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Chicago Tribune
4 days ago
- General
- Chicago Tribune
Students return to revamped, expanded Thea Bowman charter school
Students heading back to school Monday at Gary's Thea Bowman Leadership Academy will be greeted by staff members dressed as superheroes, but they'll see something just as exciting inside the school. Student input inspired many of the design choices in the revamped and expanded K-12 charter school campus at 3401 W. 5th Ave. Last week, as contractors hustled to prepare the school for Monday's opening, 17 students assisted in moving furniture and equipment to get the school ready to open amid ongoing construction. Opened in 2009 as a grades 7-12 school, Thea Bowman now accommodates students in K-12, after its separate elementary school closed in 2020. Additional grade levels couldn't fit in the existing building so officials added several portable classrooms on the west side campus. The portables will go away soon as work wraps up on the $11.6 million renovation and new academic wing. The site where the portables sit will be used for parking, officials said. Named after a groundbreaking Black Catholic nun who's being considered for sainthood, Thea Bowman is home to about 830 students and has a waiting list of about 200 applicants, said Superintendent Marlon Mitchell. It's been a rocky few years for the charter after its former authorizer, Education One-Trine University, opted not to renew the charter in 2023, citing organizational and academic deficiencies. Facing possible closure, the school turned to the Calumet College of St. Joseph, which agreed to sponsor the charter last year. Since then, the board hired Mitchell as its first superintendent, with contract incentives for academic improvement. And the board embarked on the school construction project, largely with COVID-19 stimulus funding. Among the improvements include an expanded cafeteria that's doubled in size and can serve about 500 students, up from 175. The expansion allowed the school to shift from five lunch periods to three. The kitchen also has new equipment and appliances. Mitchell said students selected color patterns and furniture in the classrooms. 'We wanted to make sure their voices would be heard,' he said. Students also chose the school's maroon colors for the new epoxy flooring. The new learning wing includes STEM labs, project studios, and flexible learning environments. Mitchell said the improvements were made with Indiana's new diploma requirements in mind. Students can choose a college track, direct work experience or the military. The new requirements call for work experience that factors into the new A-F grading system. Mitchell, who's starting his second year at the school, said it has 25 new academic courses and expanded career and technical education programs. South of the school is a new transportation and CTE (career technical education) building where construction trades and medical pre-apprenticeship classes will be held. There's also a serenity garden where students can escape to relax or meditate. Mitchell said all the school's employees from custodians to teachers have received crisis intervention prevention de-escalation training, as well as CPR training. To address teacher turnover, Mitchell said 97% of the school's 106 teachers are licensed and he said there's a teacher's aide in elementary classrooms where critical learning skills are taught. Ten teachers also hold credentials to teach dual-credit college courses, Mitchell said. The expanded CTE pathways include construction trades, medical careers, graphic design and communications, business and entrepreneurship, education and social work, criminal justice and exercise science. Mitchell said the school is planning pre-apprenticeship opportunities with credentials and internships for students with partners, including Goodwill Industries, the Boys & Girls Clubs, and the Indianapolis Colts. Also under construction on the school's west side is a new girls' flag football field, and pickleball courts. The school is launching flag football and wrestling programs for girls and a Girls on the Run program. 'Our mission has always been rooted in excellence, equity, and empowerment,' said Mitchell. 'These new programs and partnerships represent a bold commitment to preparing scholars not just for graduation, but for life.'
Forbes
06-05-2025
- Business
- Forbes
Honoring Malik Murray, A Quiet Giant Of Ariel Investments
Malik Murray wasn't just a senior executive at Ariel Investments—he was a son of Chicago's South Shore, a product of Black Catholic schools, and a quiet force in American finance. His journey from St. Philip Neri School to DePaul University to the upper ranks of one of the country's most prominent Black-owned investment firms is a story of excellence shaped by community, faith, and family. What follows is both a personal and public remembrance of a man whose impact reached from neighborhood classrooms to corporate boardrooms: A celebration of the life of Malik T. Murray (1974-2025), executive Ariel Investments, DePaul ... More University trustee If you grew up in South Shore, there are names stitched into your memory like street signs or church pews—names like the Jeters, the Pickenses, the Lemieuxs, the Hubbards, and the Murrays. For me, Malik Murray is one of those names. He was one of my best friends in grade school. Amazingly, I would go on to become the only Black man to cover business at NPR, and my childhood best friend would become a leader at one of the most important Black investment firms in history—Ariel Investments. Malik Murray died suddenly over Easter weekend. Here's his Sun-Times obituary. Recently, I interviewed two of our grade school classmates (about education and farming), I was working up the courage to ask Malik for an interview about his life and career. This past weekend, thousands gathered at St. Josephine Bakhita (formerly St. Philip Neri) and Holy Family parish in Chicago to celebrate Malik. He was laid to rest among Chicago's elite in Oak Woods Cemetery. Malik's journey from our neighborhood to the heights of professional success felt preordained. I don't remember him ever failing a quiz or getting in trouble. Somewhere around fourth or fifth grade, he set his mind on basketball. At St. Ignatius, he was named Chicago Catholic League Player of the Year. The Chicago Sun-Times named him Player of the Week three times, and the Chicago Tribune named him Athlete of the Week. The late Malik Murray, with author Sonari Glinton, Erin Muldoon and Greg Lewis attend their 20th ... More high school reunion in 2012 Malik went on to DePaul University, where he played under coach Joey Meyer and was a four-year letter winner. After college, Malik pursued a career in finance that culminated in his role as Senior Vice President and Head of Business Development at Ariel Investments, founded by John Rogers Jr. Ariel built a legacy of investing in undervalued assets and uplifting Black talent. Of all of Malik's accomplishments, the one that stands out most to me is his service as chairman of our grade school, St. Philip Neri. He also served on the board of St. Ignatius College Prep for several years and was a trustee at DePaul. His commitment to education ran deep—his mother, Linda Murray, was a legendary teacher in Chicago Public Schools. He established the Malik T. Murray Endowed Scholarship for Excellence in Basketball and Finance at DePaul. I wanted to pay tribute to Malik, but honestly, my words fail me. I wouldn't be who I am without Malik and his family. Brian Paulson, President of the Jesuit Conference of Canada and the United States (and former president of St. Ignatius College Prep), wrote of Malik: More than anyone, I believe Malik was the culmination of our parents' collective dreams. As much as he belonged to DePaul, Ignatius, and Ariel, I believe he could only have come from South Shore and St. Philip Neri. I always thought our community was special. Now I know it—because we had Malik. What follows is a remembrance written by my dear friend and classmate, Dr. Duane B. Davis—a scholar, educator, and son of South Shore. His words, like Malik's legacy, speak for all of us who knew and loved him. O Malik, South Shore in the '80s feels like the way people talk about the old days—in sepia or black and white. That's how old half a century feels. Recently, I had dinner with the son of Ms. Stallings, a former St. Philip Neri teacher, and said to him: I don't know a time in my life when a Stallings wasn't around. Malik Murray in 1988 graduating from St. Philip Neri. He was the Salutatorian. That goes fourfold for the Murray family. I can't remember when I met Malik or Kai; I just know they've always been there. I remember when Kamau was born because we both now had little brothers. The small patch of land that encompassed the Y on 71st St., Al Pars, Bubbles candy store, Sister Clara Muhammad, Bryn Mawr, and the school formerly known as St. Philip Neri was our world. The city was our classroom. I ran into Ms. Sperling at an art museum professional development, and she asked if I remembered sitting in these spaces as a child. I remember most of it, but as it begins to fade into my memory, I am violently brought back in these times. Malik 'Milkman' Murray. I'm not sure his St. Ignatius and DePaul teammates knew that nickname. I would be surprised if they did. My newly tall self didn't hoop, but we ALL went to those Saturday basketball games at St. Philip in the 80s—unsupervised, running concessions hanging out. That's where some of our 'raised wolves' (that's what I call Gen X) got their nicknames. That's where the Milkman was born. No one delivered milk in 1986, but the alley athletes and playground legends were in their minds. Eugene Farris and I—at least that's my recollection—called him Milkman because he always delivers. We clowned him because he knew the rules and was fundamentally sound. When he had that real growth spurt, I saw him making All-Catholic League and putting up numbers. I said, Milkman (I hadn't read Song of Solomon yet by Toni Morrison) is going to ride those skills to a free college. Damn. We—the "hood," South Shore, SPN Class of '88, and I, formerly of that class—rooted, cheered, and watched while Malik, no longer just Milkman, soared. St. Philip Neri Catholic school in Chicago's South Shore neighborhood. Alma Mater of the author and ... More Malik Murray. We all grew and grew apart and stayed connected. I married a woman who knew the Murrays too—what are the odds? Well, if you are Black and from Chicago—and you're educated, active politically, go to any church, play sports, or went to Ignatius, Whitney Young, Kenwood, or Hyde Park—you know a member of the Murray family. Sonari Glinton appropriately called Malik the best of us. He was an altar boy in this church. I saw Malik seven days a week—school five, basketball Saturdays, and church on Sundays. I have walked past or driven by his family home for 45 years. Malik put on for our city and lived a life of service that he got from his parents, this school, and this neighborhood. Late in life, we lived in the condo complex. Father Chris and I would joke about Malik working nights in finance. I taught at Nubia's high school and taught many of her friends. His niece and my son went to the same high school. All of us in this space are uniquely connected to a man who is gone too soon and had a lot more to give. As people with faith and people who were raised to believe, we have to honor his memory. Honor those first friends and pivotal moments of youth. And continue to believe, and continue his acts of service, and rejoice that he can join his mother, whom only a few years ago he honored in this very space, saying both of those degrees were hers. Can those who went to SPN please stand? Here's to our man, Malik 'Milkman' Murray. He delivered. Amen. —Written by Duane Davis The crucifix bearing a Black Jesus. This was the subject of This American Life's Soul Sister One last note, Malik Murray was behind my most popular story. Soon after joining the board of St. Philip Neri, he called to suggest I do a story about our grade school. When I said, 'Malik, you don't see Barbara Walters doing stories about her grade school", he deadpanned, 'Barbara Walters didn't go to St. Philip Neri!' He wouldn't take no for an answer. I did the story for This American Life.
CBS News
27-03-2025
- Entertainment
- CBS News
The CBS New York Book Club spotlights a mystery series with a unique amateur detective
Please consider joining our Facebook group by CLICKING HERE . Find out more about the books below. Club Calvi is spotlighting a new amateur detective series unlike any other. The heroine is a woman of a certain age named Glory Broussard, who the New York Times called "a character for the ages" in Danielle Arceneaux's 2023 debut novel "Glory Be." Now Glory is back in "Glory Daze," the second book in Arceneaux's Glory Broussard Mysteries. The series is set in Lafayette, Louisiana. "In the south you meet a lot of really unique characters," Arceneaux told Mary. "Church is just part of the fabric of the south. But I think in order for the book to be entertaining, you have to have a lot of contradictions and complexities." Glory Broussard is a dedicated church-goer and member of the Acadiana Red Hat Society for Black Catholic women. She's also a bookie running her operation out of a local coffee shop. "I think a lot of people can relate to why she became a bookie," Arceneaux explained. "She's trying to make ends meet. She worked in a grocery store her entire life. Her ex-husband was a bookie and this was the unofficial divorce settlement. He has moved on with a new woman and she has moved on with his clients." In "Glory Daze," Glory receives a unwelcome visit from a woman from her past. "Her ex-husband, now her dead ex-husband, had multiple affairs ultimately settling with one and marrying her," Arceneaux said. "It's this woman who comes to Glory and asks for her help in solving his murder because she knows that despite the fact they have been married for many years now, nobody knew him better than Glory. And his secrets and the double life that he was leading. The two women who are really adversaries become co-detectives and partners in crime in solving his death." Arceneaux has worked in the public relations field, but has always wanted to write a mystery. "I was the kind of kid who consumed every book of Encyclopedia Brown," Arceneaux told Mary. "I was allowed to stay up late to watch 'Cagney and Lacey' and 'Remington Steele.' I've always been drawn to mysteries. I tried to write a memoir and no one wanted to publish that book. I was feeling down and out and I said, you know what I'm going to do, I'm going to write the book that I want to read and that is always going to be a mystery." Arceneaux shared that she is working on the third installment of the Glory Broussard Mystery series. You can read an excerpt, and purchase the book, below. The CBS New York Book Club focuses on books connected to the Tri-State Area in their plots and/or authors. The books may contain adult themes. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________ From the publisher: After her life was turned upside down by solving the murder of her best friend, Sister Amity Gay, all Glory Broussard wanted was a little peace and quiet. That included getting back to her Sunday morning routine as a bookie in a coffee shop, and planning the annual Mardi Gras gala for her church. But there's no rest for Glory once the woman who broke up her marriage walks in to CC's Coffee House and asks for help finding her missing husband. It doesn't take long before Glory finds him . . . with a knife impaled in his chest. No one knew the man—and his dark side—better than Glory Broussard, who would rather let the local authorities take the lead. But Glory's daughter, still reeling from problems of her own, insists on her involvement. Glory's search for the murderer takes her deep inside the seedy world of Louisiana casinos and racetracks, from their high roller VIP rooms with chatty dealers to stables filled with thoroughbred horses and shady dealings. As if solving a murder and sparring with the woman who had an affair with her ex-husband isn't enough, Glory has to get to the bottom of her daughter's secrets, and there are a few members of her church group who would love to see her fail in her Mardi Gras responsibilities. Walloped with one revelation after another, Glory's no-nonsense, tell it-like-it-is attitude and strength is tested like never before. Danielle Arceneaux lives in Brooklyn. "Glory Daze" By Danielle Arceneaux (Thriftbooks) $22 Chapter One Glory yearned for her old life, before everything had turned itself upside down and sideways. She strode through the heavy doors at CC's Coffee House, the one on Ambassador Caffrey and West Congress, in the same shopping center as Albertsons and a new restaurant called Soulhaus. She had not yet tried this new restaurant, but her daughter Delphine had texted her some videos of a local newscaster consuming piles of food on TikTok. So far Glory had been able to resist because she had received a stern lecture from her doctor about her numbers–and by "numbers" he meant every number that can be measured by modern medicine–but she could sense her resolve weakening. To help regain a sense of normalcy, she had just returned from church and the monthly meeting of the Red Hat Society of Acadiana, of which she was an outlier on account of her work as a bookie, but also because of a long-ago wave of food poisoning. The membership had insisted the culprit was a cooler of discounted crawfish Glory had purchased from a roadside stand in Abbeville. But honestly, they ought to have thanked her for being resourceful. Crawfish was now twenty dollars a pound on account of global warming. And no one could definitively prove that crawfish was the culprit of the food poisoning, but it had tarred Glory's reputation, nonetheless. As was tradition, Glory and the members wore red to these meet- ings. Today she wore wide-legged red pants with a coordinating blazer and a red hat. This particular hat was purchased by her daughter Delphine, who lived in New York City. It featured a wide brim with an exaggerated rosette to one side. Glory squealed when she opened the bundle, packaged in a stunning black-and-white- striped box with the most perfect ribbon you've ever seen. It was the kind of finery that Glory had always loved but only Delphine would spend money on. By the time she sat down, Noah Singleton, owner of this particular CC's franchise, was walking her way, balancing a tray of small sample cups on a tray. "You have a good Christmas, Miss Glory?" "Sure did, and you?" Small talk was the glue that held the South together. No matter one's political affiliation or personal beliefs, the connective tissue of Lafayette Parish had somehow remained intact with benign and comforting questions like: How's your mama doing? You have people over for Mardi Gras? What you fixin' for Easter? Not that most people minded. It was better than asking questions that might disturb the peace. "You just look mischievous today, Noah Singleton. I can already tell you're up to no good." He swung a small tray with the sample cups in front of her. "Try this." She gave him a skeptical look, sipped, and coughed dramatically, as if she had ingested poison. "Noah Singleton, I don't know what you put in that drink, but I suspect I have a case of sudden-onset diabetes. What in the name of the good Lord is this?" "I'm still working on the right level of sweetness," he said, with a hangdog look that reflected his disappointment. "I'm trying to create a signature drink to go viral on social media. I call it Praline Perfection . Chicory coffee, six pumps of praline syrup, whipped cream, and topped with a crumbled praline candy." Glory had no idea why anyone would ever want to go viral. She had had a brief moment in the spotlight a few months ago and it was more than enough, thank you very much. "Here's an idea," she added. "For an extra $200 you can serve it with a vial of insulin." She thought of Noah like a brother, even if he was always doing too much. "Did you know that there is no actual pumpkin in a pumpkin spice latte? Not one drop!" And before Glory could respond he added, "And do you know how much money Starbucks has made off that drink? Over a billion dollars! Yes, ma'am, I just need to calibrate my recipe a bit." Noah gestured for the barista at the counter to bring Glory another cappuccino, on the house, as he often did. Before walking back to the kitchen he pointed at her and said, "I'm going to perfect this recipe. You watch." It was an apology and a declaration. He disappeared behind a pair of swinging doors. As Glory sipped her cappuccino, her clients streamed in at a steady pace, which was always the case during football playoffs. Glory worked year-round but made a good chunk of her earnings in January and February, when amateur betting and foolishness collided. She had also been busier than usual since everything went down a few months ago. Glory had become somewhat notorious in Lafayette after the murder of Amity Gay, and her role in solving it. It was attention that she had relished at first, but now it made her itchy with discomfort. Word of mouth had brought a whole new slew of customers. In the world of unsanctioned and illegal betting, publicity is not welcome. But Glory had always had a keen eye when it came to vetting her customers, and those instincts had not faded. That is why when a lighter-skinned Black woman with caramel highlights and artfully layered hair walked toward Glory, she did a double take. She did not know this woman, or at least, that's what she thought. She knew just about everyone who walked through those doors. But there was something about her that rang familiar, like a relative you haven't seen in many years. She wasn't Glory's age, but wasn't her daughter's age, either. Glory judged her to be somewhere in the middle. This woman could no longer rely on her youth to be naturally firm without effort. And though she had just a few lines that feathered around her eyes and a couple that stretched across her forehead, Glory knew that her still-pretty looks would be deteriorating at a rapid clip from here on out. Glory had been there herself, many years ago. "Excuse me, are you Glory Broussard?" asked the woman. Glory sized her up further, now that she was up close. She wore a patterned blouse that was too busy for Glory's taste, jeans that clung tightly to her slender frame, and stiletto heels, which Glory noted was not a reasonable choice for a Sunday before noon. "I'm afraid not, miss. You must have me mistaken for someone else." There was something about the woman that she didn't trust, and having more customers than she knew what to do with at the moment, she was not about to take any risks. Glory peered over her reading glasses and did some calculations to convey that she was not interested in any further conversation. Not even the polite Southern kind. "Actually, I'm pretty sure you are. I saw your picture in The Daily Advertiser ," the mysterious woman fired back. Glory pressed the lead of her pencil harder and scratched away in her notebook, as if the woman did not exist. This was another reason Glory hated all the attention: it had shaken all the crazies loose from the trees. Old men showed up who wanted her to investigate the chattering voices that echoed in their balding heads. Throngs of women pleaded for her to surveil their husbands, who might be stepping out on them. One thing Glory knew from personal experience is that if you think your husband is stepping out, he most definitely is. You don't need to spend hard-earned money to figure that out. And besides, Glory Beverly Broussard was not for hire. "I'm real sorry to bother you, ma'am," insisted the woman with the pretty-enough face. "But my husband has gone missing, and I thought you'd like to know." That was it. Glory snapped. "Let me tell you something. I've done had it with you people showing up here with all of this nonsense. What I do know is that I can't help you, and I definitely don't know who your husband is, so please leave me to my business. And support a Black-owned business on your way out. I recommend the Praline Perfection." She shifted her focus back to her ledger. She had never formally studied math beyond basic algebra, but somehow had developed a pretty spot-on way of developing scenarios for a slate of games and estimating her earnings by the end of each weekend. Glory called it her special arithmetic while her daughter called it an algorithm, which must have been one of those ten-cent words she learned working at that law firm. "My husband is Sterling Broussard." Glory pressed down so hard on her pencil that the lead shattered. Graphite dust smudged her algorithm. Now it was becoming clearer. The woman was vaguely familiar to Glory because this was the woman, among many women, that Sterling had cheated on her with. Years later, once emotions had been reduced from a rolling boil to a simmer, Glory kicked herself for not seeing it coming. Sterling's purchases of new underwear, the trail of cologne left behind when he was allegedly going bowling. This wasn't a run- of-the-mill infidelity. It was the infidelity that caused him to leave Glory. It was the infidelity that would lead to a new start for Sterling, a new marriage. The woman took a seat across from Glory. "Look, I know I'm the very last person you ever want to talk with, but I don't know what else to do." Her voice ached with weariness, and there was not enough concealer and tinted face powder to camouflage her exhaustion. "Sterling went out to see some friends two days ago, and I haven't seen or heard from him since. It's so unlike him." Glory huffed. "Sounds exactly like the Sterling Broussard I know . . ." "Not the Sterling I know," the woman said, leaning her body halfway over the table. It was a confrontation. The Battle of Two Wives . Or, if Glory were framing their relationship correctly, the upstanding, righteous woman who raised him and his daughter, and the hussy who broke a family apart. Noah's barista delivered Glory's cappuccino at this exact moment, allowing Glory a few moments to regroup. She smiled at the barista, took a sip of her coffee, then delicately placed the small cup on its saucer. "Listen, I done unsubscribed from all that Sterling drama years ago. I'm sorry you've gotten yourself tangled up, but you of all people should have known what you were signing up for." She shoved her notebook into her purse and stood up. Panic raced across the woman's face. "I thought maybe you'd want to look into it . . . for your daughter's sake." Glory glared down at her. With fire pulsing through her veins, she snapped. "Keep my daughter's name out of your mouth." From "Glory Daze" by Danielle Arceneaux . Copyright (c) 2025 by the author and reprinted by permission of Pegasus Books. Return to top of page
Boston Globe
17-03-2025
- Sport
- Boston Globe
Slick Watts, NBA fan favorite and headband pioneer, dies at 73
Still, fans and fellow players held him in a singular regard. Advertisement In 2012, decades after his retirement — and four years after the team moved and became the Oklahoma City Thunder — a Seattle rap duo called the Blue Scholars made Mr. Watts' name the title of a song about the Sonics. James Donaldson, a Sonics center in the 1980s, told The Seattle Times after Mr. Watts' death, 'He epitomized the Seattle SuperSonics.' Get Starting Point A guide through the most important stories of the morning, delivered Monday through Friday. Enter Email Sign Up That reputation came from a combination of pluck and generosity. Mr. Watts's basketball origins were modest. He was an impressive collegiate shooter, averaging 22.8 points per game and shooting 49 percent from the field. But he was just 6-foot-1 and played for Xavier University of Louisiana, a little-known historically Black Catholic university in New Orleans (not Xavier University of Cincinnati). He went undrafted in 1973. That might have been the end of his basketball career, except for the fact that Mr. Watts's college coach, Bob Hopkins, was a cousin of Bill Russell, the Boston Celtics great then coaching the Sonics. He secured Mr. Watts a professional tryout. The team was already loaded with shooting talent, so Mr. Watts devoted himself to passing. Russell offered him a $19,000-a-year contract, paltry by NBA standards. Mr. Watts wound up leading the team in his first season with 5.7 assists per game, even though he averaged only 22.9 minutes a contest. The next year, the franchise's eighth season, he helped lead the team to its first playoff appearance. He was rewarded with a three-year contract for more than $100,000 a year. In the 1975-76 season, he averaged 8.1 assists and 3.2 steals per game, becoming the first player to lead the league in both categories. He was also named to the NBA all-defensive first team. Advertisement He physically embodied his moxie in the way he styled his head. A childhood football injury had left his hair growing only in patches. He shaved his head and gave it gleam with baby oil. Now, many Black players embrace baldness; back then, it was enough to make Mr. Watts ubiquitously known as Slick. 'In this day of long hair, Mr. Watts is a very unusual person,' The News Tribune of Tacoma, Wash., commented in 1974. And he went further, wearing a band around his head cocked to the side at a jaunty angle. In high school, Mr. Watts had experimented with using tape; ultimately, he found a head-sized sweatband in the women's section of a sporting goods store. 'Most basketball players wear sweatbands on their wrist — he wears one on his head,' The News Tribune wrote in surprise. New York Times reporter George Vecsey said the combination of the bald pate and the headband made Mr. Watts look like 'the planet Saturn in sneakers.' Hustle on the court and eccentricity off it inspired affection from fans. Mr. Watts showed an insatiable appetite for signing autographs, telling The Arizona Republic in 1976, 'No scrap of paper is too small to autograph, because there's a person at the other end.' Then the honeymoon ended. Mr. Watts demanded more money and a no-trade clause in his contract. The dispute spilled into the media, damaging his image. After Seattle had a losing start to the 1977-78 season, a new coach, Lenny Wilkens, took over and found success giving other guards more playing time. Mr. Watts bridled at his reduced role. Advertisement "I had put too much of myself into the city to sit down on the bench," he told The Associated Press in 1979. In January 1978, Mr. Watts was traded to the New Orleans Jazz for a 1981 first-round draft pick. He later compared the trade to a divorce or the death of a family member. "Thanks for the good times, thanks for the sweat, thanks for the optimism," Bill Schey, a sports columnist for The News Tribune, wrote after the trade. Mr. Watts did not find a consistent role with the Jazz or, later, with the Houston Rockets. Still in his late 20s, he waited to be called up by another team. No calls came. The Sonics unexpectedly made it to the finals in 1978. They lost to the Washington Bullets, but the next season, in a championship rematch, the Sonics won. Mr. Watts said he did not watch those games. In the 1980s, he took a job making $16,000 a year as a physical education teacher at a Seattle elementary school. He stayed for nearly 20 years. He often spoke about his disbelief that his career did not last longer, but he never questioned settling in Seattle. "They can trade me, but they can't make me move," he told The Bellingham Herald, a Washington state paper, in 1975. Donald Earl Watts was born July 22, 1951, in Rolling Fork, Miss. His father was a mechanic, and his mother was a teacher. There was only one television in his neighborhood, and he got his earliest training in basketball by shooting spitballs into a trash can. Advertisement His sons, Donald and Tony, were successful college basketball players. A grandson, Isaiah Watts, and a granddaughter, Jadyn Watts, currently play college basketball in Washington state. Complete information about survivors was not immediately available. In 2007, The New York Times asked Mr. Watts what he thought about how common it had become for players to wear headbands for the style. "Don't make a statement," he advised, "unless you're bringing your game." This article originally appeared in
New York Times
16-03-2025
- Sport
- New York Times
Slick Watts, N.B.A. Fan Favorite and Headband Pioneer, Dies at 73
Donald 'Slick' Watts, an unheralded, undersized, patchy-haired point guard who turned his obstacles into springboards, endearing himself to fans of the Seattle SuperSonics long past the team's existence and helping to invent the headband as a basketball fashion signature, has died. He was 73. His son Donald announced the death on social media on Saturday in a statement that did not provide further details. In 2021, Watts had a major stroke, and he spent recent years dealing with lung sarcoidosis, an inflammatory condition. Watts played for the SuperSonics for just four and a half seasons, from 1973-78. Though he helped lead the team to its first playoff berth, he was not around in 1979 for the team's first and only finals victory. Still, fans and fellow players held him in a singular regard. In 2012, decades after his retirement — and four years after the team moved and became the Oklahoma City Thunder — a Seattle rap duo called the Blue Scholars made Watts's name the title of a song about the Sonics. James Donaldson, a Sonics center in the 1980s, told The Seattle Times after Watts's death, 'He epitomized the Seattle SuperSonics.' That reputation came from a combination of pluck and generosity. Watts's basketball origins were modest. He was an impressive collegiate shooter, averaging 22.8 points per game and shooting 49 percent from the field. But he was just 6-foot-1 and played for Xavier University of Louisiana, a little-known historically Black Catholic university in New Orleans (not Xavier University of Cincinnati). He went undrafted in 1973. That might have been the end of his basketball career, except for the fact that Watts's college coach, Bob Hopkins, was a cousin of Bill Russell, the Celtics great then coaching the Sonics. He secured Watts a professional tryout. The team was already loaded with shooting talent, so Watts devoted himself to passing. Russell offered him a $19,000-a-year contract, paltry by N.B.A. standards. Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times. Thank you for your patience while we verify access. Already a subscriber? Log in. Want all of The Times? Subscribe.
