Lawrence Moten: Syracuse Basketball Legend

I could write a sob story. I could turn this into a story about my pain, my memories, my moments with him.

But I won’t.

Because this story isn’t mine, it’s ours.

Our roots go deeper than basketball, deeper than the court, deeper than any of you ever knew.

I grew up with two of his sisters. Our mothers (his step mother) were best friends.

His step mother, Aunt Joyce, was my Godmother. Rest in peace, Queen.

And my other Godmother, Ms. Barbara, my mother’s other best friend, lived next door to his grandmother. Her sons Smitty and Ant used to always tell me about him.

So before we even met, we were already connected.

That’s the 1980s lineage right there, community before competition, family before fame.

But somewhere along the way, our world changed.

Comparison became culture.

Other hoopers started rivalries to mask their insecurities.

But I never played that game.

Never would.

We had awkward encounters, moments the world would twist into “beef.” We were only competitors.

We never faced off in high school,

but we shared the same court at the Boston Shootout.

We battled under those Big East lights, Syracuse vs. Georgetown.

Two kids from the same soil, chasing the same dream.

After that?

Just three more games, The Urbo, The Goodman, The Kenner.

And somehow, folks built a whole mythology off that.

Truth is, I never had ill feelings in my heart for him. Our families were bound too tight for that. He was always solid, always respectful, a good man. We just never got enough time… until recently, when he came back home,

and we joined forces at DPA.

That’s when I finally began to get to know the man, not the myth.

We talked legacy, not ego.

We dreamed reform, not rivalry. We had so many friends in common. His Syracuse brothers are my guys. He called his teammates from New York that he played ball with internationally that were our mutual friends, and he always showed me pics and talked about his daughters. I used to coach against one and he remembered being at those games.

And now, his dream lives on.

We, To To (Gary Johnson), Rob Harris, Mashea, and me,

we’re still moving forward with that same fire. We’re going to change the landscape of DC school sports.

That’s a promise.

His daughters, his people, his city,

we will all be part of that movement. We can’t do this alone.

We’ll carry his mission, wear his purpose, and represent his legacy with pride.

We both entered the Big East wearing #21 and long socks.

Two sides of the city, one heartbeat.

He was DC’s son. I’m the City’s nephew.

He is DC’s poetry.

He moved like rhythm,

spoke with intention,

dreamed with imagination,

and reminded us all, every single day,

that ‘every day is an audition.’

Rest easy, brother.

Rest poetic.

RIP #21

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