded glass pipes and beer cans on their way to Silver Lake.

The teal, Tower explains, is for the school’s mascot. The Alley will be renamed “Blue Jay Trail” and will have cameras installed once the work is completed. Inspirational messages will replace the spray-painted graffiti. The dream, he says, is that one day the kids will feel hope and encouragement instead of fear as they quietly make their way to school.

Where exactly the dream began is debatable. Probably not with the Orlando Magic, where Tower spent two seasons getting “dunked on by Shaquille O’Neal 10 times each practice and knocked down each time.” It likely wasn’t two years later when Tower, then with the Milwaukee Bucks, found the faith that changed his life. Playing in the NBA had given him access to anything he had ever wanted but it was religion that finally added the meaning he never knew he needed. Nor was it in 2005, when DeClercq, following a stint with the Magic, retired and joined Tower in trading the hardwood for the wooden pulpit to form Highpoint Church.

If the dream has any starting point, it was in the improbable tapestry woven by the the awkward silence of an empty room and the promise of a free meal.

“Provide food for athletes,” explains DeClercq through wholehearted laughter, “and they’ll come. We’re always hungry!”

NBA locker rooms aren’t the easiest place to say, ‘Hey, let’s talk about God!’

The lunch was offered as a bonus when DeClercq invited teammates to his home to join him and his wife, as well as Tower and the team chaplain, for a bible study session. DeClercq had routinely led similar meetings in his hotel room while on the road with the Magic and a handful of teammates would occasionally participate. “But we wanted to grow this thing out a little bigger, have it be a little more open,” he explains. Everyone was invited — players, wives, friends — directions were given and, of course, a lavish spread of food was prepared.

“And no one showed up,” deadpans DeClercq.

Things only got worse the next day at practice, when DeClercq had to face his teammates and that sense of rejection once more. “I walked into that locker room and they started staring at each other, not knowing what to say,” he said. For the next hour or so, DeClercq would notice downward glances and hear uncomfortable whispers from men that he’d considered friends. “Toward the end of practice, everyone realized that no one had gone.”

A few teammates eventually apologized — “They were half-hearted, though,” DeClercq opines — and there were subsequent feelings of doubt and extreme disappointment. But the team chaplain talked with DeClercq and Tower and explained that this might very well be a test of their faith and conviction. “NBA locker rooms aren’t the easiest place to say, ‘Hey, let’s talk about God!’” said DeClercq. “But that moment was really a first step toward being more outgoing in my faith and understanding that God had a purpose for me.”

The bible study sessions would continue in DeClercq’s home and the invitation remained open to teammates. But it was also extended to other friends, family and members of the community and “that’s when things really started to explode.”

Tower adds, “Before long, two turned into five, which turned into 15…at one point we had 35 people in Andrew’s house speaking seven different languages and I knew we had something special here.” A space was rented in downtown Orlando and Highpoint was born, with Tower and DeClercq both serving as pastors.

Silver Lake’s cafeteria is open on this particular early-August Saturday. The occasional volunteer takes advantage of the restrooms and air-conditioned reprieve so there’s the intermittent blare of Christian rock coming from the school’s parking lot. Otherwise, it’s quiet enough to answer difficult questions about how faith ties into life in the NBA.

If this connection as a point of curiosity seems strange, it’s only because one’s beliefs are rarely discussed in context of their profession. Of course, working in the NBA is unique — more of a lifestyle than just a job — and so that intersection is bound to occur. In a world where coworkers eat at the same places, sleep in the same building and often travel everywhere together, something that potentially defines you as much as one’s faith is likely to converge.

Trade me. Bench me. [But] this is important to me.

DeClercq tells a story about his brief stint with the Boston Celtics, and trying to get through to a head coach in his first year with the team: Rick Pitino. Fresh from the college ranks to which he would eventually return, Pitino was known as a taskmaster of the highest order, a strict disciplinarian that had been the singular voice at the University of Kentucky. That approach, DeClercq recalls, did not work well with the adults comprising the Celtics roster.

“His way of thinking was, ‘You’re here to work. I don’t want you distracted by anything,’” says DeClercq. That attitude extended to pregame chaplain services that are a requirement across the league. DeClercq made it a point to attend church services every weekend, something he had done since childhood. “‘You give God three hours on Sunday,’” was the coach’s rationale and to Pitino, that was more than enough.

As DeClercq explains, the vagabond life of the NBA creates an immense conflict. You could be traveling on Sunday or already on the road, in preparation for an early game or at a scheduled practice. The onus shifts onto a player to find time to worship in a schedule already restricted by ever-shifting demands.

For DeClercq, it was important that his coach — in effect, the voice of his employer — understand his desire to participate in pregame services. “I just knew I needed God in my life,” he says. DeClercq insists other teammates wanted the same thing but were less willing to make the request. “I was already a little more established and I didn’t care [about the consequences]. So I said, ‘Trade me. Bench me. [But] this is important to me.’” That hill, DeClercq maintains, was one worth dying on. Pitino eventually relented.

There are other frictions, too, that can form between teammates that spend such an inordinate amount of time with one another. He smiles as he says, “The NBA can be a weird bubble,” but there’s an unmistakable loneliness intertwined in his description of a sometimes-dreary world masked by bright lights, wealth and hyper-masculinity. “I had to keep myself protected, at arm’s length.”

Promiscuity, alcohol, drugs and all-night partying held sway for more than the occasional teammate but not so much for DeClercq. “It became very easy to just say, ‘You guys are going out, go party and do your thing.’ You weren’t invited to certain things. Sometimes you feel like you missed out.” DeClercq had to learn how to insulate himself, to create “my bubble within this larger bubble.”

No one calls me Pastor. I’m still just Drew.

The transitory nature of the league was a challenge, too, especially for a player like DeClercq who often resorted to a more physical level of play to make up for his lack of athleticism. “You’re constantly competing against guys from other teams or even on your own team,” he adds, “and it’s just always changing. Tomorrow, I could be your opponent or your opponent could be your teammate.” And for someone nicknamed “The Hammer” by a former teammate for his propensity to lead the league in fouls per minute, that confrontational style of play also proved to be in direct opposition to his faith.

“I had to learn to accept it,” says DeClercq. “It was the job I needed to do.” Eventually, he even saw that his tireless determination was the ultimate testament to his faith. “God gave me these skills, so I always gave everything I had. I was going to honor him by doing my best … and not take it too far.”

There’s a sense that DeClercq, unlike most NBA athletes, is glad that part of his life is over. He reasons that he stayed in the league as long as he did to foster the relationships necessary for this next, more important, phase of his life. One person he met during his playing days is now a valuable community resource, another is now a part of his church.

It almost sounds as part of a lifelong plan. “Absolutely not,” he laughs. “I wanted nothing to do with being part of a church.” A strong faith was always a goal, but this? “No one calls me Pastor,” he shyly admits. “I’m still just Drew.”

Tower, like DeClercq, never expected that his life would revolve so completely around a higher calling. “I’ve heard it said that the loneliest place is not where you have nothing but where you have everything. I was in that place before.” Once he accepted Christianity, he felt he had to change his life and help others who might seek the same, whether they knew it or not. “I just thought to myself, ‘Everybody needs this.’” He saw teammates that were much like him, in possession of anything they wanted and still lacking fulfilment. “That’s when you’re most open to spiritual things,” he explains.

Much like DeClercq, Tower sees the league as the stepping stone to his life at Highpoint, opening doors that might otherwise have been shut. And while the NBA is often recognized for being at the forefront of activism and community involvement, Tower sees the potential for even more. “What [the league] does is very good and I think their heart is in the right place,” he says before adding, “but I’d like to see more players take ownership and say, ‘This is my community. This is happening on my watch. We need to do something about it.’ Rather than bringing their influence to something that someone’s already created, they could leverage their influence to create new opportunities to help.”

Tower shares DeClercq’s view that religion in the NBA workplace can be a struggle. But he also sees great promise in the locker room, a unique environment where diversity can thrive. “A lot of what happens [there] is dictated by the team’s biggest personality,” offers Tower. “But people are having real conversations about real problems. And the younger players of the NBA seem more open to varying points of view.”

And while his church is assuredly Christian-based, Tower doesn’t see any disparity in espousing diversity while sharing the teachings of a man he refers to as “the lamb and the lion.”

“Our doors are wide open,” he replies. “On any given Sunday, we have Christians, non-Christians and people who have never followed a religion of any kind. I think it’s one of the unique things about the environment that we’ve created. It’s a place where you can come and explore. We believe wholeheartedly in the teachings of Jesus and think his is the only way. But I think that loving people and talking with them is a much more effective way of introducing them to his teachings rather than demanding them to do so.”

As Executive Pastor, Tower is well-experienced in delivering sermons and that’s abundantly clear. He paints a reassuring picture of an optimistic future, one where Highpoint and the NBA both represent an open community in the truest sense, the best of humanity. But even with each carefully-delivered word, there’s a lingering sense that many won’t care about what a long-retired journeyman has to say about diversity or faith or anything.

Religion is a topic that many understand as something that should be addressed privately rather than publicly, or perhaps not at all. Even as we know more about players than ever before — their tastes in food, fashion and significant others — that usually doesn’t extend to how and what they may worship.

You can see for yourself what happens when a community comes together.

Still, the lines get blurred everyday and faith seems to fall nebulously in between. On one side, there are social media accounts and a 24-hour news cycle that provide wide-open, albeit mostly superficial, access. On the other, stick-to-sports truthers who insist on the impossible, that making money playing a sport denies a player of their obvious right to be human. How can religion be discussed without falling somewhere in that precarious balance between too much and not enough?

The answer isn’t a simple one but there’s hope here at Silver Lake, among the coats of fresh paint and the hammering of wooden planks that, at least today, remain undefiled. Rebuilding the Alley began with the same innocent question that had been posed to DeClercq as he moved briskly earlier that morning. How can we help?

When Tower heard from Ocoee’s police department about the danger the Alley posed to students, the answer became clear.

A loose idea formed with DeClercq and Tower, both of whom admitted that they had no idea where to begin what seemed like a daunting task. But one conversation led to another, with local businesses offering what goods and time they could. More volunteers soon followed. And there might even be a hint of inspiration borne out of that unsuccessful bible study, with free food — donuts and drinks in the morning, grilled burgers and hot dogs later that afternoon — for all who attend. Now, there’s crowd of nearly 200 volunteers that’s working hard together, regardless of color, creed or whatever idea others would choose as a justifiable excuse to feel hate instead.

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Tower nods approvingly as looks out at the bustling and diverse group. “You look at my and Andrew’s playing careers, and we were never great stats guys,” he says, tying basketball and religion one more poignant time. “But we were consummate team players and our church really embodies that. The idea of coming out here today and making a difference…that’s the heartbeat of our group. You can see for yourself what happens when a community comes together.”