KC STAR
KCK  RBI
Damian Clay’s chest heaves beneath his sleeveless white undershirt as he struggles to regain his breath. Safe at third. In his first ever at-bat, the 12-year-
old has a triple. His high, arching hit dropped in short center field, and an errant throw to second gave him some extra time to make the grueling 90-foot
run to third. Damian, who goes by “D,” has a body built more for slugging than speed.

The third-base coach is trying to tell him something, but D’s eyes are scanning the covered grandstand behind home plate to see who is watching. His
face breaks into a high-wattage smile and he stands stick-straight, both feet planted on the bag.

This is just the kind of moment Cle Ross wanted Damian to experience. Ross may be 100 feet away coaching the other game playing out this warm June
evening, but Damian’s stance signals his success.

The third-base coach is still talking, but now D is watching home plate, where another 12-year-old, Cortice Murray, one of the team’s co-captains, also is
up to bat for the first time in his life. Cortice’s round face shows only the slightest trace of his trademark easy grin — his lips are pressed together tightly
but curled up at one corner as he draws in a deep breath through flared nostrils.

PING. Cortice bangs a low bouncer into right field. As the ball skids between two fielders, Cortice jets easily around first, second, third. The throw comes
in as he’s headed for home, but it’s high. Inside-the-park home run.

The team’s other co-captain, Stay’Jawn Hunter, also 12, rushes to congratulate the pair as they return to the dugout: “That’s what’s up, Cortice!” “What I’m
talking about, D!”

Just like that, D and Cortice have scored the first two runs ever at Damian Rolls Stadium, a baseball park in Kansas City, Kan.

The ballpark, a scooped-out hollow surrounded by woods at 53rd Street and Parallel Parkway, used to be called Wyandotte County 3&2. In its heyday in
the 1970s and ’80s, 2,000 kids per season played on the two lighted fields.

When the park closed in 1998, youth baseball died in Kansas City, Kan., leaving behind a mini-generation of boys now in kindergarten through high
school who have no memories of playing America’s favorite summer pastime.

Ross is the man bringing back summer baseball. The 30-year-old Wellington, Kan., native played center field in the minor leagues, and he looks the part:
6 feet tall with a slender, muscular build. His brown eyes have the trusting openness of a child and knowing twinkle of an old man.

Ross has a daunting job.

The once-abandoned ballpark needs big things like water and electricity and routine things like mowing and weed whacking.

The boys need more.

Ross has coaxed, cajoled and welcomed several hundred boys onto his teams this year, some of whom had never swung a bat or chased down a pop fly.
He’s fixing that, but baseball is really the means to a loftier end.

“I couldn’t care less who wins and loses in these games,” he said. “I’m trying to teach life lessons.”

It’s harder than it sounds.

Two murders in two weeks before opening day would underscore the urgency of Ross’ mission.

Ross has drawn help, from school principals who opened their doors for recruiting to volunteers who painted the grandstand and installed a crushed rock
road down the hill. Damian Rolls, the former Schlagle High star and Tampa Bay Rays player who is now the hitting coach for the Kansas City T-Bones,
came on board after Ross’ players showed up at a game waving signs that proclaimed, “We play where you played.” So he went back to his beloved 3&2
ballpark. “It was horrible,” said the soft-spoken Rolls, shaking his head slowly. “Horrible. Horrible.”

But this revival rides on Ross, his grit and his conviction that baseball is a route to safer, successful lives for his boys.

By day Ross books transportation at Lenexa-based Freightquote.com, a shipping broker. Most of the rest of the hours in his week belong to his players.

“I don’t have any children, so I want to be a father figure to these kids,” Ross said.

His mother was a single parent to Ross and his brother, and he credits summer baseball for his present-day success.

Coaches served as role models to young Cle, and the small kindnesses of a Wellington neighbor, Jud Mitchell, pushed him along. When his mother didn’
t have enough money to pay the cable bill, Mitchell, who ran the local company, made sure service was never shut off. He wanted Cle to be able to watch
major league baseball games.

Mitchell left equipment on the Rosses’ doorstep without telling anyone: a glove, a bat, a football. When Ross graduated from high school, he asked the
owner of the only sporting goods store in town where all the stuff had come from. Ross vowed to find a way to give back one day.

Ross played baseball his first year at Kansas City Kansas Community College as a walk-on. He was good enough to earn free-ride scholarships for the
rest of his college career and graduated from the University of Arkansas-Pine Bluff with a mass communications degree. Drafted by the Texas Rangers,
Ross played a year in the minors, and he knew his baseball career had peaked.

When the job at Freightquote.com brought Ross to Lenexa, he couldn’t shake the memory of the run-down, abandoned ballpark on Parallel Parkway that
he used to jog past when he was a student at the community college.

“I thought it was such a shame,” Ross said. “It was a beautiful setting, and I began to wonder if I could bring it back.”

For the past two years, Ross has worked tirelessly, tracking down the previous owner of the ballpark, establishing a nonprofit program (Success Achieved
in Future Environments, or SAFE) that allowed him to take possession of the park, obtaining chapter affiliation with Major League Baseball’s RBI
(“Reviving Baseball in the Inner city”) program and trying to repair the playing fields and facilities.

The RBI affiliation does not translate to money from the major leagues or the Royals, but it allows Ross to use the Major League Baseball name and logo
in exchange for meeting certain criteria, including $2 million in insurance coverage. Ross purchased that with $1,700 of his own money.

He has spent thousands more out of pocket to buy a riding mower, a generator to power the pitching machines, a trailer to pull the generator, and
whatever equipment he can’t get donated.

Last year Ross organized 150 kids, mostly T-ballers and high-schoolers, into teams through his SAFE organization and played in nearby parks. For this
year’s inaugural season of the KCK RBI league, he has strung together a network of 300 players, three assistant coaches and 12 parent coaches and
fielded 18 teams: four T-ball, six 12 and under, four 14 and under and four high school squads.

Registration costs $25, but Ross doesn’t turn any child away. He estimates that 70 percent of his players haven’t paid. Each team generally plays twice a
week and practices once or twice, depending on the availability of its one-and-only coach. The shortage of coaches is Ross’ most pressing problem.

This spring, Ross called the eight middle schools in the Kansas City, Kan., district, asking for permission to talk to their students about joining his league.
Five said yes.

Middle-schoolers are the group Ross is most interested in. For one thing, those kids have time to get good enough to earn college scholarships, if they
work hard. They often have older or younger siblings who also can play in the league.

But most important, good coaches can get them involved in baseball and help them develop as young men before they are tempted by crime or drugs.

West Middle School has more students in the league than any other, for which Dionandre Josenberger, assistant principal and athletic director, is grateful
to Ross.

“Before school let out, the kids were really excited, talking about baseball practice every day and inviting me to come out and watch them play,”
Josenberger explained. “This is much needed. It keeps our kids out of trouble.”

With each new kid who shows up wanting to play, Ross leads off by asking about school. “First we talk about grades,” he said. “Then we talk about
baseball.”

When a player says his grades aren’t good, Ross asks him when the parent-teacher conference is and whether his mother is going. If mom’s not going,
Ross goes. If a player needs help with homework or studying for a test, Ross tells the kid to bring his books to practice, and he’ll have one of his
assistants run practice while he tutors in the bleachers.

If a boy gets grounded, Ross tries to persuade his parents to let him come to practices and games. He tells them: Your son needs baseball even more if
he is starting to get in trouble.

Ross also lets the parents know he’s got their backs. “Up-and-downs” are circuits of stair running tacked on after practice, and Ross’ kids know they’re in
for plenty of them if they mess up at home.

But you will never hear Ross scream or curse, and he is unfailingly polite. He calls his players “sir,” peppers his directions with “please” and “thank you”
and diffuses minor disruptions with humor: “I know you did not bring your dog to practice,” he said to a small boy at one practice who had done exactly that.

When two brothers squabbled during a practice, Ross assigned them homework. Each had to compose two lists: 10 things they could do to be better
baseball players and 10 things they could do to be better brothers.

Once when a couple of kids rushed off the field to get a drink before the team formally broke practice, Ross calmly strode over to them. “Fellas, you need to
come back to home plate so we can break it down together. You’re not thirstier than anybody else. You didn’t work harder than anybody else. Everything
we do, we do as a team.”

T he field, viewed from the crumbling parking lot, through the rusted, leaning chain link fencing, does not resemble a suburban park. Still, some 40 kids,
most dressed in whatever they wore to school that day, spread across the outfield and line up along the third base line. A dog cavorts in the infield, and
several toddlers climb in the stands behind the backstop where their mothers watch the proceedings.

In one combined fielding and base-running drill, Ross hits all the balls — short pop-ups, long drives and mid-range dribblers — to the fielders and
dispatches a new base runner to first each time he puts a ball in play.

The lessons are basic: “You can run past the bag at first, but if you don’t step on it, you’re out.” “At second, if you step off the bag, you can be tagged out.”
“Put your glove down between your legs so the ball can’t get through.”

A lot of the West Middle School kids live in the Crestwood apartment complex on North 57th Street, just a few blocks down Parallel from the ballpark. They
often walk to practice together.

Stay’Jawn Hunter and Cortice Murray were the first players on the 12 and Under Angels team to learn the special team handshake Ross created for them.
One day at practice, they demonstrate a new version of it.

“I know y’all didn’t remix my handshake,” Ross jokes.

“No, we just added a pin drop to the end,” Cortice says. With that the boys launch into a series of hand grips and fluttering motions followed by a twisting
drop to the ground, a spin back up and a one-legged frozen pose simulating flight punctuated by a cry of “Angels!”

D, their teammate and Stay’Jawn’s cousin, watches the performance stony-faced. D doesn’t smile unless he means it. The first time he spoke to me it
was to say, “You only talk to the good players.” Ross immediately interrupted helping a kid with his swing to talk to D about getting over being mad that he
wasn’t yet as good as some of his teammates.

At the next practice D apologized to Ross for his attitude. “I appreciate that,” Ross said. “I want you to know that means a lot to me.”

Dan Murray and William Hunter (Cortice’s and Stay’Jawn’s older brothers) are co-captains of the 14 & Under Red Sox team; neither is happy about
sharing the role of leader. Dan, a wiry kid with a swagger, a bandana and long eyelashes, goes out of his way to assert his leadership by being the most
vocal.

“Lady, look,” he says as he shows me evidence of his team spirit — a self-drawn “tattoo” on his inner arm that says “Red Sox.” William responds to Dan’s
showboating in the booming voice of a Marine. “I’m watching you,” he says. “I’m going to make sure you do your job.”

Here is Ross’ scouting report on that band of five, all of whom are playing for the first time ever this year:

Dan Murray: “Raw talent. You can tell he never played before, but he’s got a room full of potential. Quick hands, fast and he’s coachable.”

Cortice Murray: “Probably has the least athletic ability out of the two sets of brothers, but he has the biggest heart. The coach of his team is going to play
him at shortstop because he has the ability to lead the rest of the team vocally. Sometimes kids just develop late, and he may catch up with the rest of
them athletically, but you can’t teach heart.”

William Hunter: “Strong arm, and he can read the depth of the ball well. He also really pushes and builds up his brother, which is good.”

Stay’Jawn Hunter: “Fast as all get out. He picks everything up so quick, and he’s been blessed with so much natural physical ability. If he stays with the
program he has the potential to be the best player to come out of KCK RBI at this point.”

Damian Clay: “Strong hitter. You can always count on him to put the ball in play. If he can get his head in the right place, he’ll be good.”

A ll through May Ross hitched a trailer to the back of his SUV five nights a week and hauled the generator across town from his home in Lenexa. It was
worth it. The teams were coming together, and Ross looked forward to gathering the boys and their family and friends to rededicate the ballpark and play
that first game.

Then, on May 20, Ross’ 15-year-old cousin, Darius Johnson, was murdered in the garage of his mother’s home outside Houston.

Johnson was the younger brother of Ross’ cousin Dexter Pittman, a star basketball player for the Texas Longhorns. Pittman is on Ross’ board of directors
for KCK RBI, and Ross had worked for Pittman’s program “Get Fit With Big Pitt” in Texas.

Darius had been getting in some trouble, so his mother had put him out of the house, Ross said. But after about a week, Darius came home and wrote
his mother a note saying he was going to do better and go to college like Dexter. Twenty-four hours later he was dead.

“It was just the kind of tragic situation RBI is trying to prevent,” Ross said.

The murder was an emotional body blow to Ross.

Ross pushed back opening day, but when he returned from the funeral in Texas, tragedy struck a second time. Exactly one week after Darius died, the
bodies of two brothers were discovered stuffed in plastic bags in a shopping cart in Kansas City. The younger one, 18-year-old Joseph Hooker, had
played on one of Ross’ high school teams last summer.

The two had developed a strong player-coach rapport. The bond had deepened when Joe’s father, a minister, died of a heart attack last fall. Joe became
like a son to Ross.

“Joe was almost like an angel — things that most of the time you have to ask kids to do, he just did them naturally,” Ross said.

A few months ago, Joe asked if he could move in with Ross. Ross told him yes but suggested Joe might be happier living with Calvin Williamson, a coach
with a son Joe’s age and the owner of a tire shop where Joe could work in his spare time.

Joe texted Ross every day to report on the progress he was making in skills and conditioning. Then about six weeks ago, Joe told his coaches he was
moving back in with his brother. His brother was going to give him the same amount of money Joe earned at the tire shop, which would leave him more
time for baseball, Joe told Ross.

Joe was at the fields almost every day. If he didn’t have practice, he helped Ross pitch to the younger players. “All the little kids looked up to him,” Ross
said, “and they cried when they heard the news.”

The last time Ross saw Joe was the Sunday before he was killed, when he helped repair a leak in the grandstand roof. While he was there, he told Ross
he needed to get away. The next day Ross asked if Joe wanted to talk about what was going on. Joe said he would call back. They never talked again.

“Joe’s death will haunt me the rest of my life,” Ross said.

Ross added a moment of silence for Joe at the end of the team prayer he leads before each game. The prayer usually contains messages about
teamwork or doing God’s will, but lately there’s a new message: Be careful who you hang out with. Then, “One, two, three, TEAM!”

Now Ross is on a mission to make sure Dan Murray gets where he needs to succeed in life. He talks frequently to Dan’s mother, who is concerned about
destructive behaviors at home and fears he may have dabbled in drugs.

“Sometimes, these kids just need a positive male role model, somebody who is the same race as them, who came from where they came from,” Ross
said.

“He’s going to see me all day every day, if I can prevent what happened to Joe Hooker from happening to him. Because I can’t go through that again.

“I want to make sure if anybody ever tries to offer him drugs, he’ll say, ‘Nah, I’m good. You know how much I’ll have to run up and down stairs if I do that? I
think I’ll pass. Thank you, though.’ ”

B y early June, much has been accomplished at the ballpark.

Five churches from Kansas City, Kan., Shawnee and Lenexa pitched in to repair and repaint the grandstand, bleachers, dugouts and concession stand.
Volunteers also installed a crushed rock road that slopes down to the fields for handicap access. Otherwise, from the parking lot, you have to go down 15
steep, not-quite-level concrete steps with a railing that has rusted free of the posts in places, then walk 20 yards on a grassy path, then go down 35 more
steps.

But because that walk from the stands to the portable toilets in the parking lot is too great a strain for some fans, games after opening day will be played a
few miles away at Heathwood Park and Eisenhower Park.

The ballpark hasn’t had electricity since last fall, when thieves stole wiring and the meter boxes. They even cut down the light pole in center field. The
seven remaining poles each hold a bank of round lights, but Ross has no idea whether any of the lights work because the thieves left so many loose
wires hanging, Ross can’t get a permit to restore electricity.

Even when the electricity is restored, the old scoreboard won’t work because it is broken. It will probably cost $3,500 or more to repair.

Water poses a different set of headaches: It’s kept turned off because the copper pipes and sinks were stolen. Everything needs to be replumbed.

And the high weeds on the slopes below the parking lot that Ross can’t mow with his lawn tractor present economic (lost balls) and security (blocked
views of the parking lot and walking paths) concerns.

But Ross takes it all in stride, stepping out on faith, as he likes to say.

Opening night, when it finally comes, is a warm, soft evening when the birds are louder than the cars shushing by on Parallel Parkway. The evening’s
honored guest and the park’s new namesake helps unfurl a banner: “Damian Rolls Stadium.”

Rolls says a few words of gratitude, then asks the crowd to acknowledge his parents, who are in the stands. His mom and dad attended every one of his
games from T-ball through high school — between them, they missed one game each, but not the same game.

Rolls also credits his pro career to playing ball in this park from the time he was 4 until he was 18 and shares his hope that the reborn park could spawn
similar success stories for a new generation of players.

Ross speaks in memory of Joe Hooker, wipes away a tear with the sleeve of his shirt and steps aside so parents can snap pictures of themselves and
their kids with their hometown hero, Damian Rolls.

Then, “Play ball!”

On the smaller of the two fields, despite D’s and Cortice’s offensive fireworks and Stay’Jawn’s strong pitching, the 12 & Under Angels’ first game ends in
defeat.

Over on the big field, Dan and William’s Red Sox also come up short in a heartbreaker that ends with a questionable call at home plate.

And so opening night becomes a lesson in losing with dignity.

When Dan and another teammate complain that the umpire “cheated,” Ross tells them, “He made the wrong call. But sometimes in life people make the
wrong call, and you have to deal with it and keep going.”

Later, in private, he chastises Dan for throwing his glove during the game. “I wasn’t throwing it at anybody, Coach, I was just mad at myself.”

“You have to be a role model,” Ross replies. “You are one of the best players, so if you are throwing your glove, what are the players who aren’t as good
going to do? Nobody should be able to tell by looking at you whether you are up by five runs or down by five runs. The most important thing is to always
keep your composure.”

Ross relishes his new role as a mentor. He has no desire to relive his glory days as a player.

“Teams call me all the time and want me to play for their team, but I refuse to do it because to me, that’s a waste. It’s not about me anymore. It’s about
those kids. I might not send any kids to the major leagues, but I can assure you I’m going to send dozen after dozen after dozen to college.”

Anyone can play in the KCK RBI, which is affiliated with Major League Baseball, regardless of what city you live in. Go to www.kckrbi.org for information.

KCK RBI does not receive money from the major leagues or the Royals. Although the ballpark needs electricity and plumbing, supporters say volunteer
coaches is the greatest need. Again, see www.kckrbi.org.
Where baseball and father figures were lacking, a former pro center fielder steps up to the plate
By CINDY HOEDEL
The Kansas City Star
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