NBA dream died when he couldn't read

Free Press sport writer Joe Lapointe wrote the tree profiles on this page.

Detroit Free Press

Sunday, Dec 7, 1980

Curtis Jones had a dream that has never really died, one that he carried from the playgrounds to the gymnasium at Northwestern High School, to junior college out West, to Northville State Hospital and, now, back to the street again at age 32.

Jones was an all-city star on two public league championship teams at Northwestern back in the late 1960s - the same all-city teams with Spencer Haywood and Ralph Simpson of Pershing, later big stars in the pro leagues. Jones' Nortwestern classmate was John Mayberry, a success as a major league baseball.

But Jones didn't make it.

He says his problems really began at North Idaho Junior College, where he'd gone on a basketball scolarship.

"I was just misused, like exploited, I was never supposed to go to college in the firts place," Jones says in the rap smoothed by many days and nights on the streets.

"Dave Bing and Jimmy Walker knew I was good enough for the Pistons straight out of high school. Only way I made it was because of my basketball. I was all-city in both papers."

"IN THEM DAYS, I was getting a whole lot of ink. Everybody knew I was gonna make it. They called me 'the magician.' Now, I can't something I never had. I could be angry."

In the Northeastern yearbook of 1968, Jones was voted the "most popular, most atlhetic" member of the senior class. Under a picture of him shooting a basketball, the caption says: "Curtis Jones -- the physical marvel known throughout the city as an outstanding basketball player..."

His first year at junior college was no problem, Jones says, because the team won a league championship and everyone loved him. "I didn't even have to go to class," he says. "They carry you. I cheated. I got by." Trouble started when the team lost a few games in his second year.

"All I knew was sports," he says. "I had to book it, which I couldn't . I had an English teacher in college. He had us write an essay and read aloud in class. I called him to the back of the room and explained myself. He kicked me out of the class. 

"I can converse with anybody, but in my last year on campus, everybody found out I couldn't read. It became a joke. It was a small campus and everywhere I went, people would hand me books I couldn't read. They would've given a million dollars for my basketball ability but I needed what they had -- the ability to read a book. I had a fifth-grade reading level when I graduated from high school."

JONES SAID THE pressure began to build and he didn't know how to handle it. He was away from home and one of the few black students at the college.

'The whole structure rebelled against me," he said. "I got so fed up I just left campus. I had a nervous breakdown out there. Too much pressure building up on me.You just be nervous, don't know what to do, which way you're going."

Jones then returned to Detroit for treatment at Northville State Hospital. Feeling a little bit better these days, Jones says he lives on a Social Services check and sometimes works odd jobs at various homes.

"I think I'm over my trials and tribulations now," he says. "What's really bugging me is knowing the ability I have. people have a tendency to kind of mess with me these days, to say, 'Look at him, he could've been this, could've been that. Now he's doing nothing.' Last few years, I've been teaching youngsters my moves. I can take a basketball and dribble it with one finger around my leg, turn circles with it. I can't spin it on my finger because I broke all my fingers playing basketball."

One of the things he misses, Jones says, is his collection of clippings from his glory days at Northwestern High school. "I had my scrapbook, but I misplaced it," he says. "I got mad. I'd just gotten out of the hospital. Kinda throwed away my life...

"I was a million dollar potential athlete myself. I went to the Pistons' tryout camp this year and (Pistons official) Will Robinson said I was the best in camp. I ran three miles. I scrimmaged. Will told me maybe I'm too old, maybe I waited too many years. Now, some days, I go and play a little bit of basketball. I'm idle. I just sit and let the whole world pass me. I don't own a car. Tiger Stadium, (baseball player John) Mayberry, leaves me a ticket. I know all the celebrities myself. I know Ice Man (pro basketball player George Gervin). Everywhere I go I know somebody. It's been a long, downhill road.

"Sometimes, people wonder, 'What ever happened to Curtis Jones?'"