RISE OF ROSE
How new knicks guard went from dangerous chicago playground to nba stardom
CHICAGO — On an early Thursday afternoon, Englewood is cloudy and calm. The street corners and stoops on Chicago’s South Side are overpopulated, but the chatter is quiet. Multiple police vehicles circle the blocks, but the sirens remain silent.
In between the most recent gun shot and the inevitable one approaching, the only sound in Murray Park emanates from a basketball bouncing on the concrete. Juan Benton believes he is alone, but the 15-year-old pauses after making a jumper, the lifelong local staring at an out-of-place stranger approaching the court.
“You here for D-Rose?” Benton asks despite already knowing the answer.
It’s the reason he is there, too.
ON WEST 73rd Street, the skyscrapers a dozen miles away are invisible, replaced by a Chicago of vacant lots, rusted fences and grass that hasn’t been cut since Michael Jordan last slayed the Jazz. Houses — like the one beside Derrick Rose’s childhood home — are abandoned and boarded up. Cars without wheels sit in front of the latest eviction notice. Store fronts are empty or shuttered, but not the funeral homes or fried-food joints. From May 14 to June 13 — in a neighborhood often cited as one of the most dangerous in America — there were 324 reported crimes in the area, including 96 violent crimes and seven homicides. Respites are welcome, but disturbing, too, a reminder of a slumber that will not stay. It could be over by the evening. It could end around the corner. In less than 20 dribbles, the future MVP could get from his house on South Paulina Avenue — where a man was killed in a shootout with police iin January — to his favorite hoop. But there were so many days he wanted to keep running past the park. He wanted a different home. He wanted a different life. He wanted what so many in Englewood have long sought. “There’s so much stuff that you see living here, and we want to make our family better and bring joy and hope, too,” said Benton, the proud owner of an autograph and sneakers given to him by Rose during a return visit to the court. “He’s a role model to a lot of us. We want to be like him. These streets are bad, but we want to become somebody, too.” Rose was always somebody, an athletic wonder and the youngest of four sons raised solely
by a mother, Brenda, who worked multiple jobs.
Ben Wilson was somebody, too, described as “Magic Johnson with a jump shot.” Wilson was the No. 1-ranked high school player in the country when he was murdered the day before his senior season started in 1984. Maurice Davis was also once somebody, a standout player in the city who was shot in the back and killed as a senior in 2002.
There were so many somebodys, some who still walk the streets. There were players better than Rose, Englewood native Sheila Cooks said — also vowing never to watch the Bulls again less than 24 hours after their stunning trade with the Knicks sent Rose to the Big Apple — players who couldn’t handle the hype or the drugs or the gangs.
“When I was younger, I used to cry about how rough it was,” Rose told Chicago Magazine in 2008. “I just wanted to be old enough to get me and my family out of there.”
HIS BROTHERS — Dwayne, Reggie and Allan — knew Rose could end the cycle, and they made a determined and collective effort to insulate him from the often uncontrollable chaos. A combined 37 years older than “Pooh” — a nickname given to Rose by his grandmother — the brothers always allowed the much-younger kid to tag along and play with them at the park, instructing neighbors to alert them if Rose was ever where he shouldn’t be.
“He lived in a tough neighborhood, but his brothers were behind him and did everything to make sure that nothing was going to happen to him and that he was going to be safe,” said Rose’s high school coach, Robert Smith. “They were a big influence.”
By the seventh grade, the skinny introvert began to attract more attention than he ever wanted. By the eighth grade, Rose was dunking.
His speed was jaw-dropping. His strength was jaw-breaking. He could score whenever he wanted, but always wanted to pass. He demanded the focus of every eye, then sprinted into the shadows whenever he stepped off the court.
“The teachers didn’t even know who he was until after his sophomore year [of high school],” Smith said. “If you didn’t come to games, you wouldn’t know because he wouldn’t let you know about anything he did.”
Upon entering nearby Simeon Career Academy, Rose was left off the varsity team because former coach Bob Hambric didn’t allow freshmen on the roster. When the team was closing in on a state title that season, the 15-year-old was offered a spot on the team — by then acknowledged as the school’s best player — but passed.
“He didn’t want to take the glory away from the guys who got us downstate,” Smith said. “He knew all the attention would be on him. If he had he not been so humble and modest, we probably would’ve won a state championship.”
That came two years later.
Wearing No. 25 in honor of Wilson, Rose brought the school its first state title since the slain star did, hitting a buzzer-beating floater in overtime. One year later, Simeon became the first Public League team in city history to capture back-toback state championships. After an intense recruitment, in which his brothers handled virtually all communication and would not allow Rose to be contacted directly, the 6-foot-3 point guard joined John Calipari at Memphis, where the Tigers went 33-1 in the regular season and reached the NCAA title game.
“He had a lot of hype and attention coming, but he really just wanted to fit in and be one of the guys,” former Memphis assistant Chuck Martin said. “His personality off the court did not mesh with how explosive and dynamic he was on the court. It was unbelievable to watch him shift gears. It was such a fascinating contrast.
“He did things that you just never saw before from a guy his size. He did things you knew you might never see again.”
A spectacular season ended with misery after Rose missed 1-of-2 free throws with 10.8 seconds left and a chance to seal the title, allowing Kansas to tie the game on a last-second 3-pointer by Mario Chalmers and win in overtime.
If the outcome were different, it still would have hurt.
More than a year later, Rose was ruled retroactively ineligible after his SAT scores were declared invalid, the test reportedly taken by someone else. All of Memphis’ wins from the season were stripped.
BY THEN, he was back in Chicago. By then, he was playing nine miles from Murray Park, where roughly 200 people gathered as Rose was taken by the Bulls with the top pick in the 2008 NBA Draft, igniting car horns surrounding the court where he learned to play.
The Bulls had a 1.7 percent chance to get the No. 1 pick.
“We were all shocked that Chicago got that,” said Rose’s longtime trainer, Rob McClanaghan. “He loved it. He relished it. I don’t think he ever envisioned leaving Chicago.”
The city never imagined him leaving, not after he won the Rookie of the Year and became the team’s first All-Star since Jordan — especially not after he became the youngest MVP in league history, at 22.
In December 2011, Rose signed a five-f year extension with the Bulls worth nearly $95 million. Two months later, he signed a “lifetime” contract with Adidas, reportedly worth $260 million.
“He was a hometown hero andd it was pressure, but it was exactly what he wanted,” former Bulls teammate Aaron Gray said. “He really elevated Chicago to the next level. He put the Bulls back on the map.”
Rose moved shortly after to thehe 84th floor of Trump Tower, far removed from the fear of stray bullets when the cruel twist came. On the United Center floor where he had won city championships in high school, Rose tore his left ACL in the first game of the 2012 playoffs with the top-seeded Bulls.
He missed the entire 2012-13 season.
When he finally returned nearly 17 months later, Rose played 10 games before requiring season-ending surgery on his right knee. Another knee surgery limited him to 51 games the following season.
“He just looked at it like anotherr opponent, another challenge in life and he dealt with it,” McClanaghan said. “I’ve never seen a guy so consistent in work ethic no mat- ter what the situation is. “People forget, he’s still only 27.”
ALOT would not be forgotten. Just one year after crumbling on his home court, Rose was lambasted for not playing despite being medically cleared, for not returning until he felt “110 percent.” Repeated extended absences made many local hearts grow no fonder, relegating his returns to unending and unwinnable battles against once limitless potential.
During his first rehab, his son P.J. (born Derrick, Jr., nicknamed Pooh Jr.) was born. Rose vowed to be the father he never had. He refurbished the court at Murray Park and built a food pantry one block from there. He donated $1 million to a local organization helping teens, attending funerals — sometimes paying — for people from his neighborhood he never met.
There, the skyline can’t be seen, just a kid who scratched the clouds.
“He gave so many young men and women in the neighborhood hope, and it wasn’t just about basketball,” Smith said. “It was about making it out and making it in anything. He was them.”