The Observer, February 16, 2007
Volume XXXIX, Issue 17
Keeping him out of harm's way, Bradford's drive brings him to Case
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He wanted out. Not out of the city, just out of that city. Out of the hood. Out of the shadows of the underachieving nature it had. Out of what was normal.
He wears a baseball cap, flat-brimmed, tipped up, and slightly to the side. It's a retro version, from the Tigers' '70s collection. He struts forward, sporting baggy, brand-name jeans, and a large ill-fitting jacket, hiding his muscular, six-foot frame. The shirt he wears has to be the same shade of brown as the hat, or else the outfit flat out doesn't work. He'll either wear a pair of Air Jordans or Timberland boots, depending on the weather.
With a deep voice, he can be pretty smooth in conversation, almost like Barry White. The ladies flock to him, and he always has his boys just over his shoulder.
But when he's on the court, in the middle of the circle formed by the rest of his team here at Case, it isn't his suave vocals that get their attention. It isn't his catchy name. It's his drive. It's how he got out of that city. It's the way he's lived his life.
When he was born, Bradford's parents' lives were unstable. At the time, they had been moving around quite a bit, trying to find a steady place to settle down. His grandparents decided it was best if he stayed with them and had a solid foundation to build from, both academically and socially. It was this decision that defined his future. If no one else would be his role models, they would.
At a very young age, he went to live with Grandpa George and Grandma Marie, at the corner of 7 Mile Road and Evergreen Avenue. At 18295 stood a red, two-story, brick house, with grass that had to be "freshly cut," according to the landlord. His grandparents became parents, mentors, and friends for him and his brothers.
"They were always there. If we needed something, we had it. If there was something we really wanted, we got it," Bradford said. "[Grandpa] made sure we had the best shoes, and if there was something that all our friends were getting, then he made sure we had that too." Yes, his grandparents were there, and when they couldn't be, Aunt Janice May stepped in to help the boys turn into respectful young men.
At age nine, before ever truly knowing his father, and after spending years under the guidance of his grandparents, Brandon was about to hit an even rougher spot in his life.
Even though she wasn't around a lot, he talked to his mother all the time. He knew she had a disease, one that is all too familiar to women. She passed away after a battle with breast cancer. And as anyone could imagine, it was a difficult time for him and his family.
To cope with the loss, he picked up a basketball and began to play. Bradford and his brothers, Alan, Desmond and Charles, and a few neighborhood kids played all the time. Alan was three years younger, Charles and Desmond two and five years older, respectively.They were close for the most part. But for Alan, who shared Brandon's love for basketball, it was 'B Brad' who now had to become the role model.
In the backyard was a full court. It had been there for a while: o ne hoop, old and worn, with a beat up backboard and a chain-link net.On the other side, a newer version, glass board, with a real, nylon net. It didn't matter which side he played on. The game was the same at both ends. It was a way to dodge the bullets life shot at him.
"Basketball was a way to deal with things," Bradford said. Bad decisions could have been made. It would've been easy to be just another kid from Wayne County. 'B Brad' decided he would be different.
He made the 20-minute drive across town to school every day, in his bright orange Chrysler 300. To go with the car, he had 20-inch chrome rims, with dust covers on the rear tires. It was easy to see him coming.
A four-year letter winner and three-year starter at Detroit's prestigious Country Day High School, Bradford was on the path to success. He was smart. Really smart. And he could hoop with the best of 'em, becoming a two-time all-state award winner, and earning national recognition as well. After years of playing games at the local park where the pressure came from dealers betting $500 a pop on the games, he was now playing for his future. For college. For his grandparents. For everyone he knew who never made it.
When asked what the best part of his own game was, he said, "I can take it to the cup on anybody," referring to his ability to drive to the basket. If others were asked to name what his best attribute as a basketball player is, they would also say his drive. His drive to succeed where others have failed. His drive to see his teammates play as one. His drive to build a winning tradition here for the game that he calls his one true love. The way he drives to "the cup" may be the last thing they mention.
Just prior to game time, after standing in the circle of his teammates, his friends, the ones who take his lead from the moment the first whistle is blown, Bradford spits out a beat of the most inspirational words that come to mind. He says a little prayer, asking God for the safety of himself and his team. He takes a peek at his left bicep, the one where the memory of his mother will be forever needled into his arm in a tattoo reading, "R.I.P. MA," and takes in a little inspiration of his own. He thinks of his hometown, his grandparents, and his friends in the city.
Then, for the next 40 minutes, he lives his life on the basketball court. It isn't the one in his backyard on 7 Mile, but it's the same court in the end. The same court that kept him off the streets. The same court where he practiced his lay-ups and free throws until it was too dark to see. The same court that saved him from being another average kid from the inner city. The court that got him to where he is today.
