Lawrence Tuckerman is a fan of probabilities — well, any numbers and math, really. It’s an interest that goes hand-in-hand with his autism. It’s also how he met his best friend Zeke, who is off fulfilling his dream of playing basketball at the University of Kansas. Now Lawrence expects his life in Los Angeles to become even less social and more routine — just the way he likes it. He plans to finish high school as he pursues his own far-off dream of manning Earth’s first mission to Mars . . .
Then the improbable happens: Lawrence is recruited for a top-secret mission of cosmic proportions! The whole operation relies on him realizing the full potential of his 1-in-6-billion mind — without freaking out. The rocket-science math is a no-brainer, but is he made of the right stuff to manage the communication and cooperation of a team effort . . . without his best friend?
Seventeen-year-old high school basketball star Ezekiel “Zeke” Archer has it all: a sweet jump shot, a full-ride scholarship to a Midwestern basketball powerhouse, and the brightest future. But when Zeke’s temper gets the better of him in the city championship, he is expelled from school, has to forfeit his scholarship, and is left to ponder his once-hopeful future.
While finishing his final high school days in the California educational system’s version of purgatory, Zeke makes a stunning discovery. With the help of a young autistic classmate Zeke befriends, he learns that the mysterious 7th Dimension, which brought basketball to Earth more than a century ago, has decided to take the game away for good — all because of the ugly event Zeke set into motion in his final game!
As he embarks on the ultimate cross-country road trip to save basketball, Zeke must confront his unsettled past — including a father he’s not heard from in years and a brother fighting in a war half a world away — in order to set his life on the right path and rescue the game he loves.
In this sequel to This Was Never About basketball, a few months have passed since Zeke Archer saved basketball from extinction after the 7th Dimension — the otherworldly entity that brought the game to Earth in 1891 — tried to take it away for good. Now Zeke is settling into life after high school, leading his team and running the point at Jefferson Community College. And there, on his home court, is where this strange tale begins . . .
Tragedy strikes close to Zeke’s heart, and his world slowly begins to crumble around him. But when he receives a mysterious message that could only have originated from another realm, Zeke begins a journey like no other.
Flanked by his trusted friend Lawrence — a math whiz who might have just discovered a top-secret inter-dimensional portal — Zeke crosses paths with a drop-kicking rugby aficionado, a sage and telepathic sea creature, and the possible inventor of basketball, all in the quest to find the true meaning of love, loss, and friendship, on and off the court.
In this thrilling conclusion to the bestselling trilogy, teen hoops star zeke archer is ready to fulfill a lifelong dream: running point for the best college basketball team in the country! But on what should be the best day of his life, things take a horrible turn. Zeke’s truck has been completely dismantled, leaving him with no way to drive to a university 1,600 miles away. His on-again, off-again girlfriend has written him a letter that can only be heart-crushing. And Zeke’s father is in critical condition, hanging on by thread in the VA hospital . . .
But to make matters absolutely worse, Zeke’s nemesis and archrival Brock Decker is suddenly rich and famous–and appears responsible for a most insidious plan to alter the future of basketball’s history. With barely any time to fix things, Zeke, together with his best friend Lawrence, will somehow have to break interdimensional barriers of time and space to return to the very spot where the game he loves was invented, all in an attempt to undo everything. But if the clock runs out, Zeke Archer and everything he loves will be gone!
“KPR Presents” producer Kaye McIntyre sits down with three noted basketball authors to take a deep dive into the game for Kansas Public Radio. Run time is 8:33.
Rock Chalk Sports Talk host Nick Schwerdt goes 1-on-1 with Craig Leener on KLWN 1320 AM and 101.7 FM on November 9, 2017. Schwerdt is also the pregame/postgame host on the Jayhawk IMG Sports Network for its coverage of University of Kansas basketball. Run time is 10:25.
August 12, 2017–UCLA coaching legend John Wooden did not grant an abundance of interviews. As you would expect, sportswriters working the beat for Los Angeles-based newspapers in the 1960s and 1970s were given regular access during the basketball season, but Wooden generally shied away from the press in favor of protecting his . . . (Read More)
June 21, 2017–For folks who once played basketball at the high school level, an essential part of the experience, at least while living in Los Angeles in the 1970s, was summer league. If you were to Google the phrase “life doesn’t get any better than this,” there’s a better-than-even chance you’d find . . . (Read More)
UCLA coaching legend John Wooden did not grant an abundance of interviews.
As one would expect, sportswriters working the beat for Los Angeles–based newspapers in the 1960s and 1970s were given regular access during the basketball season, but Wooden generally shied away from the press in favor of protecting his family and his privacy.
That makes the good fortune of my unlikely two interviews with Wooden — conducted more than 40 years apart — both a checked-off bucket-list item and a head-scratcher of the highest order.
At the pinnacle of my sportswriting “career” (I’m using that term loosely), I wrote for the Signal Newspaper, the community daily in Santa Clarita, a bucolic bedroom community in northern Los Angeles County. While it hardly qualified me for a sit-down with Coach, my pair of interviews actually occurred before my stint at the Mighty Sig. That’s the head-scratcher part.
I held my first interview with Wooden in October of 1964, when I was a 10-year-old 4th-grader. I had the advantage of a father who graduated from UCLA three years after the end of World War II. My dad, Jack Leener, served as sports editor of the Daily Bruin his senior year in 1948. He went on to become president of the university’s original athletic alumni organization known as Bruin Bench. That gave him a certain amount of clout in Westwood.
The person who set the table for me was Mrs. Lewin, my totally awesome 4th-grade teacher at Sherman Oaks Elementary. Mrs. Lewin dished out a class assignment to conduct an interview with “someone in authority.” While my classmates were chasing down the local grocery store manager and the mailman, my dad made a couple of phone calls and arranged for me to interview UCLA head basketball coach John Robert Wooden, the man who, months earlier, had led the Bruins to a perfect 30-0 season and an NCAA national championship.
So, eight months prior to the completion of Pauley Pavilion, there I was, southbound on the 405 Freeway riding shotgun with my mom in the family truckster, her 1962 Chevy Bel Air station wagon. The destination was Wooden’s modest office within the UCLA athletic department building. I was armed with a bulky 1/4-inch reel-to-reel tape recorder, 27 handwritten questions, and pure moxie.
Coach had the patience of a saint as I plowed through my questions, even numbering them aloud, as if that information were somehow as important as the questions themselves.
One particularly memorable passage:
Craig: “What do you like most about coaching?” I asked in my squeaky, pre-adolescent voice.
Wooden: “There are so many things about coaching, Craig, that are interesting and appeal to me, that it would be most difficult for me to single out any one particular thing. However, I would say . . .”
Just then, UCLA assistant coach Jerry Norman walked into the office, and I instinctively shut off the tape recorder, no doubt thinking Norman wanted to speak frankly and off the record.
Norman: “Coach, we’re starting the practice in a few minutes.”
Wooden: “Thanks, Jerry. I’m just wrapping up here with Craig. Get it started, and I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Norman gracefully exits the room.
Wooden: “I would say that just the opportunity to work with young people is the thing that appeals to me most of all.”
Craig: “How do you feel about your team members breaking records?”
Wooden: “The principle record in which I’m interested, Craig, is winning games. As far as any scoring records or individual records of that sort, I feel that it’s best not to become too interested in those things. I feel that it’s a coach’s responsibility and duty to think always of the team first, and he must try, to the best of his ability, in every honorable way, just to win basketball games.”
It was vintage John Wooden, and I was there to record it all.
Fast-forward to January of 2005. I had taken some time off from corporate life in the entertainment industry to return to school, enrolling at College of the Canyons in the Santa Clarita Valley. Like my dad, I was sports editor of my school newspaper, the scrappy but now-defunct Canyon Call.
COC had just established an athletic hall of fame and arranged for 94-year-old Wooden to deliver the keynote address at the inaugural dinner.
Just prior to the banquet hall’s doors opening, the college’s sports information director Bruce Battle whisked me and two actual sportswriters — the Signal’s Bob Dickson and Daily News staffer Gerry Gittelson — into the ballroom for 15 minutes of 3-on-1 time with Coach.
Bob and Gerry were writing on deadline, so in deference to the unwritten sports-journalist code of honor, I hung back while they asked their questions. Battle was looking at his watch as the guys wrapped up, so I knew it was now or never. I stepped forward, punched the record button of my Sony TCM-50DV analog cassette recorder, and re-introduced myself to the man who helped me ace that 4th-grade assignment.
Craig: “Hello, coach, I’m Craig Leener. I’m not sure if you remember my father, Jack Leener, but he passed away a couple years ago, and I wanted to make sure you knew that.”
Wooden, his thinning gray hair parted neatly down the center of his head and wearing a dark, conservative suit, looked up at me with steel-blue eyes and a tender smile.
Wooden: “Yes, I heard about that, Craig, and was saddened by the news. He was a wonderful supporter of the basketball program.”
I had a follow-up question in the can.
Craig: “This isn’t the first time we’ve met, Coach. Do you remember when I interviewed you for a class assignment back in 1964?”
The coach bowed his head and grinned.
Wooden: “You know, Craig, I did a lot of those back then.”
We both enjoyed a good laugh, and the SID signaled the end of the interview session.
Wooden went on to deliver an inspirational speech on the importance of honoring the pioneers in our lives, which I have the privilege to do via this blog post.
For folks who once played basketball at the high school level, an essential part of the experience, at least while living in Los Angeles in the 1970s, was summer league.
If you were to Google the phrase “life doesn’t get any better than this,” there’s a better-than-even chance you’d find a weathered action photo of my Van Nuys High School teammates trucking downcourt on a fast break in the fourth quarter of a seesaw summer league matchup.
The most memorable summer league basketball game I ever played in was against John Burroughs High School of Burbank at the North Hollywood High gymnasium in August of 1971.
It wasn’t memorable because of how close the final score was — we beat Burroughs by, as I recall, about 30 points. What made the game unforgettable was that actor and future filmmaker Ron Howard was on the opposing team.
More on that in a moment.
The beauty of playing in summer league was that our head coach at Van Nuys High, Burt Golden, never attended the games. We never knew why, but I’d like to think he was secretly affording us the opportunity to bond and figure things out for ourselves.
The ritual of preparation for game day always began with my teammates Lloyd Waxman, Bob Wells and Ric Garcia. Lloyd would commandeer his mom’s Pontiac LeMans so we could take a field trip to Santa Monica beach, where we prepared for competition by scoping for chicks and improving the outer self. Then we’d drive back to the San Fernando Valley, customarily arriving at North Hollywood High just prior to tipoff.
But there was something different about the Burroughs game.
The guys and I had heard the rumor that Ron Howard was on the team. His career up to that point consisted of eight seasons as a child actor on the Andy Griffith Show, as well as appearances on more than 30 other TV programs and several feature film roles. His work on Happy Days, American Graffiti, Apollo 13 and A Beautiful Mind, to name just a few, was years away.
When Burroughs came out of the locker room for pre-game warm-ups, there he was. We had a few things in common back then. We were born just three days apart, and neither one of us was the best player on his team. I could tell how he carried himself that, like me, he understood his support role in something that was bigger than he was. For us, basketball offered a chance to fit in and contribute for the greater good.
So, the game got underway, and our tanned and rested team from Van Nuys High exerted its influence over the guys from Burroughs. Lloyd worked in the paint, knifing to the basket for numerous layups and short bank shots. Bob tossed up 18-foot jumpers from the wing and worked his butt off on defense. Ric served as our enforcer, throwing pointy elbows as he pounded the boards and rifled quick outlets to the guards. I played my usual role as facilitator, providing encouragement and crisp passes that led to assists.
Before long, we pulled away and then put it in cruise control, nursing a big lead as time was about to expire.
That’s when it happened.
With just a few seconds left, I threw a pass and a player from Burroughs stole it. That kid found a wide-open Ron Howard standing at midcourt. Ron caught the pass, took a couple of dribbles as he crossed the half-court line and heaved up a 40-foot line drive just before the final horn sounded.
Then three things happened in rapid succession: 1) The crowd hushed, 2) the shot banked home, and 3) the gym erupted.
There was one thing that never happened: Ron Howard never called “bank.” But it didn’t matter. An enormous celebration ensued, he was mobbed by his teammates, and the guys and I stood around wondering what just happened.
The official scorebook documented the buzzer beater as just another two-point bucket. That’s because high school didn’t adopt a standardized 3-point line until 16 years later in 1987.
None of that mattered to Ron Howard and the Burroughs bunch. They found something positive in defeat, and they celebrated it — as a team. That is basketball’s inherent power, to bring people together so they can work toward a common goal.
On that night, it was a fleeting moment of glory played out in a hot gym by a teenager hoping to find his place in the world, one half-court prayer at a time.