Wall City: Sports Edition

WALL CITY

Summer 2022

Volume 5 Issue 1

Sports

&Rehabilitation What role do sports and physical fitness play in the rehabilitation of the incarcerated?

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A Sight Unseen Winter on San Francisco Bay can be a season of incredible beauty, and a vision of great serenity. For many of those who reside behind San Quentin’s towering walls, this sight will go unseen — for decades, perhaps, or even the rest of their lives.

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Contents:

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Warriors Rising Rahsaan Thomas

The View 2

Editorial

These two teams couldn't be more different. Yet San Quentin takes on Golden State semi-annually on their home court in a battle for domination that also brings two worlds together for social justice.

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Athletics and rehabilitation go hand-in-hand

Hoops & Dreams

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Longing for the benefits of basketball during the Covid shutdown

The Sports Fix

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The science behind sports and offender rehabilitation

Checkmate

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The transformative power of chess

Austin Thurman

Wall Ball Therapy

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How a blue rubber ball can make all players equal

Futbol Fever

Players maintain family and community ties through soccer

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Over the Wall

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Race and Running

Anthony Manuel Caravalho

Steve Brooks

A young Black man channels All-Star Bo Jackson and prison-to-pros legend Ron LeFlore

Two members of San Quentin’s 1000 Mile Running Club overcome racial barriers and prison politics to bridge the gap between the races. As if that wasn’t hard enough, they did it all while running a marathon

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Showtime!

The San Quentin Gridiron Marcus Henderson Football's rough and rugged legacy

COVER: Design and illustration by Andrew Hardy Original concept by Marcus Henderson 4

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WALL CITY Summer 2022

Editor-in-Chief

Volume 5 Issue 1

Timothy Hicks

Circulation

David Ditto Rich Fernandez Dejon Joy Rahsaan Thomas Jad Salem

Layout Design

Andrew Hardy Dao Ong

Public Information Officer

Lt. S. Robinson

CDCR Information Officer II

Krissi Khokhobashvili

Advisers

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Marcus Henderson

Sport Editor

Contributors

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Alastair Boone Sarah Horowitz Alissa Greenberg Doug Levy Dan Fost

Wall City magazine is produced by:

San Quentin News Wall City magazine seeks to publish longform stories to inform people outside prison walls about the lives of incarcerated men and women. In addition, incarcerated readers get news they can use to improve their lives and become better citizens.

Wall City educates readers to the value of providing rehabilitative services to incarcerated people. It seeks to advance social justice and public safety, which supports the public interests.

Wall City is funded entirely by the support of readers and generous grants from:

Fundraising and support efforts are provided

by Friends of San Quentin News. FoSQN is an organization sponsored by the Social Good Fund, a non-profit, charitable organization recognized by the government under Internal Revenue Code § 501(c)(3). Contributions may be tax deductible.

It’s More Than Just Sports For the incarcerated, athletics and physical wellness can become a pathway to rehabilitation and renewal

By Timothy Hicks Sports Editor Sports are more than just sports. The reason why? Guys in prison use sports not only for health and physical fitness, but also as a tool to help them rehabilitate themselves and become better human beings.

Through sports, many people have elevated their lives from poverty, hard times and psychological abuse. Sports help them cope with the mental angst that a hard life can create.

For the people in prison, the mental, physical and emotional aspects of sports are a pathway to reaching their goals and becoming the individuals they want to be.

The San Quentin Field of Dreams is located on the prison’s Lower Yard. On the compound you can find baseball, football and soccer being played; the basketball and tennis courts are filled with SQ residents competing and building brotherhood.

For other sports fanatics, the yard is peppered with spaces that we call “real-estate,” with sections for boxing, handball, the horseshoe pit and exercise bars. The 1000 Mile Running Club run lap after lap around the uneven track.

The Prison Ministry, an organization run by volunteers Don Smith and Bill Epling, bridge the outside sports world with the SQ prison population by bringing in an array of outside teams to compete and minister to the incarcerated on the life of Jesus Christ.

The San Francisco 49ers and the Golden State Warriors organizations tour the prison, courtesy of former SQ Chaplain Earl A. Smith, another person intrinsic to sports at the Q. From the confines of San Quentin, we get to meet and compete against some great athletes. Famously, the Golden State Warriors

and San Jose Earthquakes' annual games against their front offices. However, COVID put a brief pause on these programs due to the prison’s various lockdowns.

Over the last two years, many SQ athletes have caught and recovered from COVID. They have worked to maintain healthy lifestyles by working out or just getting in some practice on the courts or on the field. Despite the hurdles of the pandemic, they continue to do what they can to try and maintain a positive mindset and stay ready for the day when the prison gates reopen and allow life behind the wall to resume some sense of normalcy.

Even when programming inside SQ is paused, sports are an integral source of inspiration for the guys inside. Prison residents have witnessed their favorite athletes become mediators and leaders of many different social justice movements. The incarcerated have watched some professional athletes use their platforms to protest and speak out against oppression and police brutality. Some have even gone to prison for fighting for their beliefs.

Furthermore, some athletes in the outside world have made bad choices that landed them in some challenging circumstances.

But, they still found a way to rise above the ashes and succeed as athletes. For the people in blue at San Quentin, to see their resilience in the public eye is inspiring.

Athletes prove to the world that they too are just as normal as the rest of us—even from behind the wall. Because everybody makes mistakes and no one is perfect. However, an athlete’s ability to rise above the madness seems to always shine through.

With all of the highs and lows that come with loving sports, it is clear that, to all the athletes—free and incarcerated—Sports are more than just sports.

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Stepping Back from the Stress of Covid

By De’jon Joy

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How a deadly virus helped one man realize the power of basketball After the E.R. visit, I was escorted to the “hole” (Administrative Segregation Unit) for a 14 day quarantine for COVID-19 “precautionary measures.” Reluctantly, I laid in the hole bed staring at the ceiling of the cell and memories began to surface in my mind.

Growing up, a pair of retro Michael Jordan’s loosely laced sat in my closet. A giant poster of Orlando Magic's Tracy McGrady hung on my wall. I practiced on my colorful miniature Fisher Price basketball hoop. I spent hours running around chasing my bricks (missed shots) and dunking the basketball. Basketball meant everything to me, and has been a part of my life for a long time. I joined the Boys & Girls Club rec league. I was the captain of the high school varsity team. I dreamt of playing for a D-1 college.

Ironically, my coaches used to say that if we wanted to be the best basketball players, then we had to live in the gym.

After being released from the hole I found myself literally living in a gymnasium because, at the height of the pandemic, San Quentin turned its gym into a makeshift medical ward. I wasn’t shooting jumpers, or taking Kobe Bryant-inspired fade-a-ways. I was now a patient.

I watched the world’s death toll rise. I prayed that my family would be kept safe from the virus. I prayed that I wouldn’t suffer the same fate that 28 other S.Q. residents did, and take my final breath in a cot hovering over the yellow painted 3-point line.

I am out of quarantine, and the prison is no longer locked down—for now. But the doctor’s voice continues to echo in my head, asking me: “Are you stressing about anything?”

I have started to fight the stress with a deeper spiritual connection to my sons, Cameron and Ka’Mari. At certain times, I’d go out on the prison court and shoot around, feeling as if they were doing the same thing at the same time. Somehow, we were connected through the energy of the shooting motion.

And for that, I salute the game of basketball.

Illustration by Andrew Hardy

As I laid in an emergency room bed after collapsing in the doorway of San Quentin’s H-Unit dormitory, I thought about all the life choices that caused my health to take a sudden turn for the worse.

First, I thought about causal factors like my terrible eating habits, or my family’s medical history. I tried not to think about the worse possible diagnosis that Google would provide my wife when she searched the internet.

My diagnosis? I had done a terrible job of recognizing my stress, which manifested itself physically through syncope (fainting spells).

In the past, I dealt with my stress by playing basketball. But since the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, I have noticed that the absence of basketball has disrupted the way I handle stress. The use of different breathing techniques to control my jump shot became a version of meditation for me. I truly found peace on the court.

Later, the doctor came in and asked me a series of questions. Her last comment stuck with me: “Are you stressing over anything?” The question seemed nonsensical to me, laying there in an orange prison outfit with handcuffs around my wrists and ankles. Of course, I was stressed out!

Being able to hoop always provided me with a sense of community. A brotherhood was forged through acts of trust, executing fancy no-look passes, high flying alley-oops, risky full court lobs, perfect pick and rolls, and precise back door cuts.

Mentally, the court was a place I could escape the confines of prison and experience that sense of normalcy any individual doing time desperately needs. The cement courts offered me a safe space to be artistic with my style of play, yell at the top of my lungs calling out real-time defensive adjustments, or to talk trash and simply joke in a prison environment where all those opportunities to feel free are usually threatened by a constant, thick, fog of danger.

Basketball has long been my escape; it saved me from bullies as a child, helped me navigate the social atmosphere in prison, and it has kept me out of trouble while I live in the prison system. But COVID has disrupted my mental and physical outlet.

Support the San Quentin News family of publications!

Information and knowledge are powerful tools for the advance- San Quentin News and Wall City are written and produced by the incarcerment of social justice. The staff and contributors of Wall City ated at San Quentin State Prison. We are entirely funded by grants from charitable foundations and the generous support of readers like you! magazine and San Quentin News hope to offer a peek at the To make a tax-deductible donation, or just to learn more, visit our website: truth that lives behind prison walls. www.SanQuentinNews.com We seek out the issues that inform communities both inside and outside of the correctional environment, and publish stories that illustrate the struggles, the achievements, and the humanity of the incarcerated.

Our efforts pay great dividends. We promote literacy and education among prisoners, and offer incarcerated readers usable news that will enrich their lives. We contribute to the safety of society by emphasizing the rehabilitation of former offenders. And we give the greater public a glimpse of what life behind these walls looks like.

You can also send a check or money order payable to:

Social Good Fund/“Friends of San Quentin News,” P.O. Box 494 San Quentin, CA 94964

Donors of $50.00 or more will receive one-year subscriptions to San Quentin News (12 monthly issues) and Wall City magazine (4 quarterly issues).

Friends of San Quentin News is sponsored by the Social Good Fund, a §501(c)(3) non-profit organization [tax identification #46-1323531] recognized under Internal Revenue Code §432.56.215-B. Donations are tax deductible.

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Rehabilitation through he physical health benefits of sports and exercise are widely known: from managing one’s weight and strengthening muscles to reducing the risk of diabetes and heart disease. But the mental health and social benefits have recently come to the fore: from boosting your mood and concentration, to fighting off dementia and addictions, to improving leadership and decision-making skills.

During a 14-month lockdown due to the COVID-19 outbreak at San Quentin, many incarcerated people suffered under the ill effects of mental stress, infection by the novel virus, and a lack of exercise. The lockdown meant being confined to a fourby-ten-foot cell for nearly 24 hours per day.

During a 90-minute release that occurred every other day, incarcerated people had to choose: should I spend that limited time showering, using the pay phones, or getting exercise on the yard?

A criminology study by a group of Polish researchers titled, The Rehabilitation Function Of Sport In A Psychological Context (2019) concluded that, “prisoners who were actively involved in sports had higher levels of emotional stability and extroversion [sociability] compared to those who did not.”

Emotional stability is considered especially desirable as an outcome of social rehabilitation, stated the researchers.

Sports calm the mind and help moderate stress. Anywhere from 75% to 90% of doctor visits are for stress-related illnesses, according to 6 Mental Health Benefits of Playing Sports, an article by Taylor Bennett (2017). Participation in sports can also have long-term mental health benefits. Children that suffered traumatic experiences, such as physical and sexual abuse, or emotional neglect had better mental well-being when 8

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How physical wellness contributes to the they were adults if they had played team sports, according to researchers, reported Bennett.

The California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation (CDCR) offers Rehabilitation Achievement Credits (RACs) to prisoners for participation in self-help groups and classes by which they can earn time off their sentences or an earlier trip to the parole board. Currently, that doesn’t include sports, despite their positive benefits.

But that could change in the future if the efforts of the SQ Athletic Association (SQAA) are successful.

“We’re trying to get organized sports recognized by CDCR as a rehabilitation program because we have a lot of examples of people whose lives were changed by sports,” SQAA co-founder Brian Asey told SQNews.

San Quentin has many dedicated sports teams, which are assisted by volunteer coaches and play against established teams from the Bay Area community. Many SQ athletes report that interacting with the outside community makes them feel like a part of society and aids in their rehabilitation.

“You have people out there willing to give us their support – it gives back your humanity,” said Isaiah Love, who played for the SQ Warriors basketball team.

SQ tennis team member Paris Williams added, “Tennis

changed my outlook on life. I learned to humble myself, because on the court there is no racism. I learned to socialize because as an outlaw, you don’t socialize, you live like a chameleon.”

Sports promote an understanding of the importance of rules, strategic thinking, planning, goal setting, self-awareness, and decision-making under pressure. These are all “transferable life skills” that contribute to successful reentry into society, according to Understanding Recreation and Sport

Photo by Eddie Herena, SQNews // Illustration by Andrew Hardy

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By Joshua Strange

Thanks to your support, we’ve been

around the world!

Sports

With support of our readers and the generosity of donors, and magazine have continued to grow. Our readership now spans the globe, and with the on-going support of generous donors like you, we will continue with our mission to bring social justice news to the incarcerated and the world at large!

San Quentin News

Wall City

rehabilitation of former felons as a Rehabilitative Tool within Juvenile Justice Program, a study published in the Juvenile and Family Court Journal (2002).

Sports and exercising can also be a tool to battle addiction, which can “deprioritize cravings” and help with recovery efforts. Illicit drugs can create a feeling of being “high” by triggering the body to release natural, feel-good chemicals like dopamine and endorphins, but can lead to negative side-effects and dependency. Exercise sessions, even short ones, can release these same feel-good chemicals but instead with positive side-effects, according to Dr. Heather Vincent of the University of Florida’s Health and Sports Performance Center, in her report Running is Medicine for the Brain.

Sports and exercise can benefit mental health at any age, including preventing or slowing cognitive decline and disorders, which can typically begin at age 45, according to Dr. Vincent. This occurs, in part, through hormone regulation and increased blood circulation, which nourishes the brain and preserves its size and its nerve cells. In turn, this benefits areas of the brain that are responsible for key tasks like memory, learning, navigation, and decision-making.

Researchers at the University of Nevada studied the recreation habits in a state prison system and found only a minority of prisoners engaged in sports and exercise regularly enough to generate clear benefits. The most common use of leisure time was watching television, visiting other prisoners, and reading books, which are not as effective in managing tension compared to sports and exercise.

Rehabilitation, in a strict sense, is to help people who committed crimes to socially adjust as persons and into society. The goal of rehabilitation is to teach incarcerated people to live with respect for moral norms and legal regulations. Rehabilitation through sport can instill these social behaviors, noted the Polish study.

“I think that sports [are] the perfect way for the men to utilize what they learn in the self-help programs at a game-time speed. I have confronted my issues by playing sports,” San Quentin’s Brian Asey says.

Ngorongoro, Tanzania

Kenya, Africa

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Rafina, Greece

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The King’s

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Bishop takes rook...

“Check Mate!”

Photos by Phoeun You, SQNews

By Jad Salem and Marcus Henderson

Rook takes pawn...

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an Quentin loves chess. Even deep in the Security Housing Units, where San Quentin men live in solitary confinement, residents build makeshift chess sets.

Here, pieces made out of toilet tissue that resemble papier maché. Figurines slide across recycled lunch boxes with numbered checkerboard squares penciled in.

In the hole, life is eerily quiet: the hustle and bustle of the mainstream housing units is nowhere to be found in its highly surveilled corridors. Walk down a hallway and you can hear the chorus of numbers being yelled out of steel doors signaling a player’s move. The game of chess for some has become synonymous with how one lives their life — what moves they make. Certain moves can be more costly than others. San Quentin

discipline and not let your mind wonder, or you will lose your own strategy.”

Thorpe learned chess from his mother at the tender age of 5. “That was one of the better moments of my childhood, before my mother became an addict,” he says, sighing. “But that started my curiosity—the way different pieces moved. It became my passion to solve puzzles.”

In his early life, Thorpe saw himself as a Bishop as he tried to navigate the underworld. “I was doing things at an angle, depending on the situation,” he says. “I wasn’t always the one to make the first move. But I wanted to be the one who won no matter what.”

Now, the game has become more than a hobby for Thorpe — it’s about solving the puzzle of his life. “My crime involved violence and rage,” he says.

Knight. “I was moving from state to state, doing things I thought I needed to do to survive,” he says. “Now, I see myself as a pawn, aspiring to get across the chessboard of life to grow into my true noble form.” (In the rules of chess, if a pawn reaches the other side of the board a player can select any piece, such as the powerful Queen or Rook, to add to the board.)

Pablo Ramirez’s journey to chess started in prison as he was trying to learn English. “Life in Mexico was a challenge,” he remembers. “I didn’t have a trade to find a good job with good pay. I didn’t have the discipline to learn.” Learning chess along with English “taught me to face challenges and how to think a couple of moves ahead,” he says. That allowed him to dig deep “and accept responsibility for the crime

plays chess everywhere from the recreational yard to the housing units, faces deep in concentration as the incarcerated residents study their various boards.

Chess in prison is more than a mental distraction; it’s a community of prisoners reflecting on life and rehabilitation. The game takes a patience and focus which most of us lacked before coming to jail.

“You have some people that take a long time to move, and you have to allow them that space,” Reginald “Reggie” Thorpe says on being a part of this informal chess club. “The key is to have

“After I started identifying my triggers and character defects, chess helped me examine my emotions and how I deal with my wins and losses.” The game taught him to be mindful, he says, and that it doesn’t matter if he wins or loses.

Similarly, Scott O’Connor's first introduction to the game was playing against his father in a prison visiting room at the age of nine. “As soon as that first piece moves, the whole world disappears for me,” O’Conner says. While running the streets and being involved in criminal activity, O’Conner patterned himself as a

I committed. Chess is about learning to overcome obstacles and for me it’s about being accountable for my actions.”

And chess teaches its players to regulate their emotions, since games can often end in defeats, failures and frustration—just like life in the free world. “Chess teaches you how to cope with adversity rather than have a meltdown,” reflects O’Conner.

If you’re playing Black or White, if you have the first move or start on defense, “What matters is that you think about your next move,” he says, “because it may determine where you are going in life.”

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Photos by Phoeun You, SQNews

Wall Ball

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mong prisoners, one rare sport is often used to find euphoric relief: a good ol' game of handball. On the handball court, skilled players test out their hand-eye coordination, beating a little blue ball up against the prison’s batter-yellow painted wall.

The game calls for agility, intensity, and the rhythm of an orchestral musician. One has to be in sync with their partner; a good player must develop a sense of timing — the instinct to slide out of the way when the small blue ball speeds back after their partner slaps it back towards the wall. It is a continual dance — one must be light on their feet to avoid bumping into their partner or competitors.

Jeff Williams earned the nickname “Spiderman” for his active form of play. “He’s a good partner to have,” B. McClelland says 12

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of his handball partner. The two sometimes compete in tournaments together. Williams’ dedication to the game drives him to dive onto the concrete ground to make a play — like Spiderman, he puts his body wherever it needs to be to beat the competition.

“It’s full dedication, like a dog after a bone,” Williams’ says.

He learned how to play handball in prison 26 years ago, and soon realized it was something that he was good at.

American handball, also referred to as “wall ball,” is played by two to four players who use their hands to hit a small rubber ball against a wall. The objective is to keep opponents from returning or striking the ball as it comes off the wall, which helps to generate points. If the ball touches the ground twice or is hit out of bounds, that team loses a point to the opposing team.

“In order to be successful here, you have to know how to play

Therapy

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with both hands,” said Eric Post, who ran most of the handball tournaments on behalf of the prison, but has since paroled.

Many people may not consider how a healthy body and mind can help reform and transform a former criminal into a productive citizen. Many incarcerated people gravitate toward handball as a stress relieving activity and a method of self-improvement.

“It’s all about change,” said Williams.

“We aren’t who we were when we committed our crimes. Part of that change is finding our humanity and that comes from coming together to play by the rules, and from having fun.”

The diversity on the court is also powerful and unusual in the normally segregated world of prison. But here, all that matters is who will win the game. “Whenever I’m having a bad day at work or dealing with someone in the building, coming out to play handball allows me to wind down and

decompress with a group of guys where the color of the skin does not exist,” says handball player Francisco Ortez.

Trayvon, whose pronouns are her/she/ hers, is one of several transgender handball players. “Handball here at San Quentin has been no different than any other prison I’ve been in,” she says. “There are no biases against any transgender here, and I feel safe playing with the guys.”

The first recognized game of striking a ball against a wall using a hand [an early version of handball] was in Scotland in 1427, according to Wikipedia. In the United States, the first recorded game of handball played was in San Francisco in 1873.

In the early 1900’s, four-wall handball was developed in New York.

Like other sports, Handball in prison can provide transferable skills such as improved decision-making and positive social interactions, as well as how to successfully cope with change.

In a study called, “Understanding Recreation and Sport as a Rehabilitative Tool” (2002), the researchers ask: How can you follow the rules and win? What are your strengths? What are your weaknesses and how can you correct them? How can you use your resources with the rules of the game? How can you develop a “win-win” relationship? Can you be more assertive to meet your needs in an appropriate way?

Maybe the slapping of a small blue rubber ball against a wall can keep the incarcerated from hitting the proverbial wall themselves. Finding camaraderie while hustling back and forth on the court helps provide a pathway forward.

“Not only do I play for the exercise, but playing is therapeutic,” says SQ resident Walter Sprafka, who notes that the game helps him make good decisions and practice conflict resolution. “Hand ball is non-judgmental, and it brings me in harmony with other people.”

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teams from the free world pass through San Quentin's gates to do battle on the dusty scrub of the lower yard — bringing with them a sweet glimpse of liberty

efore the COVID-19 pandemic, Juan Espinosa, left striker for the San Quentin Earthquakes, used fancy footwork to steal the ball from between the legs of a visiting Hermanos Unidos (United Brothers) player. He blew past two defenders and kicked it to the wing to Carlos Meza, who did an amazing flip kick past the goalie, which put the ball deep in the corner of the net for a goooaaal!

Due to the pandemic, however, it has been a long time since the San Quentin Earthquakes have been able to compete. Instead, immigration, deportation and rehabilitation sit heavy on the minds of many San Quentin futbol (soccer) players. Espinosa and Meza represent two different sides of the same coin. Espinosa is a Mexican national and Meza is Mexican American, but each has found their solace on the pitch — the SQ soccer field — as did the rest of their teammates.

For many Mexican nationals who have found themselves in prison, the “American Dream” has been deferred after traveling hundreds of miles searching for the land of milk and honey. Some immigrants have instead encountered a language barrier, discrimination and a culture of materialism.

To process how their dreams turned into crime, the mostly Hispanic players seek camaraderie to mitigate the roughness of prison life. They form the bonds to help each other deal with childhood trauma and combat some of the toxic “machismo” [macho] ideas they grew up with.

The Hermanos Unidos, a group of Latino UC Berkeley students, were the first team to come in to play against the SQ Earthquakes.

This broke a spell of not having an outside team come in to challenge and build fellowship with them — a common practice for 14

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other SQ sports teams, such as the basketball and baseball teams.

“We want to revive this tradition and do community work. All our communities have been affected by mass incarceration.

A lot of us come from low-income families, and this is our way to show support and give back,” Marco Barrera, Hermanos’ head coach, said at the 2016 inaugural game.

“It felt like we were playing family out on the field. I love this game, and I leave all of my heart out there every time I play,” Julio Martinez, of the Earthquakes, added.

Before the pandemic, the Hermanos Unidos came in every other Saturday to play the ‘Quakes, under then-team sponsor, Andrew Crawford.

Then COVID hit and the prison suffered a 14-month lockdown. Espinosa was deported, and Meza paroled back to his city. Other players begin to dream again, this time to get back to the soccer field to replenish their hope and support network. Others focused on family while the coronavirus raged.

‘Quakes player Francisco Legorreta says that COVID took away the way he contin-

Photos by Javier Jiminez and Eddie Herena, SQNews

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By Carlos Drouaillet

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eaming of

ues to bond with his daughter in his mind, despite being incarcerated. “Playing soccer in prison reminds me of my daughter,” he says. Legorreta says he is now living vicariously through his daughter, who is being trained by professionals to be a soccer player. Knowing that she is doing something that he can relate to makes him feel the bond he and his daughter may have if he was on the outside.

“I hope my daughter takes this great opportunity seriously,” Legorreta says. “Seeing my kids living the opportunity I had

makes me feel a portion of the American dream.”

As the prison slowly returns to “normal,” incarcerated soccer players take to San Quentin’s tattered field and erect their collapsible plastic goal posts. The physical conditioning is not what it used to be, but in time the team will be weaving up and down the pitch as they train like they used to.

The potential of being deported after leaving prison still looms for some. But their love for the game reminds them to work hard, build for a brighter future and

protect their goals — literately. Because just like in the game, too many penalty cards can force you to sit on the sidelines of life.

Hermanos Unidos are planning for their return. This may give the new ‘Quakes players a chance to reconnect to the community.

“There are way too many Latino men and women incarcerated, compared to those enrolled in colleges and universities,” Daniel Moreno, Hermanos Community Chair, says. “Our purpose is not to forget where we come from.”

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very September for seven years straight, the Golden State Warriors came walking down the hill, descending onto San Quentin State Prison's Lower Yard. The last two years, General Manager Bob Myers carried the actual Larry O’Brien NBA Trophy followed by Assistant GM Kirk Lacob.

They were greeted like old friends by men serving long sentences. Donning plaingreen visitor basketball jerseys, Golden State took the blue-green basketball court for a community game against incarcerated ballers, while NBA players like Marreese “Mo” Speights or Kevin Durant rooted from the sidelines, and Javale McGee or Draymond Green played chess and dominoes surrounded by incarcerated fans. Over the years, retired-playersturned-NBA-coaches Mark Jackson, Brian Scalibrini, Willie Green, Jarron Collins and Luke Walton competed against the prison team.

“We were star struck, but after we got to know these guys, it was like seeing your friends come back for the summer,” says Alan McIntosh, the 46-year-old veteran and leading scorer for the San Quentin Warriors prison team.

The games are the highlight of the year for many incarcerated people. But since 2018, lockdowns have canceled the annual event for three years straight.

“I miss walking out onto the yard,” Lacob said. “I miss warming up while people are in my ear, talking to me about what’s going on with people in SQ, those who are now out, and getting a little trash [talk] my way.

“I miss the physicality of guarding Ant (Anthony Ammons) and Allan McIntosh.

I miss the feeling when the jumper is going and the crowd around the court lets you know you are balling. I miss the sneers when I don’t have it. I miss the back and forth with the refs. I miss the finality of it all when the game ends and we all get together and tell each other, ‘I’ll see you next time, but I hope not,’” Lacob, reflected.

McIntosh jokes, “I miss getting fouled by Kirk Lacob,” as he grins with a hardy laugh.

By Rahsaan Thomas In 2012, Myers and Lacob started bringing in NBA Hall of Famers, All-Stars, coaches, and players. The games usually took place in September, during the small scheduling window just before the Golden State NBA players start their season.

“You never knew who they were going to bring,” McIntosh says. His favorite year, he says, was the first time he saw the championship trophy. “Not many people in the world get to hold the Larry O’Brien trophy,” he says. “I’m a Laker fan, but holding

Warriors...

that trophy made me feel like I was part of that Warriors’ championship.”

Over the next several years, Kirk Lacob, son of the team’s billionaire owner Joe Lacob, could be spotted playing at San Quentin without the press or the rest of the Golden State squad. He played with Christian Sports Ministry’s “Green Team,” sponsored by Don Smith and Bill Epling. He has brought in his brother Kent and sister Lacey—even his dad came in and played against the SQ Kings a day before Father’s Day. His sons won the game for him.

Lacob would also show up between NBA playoffs games just to play basketball and see his incarcerated friends.

“By going to play in SQ over the years, I found humanity,” Lacob said. “I talked and competed with real people who went through real life experiences that I never had and likely never will go through. I learned perspective.

None of this happens without basketball, but you find that basketball, in the end, has given you a pathway to learn more about life and more about people.”

Lacob always looked comfortable on the prison yard, until it was time to leave.

“I started going to SQ because I wanted to play basketball and it seemed like a really different sort of experience to play in prison,” Lacob said. “In some ways, this was no different than playing in an AAU [Amateur

Come Out and Play!

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Photos by Harold Meeks and Eddie Herena, SQNews; Illustrations by Andrew Hardy

Athletic Union] tournament or a pickup game in an area I don’t live in, but then you finish playing and remember where you are.”

The streak of successful Golden State events halted at seven. In 2019, an ill-timed institutional lockdown caused the cancellation of the yearly festivities. In 2020 and 2021, COVID-19 lockdowns and precautions killed the possibility of resuming the annual games.

Golden State is up four wins to three against The Q. During the three years since the last Golden State versus SQ Warriors games, most of the inside team has paroled.

Ammons, sentenced to 102 years to life, paroled in early 2021 due to a commutation for exemplary rehabilitative conduct. Later, Lacob ran into SQ forward Ammons working the elevator at a Golden State game.

McIntosh, still incarcerated at San Quentin, has been practicing with the new Warriors lineup in anticipation of the basketball program resuming this summer. Lacob and McIntosh say they are ready for a rematch. McIntosh recalls the first San Quentin victories.

“My favorite game was the first time we won,” McIntosh said. “I got two dunks, one on Bob Myers shielding himself.”

That was the 2015 game where at the start of the fourth quarter, with the score tied at 72, San Quentin Warrior Joshua Burton threw an alley-oop to McIntosh for a tie-breaking slamdunk.

Golden State plans to resume the annual games when conditions permit. And if history is any indication of this friendly rivalry, Myers will return with a vengeance.

—Brian Asey contributed to this story.

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Reaching for the

STARS

By Anthony Manuel Caravalho

I

Photo courtesy of SQTV

n 1973, Ron LeFlore was signed to play professional baseball, even while still incarcerated at Detroit’s Jackson State Penitentiary. Now, on the eve of the 50th anniversary of his historic signing, another former convict has a chance to get signed professionally. All San Quentin alum Austin “Baby Bo” Thurman needs is a team willing to embrace his rehabilitative efforts.

The legend of LeFlore started when famed Tiger’s manager Billy Martin visited “the Pen” to see the hotshot inmate perform. Martin immediately recognized the prisoner’s baseball talents, and the rest, as they say, was history.

In the 1970s, America was reeling from the assassinations of Martin Luther King, John F. Kennedy, Malcolm X, and Bobby Kennedy as well as the tumult of the Vietnam War. It was also a time of renewed 20

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attention on US prisons, particularly pertaining to race, with the killing of George Jackson at San Quentin and the Attica uprising, both in 1971.

Against this backdrop, Martin signed LeFlore, who went on to a successful major league career — being named an All-Star in 1976 and leading the American League in stolen bases in 1978 and 1980. Even Hollywood loved the prison-to-the-pros story, making a TV movie with LeVar Burton playing LeFlore.

A story with similar potential began on a cold February morning in 2019 on San Quentin’s “Field of Dreams,” where incarcerated ballplayers have competed in America’s pastime for the past 102 years, the oldest prison athletic program in the country.

Warm-ups for the first day of try-outs began as San Quentin A’s spiritual leader,

Carrington Russelle, played catch with a man never seen on the field before. The unknown prospect’s name: Austin Thurman.

The morning dew turned to rain, potentially hampering the day’s activities, when something happened that had not been seen in the previous seven months of workouts.

Russelle and Thurman were throwing darts to one another from 250 feet away. Team manager Richard Williams, was beaming.

If you knew Williams, then you knew his smiles came around about as often as Haley’s Comet.

The impression of Thurman’s 250-foot warm-up throws with Russelle on that wintery first day prompted memories of two other legendary arms witnessed in baseball lore: The first memory — the legendary Roberto Clemente. Before the Hall-of-Famer’s tragic death in 1972, he threw a ball

Austin Thurman rises above a legacy of inequality to follow in Ron LeFlore's legendary prison-to-pros footsteps

en — a rare talent poised to challenge the legacy of baseball at San Quentin and possibly beyond. His skills earned him the nickname, “Baby Bo,” after the famed two-sport star Bo Jackson. LeFlore’s story inspires supporters of Thurman to believe history can repeat itself. And, if it does, the incarcerated community will know that second chances are possible, and that dreams sometimes do come true.

Soon after his debut, Thurman spoke of his aspirations. “I dream to play professional baseball,” he said. “Before San Quentin, I couldn’t imagine the opportunity to contribute to an organization that lets me play ball — while doing my part for society off the field.”

His only more pressing dream is to make his family proud. ♦

from the right field wall to home plate on one bounce in a playoff game.

The second recollection — a right fielder from Stanford, playing at USC’s Dedeaux Field. He throws a waist-high strike from the right field wall (320 feet away), in the air, on a rope, silencing the crowd of baseball aficionados. His name was John Elway, who went on to choose another line of work.

Thurman’s tale wasn’t limited to his cannon arm. He instilled fear around the diamond as hits exploded off his bat, drowning out gunshots from the prison guards' gun range over the wall, routinely soaring past the “DEAD CENTER” sign 400 feet away. Thurman’s wisdom and his ability to ignite thought-provoking discussions on social reform may have even exceeded his athletic prowess.

Thurman was like a comet from heav-

♦

♦

Thurman’s mother, Gearl Lynn Thurman, died when he was only three years old. “She passed from cancer and left a letter for me to read when I got older, but I still haven’t read it,” Thurman said. His dreams of the future include reading the letter on a major league diamond.

Thurman’s journey towards the “Bigs” includes him accepting God and committing to recovery while at San Quentin. It took him four years to realize that true maturity, and the fulfillment of his dreams, included taking full accountability for his crime — accessory to attempted murder.

Thurman’s remorse letter to his victim says: “Sir, I am truly sorry for intruding into your life. I won’t create more pain than the tremendous amounts I already caused you and your family. Allow me to assist in your healing process by making amends for every wrong I have done in my life.

“Let me know what I can do. Felons, past and present (coach says at least 12 million) rely on my future success. And becoming a beneficial part of your life, with your forgiveness, will inspire others who have fallen.”

The outfielder’s statement of remorse exhibits maturity beyond his years and demonstrates how rehabilitation can heal if the incarcerated can rise above our mistakes. San Quentin’s rehabilitated athletes understand that doing our part to heal the

web of all whom we harmed is our top goal.

It is our pathway to help heal our communities and heal ourselves. The Q’s baseball team embodies positive change and working on oneself as part of rehabilitation.

Nationwide, there are only 18 positions available that allow incarcerated athletes to compete with outside baseball teams — and all 18 are here at San Quentin. When you compare this to the nation’s incarcerated population of more than 2,000,000, you begin to realize what a coveted and amazing opportunity it is to be part of The Q’s historic baseball team.

The daily sports regime, structure, and camaraderie provided by the team has reduced recidivism among graduates from the San Quentin Baseball program, producing a lineup of successfully returning citizens.

Thurman’s talents have been witnessed by experts that played in the “Bigs.” Before the pandemic, retired pitchers Ted Lilly of the Oakland A’s and Jeremy Affeldt of three World Championship Giants teams stopped by The Q and pitched to the San Quentin Athletics, including Thurman.

Thurman left an impression. ♦

♦

♦

In July 1973, LeFlore signed with the Detroit Tigers after securing a one-day release for tryouts at Tiger Stadium. The contract allowed LeFlore to meet his parole conditions. He was paid a $5,000 bonus and $500 per month for the remainder of the 1973 season, according to Wikipedia. LeFlore was sentenced to 5 to 15 years in state prison at the tender age of 15 for the armed robbery of a local bar. LeFlore, like many other incarcerated people, was a troubled youth who dropped out of school, began selling drugs, and became an addict. Also, he did not play organized sports before prison. But like Thurman, it took a fellow prisoner, Jimmy Karalla to see LeFlore’s potential for redemption and nurture his talent. LeFlore worked his way through the minor leagues before he reached that coveted pro spot. He was the first player to lead both the American and National leagues in stolen bases after being traded to the Montreal Expos in 1979 from the Tigers. LeFlore did the exceptional SUMMER 2022

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coming from the hard streets of Detroit and a stint in prison.

Baseball, like society and the judicial system, has long struggled with racial inequality and discrimination. In fact, baseball’s embrace of social reform could help revitalize the sport’s diversity program, which has deteriorated even more rapidly in recent years than in the 70’s and 80’s.

The focus on Cuban, Dominican, or Latin American players may have caused the demise of the “True American Black Baseball player” for approximately 40 years.

What other names come to mind besides Darryl Strawberry, Eric Davis, and Dwight “Doc” Gooden as Black players who, as urban youth, grew up watching and imitating their talents? Where are the heroes like Willie Mays, who played stickball with the inner city youth in the neighborhood around New York’s Polo Grounds?

The dismantling of Rube Fosters’ Negro National League (NNL) in the 1920s caused the development of racial equality in baseball to slow to sloth-like pace. Foster knew that integration into the Major Leagues was inevitable. In 1926, he proAustin Thurman continues to train and condition himself — now as a free man in New Mexico.

Photo courtesy of Austin Thurman

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posed some kind of merger between his NNL and Major League Baseball (MLB), but league commissioner Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis told Foster that the time was not right for Blacks to join in the MLB. Foster’s dreams were crushed. The NNL marked one of the last times that African Americans controlled their own major-league sports organizations, according to William Rhoden, author of The Forty Million Dollar Slave.

Rhoden doesn't believe modern-day multi-millionaire athletes with minority backgrounds are necessarily free because the majority of professional sports teams operate under White ownership.

While it sadly took a Minneapolis police officer murdering a helpless Black man on video in 2020 to reignite demonstrations at the professional athlete level, we pray the athletes’ voices never go quiet again — especially as we try to advance racial equality and reform the prison industrial complex.

LeFlore retired from the MLB in 1983 with the Chicago White Sox. He experienced a few run-ins with the law for failing

to pay child support to his adult child and her mother, but he never returned to prison.

Post-Release: Roswell, New Mexico San Quentin baseball happily lost Thurman in 2020 when he paroled to Texas to be near his father and to begin his new career.

He began his baseball rite of passage in the independent leagues, he earned a spot on the Roswell Invaders in New Mexico in the independent Pecos League. In 47 games in 2021, he hit .313 with 6 home runs, 8 doubles, 3 triples and 36 stolen bases.

San Quentin’s outside baseball coach, Steve Reichardt, said of Thurman’s potential, “It’s rare a baseball player goes from high school to the pros, so we expected him to play independent ball. The kid has talent and the personality to make it.”

Currently, Thurman is expecting a child and has opted to get a steady job driving trucks, but his dream of playing ball has not been dashed.

However, both LeFlore and Thurman defied the odds through playing prison baseball; with all their ups and downs, neither have returned to prison, which is a success by any measure.

Two men from disparate backgrounds run side-by-side, battling hate and prejudice under the watchful gaze of the prison guard towers

M

A Journey of MILES

By Steve Brooks // Photos by Phoeun You, SQNews

ost days, I begin my morning next to a baseball scoreboard, beneath a gray sky and a sun just poking out through the marine layer that blankets the San Francisco Bay. I stretch my calves and hamstrings and then simulate a few strides. “I’m glad 2020 is finally over,” I think to myself as I bounce up and down. I look out onto our volunteer coaches have been prevented from coming inside the Yard, which had once been full of medical tents the prison. during the summer of 2020’s nightmarish COVID-19 In the 1000 Mile Running Club, of which I’m a member, I run outbreak. alongside all races, colors, and creeds. Our total membership inI take a few deep breaths and expel them from my lungs. I see Darren, Mike and Tommy, some of my white teammates, already out on the track. I am happy to see them, remembering how they also survived their bouts with COVID-19. I smile, greet each of them and I set out alone on my five-mile run beneath the gun towers on the Lower Yard at San Quentin State Prison.

Except for the masks being worn by guards and some incarcerated people who aren’t running or working out, it feels like things might be getting back to a sense of normal. But who knows. The uncertainty surrounding vaccines and new Covid variants still has everyone worried. We are still being ordered to practice social distancing and

cludes about 50 people ranging in age from 20 to 70. About half our members are White, many are Black, Latino, Asian or Middle Eastern. What brings our diverse group together is one common goal — to be better people.

When you’re in prison there is a constant cloud hanging over you, reminding you that you committed a terrible crime. The system tries to convince you that you’re horrible, perhaps even unforgivable. The culture inside pressures you to keep to your own kind.

I’m Black, which means I’m supposed to hang out near the basketball courts in the lower recreational yard. But in the 1000 Mile Running Club, we face no cloud, no judgment, only the exhilaraSUMMER 2022

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tion of our footfalls and our heavy breaths as we run side by side.

The club was started 15 years ago by an educator named Laura Bowman. Five years after she started it, Frank Rouna, a 75-yearold U.S. Army veteran and a USA Track and Field certified coach, took over. Rouna remains the coach today. When he comes in, he often brings an impressive team of coaches, including Olympic gold-medalist Eddie Hart, three-time Olympic trial qualifier Diana Fitzpatrick, and Ultra Runner Dylan Bowman. Rouna also makes sure we get new running shoes each year.

One of my running pals is Tommy Wickerd, a former White Supremacist with a bald head, muscular frame and arms covered in tattoos of Nazi insignias. Whenever we find each other on our running track — a treatcherous and uneven, asphalt and gravel ¼-mile circuit in the Yard with six 90-degree turns — I tell him, “You sure make it look easy.” His response is always the same: “1000 Mile Club!”

Tommy and I have shared prison-made protein bars and seafood burritos, which is something that we would have never done earlier in life. In some prisons, men are beaten or stabbed just for trying to be friends with people outside of their own race. I’ve only had a few white friends in my life. I grew up being called the “N” word and other derogatory names, starting at 8 years old.

I learned quickly my ancestors were slaves.

Most of my family left Mississippi and came to California hoping to escape the Ku Klux Klan, so I’ve never felt equal enough to have white friends.

The Club for us is an escape from feeling the weight of being considered the scum of the earth. It is a place where we are allowed to grow, to change, and learn from our mistakes. It makes us feel like we’re accomplishing something and serving a higher purpose. With the club we experience an exuberance, and a stillness of mind and body. Without it, it’s like standing in place holding up a ton of bricks.

That’s what it felt like for most of us in 2020, when our practices and events were canceled and the coronavirus swept through San Quentin in one of the worst outbreaks in the country.

At the beginning of 2020, we were running about 25 to 30 miles a week with the 24

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intention of increasing our training to 40 miles a week. Tommy and I had an ambitious goal to run the 2020 marathon in three-and-a-half hours. In May, we were about 400 miles into our training when some incarcerated people with infected with Covid-19 arrived from another prison.

Shortly after, I was sitting in my cell one morning, in June, when I realized that I couldn’t smell my coffee, my breakfast, my soap or toothpaste. I couldn’t smell my cellie taking his morning constitutional. I became light-headed and short of breath. My heart and head started pounding.

For the next three weeks, I could barely get out of bed. Outside my cell, I could hear men call out “Man down!” every 20 to 30 minutes. Dozens of people were being rushed to hospitals, while others were kicking on cell doors screaming, “Let us out!” Men were being taken to different parts of the prison to be quarantined. The local news kept reporting deaths every day.

Within a few months, Covid-19 had affected over 2,000 of us and killed 29, including one officer.

After I healed, I still couldn’t leave my cell. We were being kept confined waiting for Covid to finish its assaults. I was left pacing the floor. My appetite returned slowly, but I was barely sleeping. I tried to meditate to stay calm, but I often found myself clenching my knuckles and wondering if my friends were alive. I thought often about the 1000 Mile Club and how it had changed my life.

Before joining the 1000 Mile Club I sat around eating and watching T.V. most of the day. My weight was more than 40 pounds above my body mass index; my blood pressure was in headache range. I didn’t know the first thing about hard work, discipline or focus. I actually vowed to never run a marathon. But my motivation came when I learned about the Club.

Before the pandemic, I had run a total of almost 4,000 miles, including three marathons and four half-marathons. I still remember my first race in 2017 like it was yesterday. I started slowing down at the 13mile mark. The last five miles felt like I was trudging through six feet of snow. My stomach was in knots, and my hamstrings were seizing up. My arms started dangling. My breath became panicky. A sip of water hurt.

What kept me moving toward that finish line was everyone cheering for me — people of all races — my teammates, coaches, prison staff, doctors, nurses, and teachers.

At every turn, someone was there nudging me forward, running beside me, clapping or yelling words of encouragement. I ended up finishing the race in four hours, and I was hooked. Running had awakened something inside of me. It freed me from that feeling of hopelessness and death that is normally associated with prison life. It allowed me to exit the physical world and enter into a spiritual realm. I felt a sense of freedom and renewal of my being.

That marathon taught me a valuable lesson about how strong I am as a person and how focused and disciplined I could become when I really want something. It also taught me that you can’t cheat the process.

“

Running had

awakened

something inside of me. It freed me from that feeling of hopelessness and death that is normally associated with prison life. It allowed me to exit the physical world and

„

enter into a spiritual realm. I felt a sense of

freedom

and renewal of my being.

Photo courtesy of Christine Yoo

You have to work hard for what you want in life and we can all bring out the best in each other, regardless of race. We need each other.

I spent most of my young life being hateful and isolated, but my teammates taught me how crucial it can be to love and support one another. We spend more time together on the track than we would at any other rehabilitation program at San Quentin. We practice together about six times a month and we have monthly running events to keep us focused for our biggest event, the annual marathon in November, which requires us to run the yard loop 105 times.

Long-distance running encompasses everything you need to become a responsible human being. It teaches one how to be resilient, disciplined, focused, self-determined, and sociable.

When rioters stormed the Capitol on Jan. 6th, myself and others inside were just as shocked as everyone else to see white people breaking windows and beating each other up. But it reinforced that well known idea of how much racial tension still exists in this country.

Shortly after the Capitol attack, Tommy and I had a conversation about what happened during one of our runs.

“It reminds me of how ignorant I was 19 years ago as a White supremacist gang member,” he said. “A lot of White people feel they should be treated better than everyone else in this country, but as far as I’m concerned, we’re all the same. We’re all human beings.”

Some White people can’t handle the truth. This country is a melting pot of immigrants. This ongoing struggle for racial

equality and our deep political divides will continue to boil over until people come to grips with the fact that we’re stronger together as a nation. Until people learn some of the lessons we take from running: how a community can be so much stronger if we stand together.

Since I recovered from Covid-19, I have been running a lot less and my lungs have been burning a lot more. But the habit has stayed with me, and I know that my body will heal in time. I still lace up my running shoes, grab my water bottle and my music playlist. I listen to Eminem and Drake, as I run five miles, three times a week. I still start out next to the baseball scoreboard and I still see Tommy and the others, and a hopeful energy surges through my body. I still set out running. I still know that change can be made, lap by lap.

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Long before most of the Q's modern players were even born,

Chalklines San Quentin's gridiron was a battlefield where players faced off

against their greatest foe — the inner self.

S

By Marcus Henderson

Photos courtesy of Nigel Poor

an Quentin’s gridiron (football field) is possibly the only place in the prison where it’s legal to hit someone and get away with it. Not in the name of violence, but in the spirit of sportsmanship and winning.

In the late ’70s and early ’80s, the incarcerated men played tackle football against outside teams — à la the movie The Longest Yard (1974), where Burt Reynolds played a jailed former pro quarterback who led his team to victory against the Warden’s hand-picked squad.

But in real life, these SQ convicts donned shoulder pads, helmets and cleats to take on community teams such as Concord Naval Weapon Station and Alameda Naval Air Station. Can one imagine prisoners and free people suiting up and hitting each other? That’s classic.

Since the beginning of the prison, all the San Quentin sports team were called the Pirates (baseball, football and basketball).

Maybe it’s because the prison was started on a ship back in 1852, or perhaps the prisoners took on the Pirates name to find some sense of pride as societal outcasts.

In 1979, the Pirates went undefeated, winning all seven games of their season. The historical team had a balanced attack of running the ball and superb passing. The defense was smothering.

The team held their opponents to only 31-points for the entire season while they racked up 221 points. They beat Moffett Field 24-3, sunk the Coast Guard 46-0, trampled Mare Island 38-16, and buried Treasure Island 34-0, according to SQNews 1979 Nov. 23 issue.

“Although we’re losers for being in here doesn’t mean we have to be losers on the football field,” said “Luscious” Jackson at the time. “Besides having a lot of talent, we had the ability to play as

SQ Pirates 1971 26

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a team.”

The Pirates were known to have a “doomsday defense.” Rico Thomas led in tackles, sacks and fumble recoveries, while Jackson and Lester Worthy were the only ones to score defensive touchdowns.

“Camaraderie, plus the people we had out there wanted to play,” said Pirate Lawrence Parks. “They weren’t just weekend athletes, just coming out one day. They were always busy working out to better their game. Not to sound conceited, but we were tough!

“They could’ve brought in the Raiders, and the results would have been the same,” Parks added about the wonderful season.

The games were played with eight players instead of the regulation 11 men on the field. The team was led by Coach Baker and Assistant Coach Mike “Little Napoleon” Ferretti.

San Quentin prison guards also found pride in their ’70s and ’80s tackle-football team, called the San Quentin “Green Machine.” They didn’t play the prisoners but had their own league playing other institutions. In Nov. 1979, The “Green Machine” defeated Deuel Vocational Institution's “Gladiators” 21-14 at the Arnold Field in Sonoma, according to SQNews archives.

In the 1990s, the administration phased out tackle football in favor of flag football. Community participation went down until the early 2000s, when Chaplain Earl Smith established a Christian fellowship program, bringing in volunteers from local churches to compete.

At the same time, San Quentin’s football team changed its name from the Pirates to All-Madden, after Hall of Fame Coach and Bay Area native John Madden. The baseball teams chose the SQ A’s and Giants. The basketball teams converted to the SQ Warriors and Kings, respectfully in a nod to Bay Area professional clubs.

But it was “The Chosen” football team that became the rival to All-Madden. For the past eight years, the Jackson family, which

SQ Green Machine 1979 SQNews archive photos

SQ Pirates 1979

SQ All-Madden 2020 SUMMER 2022

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don’t play with sin,” said Pastor Jackson.

“Do things with the spirit of God, believe, and trust He will bring you out. Victory comes from worshipping in private. So, remember it’s not how you start, it’s how you finish.”

The SQ squad had a chance to test their skills against a former NFL player in 2017, when retired Oakland Raiders quarterback Andrew Walter made his San Quentin debut with The Chosen and led them to a 28-20 victory over the SQ All-Madden. The most impressive thing about Walter was that he played the whole game in flip-flops—you talk about having a quick release.

“We are all people,” said Walter to SQNews. “You must compete no matter where you are. Being here is special. It’s about community. It’s about my faith in Jesus Christ.

"I know what it means to have everything

taken away from you. It made me a much better person. We all have a unique trial to get to know who God is and do things differently,” added Walter.

Pro athletes’ visits are not the only highlight of SQ football; it’s the annual “Mud Bowl” that has become a football tradition in the prison. Every year before the California droughts, the patchy San Quentin field turned into a slushy slip-and-slide, in which both past and present players hit, passed and ran in cloudy rainfall. You could see child-like joy on the faces of the men as they were drenched in mud.

All-Madden outlasted the Chosen 32-31 in a defensive nail bitter in the 2018 Mud Bowl. In contrast, during the 1982 Mud Bowl, Alameda Naval Air destroyed the Pirates 44-14. Alameda’s blitzing defense and the rainy conditions forced multiple fumbles by the Pirates that contributed to

1982 Mud Bowl: Alameda Naval Air vs. the SQ Pirates

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SQNews Archive photos

consisted of Andre, Antione and their father, Pastor Wayne Jackson, of the Transformed Through Hope Ministries, who volunteered to head the football program.

The Chosen players are church members that come to the prison to fellowship through football.

The three men with their prayer squad will get in the mud – literally – to minister to San Quentin prisoners. The games are hard-hitting, exciting and competitive. The contests are more than just wins and losses.

The half-time break consists of a short inspirational sermon, and the game ends with a prayer.

Pastor Jackson’s motto “It’s not how you start — it’s how you finish,” has become the slogan of the entire football program.

The motto refers to life, rather than a football game.

“God is the one who gives strength, so

Quarterback Arron "A-1" Wooden seeks out his receiver before sending a rocket-spiral downfield.

Javier Jiminez, SQNews

their defeat, reported SQNews archives.

“I was surprised and happy the administration let us play in these conditions,” said D. “Zayd” Nickolson, All-Madden defensive end, about their game. With less than 10 seconds left, The Chosen threw a Hail Mary pass for a touchdown. With the score 32-31, the Chosen elected to go for a twopoint conversion for the win, instead of the one for the tie.

Under a lot of pressure, Chosen quarterback overthrew the receiver into the end zone, officially ending the game, to a chorus of oooh’s and ahhh’s.

“We come to give and receive positivity,” said AJ Haynes, Chosen star wide receiver, about the game and the power of fellowship. “When you see the smiles, when we come down the hill you know it’s all love.”

All-Madden had a 4-2 record before the COVID-19 pandemic shut down all prison sports. Long-time head coach Dwight Kennedy paroled, and Bryant Underwood has taken the helm to develop the next genera-

tion of players.

The incarcerated players turned to the intramural football league to keep up their skills. The Silverbacks won the 2021 Championship, pulling out a narrow 35-34 victory over the undefeated Hit Squad. The game wasn’t without controversy and spirited arguments with the referees, but the league was a success coming off a yearlong pandemic lock-down.

“I’m extremely proud of the guys in the league,” Jeremiah “JB” Brown, Hit Squad coach told SQNews Sports editor. “We started this league to give the guys in prison something to look forward to and to build good character,” “I understand when it’s all on the line and it’s the Championship, tempers will flair and passions will get high. But, overall, that was a very good game.”

The prison continues with a slow reopening to programs and the sport teams are holding try-outs just to be ready to compete when the outside teams can come back

in. The games provide the incarcerated residents a real sense of normalcy.

“The Chosen and All-Madden rivalry is about brotherhood and fellowship, where both those inside and visitors can witness the love of Christ,” said Andre Jackson, Chosen head coach and SQ football sponsor. “Where everyone, both inside and free, can gain from the sports program experience.”

As different COVID strains continue to appear, the prison programs are subjected to postponement, but the players stay hopeful for the season to resume.

“I look forward to playing them,” said John Windham, veteran All-Madden player. “This is therapy. You learn to improve your social behavior because we got here on anti-social behavior. This program works because I think society would want us to be more social.”

It’s like Pastor Jackson says, “It’s not how you start — it’s how you finish.”

Windham has since paroled.

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O V E R

T H E

W A L L

What time is it?

ShOWTiMe!

P

By Timothy Hicks

eople parole from prison every day. Some even find jobs and turn out to lead good lives. Some might fail. But no parolee had ever become a broadcaster for the Golden State Warriors basketball game – until Aaron “Showtime” Taylor did it.

Taylor announced a game for the Golden State Warriors on April 10, 2021. He was able to do this, in part, because he was prepared: during his time at San Quentin, he worked as the Sports Editor for the San Quentin News. He was also the prison’s official public announcer (PA), announcing the basketball, football and baseball games on the yard.

Taylor perfected these skills in prison where he spent nearly 26 years for robbery and assault with a deadly weapon. However, doing time did not hold him back from fulfilling his goals.

While he was incarcerated, Taylor’s dreams of becoming a broadcaster were no 30

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secret. Everyone who had the privilege of knowing him knew that he would one day have the opportunity to use his voice—he’s got that natural gift of gab, and is not shy when it comes to flipping that tongue.

I had the privilege to do some prison time with Showtime at San Quentin, where I watched him in action. Listening to him was sometimes more entertaining than the game itself. He used his creative mind to nickname prison athletes with superhero-like names (including Anthony “Half Man—Half Amazing” Adams, or Jamaal “Do it all” Harrison) while he called the games play-by-play.

Timothy Hicks: Showtime, let the people know how it happened: you finding out you was requested to be the PA for the Championship team, the Golden State Warriors?

Aaron Taylor: I was prepared for the moment when I got the unexpected email

from the Warriors organization.

TH: When the Warriors organization called you, I know you were excited. Coming from sleeping in a small cell on a hard bunk. Did they accommodate you with a place to stay while you waited for the game day?

AT: Man, they put me in a $300-a-night hotel. That bed was so comfortable, it felt way better than them hard bunks I used to sleep in at the prison. (Laughs) TH: I watched a television interview that ABC-7’s Larry Beil had with you. Wow, look at you. Fresh out of prison and on National TV with one of the best sports announcers on TV. What did you tell him?

AT: I said that I embraced much more than what I was. It was like a dream come true.

TH: Beil said that you “raised the bar”

and he pitched for you to get hired as the PA of Ice Cube’s Basketball league, the BIG3. He said that you would be a “good fit” at the BIG3 and you would fit perfectly. What did you say to that?

AT: I smiled and I called out to Cube since we from the same neighborhood.

TH: I saw that. I also saw that you said you feel like [you are] your favorite PA. Who is that?

AT: I feel like the reincarnation of my idol, the legendary Chick Hearn.

TH: There’s a big difference between being a PA for the professionals and doing it in prison. Before you entered the Chase Center, what was that like?

AT: I had to go through the COVID protocols.

Once I was inside, I felt like I was in my element though. Yet, it also felt surreal. I got emotional when Steph Curry came over and gave me a hug after the game and presented me with the game ball. After the post-game interview, another Warrior poured a bottle of water on my head.

TH: How did that feel, besides being cold?

AT: It made me feel like I had made it. All the players and staff treated me like they had known me for years and when ex-Warrior Shaun Livingston gave me a compliment, it was a special moment to me. I was mic’d up by ESPN and they caught the exchange. I put the exchange on my [Instagram]. Russell Westbrook was playing that night too. This is something nobody else knows: he gave me the pair of shoes he played in that night.

TH: That’s big. I know that you used your play-byplay calling skills during the times the Golden State Warriors staff came to play the San Quentin Warriors. And the filming of the Q-Ball documentary spurred out of [those moments] too. Who was it that actually saw you and was intrigued about “Showtime” Taylor?

AT: It was the G-league General Manager, Kent Lacob of the Santa Cruz Warriors, who noticed me.

TH: I saw in an article that he said you were good when he saw you at the one of the games the Warriors had with the SQ Warriors at San Quentin. Who else saw your unique talents and was impressed?

AT: Warriors Manager Bob Myers, Draymond Green and former Warrior Kevin Durant, who actually produced Q-Ball, which actually was ESPY nominated. I appreciate the Warriors for giving me the opportunity to fulfill my dream.

TH: That’s what’s up. During your time in prison,

was there anything you wish that you could of did and that you can do now that you are out?

AT: Yes, when I finally got out of prison I was finally able to properly grieve my brother’s 2006 death. Because men in prison can’t express their emotions in that way without being considered weak. Also, now that I’m out I can drink my favorite Starbucks coffee and eat lots of fried chicken which I really enjoy doing. I’m also determined to set a good example for my nieces and nephews. They are why I’m working hard to create generational wealth for my family — something that is void in Black families today.

TH: I can understand that. Speaking of generational wealth, what kind of jobs you are working now, and are you still doing PA gigs?

AT: Yes I am working. I work a regular job but I also am working multiple announcing jobs. I can be found on Instagram and my social media podcast. I represent y’all [the incarcerated]. Y’all are my inspiration, my drive and my reason to succeed. Laws are placed to prevent the incarcerated from apologizing to their victims. So, I will be the voice for the voiceless.

TH: In the Athletic interview you said, “It was all those self-help groups at SQ and my religious beliefs that helped me stay humble.” That’s a good thing.

AT: Yeah, I had to do that and I’m glad I did. So, the first thing I want to do is apologize to the survivors of my crime. And I am an advocate for them as well. I’m taking this opportunity to apologize for everyone who wants to say ‘I’m sorry’ and apologize to all the survivors and victims of crime.

TH: That’s a good thing to do right there. Can’t forget about those affected by our crimes. Moving along, I saw you on the Kelly Clarkson Show on April 29 with one of your old-school prison buddies, Tobias Tubbs.

AT: He gave me a vision about spirituality that I never experienced before.

TH: Kelly Clarkson saw your relationship with Tubbs and she said, “I love your spirit, your energy and your stories. You are such a blessing.” I thought that was such a huge compliment from her. Any last words for those behind the wall that might see this interview?

AT: Yeah I do. Be humble and don’t let anybody stop you from fulfilling your goals and dreams.

SUMMER 2022

WALL CITY

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