Baltimore’s Aquille Carr, the country’s most dynamic and exciting high school player, continues to burnish his growing legend while fighting crime in his spare time.
His YouTube mixtape highlights, with well over three million collective hits and counting, make you seriously wonder if your eyes have the capacity to lie. If you don’t already know, Aquille Carr, whose name means strong as an eagle in Latin and intelligent and wise in Arabic, is a 5-7 rising junior athletic marvel with a 48-inch vertical leap at Baltimore’s Patterson High School.
He is, without question, the country’s most electrifying high school player. Some say, pound-for-pound, inch-for-inch, he’s the nation’s best. With astounding athleticism, speed, courageousness and a scoring arsenal that is reminiscent of a young Allen Iverson, coupled with the night-goggle floor vision of Steve Nash, Baltimore’s rugged streets can no longer contain Carr’s mushrooming legend, which now stretches across the pond to Europe and afar.
It’s also a legend that came perilously close to never happening at all.
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The orthopedic hand specialist who performed the emergency surgery delivered the bad news to Tammy and Allen Carr almost 11 years ago.
Earlier that day, before he had the chance to blow out candles on his sixth birthday, the boundless bundle of energy was in the back-alley, playing a spirited game of touch football in the rain.
Aquille caught a pass on the run when he was pushed from behind. As the rubber soles of his sneakers slid across the wet pavement, his momentum propelled him toward a crash meeting with the rear of a brick row house. Struggling to maintain his balance, he extended a lefty Heisman stiff-arm to lessen the collision’s impact.
“My arm went right through the basement window,” says Aquille. “If somebody had banged out the rest of the glass before I pulled it out, it wouldn’t have been that bad. But by me being in shock, I just ripped my arm back out.”
In doing so, he severed numerous nerves, flexor and extensor tendons: the crucial inner infrastructure of the wrist and hand that allow you to control things like finger movement, squeezing, motor skills and the ability to open and close a fist.
“The doctor said Aquille would never use that hand regularly again,” says his father, Allen. “But he wasn’t having that.”
Within days, he could no longer contain his frustration with the cumbersome, itchy cast that engulfed his skinny wrist and hand.
“Instead of using a hanger to scratch at it, I just ripped it off,” says Aquille. “I kept pulling at it until it became loose and slid it right off.”
He took it upon himself to strengthen his left hand during every waking moment, constantly squeezing a therapeutic rubber ball, day and night.
“That’s when I knew that, physically, he was a little bit different,” says Aquille’s older brother, Allen Jr. “If I had a basketball, he’d grab it and dribble with his left hand to make it stronger.”
The youngest of five brothers who all played serious ball, Allen Sr. blossomed into a 6-2 shooting guard with abnormal hops and a sweet jumper in the early ’80s.
“Al was a tough guard who had the ability to get to the basket, could hit the shot and he had a nice little handle,” says Muggsy Bogues, the 5-3 revolutionary talent from Baltimore’s Dunbar High School who did most of his NBA damage with the then Charlotte Hornets. “He was an Allan Houston type of guard.”
Despite receiving recruiting mail from schools like Boston College, Allen began his career at Baltimore’s Essex Community College to strengthen his grades. Despite a stellar freshman year, Allen was troubled by the fact that Tammy â€“ who gave birth to Allen Jr. right after they both graduated from Patterson â€“ was struggling to provide for their infant child.
“Stuff was getting tight at home, and it just got to the point where I needed to take care of my family,” says Allen.
He got a job as a delivery helper on a Baltimore Gas and Electric truck, lugging and installing washing machines, air conditioners and refrigerators. The young couple, which could now afford a small apartment, got married and went about raising a family.
Although no longer a ticket out of the struggling neighborhood, competing in local basketball tournaments nourished him after arduous, back-breaking days on the job.
“Every time I had a game, I’d walk into the gym with Aquille sitting on my shoulders and Allen Jr. and my daughter Ashlie walking right beside me,” says Allen.
“I remember that my father could jump for real,” adds Aquille. “I saw how aggressive he was going to the basket. Watching him, I couldn’t wait to play under the whistle.”
Allen put little Aquille on teams in the eight-and-under age bracket at the age of five while he and Allen Jr. trained him at home.
“When I took him to play in games, people would be laughing and ask, ‘Why is that little boy out there?'” says Allen. “But after the game, they’d come up to me and say, “Shorty’s gonna be alright.'”
At home, Allen Jr., who is 10 years older, marked a small square on the kitchen’s linoleum floor, demonstrating moves for his little brother to replicate.
“If the ball went out of the square, that meant it was a turnover,” says Allen Jr. “After each move that he mastered, he’d add his own little flair to it. He’d do something extremely difficult in a game, in traffic, and he’d look at me as if to say, ‘Is that right?’ That would amaze me.”
Once, at Baltimore’s famed playground venue known as “The Dome” when he was 10, Aquille zoomed down court with a defender squatting at the three-point line to halt his momentum. He never broke stride, dribbled the ball between his opponent’s legs, caught it off the bounce and swished the game-winning jumper. Grown folks sprinted on the court screaming in a state of delirium.
“He was the talk of the town way before he got to high school,” says Genelle McCoy, one of his former recreation league coaches and a current mentor.
“He never played against kids his own age,” says James Johnson, a family friend who played against Allen Sr. in high school. “Aquille always had the heart of a lion. He was an asset on the court, even back then against grown men, because of his ability to handle the ball, penetrate, and dish off.”
“Aquille was so competitive from the beginning that his desire to win would get the better of him,” adds Allen Jr. “We said things to get him upset and pushed him around on purpose, so he could perform under pressure when he was angry.”
But while his skills were drawing rave reviews on the court, his periodic, irate outbursts made many parents and competing coaches snicker. If he disagreed with something, he’d sometimes scream profanities at referees â€“ and even some of his coaches â€“ during games.
“He had a bit of an attitude problem when he was a little kid,” says Gerald Stokes, one of Aquille’s former recreation league coaches who still mentors and trains him. “A lot of people didn’t understand him as a kid. He just needed to learn how to control his emotions.”
Stokes provided a stern hand, when others might’ve looked the other way due to Carr’s talent.
“Whenever we had an attitude situation, I would sit him on the bench and call his father, telling him, ‘Come and get your kid,'” says Stokes. “I was tough on him because I wanted him to get better as a person.”
The basketball court was not the sole province of Aquille’s budding local celebrity.
“Aquille was like Deion Sanders, Reggie Bush, Michael Vick and Devin Hester all rolled into one on the football field,” says Theodoric Bell, one of Carr’s former Pop Warner coaches, who has known him since he was six. Bell has also coached him with the Team Melo AAU hoops program and is his current assistant varsity basketball coach at Patterson.
In one regional championship football game, with the opposing team winning by a few points, Carr was inserted at nose guard. Late in the fourth quarter, backed up against their goal line, Carr slid up to Bell and calmly said, “I’m gonna sack the quarterback and cause a fumble.”
On the ensuing play, the littlest guy on the field sliced into the backfield, sacked the quarterback, caused and recovered the fumble. His team proceeded to drive the length of the field in less than a minute to win the game.
“How’d you know you were going to do that?” asked Bell.
“The center’s forearm would tense up right before he snapped the ball,” said Aquille. “I was studying him and timed it.”
As he crossed the bridge into adolescence, Carr was faced with some daunting choices as the lure of the streets began calling some of his friends.
“We always preached to him about the legends that came through this town that made the wrong choices and never made it,” says Johnson. “He knew that he didn’t just want to be some street legend, having people just talk about what he could have done or who he could have been.”
Says Aquille: “I knew that I had something good going for me and I didn’t want to blow it.”
Before meeting his ballyhooed incoming freshman, Patterson head coach Harry Martin had heard all of the accolades. He also heard that Aquille Carr had a bad attitude and was an academic liability.
“I told him when he got here, ‘I don’t care what happened in the past,'” says Martin. “The only thing I’m going to grade you on is what happens here at Patterson. And he’s proven himself to be a great kid with a positive attitude.”
En route to being named the Max Preps National Basketball Freshman of the Year in 2010, Aquille punctuated one of the most brilliant ninth grade seasons in Baltimore history with his dazzling 39-point, 19-assist masterpiece against Lake Clifton and their elite, 6-3 senior guard Josh Selby.
“Aquille was relentless against Josh,” says Lake Clifton coach Herman Harried. “He’s a little warrior that doesn’t get rattled and runs his team very well, a complete player who competes with conviction.”
The moment that crystallized his astonishing freshman campaign was the dunk he caught earlier in the season over City College High’s fantastic 6-5 shooting guard Nick Faust.