Soaring Once More : Ex-Taft Star Franklin Rebounds From Depression

The way he could shoot a basketball and win games, the way he could strike from beyond 20 feet and deflate opponents, Kevin Franklin could have leaped out of the gym at Taft High and into college stardom.

With a deadly long-range shot that rattled through rims in every gym in the City Section, Franklin was labeled can’t miss. In 1986-87, his final season at Taft, he led state players in scoring and was named All-American. He averaged 31.6 points--without the benefit of three-point baskets. With them, he might have averaged close to 40.

“Fabulous” and “unreal” were words coaches used to describe his ability. Words such as “moody” and “troubled” were omitted.

Franklin went on to play for Nevada, where, by the middle of his junior year, he was the Wolf Pack’s leading scorer and a candidate for All-Big Sky Conference honors. Franklin’s success, however, hinged on a close relationship with his mother, whom he called his inspiration.

And just when Franklin’s game had appeared to reach a pinnacle, his mother died unexpectedly. A promising career was abruptly put on hold before being resurrected this season more than 1,000 miles away.

On Jan. 20, 1990, Franklin played his greatest college game, leading Nevada to a come-from-behind victory at Eastern Washington with a stunning 36-point, second-half scoring spree. Before sunrise the next day, Grady Jean Franklin had died, losing a battle to recover from a heart attack of which Kevin, her youngest of four children, was not aware.

Within weeks, Franklin would quit basketball, withdraw from school and slip into a depression that nearly destroyed his closest relationships.

Despite the outward appearance of happiness, there also was a self-sabotaging side to Franklin that surfaced whenever adversity came knocking.

There were problems in the classroom and at home with his father--burdens that a teen-age Franklin could not resolve. And there was only one person who could comfort the talented, troubled child. His mother.

“When I saw her walking through the door of the gym,” Franklin said, “I became Superman.”

On the court, Franklin blocked out the maddening crowds, fended off opponents and made his problems disappear. Off the court, coaches and friends tried vainly to teach him about a world in which “rebound” meant fighting back from adversity.

Now more than three years after his mother’s death, Franklin has come to terms with his loss. In new surroundings, a new man has risen, and he is leading Oklahoma City University (24-5) in its quest for a third consecutive NAIA championship.

Franklin, a 6-foot-5 guard, leads the 10th-ranked Chiefs in scoring at 21.9 points a game. His deadly aim from the perimeter is the scourge of District 9--one of the NAIA’s most dominant districts. He ranks third in scoring and second in free-throw percentage at 88.9%.

His mother remains his inspiration and he wears his heart on his sleeve, literally. On a T-shirt he wears under his jersey is the following: the initials G.F. on one sleeve, the number 51 (her age) on the other, the words “I love you, mom” across the chest.

“It’s been miserable living without her,” Franklin said. “For a long time, my life was . . . empty.”

Jan. 20, 1990. A near-capacity crowd packs into Reece Court in snowy Cheney, Wash., for a Big Sky Conference game between Eastern Washington and Nevada.

Eastern Washington has a 17-point lead with 12 minutes to play, and Franklin has four points. Suddenly, he comes alive, scoring 36 points in under 17 minutes. Nevada wins, 102-100, in overtime.

It was his shining moment.

“He drained a (three-pointer) with two guys all over him to win it for us,” Nevada assistant Derek Allister said. “He was phenomenal.”

Said Nevada play-by-play announcer Dan Gustin: “When they moved out to 21 feet to guard him, he moved back to 23. When they came out to 23, he moved to 25.”

Franklin was in one of his “zones”--a kind of tunnel vision.

“All I saw was a net hanging,” he said. “It didn’t matter if I was lying on the floor or my back was to the basket. The ball was going through the hole.

“I felt invincible. It was like I was touched by God.”

Franklin couldn’t wait to get back to Reno to call Grady. He had had no contact with his family throughout the two-game trip that began in Idaho. By the time he learned his mother had been battling the effects of a heart attack suffered four days earlier, it was too late.

Kiesha Nix, his high-school sweetheart, greeted him the next morning with the news.

“He was at his peak in life,” Nix said, “and then everything just blew up.”

Cracks in Franklin’s delicate psyche began to open, and hostility began to flow out.

“My mother was sick and I didn’t even know,” he said. “I was real bitter at (my family) for not telling me. I had a right to know. She was everything to me.”

Keith Franklin, 24, Kevin’s older brother, explained.

“My father decided he didn’t want Kevin to be informed of how ill my mother was,” he said. “He wanted Kevin to be focused and not distracted from school. He was really concerned about Kevin’s emotional state.”

Franklin’s teen-age years had been marked by academic setbacks, athletic triumphs and loneliness at home. Kevin was a high school basketball All-American. Yet his father, Larry Franklin, appeared to resent Kevin’s sports achievements because they outshined those of Keith. But Grady was always there to soothe the tension.

“Kevin complained to me some that he didn’t get treated fairly at home,” Taft Coach Jim Woodard said.

“Keith was a great athlete himself. Keith was stronger, he could jump higher. But Kevin’s talent was genius, really.

“There was a lot of resentment. Kevin was mom’s favorite--a mama’s boy. The dad was always taking the older brother’s side, saying it wasn’t fair.”

Like Kevin, Keith was an all-league Taft basketball player. He also won the City long jump championship.

“Keith was older,” said Larry Franklin. “I had taken up the time to teach him to drive first. Maybe the baby was thinking I was takin’ more time with Keith because I loved him more. But I never loved one son more than the other.”

Kevin disagreed.

“It was almost like my dad was against me--like he would rather have Keith getting the attention,” he said, recalling his teen-age years. “And that made me more determined. Keith gave up on athletics. I would go out and spend hours on my game.

“My mother never made divisions like that.”

Poor grades in high school cost Franklin his freshman eligibility under Proposition 48. Woodard advised his star to stay home and play at a junior college. Grady wanted her son to stay in California. Allister won out, persuading Franklin to attend Nevada.

But Allister and Nevada Coach Len Stevens soon detected a troubled side to Franklin.

“In his worst moods, he would create tragedies for himself,” Allister said. “Little problems became big problems. I doubt Kevin would have made it as far as he did without (Nix).”

Shortly after Grady’s death, it became apparent to Nix that Franklin’s depression was taking a toll on their relationship.

“I thought several times about leaving him,” she said. “He didn’t have the desire to play basketball anymore--and that I couldn’t believe. . . . I didn’t want to abandon him. I knew he would someday turn around.”

Nevada coaches, too, did not want to lose Franklin. “He was instant offense,” Allister said.

Franklin had set school records for most three-point baskets in a season (71) and in a game (eight). He opened the 1989-90 season with 48 points against Hank Gathers/Bo Kimble-led Loyola Marymount and seemed headed for Big Sky postseason honors. Franklin led the Wolf Pack in points (460), scoring average (19.2 ppg.) and free-throw shooting percentage (88.3%).

After the death of his mother, Franklin’s game spiraled, however, and he left the team with four games left.

“He missed the next two weeks,” Allister said. “After that, he was never quite the same. He didn’t have the fire. He just withdrew emotionally.

“We tried to get him counseling and that didn’t work. He really resisted our help at every turn. He floated away from us and we couldn’t get him back. It was very sad because he’s a nice kid.”

Franklin said his final days at Reno were filled with too many memories of Grady.

“It was miserable living without her,” he said. “I was playing basketball to make her happy. It was my way of saying, ‘Thank you, mom, for all the sacrifices you made for me. Now I want to make you proud.’

“Many times I caught myself picking up the phone and dialing the number and realizing she’s not there. Then I would hang up.”

Franklin plans to graduate from Oklahoma City with a degree in criminal justice this spring. He has one year of NAIA basketball eligibility remaining.

Nobody--not even Franklin himself--can say for certain when the turning point occurred. It might have come when Franklin packed his bags in Reno and returned to Los Angeles to confront his father.

“I figured it was time to start a relationship with him,” Franklin said. “I wanted it, he wanted it. And we just reached out to one another.”

For six months he worked with his father in a San Bernardino steel mill, driving a forklift. The job was temporary, and when the layoff came, Kevin started hanging around the house, playing at the park and in local leagues. Larry Franklin never put pressure on his son to work or return to school.

Gradually, relationships were rebuilt. Kevin and Larry. Kevin and his jump shot.

In the summer of 1991, Kevin took a two-week trip to Oklahoma City to visit his sister, Marian, and her family. She begged him to stay, and her husband, Roger Franklin, persuaded Oklahoma City Coach Win Case to recruit Kevin.

“I knew he had some problems,” Case said, “but that’s the business we’re in--to help these players be better people. I fell in love with Kevin. He’s a unique kid.”

If Franklin was truly back, however, the Oklahoma City box scores would reflect it.

And in the Chiefs’ first game this season--Franklin’s first since 1990--he led all scorers with 32 points in a 136-89 victory over Baptist Christian.

An 8-by-10 glossy portrait of Grady Franklin sits atop a desk in Smith Hall dorm room 101. A photo ID card of her stays in Franklin’s daily planner.

In a quiet corner of the Oklahoma City locker room, Franklin reads his mother’s obituary, drawing strength from the words, “She is not dead, but has merely exchanged this life for a far better one.”

Alone now, he falls to his knees and prays.

He slips his jersey over his T-shirt--over “I love you, mom”--and walks out onto the court at Frederickson Fieldhouse where his presence stirs a crowd once more.

“Words cannot describe how much he means to this team,” Case said. “Everybody on campus loves Kevin Franklin.”