AFTER DRUGS AND PRISON DERAILED HIS LIFE, HENDERSON KELLY IS WORKING TO
MAKE AMENDS

COLUMBIA, Ky. - The score was 71-71 with 21 seconds remaining, and the two
teams had been trading baskets for what seemed like forever.

The revved-up crowd cheered and the cheerleaders stomped their feet in the
electrified gym. On the home team's bench, Henderson Kelly Jr. was on his
knees, slamming his large hands to the shiny gym floor, trying to will his
Blue Raiders to victory.

He wanted to be on the court with them, but he wasn't allowed. Instead, he
vigorously shouted encouragement from the bench.

Yes, he would have liked to have been out there, maybe with the chance to
score the winning basket. But Henderson Kelly Jr. doesn't dwell too much on
the what-should-have-beens.

"Before, I was egocentric, like, 'I'm Henderson Kelly Jr.,' and I would be
upset that I wasn't playing. Not now, because you don't see many
33-year-olds sitting on the bench," he says. "I am content by being free."

We usually encounter the hero at the beginning or the end of his journey,
rarely in the middle.

But to tell the story of Nashville's Henderson Kelly Jr., the middle is
where we find him.

His story began long ago, and it is made up of scenes of dynamic potential,
devastating cocaine addiction and years of frightening incarceration. He is
only 33, so there are, no doubt, many more chapters to write.

In a lot of ways, we're all in the middle of our story. And Kelly is a guy,
like so many others, who has messed up and is pushing to prove to himself -
and to those who love him - that just because he goofed way back then, he
isn't destined to do it again.

This hard work, this heave forward, is for the long run. So that there will
be a happy ending.

"I stay clean now by looking at the consequences that occurred," he says,
sitting in the gymnasium of Lindsey Wilson College, the little school he's
attending on a $16,000-a-year basketball scholarship. "Ten years of my life
were destroyed. Wasted. Now, I am blessed," he says.

He smiles the smile he's so known for, the one that makes it impossible to
believe this radiant and peaceful man was once a crack-head who used a gun
to rob convenience stores and spent six years in jail for the deeds.

Today, Henderson Kelly Jr. is a junior at Lindsey. The Methodist school 70
miles east of Bowling Green, Ky., is giving him the second chance he so
badly wants. He carries his 6-foot-9 frame proudly across the small campus,
waving at schoolmates and pointing out the tall trees under which he likes
to sit on hot summer days.

"Oh, it's peaceful," he says, savoring the image behind his closed brown eyes.

In 1987, Henderson Kelly Jr. was a senior at Stratford High School and a
force on the basketball court. He was all-city and all-state. He was
handsome and powerful and seemingly destined for the life of a pro
basketball player.

But after two years at Middle Tennessee State University, where he received
a basketball scholarship, he dropped out. He was struggling academically
and his then-girlfriend was having twin girls and, he says, he felt he
needed to support them. The money would come from dealing pot and crack.
Soon, he violated the drug dealers' cardinal rule - don't use the product -
and he quickly spiraled into addiction, homelessness and more crime.

After he was caught, Kelly was found guilty on five counts of robbery. He
committed each crime while pumped up with the desperation and bravado that
crack offered. He was sentenced to 20 years. He served six years and 10 months.

"When you have the drug inside you, it makes you Superman. If it wasn't for
them drugs and my stupid choices, I'd be in the NBA," he says.

A particular robbery stands out in his mind: a Circle K in east Nashville
where he shoved the clerk away from the register. He says it was the first
and only time he physically hurt someone during a robbery.

"I wish I could find that lady and say I'm sorry," he says.

It is said that those who have suffered drink deeply from the well of life,
appreciate the small moments and daily miracles. If that is true, then
Kelly gulps. He is one happy man, he says, because he has known limitation
and imprisonment. He doesn't let silly things such as traffic and
telemarketers get him down.

"I'm so happy to hear from a telemarketer," he says, laughing.

The calls that annoy the rest of us are a reminder of his total freedom, of
his return to society.

"When I was in Nashville and riding the bus (after jail), I'd come in
smiling every day, speaking to people, waving to people," he says. "People
thought I was crazy. They just didn't know the enjoyment of freedom I was
having. I loved to ride up and down Broadway."

Henderson, the son of well-known and highly respected McFerrin Community
Center director Henderson Kelly Sr., was imprisoned by drugs long before
his jail sentence took effect in 1994.

Pursuit of crack cocaine kept him unemployed and hustling on the streets
for about two years. He lost 45 pounds, going from 230 to 185. By his own
admission, he smelled bad and the company he kept was equally frightful.

His parents, after years of prayer and pleading, asked him to leave their
home. He had stolen from them, he had lied to them, he had sold the
Christmas presents they gave him . . . and worse.

"My mom gave me Pampers money for my girls and I took it and spent it on
drugs," he says, shaking his head as if shocked by the reality. "I did that."

The Kellys also worried about how their son's behavior would affect their
two daughters, both of whom loved their brother intensely.

"I didn't know who that person was," Henderson Kelly Sr. says. "We told him
to leave not only our home, but our lives. We gave him back to God."

With nowhere to go, Henderson, whose drug habit exceeded $1,000 a day,
would sleep in a crack den, in an abandoned car or in his parents' back yard.

One night, his mother, Jacklin, woke up to use the bathroom. When she
looked out the window, she saw her only son sitting on a plastic milk
crate. The rain was pouring down on him. The family dog was at his side.

She woke her husband, showed him the heartbreaking sight and, together,
they lowered the shade, closing out the physical, though not mental, image
of their son. Neither slept that night. Both cried.

"We were trying to get him to bottom," Kelly Sr. says. "You don't learn
something if every time you get pitiful someone helps you."

Within six weeks, Henderson was arrested and charged with robbery.

Henderson's first night in jail "was the best night we had slept in years,"
Kelly Sr. says.

Days after his arrest, Henderson was acting like he was on vacation at
Metro Jail, his father recalls. His son was enjoying the warm bed and the
steady food and was acting like he ran the place. Henderson Kelly Sr.
admits he called a friend who worked at the jail and asked him to make sure
Henderson knew this wasn't a party.

It wasn't until their son got to court that the Kellys learned just how
wretched Henderson's life was on the street.

"If we had known, I don't know if we could have stayed so strong," Kelly
Sr. says, shaking his head.

They didn't know about his crime spree and his guns, but his mother's heart
did skip a beat every time she heard police or ambulance sirens in the
neighborhood. She imagined horrible things.

"He caused his mother to cry many a night," Kelly Sr. says.

Jacklin Kelly, a nurse who carefully guards her privacy, doesn't speak
publicly about her son's past.

The Kellys also learned that their oldest daughter, Karla, also a Stratford
basketball star, used to leave bags of Kentucky Fried Chicken outside for
her hungry brother to retrieve at nightfall.

"Thank God he had Karla," Kelly Sr. says.

Kelly Sr. has dedicated his career and his volunteer hours to working with
disenfranchised people. At his community center, he is Mr. Kelly, a role
model for young people with few role models.

He says his son's addiction and arrest were difficult personally but don't
reflect on him and his family. While many parents blame themselves for
their children's difficulties, the Kellys - young Henderson included - are
firm in that they were not responsible for Henderson's choices.

"He was in college on a scholarship when we let him go. We did our job,"
Kelly Sr. says. "If I had been walking around with guilt, he would be dead."

By his father's estimation, it took Henderson about two years after his
arrest to begin to grow up. His son, while popular for his great
personality, was not the most mature of boys, Kelly Sr. says.

But the day Henderson told his father that he took full responsibility for
his actions and that no one made him smoke that pipe or rob those stores,
his father knew the boy had become a man.

"That's when I knew," Kelly Sr. says, smiling, obviously proud.

In jail at Hardeman County Correctional Center in Bolivar, Tenn., Henderson
became a teacher's assistant and earned several education certificates. A
counselor who saw his desire to achieve - and his skill on the prison
basketball court - asked him if he would like to return to college. That
counselor put him in touch with Steve Dodd, Lindsey Wilson's basketball coach.

"He's like my white dad," Henderson says of Dodd.

Dodd, a compassionate, caring, easy-going fellow who graduated from David
Lipscomb University, exchanged letters with Henderson while he was still in
jail. Dodd, who knew of Henderson's father and his community work, was
impressed with the young man. The minute Henderson was paroled in March
2000, he called Dodd and they began to meet.

It was Dodd who presented to school president William T. Luckey the idea of
having Henderson become a student.

"My first reaction was, 'I don't think this is a good idea,' " Luckey says.
"But I fell in love with Henderson right away."

Lindsey Wilson prides itself on taking chances on its students. It is an
open-admission college, which means that slow starters and underachievers
can find a place to blossom here.

One of its most popular programs leads to a degree in human services. Dodd
pointed out that if they are teaching young people to give others second
chances, then the college should do the same.

Still, while Henderson charmed the administration, it moved cautiously and
put up some roadblocks to make sure Henderson really wanted the chance.
Truth be told, the last thing school officials wanted was to end up on the
front page of a newspaper if Henderson got into trouble. Also, they
certainly didn't want to be seen as if they were willing to do anything,
like accept an ex-convict, just to improve the basketball program.

So Henderson was told he had to work, be productive and stay out of trouble
for a year after leaving prison before he could enroll. Dodd checked up on
Henderson at unexpected times during the next 12 months.

That year, Henderson lived at home and worked at the Inglewood Kroger. He
also attended Tennessee State University.

His parents kept a watchful eye. They worried he would fall back in with
his old crowd in east Nashville.

"It was like he was 12 again. We were watching everything he did," Kelly
Sr. says. "But after he had been home awhile, he asked us to have faith in
him."

And so, they let go again.

Dodd, however, kept up with the keeping up on Henderson. He made surprise
visits to Nashville. Henderson met each expectation and officially enrolled
at Lindsey last summer.

"Henderson is unbelievably grateful, obviously to be out of jail, but I
think Henderson is fascinated by the fact that someone will give him a
chance," Dodd says.

Henderson became eligible to play basketball this semester after raising
his grades above a 2.0 average. He didn't play, however, because conference
rules limit the number of players on scholarship, Dodd said.

It's no matter, though, that Henderson, whom Dodd says is intense and
strong on the court, hasn't officially played.

"He is very visible on campus and he is kind of becoming a role model,"
Dodd says.

His teammates, who are 11, 12, even 13 years younger than Henderson, see
him as a father figure who inspires them to be better, someone who shares
his story freely so as to offer an example of the road you don't want to
travel.

"He's real supportive of everybody and he's always the one to tell you
things that a father would tell you, off the court and on the court," says
Kentrell Bone, a 20-year-old junior from Huntsville, Ala.

Henderson's desire for simplicity and peace - and his no-sweat attitude -
has been great for the younger players to witness, Dodd says.

"We'll be walking together and he'll say, 'Golly, Coach, did you hear that
bird?"' Dodd says. "Little things that we don't even notice delight the
guy. It gives you new perspective."

Dodd is indeed Henderson's mentor, and he's the one who comes down on
Henderson when he needs to. Truth be told, he's had to do it a few times.

"He is a work in progress," Dodd says with a chuckle. "He used to be
thrilled to get a B or a C, but I've been trying to hammer into his head,
'Henderson, you can do better than that.'

"We have made strides in teaching him that he can be one of the better
students here," Dodd adds.

Last semester, Henderson often got a ride to Nashville to visit his
fiancee, Stacey Littleton. Sometimes he got stuck here without a ride back.
Then, not too long ago, Henderson showed up late for a basketball game
because he was refereeing a Little League game. The coach told him not to
bother changing into his uniform.

"He needs to learn to prioritize his responsibilities," Dodd says. "His
biggest strength is his personality. That smile can melt you, but sometimes
your greatest strength can be your greatest weakness. He's learning it's
not enough."

Littleton transferred from TSU to Lindsey this year to be with Henderson.
They live together with her two daughters in an apartment off campus. She's
28 and working toward her business degree while he's working on his degree
in human services and business administration. He hopes to graduate in May
2003.

The hands-on experience, as he says, that he has had with drugs and crime
are leading him toward a career in counseling children.

Littleton, who met Henderson when she was shopping for taco cheese at
Kroger, is supportive: "He can really speak out and be heard by people who
think there is no coming back. He proves that the sky is the limit."

Not a day goes by that Henderson doesn't appreciate the prayers and support
he has gotten - and continues to get. There are many people who have helped
him reach where he is, though each of those people is quick to say
Henderson alone gets the credit for the hard work.

Henderson wants a lot of things for his future. He wants a career, a
successful family life. And he dearly wants to be reunited with the twin
daughters he hasn't seen in years.

But what he's got is today. It's what he focuses on. And today is pretty good.

"I'm just trying to cherish everything," he says. "God's in my life now,
and no one would have thought that was possible."

"Anything is possible," he says, smiling. "Anything."