Chris Mullin
Balling in prison isn't like the Sunday recreation league or college intramurals. Cats go hard and jacking rec isn't an option. It’s either
show mad skill or get off the court. The games are dominated by young, black, trash-talking, inner-city gangstas who value flash over substance. To gain their respect, you have to shine – especially if you have a light complexion.
And if you're a short white dude, prison isn't the place for you. The basketball court on the pound isn't the place you should be trying to hang out at because dudes will clown you. Unless you got game, that is.
But in prison dudes will stereotype a person quick. When they see a short white dude trying to get a game they're thinking, "Who the fuck is this cracker?"
Strike One: He's white.
Strike Two: He's a shorty.
Don't let there be a Strike Three. He can't play or the court will be a place you're banned from.
At Federal Correctional Institution Fairton in Southern New Jersey, there is a baller who defies the odds. This Caucasian cat, who shares a name with famous Dream Teamer and St. John's alum, Chris Mullin, can shoot just like his namesake. I'm talking lights out. As in all net. Straight water, you heard. Chris, all 5-6 and 160 lbs. of him goes hard. His handle is off the hook and his no-look passes hit dudes in the head.
Chris is from suburban Connecticut. He is 28 years old and finishing up a 51-month sentence for ecstasy possession. He tells me he was the captain of his high school basketball team his senior year in Connecticut. He always talks about the time when he got kicked off the team for using drugs. Chris was restless, so he decided to get out of Connecticut and "after that, it was streetball from coast to coast."
Chris describes himself as "a true speculator" who dabbled in X and gambling while hanging around college campuses in Southern Cali, Arizona and Las Vegas. He would sell drugs and take bets. Doubling as a bookie and drug dealer. He was trying to come up and get his. Hanging around the rave scenes and balling against college players. He also had his side-hustle, which involved taking the college players money with his shooting skills.
"Trust me," Chris says. "You don't want my action."
Think of him as the Woody Harrelson character in White Man Can't Jump. But those days are long gone now as Chris sits in federal prison.
In comparing prisonball to his outside experiences Chris says, "It’s never different for the small white kid on the court. Only difference is the fucking cops run the league and there aren't any shooters or dunkers. Everybody is a slasher."
And he can't hustle like he used to because prison is like a fishbowl and dudes know about him, so he can't play the sucka routine.
"But I still go hard on the pro games," he says. "My boys call me the NBA Daddy because of my handicapping skills."
So dude has action in the yard on lock. He’s also collecting chips in the intramural leagues. And you know the little white kid with mad handle and the sweet jumpshot is playing in A-League too with the cream of the crop prison ballers.
"Go hard or go home, that’s how I was raised," Chris says. "It’s all about playing my game. I always tell my big man, you protect the hoop and I'll take care of the floor."
This lefty point guard plays with a Steve Nash-like abandon. Nailing clutch threes and taking cats off the dribble to the hoop or penetrating, drawing the defense and passing it off to his big man for an easy bucket. He is a member of the varsity squad and routinely lights up the outside teams they bring in.
"Everybody knows I play with heart," Chris says. "I believe that is three quarters of the game. "I like to run-and-gun in full court press Pitino style."
But Chris just doesn't play. He dazzles. Creating opportunities for his team on the break or pulling up for the mid-range jumper. And don't let the kid get on the foul line. Can you say money? At 28, Chris is in his prime and plans to run free rec with college players when he gets out next year. When he calls, next dudes will be doubting him. But once he gets on the court, he'll make them believers.
"I play against the crow," he says about prison games. "They're like, 'No, don't pull that three.' But they learn real quick that the pull-up trey on a fast break is my way of throwing it down."
Chris throws it down a lot. I saw him light up The Saint, a traveling ministry team of former Division I college players that comes into the prison to play the varsity team, with seven threes.
Concerning prison ball Chris says, "Dudes in prison have a one track mind. Everybody plays for themselves and they all think the white boy is soft. I don't know if they feel anything but selfishness. When I bust threes on dudes, they get in their feelings but I don't worry cause I'm not a shit talker. I let my game speak for me and that shuts them up. I just stay on the court and play."
After they get to know him, guys love to play with Chris because he gives the ball up. Be it an alley-oop, behind-the-back pass, through the legs, or no-look pass. He'll get the ball into the hands of the big man that runs the breaks with him. He goes by the old adage, "Reward the big man that runs the break."
He is a team first player all the way.
"I respect anybody that puts the team in front of himself," he says. "I like point guards. Nash, Franchise, Johnny Stock, the Glove. Dudes that like me in here call me Nash-ty because my game is nasty. But the haters call me John Crotty."
That's just how it goes in prison ball. When you shine, the haters come out of the woodwork. Especially when you're a short white kid displaying some nasty talent on the court.
But he remains a true hustler even in the harsh environment of prison. Life in the feds isn't easy, but this cat is thriving thanks to his heart, his skills and his game. He's the perennial underdog.
Courtesy of Seth "Soul Man" Ferranti
