.. "; .. ..I edited my profile at Freeweblayouts.net , check out these Myspace Layouts!
..OAKLAND -- Jeremiah Captain was doing a little reflecting on his life last Sunday afternoon.It was the day after Laney College's football team had dropped a gut-wrenching 28-24 decision to West Hills in the 11th annual Pacific Graffiti Bowl at Modesto Junior College.Captain, 20, had done his best in his final junior college game. The sophomore safety intercepted a pass and ran it back 23 yards for a touchdown to give the Eagles a 14-6 lead in the first quarter.But the former standout at Oakland High in both football (three- time All-City) and wrestling (a two-time participant at the state meet) was being tugged both ways by his emotions this day."The loss kind of brought me down," admitted the chiseled 5-foot- 9, 185-pound Captain. "It hit me that this was the end of my JC football career, and you always want to go out a winner, not a loser."On the other hand, there were reasons to be upbeat."I feel pretty good about passing all of my classes and getting my AA degree (in December)," he went on. "And I have a chance to go on and play Division I football. I feel pretty good about what I accomplished."Small wonder.It wasn't too long ago that Captain spent most of his days and nights inside a small cell at the Santa Rita county jail in Pleasanton. Each day he wondered whether he'd end up with the same kind of go-nowhere life that so many other young black men fall into in Oakland.Busted for selling a $10 bag of marijuana to an undercover policeman in 2001, Captain -- a handsome, well-spoken, engaging young man -- ended up spending two months locked up at Santa Rita.Two long months."You wake up in the morning and just wait for the time to go by," Captainrecalled. "You read a book, watch some TV, do push-ups. I did a lot of push-ups when I was in there."The product of a broken home, Captain lived with his mother, Frannie, and four others in an East Oakland home with an annual income under $20,000. Despite a 3.33 grade-point average in high school, he couldn't get the qualifying SAT scores he needed to entice colleges into giving him an athletic scholarship.A familiar dead end in the inner-city.Meanwhile, right out there on the East Oakland streets were people -- some of them his friends -- selling drugs and living the high life. Big cars, lots of girls, fancy clothes and cash.Captain insists he was drug-free all through high school. But burned out on school and athletics after graduation, and pressured by his peers, Captain was drawn in. He became a player.Selling only marijuana ("I didn't sell cocaine or anything hard because I didn't want to wreck anybody's home," he said), Captain soon built up a pretty decent clientele."I was making between$1,000 and $2,000 a week," he said. "If I got lucky, I could make that much in a day."He had clothes, he had shoes, he had jewelry. He was a teenager driving a Cadillac. There was money to burn."I was thinking it was cool, the right thing to do," he said. "It was fast money and I was trying to be independent ... be a man. I wanted to do something on my own."My mom kept telling me to get off the streets. She used to say, 'I'm so scared for you,' but I looked at what I had and told myself, 'How can this be wrong?' I was 18 years old and living the material life."He paused, then softly added, "It was a damned stupid time."Captain knows his story is no different than those of hundreds of other young black men in Oakland."I was just trying to imitate my peers," he said. "You hear about (drugs) every day in Oakland. It's a sob story you hear all the time, but it's reality. It happens so easy. If you're in the area any length of time, you see people selling drugs. It's normal."The comedownThe extravagant life continued for more than a year. There were some close calls with police, but his athleticism saved him every time. "If there was just one, two or three (policemen), I could always outrun them," Captain said. "I was the Gingerbread Man."One night, he couldn't get away.Captain made a $10 sale to what appeared to be a 16-year-old kid, but in actuality was an undercover cop on a sting operation. When Captain walked out of the East Oakland house, there were cops everywhere.Captain was arrested, booked and put in Santa Rita from December 2001 to February 2002. The hardest times were family visits when his mom cried."It was tough for everyone," Captain said. "I missed my family and football. I was just wasting away. I saw the other guys who were in and out of jail all the time and I didn't want my life to end up like that."At his hearing, Captain -- who had been released on his own recognizance -- had someone at his side. Bruce Laing, a former defensive coach at Oakland High, stood with Captain as he faced the judge who would determine his future.Laing, 43, is a successful white businessman who grew up in Alameda and the tough streets of Oakland. He had gained the trust of many of the Oakland High players for his qualities as a coach and for helping raise money for new uniforms, locker room facilities and equipment.Laing had a fondness for all the kids he coached, especially for Captain."I saw a lot of myself in him," Laing said. "I had opportunities (as a kid) to go the wrong way, but a couple of people took an interest in me and helped me out." Laing would do the same for Captain.The young man was facing a federal charge, and Laing was allowed to speak to the judge on Captain's behalf.Laing explained Captain had enrolled at Laney College and had a job parking cars. He'd dismissed his old friends, Laing said, and was walking the straight and narrow.Then he hammered it home."I told the judge that Jeremiah would never play in the NFL, but if he had a felony on his record, he wouldn't be playing ball at all in college because there was no money (at home) for that," Laing recalled."I said, 'If you give him the felony, you're sealing his fate. You'll see him again because he'll be in the system.'"It worked. The district attorney and the judge agreed the charges would be dropped if Captain stayed in school, made decent grades over the next six months and got Laney coach Stan Peters to sign a letter saying the youngster was playing football.Today, Captain's record is blemish-free. Though there's nothing definite about his future, at least he has one.It's why Laing fought so hard."Jeremiah's got so much to offer," he said. "With some kids, you can tell no matter how hard you try, you're not going to have much of an impact. Even though you love them, they're still going to do the wrong thing because sometimes they have no other way to go."I wanted to be that 'other way' to go for Jeremiah. I have a lot of high hopes for him."Helping handsBesides Laing -- who also lends financial and emotional support -- there have been a lot of helping hands for Captain along the way.Captain lives in Oakland now with his cousin Kavern Dixon, a longshoreman. His brother, Jamir Dixon -- a former football player at Laney and now a director at the East Oakland Youth Development Center -- convinced Captain to go to Laney. He also helps with school expenses, provides a few bucks of spending money now and again, and always lends an ear when Captain needs to talk.And then there's Peters, closing in on four decades of coaching at Laney. He inherits a lot of troubled athletes like Captain every year, but his no-nonsense, disciplinary program annually graduates 95 percent of its players.Peters demands players be in class or the library from 9 a.m. to noon each day. After that, it's football until the early evening.He also has a long list of team rules. Break one and you pay. No excuses."We teach them they have to be here on time, be to class on time and turn work in on time," Peters said. "If they had a job, they couldn't miss work or they'd get fired."Captain had his run-ins with Peters, one of them huge. During a team visit to a children's hospital at last year's bowl game in Sacramento, Captain's cell phone went off. It broke a team rule, embarrassed the team and enraged Peters.That infraction cost Captain a session of "the hundreds," a grueling set of 10 dashes up and down the football field. Every 5 yards, he had to drop to the ground, quickly push himself back up, then dash another 5 yards before dropping again."It'll make you puke," assured Peters.It also makes you learn."I banged heads with Coach Peters a number of times and found I couldn't win," Captain admitted. "But I also learned a lot of good football under him, and I'm getting my degree. The program works."Veteran defensive coach Jay Uchiumi gives Captain high marks for changing his life."He's come a long way," said the coach, now in his 23rd year. "He made some bad choices, but he's hanging around with better guys now and his grades are mostly B's. That's what we're looking for -- guys who can become responsible and take charge of their lives."He's a survivor."Jamir Dixon knew that about his younger cousin."Jeremy's story is everybody's story," said Dixon, 27. "I know so many athletes ... great athletes who should be making a million dollars now but went down the wrong road and never found their way back."I'm proud he found his way back."The trek isn't over for Captain, who had seven interceptions last year including a school-record four in one game.He still hasn't locked in on a four-year college, although Portland State has shown extreme interest in his services. He is sending tapes and his resume to Division I and II schools."I'm small for a safety, but I'm going to show them I can play," Captain said firmly. "Someone will give me a chance."He's proven he knows what to do with it.
