Two coaches, one goal and ALL NET
Evening basketball league is born from shared passion for enabling kids to succeed
Eddie Martinez paced the side of the basketball court, a clipboard and pen in his hand. He still wore his work clothes, khakis and dress boots, because he’d come straight from the office.
“Get there!” he hollered, pointing to the basket. “There you go!”
Martinez scanned the kids as they played four-on-four on the half court, watching their expressions and noting body language. “I’m just looking at what kids stand out,” he said.
The coach wasn’t looking for the tallest player. The best shooter. The fastest runner. The things a coach usually wants.
Martinez was looking for the loner. The one who was too quiet, too angry. Someone having a hard time.
Someone like him.
On the sideline, Martinez leaned down to confer with David Solano, who sat in a wheelchair. They talked over the sounds of thumping balls and the squeaking of rubber-soled shoes on the shiny floor.
Solano held a basketball in his arms. They were smaller than they should be, and bent at the wrists like capital letter Ls. He spun the ball idly as they talked. He grinned at Martinez.
“I’m telling you this started as a dream, but as my story goes, dreams can become a reality. I am from the same neighborhood as you are. I’m just like you.”
David Solano To participants in Solano’s No Limit Hoops “I don’t care if you have superstars. I really don’t care about the basketball aspect. I care about you using basketball as a vessel to help kids who might need it.”
Eddie Martinez On what he hopes kids get from the program
For 20 years, Solano had dreamed of this night, and now Martinez had helped make it happen.
It was the first night of an evening basketball league, free for kids in the area around Raul H. Castro Middle School in west Phoenix.
Solano, a fourth-grade teacher and a basketball coach, had invited about 85 kids. Most of them he had coached at one time or another. Martinez encouraged him to make sure to include kids who had been in trouble at school, or whose mom or dad were in prison. Maybe someone who was depressed or struggling.
Kids who might find what they need on this middle-school basketball court. Like Martinez did. Like Solano did. Up until a few months ago, the two men hadn’t known one another and likely wouldn’t have met if not for a story in the newspaper.
It turned out they have a lot in common.
Both are Hispanic. Each grew up in an area like this, with a mix of ethnicities and backgrounds, incomes on the low end.
They chafed at the limits put on them. The lack of opportunities. The assumptions. The judgment.
They were fighters.
Both had found what they needed on a middle-school basketball court — one in the game itself, and the other in the man who was his coach.
The power of a teacher
Eddie Martinez had been in eighth grade at Lowell Elementary School 20 years ago when he met his new socialstudies teacher, James Foley.
Foley was also the new basketball coach, and he showed up for the first practice wearing a sweatband around his head, a ponytail and shorts that were way too short.
The boys had nudged each other and laughed.
“Really, dude?” Eddie asked Mr. Foley.
Mr. Foley had just grinned and tossed him a ball.
Foley was different. He hadn’t trained as a teacher at all but joined Teach for America, a non-profit venture that recruits college graduates to teach in schools in low-income areas.
He was young, a bit of a hippie. He talked about the places they should go and how an education could get them there.
Foley coached Martinez about more than basketball. The teacher pressed books into his hands that Martinez otherwise wouldn’t have read. He asked Martinez about his dreams.
Martinez wasn’t sure he had any. But Foley didn’t let him make any excuses.
“You just have to be positive,” Foley would tell him. “Stay positive.”
Martinez was 15 when Foley left Phoenix to be a journalist, but the teacher kept in touch even from far-away war zones. He would come back to Phoenix often, and they would shoot hoops and go hiking and camping.
Foley had this way of making Martinez feel like he could do anything.
In 2011, the events in the stories Foley wrote turned all too real.
He was abducted in Libya and released 44 days later. He returned to reporting but was taken hostage again in 2012, this time in Syria.
This time, he didn’t come back. Two years later, in 2014, Martinez’s friend and mentor was killed, beheaded by a member of the self-described Islamic State, the horrifying video proof of his execution posted on the internet.
Martinez was overwhelmed with anger and grief. But he still could hear Foley in his head: Stay positive.
The power of a coach
As a kid, Solano lived in a neighborhood much like Martinez’s, near 61st Avenue and Thomas Road. He teaches there still.
Unlike Martinez, Solano grew up with a mom and dad who were fiercely supportive and encouraging. He never went without the things he needed.
Solano had a different challenge. He was born with arthrogryposis, a condition that causes joint contractures, or a loss of joint movement due to a shortening of the muscles.
A doctor told the Solanos not to expect too much for their son. He likely wouldn’t be able to brush his teeth or ride a bike. He might not even walk. His father wouldn’t accept that. “It’s going to be up to me and my wife how we help him along,” he told the doctor.
At home, Solano’s mom taught him to crawl, sit up and then walk. He learned to use utensils, throw a ball and get up off the floor without using his hands.
He learned how to dress himself, pulling his socks on with his toes instead of his fingers.
His parents would hear no excuses. “You just have to find a way,” his mom told her son.
So Solano always found a way. To ride a bike. To type. To drive a car.
And to play basketball.
The power of an orange ball
On the first night of Solano’s No Limit Hoops on Feb. 20, 35 kids showed up to play basketball.
Solano called them together, and they settled on the gym floor around his wheelchair.
He introduced himself and the other adults who were there to help. He thanked them for coming out.
“I’m telling you this started as a dream, but as my story goes, dreams can become a reality. I am from the same neighborhood as you are,” Solano told the kids. “I’m just like you.”
He went to the same schools and played at the same parks.
No one in his family had ever been to college. Success was landing a 40-houra-week job, no matter what it was.
Solano talked about his handicap and how it made things harder.
But then he held up a basketball. He told them how his dad had bought him his first basketball when he was 12 or 13, even though his dad thought he should play soccer instead.
Solano taught himself to dribble and to shoot, throwing up 300 baskets every day, one after another, on an outdoor court at a nearby apartment complex. If he was sad or mad, he might throw up 500 shots.
“Man, I loved this little orange ball,” Solano said. “I dreamed about this ball. It thought it was my girlfriend. If I could kiss it, I would kiss it.” The kids laughed.
He made his first friend in middle school, Andy Moreno, playing basketball. He pointed to the man to his right, who was there that night to help coach.
“This little round orange ball guided me through tough times. It gave me good times,” he said.
The orange ball got him a job coaching basketball at a community center.
It helped him through college. He got into Arizona State University, the first in his family to go to college.
It was hard sometimes, trying to blend in and keep up, so he’d work off his frustration by shooting baskets: 300, 400, 500 at time.
He invited a girl to watch him play basketball, and they’ve been married for 15 years now. He has a second job coaching the team here at Castro.
“You never know what this ball could do,” Solano told the kids.
It was the ball that brought him Martinez.
The power of a story
On Thanksgiving Day, Martinez read a story in The Republic about how Solano wanted to start a basketball league. He remembered what it was like to be a kid and be a part of something like that, where he felt like he belonged, like someone cared.
It was on the basketball court that he felt closest to Foley, where they had some of their best talks.
He read that Solano could get a gym free, that he’d volunteer his time and even pay the janitor out of his own pocket.
But he didn’t have the money to buy the liability insurance he’d need.
Solano had been trying to start this league for years, asking local politicians and others for help to no avail.
Martinez knew how to pull together something like this, because he’d done it.
On Thanksgiving Day two years earlier, in 2015, it had been his story on the front page of The Republic.
In it, Martinez had opened up for the first time publicly about his friendship with James Foley.
Martinez talked about how much Foley had meant to him, the devastation that followed his death and how he realized then how important it had been for him to have someone who believed in him.
To honor his friend’s memory, to do something positive, he enlisted his wife and some of Foley’s fellow teachers and former students to start a foundation, the Phoenix Foley Alliance.
That first year, they raised $5,000 through a rummage sale, a good start for a fledgling non-profit.
They awarded the first two James Foley Scholarships, $2,000 each, to two eighth-graders at Lowell. The scholarships are not for college but for high
school, for supplies and clothes, a scientific calculator or maybe a computer.
Each scholar also was assigned a mentor, each with some tie to Foley.
After the story ran about what Martinez was doing for the students at his old school, he received donations from people who wanted to help. Those donations, coupled with the annual rummage sale, mean the foundation is in good shape, with money in the bank.
There are seven Foley scholarship recipients now. They meet with their mentors once a month, for dinner or to see a movie, whatever they want to do, Martinez said.
To him, the time together is more valuable than the scholarship. He knows the power in having someone believe in you, no matter what.
Martinez knew that Solano could be the difference between kids staying in school and dropping out, between succeeding and failing.
It is what saved him, basketball and the man who coached him.
Martinez decided he would help Solano. His foundation would donate the money to pay for the liability insurance. But Martinez saw the chance to do more.
“Basketball brought me and David together. If there wasn’t for basketball, I wouldn’t have reached out,” Martinez said.
“Because that’s what brought Foley and me together.”
The power of a team
The orange ball brought Solano; his wife, Angel; and their girls, 11-year-old Julia and 3-year-old A.J., to the Martinezes’ house on a Saturday afternoon.
A.J. and Martinez’s youngest, Natalia, 4, ran off to play Barbies.
The two men had talked the first time on the phone, and now in person.
Martinez and his wife, Kristen, offered to help Solano get started, walk him through the process of setting up a non-profit and a board, a process that takes time and patience.
A lot of both.
Martinez wanted to be sure Solano was committed. “It took me a little bit of time to come around to David,” Martinez, 34, said. He is not trusting by nature.
But Solano, 43, jumped on every task Martinez gave him. His enthusiasm was contagious.
“David, man, he gets me excited,” said Martinez, a recruiter for a staffing agency, Delta-T Group Phoenix. “David has a lot of passion . ... He just needs direction.”
Now they were just weeks away from the first night.
After the story in The Republic, Solano received $5,100 in donations.
Martinez coached Solano about how to respond to donors, letting them know how their money was spent, thanking them, sending receipts and keeping them up to date on his progress.
“When you accept people’s money, you are almost making a promise to them,” Martinez explained. “You have to, in good faith, do the right thing and make sure this is something that can be long term.”
They sat down at the dining table. Kristen Martinez had her laptop open. Angel Solano pulled out hers, too, to take notes.
They talked about small details, having the kids sign in when they arrive, dividing them by age, 12- to 14-year-olds in one group, kids 15-17 years old in the other.
Kristen had a list of items that needed to be addressed. A check for the Arizona Corporation Commission and to pay for the insurance policy. A copy of the bylaws for the IRS. A draft of a letter for board members. A quick lesson on Robert’s Rules of Order.
Eddie brought up the program’s mission.
“Is this just basketball?” he asked Solano. Martinez wanted it to be more than a place to play. He wanted an incentive program for good grades and attendance. Maybe they could bring in tutors and motivational speakers, people who could inspire the kids, to dream big. To go to college.
“In our neighborhood, going to college is like a dream,” Solano said.
It was the same for Martinez. “It’s kind of like a rumor — I know a guy who knows a guy who went to college,” he said.
Martinez wants the kids to connect with a caring adult. Foley kept him in school and doing the right thing.
“Let’s do what’s best for these kids, not just the basketball,” Martinez said. “To me, it’s not really about basketball. I don’t care if they’re great or not all that good. I just want to connect to the kids.”
Instead of pushing them to be great athletes, he wanted to teach them to enjoy the game, play fair and what it means to be part of a team, show up on time, do what they say they will do, Martinez said.
“I don’t care if you have superstars. I really don’t care about the basketball aspect,” he said. “I care about you using basketball as a vessel to help kids who might need it.”
The power of a connection
There was a time when Martinez didn’t care about helping others. “I was just in it for me and mine,” he said. Foley’s death changed that.
He likes the idea of using what he and Kristen have learned to help others who want to do good things in the community.
Martinez doesn’t have many male friends. He admits he’s not a great communicator, so he doesn’t call or text, though he’s quick to call or text back if someone else does.
He hasn’t had a close male friend since Foley. But he finds himself calling Solano, or texting him, once or twice a week. They talk easily.
“I’m able to genuinely open up to him and talk to him,” Martinez says. They have a lot in common. “I don’t feel judged. I just feel free to be who I really am. He always makes me feel very appreciated.”
Solano has been a mentor to a lot of players, but he has never needed one — until now.
“I feel like I have a safety net,” Solano said. Because Martinez believes in him, Solano said he feels like he can do anything.
“I won’t let you fail,” Martinez said.
The power of confidence
Solano wore a black T-shirt to the gym that first night. “Anything is possible,” it says on the back.
The kids get the shirts free if they show up regularly, get good grades and do the right thing. On the front, they say, “Solano’s No Limits Hoops.” But Solano is selling them for $10, too, to raise money for the league.
Thirty-five of his co-workers at Palm Lane Elementary School had worn them to work that day.
Seated on the sideline, Solano could hardly believe this was real.
“I was nervous all day,” he said. “What do you mean all day?” Angel asked, laughing. “He’s been nervous all week.”
In his opening speech, Solano told the kids that the orange ball could do a lot for them.
“I have met a ton of great people because of this ball, but in fact, it wasn’t the ball that did it,” he said. “It was my mindset when I had the ball in my hands.
“The ball gave me confidence. The ball made me feel equal to everyone around me. My mindset was what was doing everything for me. The ball was just my friend as I went along, but it was there. And I respected everything it showed me.
“It’s amazing what this ball can do for you. If you have a great mindset.”
He encouraged the kids to respect one another. No fighting. No cussing.
He told them to look around at the other people in the gym.
“These are friends you didn’t have before,” he said.