Mike Nettles still wakes up at 4 a.m. He takes a shower, watches the news and, by 5:45 a.m., he's driving to his day job in west county, where he arrives by 6:30 a.m.
By day, Nettles is a behavioral specialist at CenterPointe, where he works with adults who are dealing with detox, depression, suicidal thoughts and addiction.
He leaves CenterPointe at 3 p.m. and drives straight to the Wohl Center, where he's supposed to work from 4 to 8 p.m. as the program director. But normally, he stays until 9 or 10 p.m. It amounts to a near 15-hour workday. When he's done, he goes home, spends time with his wife and watches ESPN, Blue Bloods or Criminal Minds.
Sitting in the rec center, looking over the basketball court, Nettles reflects back on his years at Wohl.
"Now I'm old enough to say I apologize to the ladies that I dated," he says. "We never broke up because of me cheating or something like that. It was just quality time."
Does he feel like he's missed out on life — relationships, kids, TV shows, sleep — because he's always at Wohl?
"No no no no no," he says.
"Actually," he says, pausing. "The honest truth, and I'll probably get teared up with this..."
This is surprising to hear him say. His son, Miles, said he has never seen Nettles cry. But there's a story Nettles carries with him — a story that even his son might not know. It's "the reason," Nettles says, "that I do what I do."
Back in the 1980s, when Nettles was in his 20s, he returned to St. Louis after junior college. He met up with friends, who had all played on the same childhood basketball team.
They started drinking — and people opened up. "What I learned was, when somebody drinking, they all tell — the what? — the truth," Nettles says, answering his own question.
That night, some of his teammates confessed that they had been molested by their childhood coach.
"I don't know what — something just came on me," he says. "I just say 'Look, I'm gonna coach all the kids ... I'm gonna know everything. I'm gonna see everything. I'm gonna pay attention.' It was just something that I had to do. I want the kids to have everything. I want to make sure these kids are safe."
He pauses. Only two people in the world know this story, he says.
"It's why I joke with these kids," he continues. "It's why I have conversations with these kids. In the huddle, we talk about life. Do you feel uncomfortable at home? Who is this guy? That's why anybody who come in here, I already know."
Nettles says he doesn't care about winning or losing — unless it's a playoff or tournament. Basketball is about molding adults and training kids for life's setbacks.
Lots of coaches pay those ideas lip service. But Nettles really doesn't seem to care if his team wins or loses. Either way, he's still going to be at Wohl, and either way, he's going to invite kids back for a free workout. If he cared about winning, he would be coaching all the time instead of sitting on the sideline, yelling "Byron ain't shit!" or running T-ball practice. He drives kids home from workouts, gives shoes to those who don't have them and lets families crash at his place when they need somewhere to stay.
Back in north St. Louis in the 1960s and '70s, a village built Mike Nettles, he says. "Everybody took care of everybody," he says. And it's a village that Nettles builds, volunteer coach by volunteer coach, parent by parent, peewee athlete by peewee athlete, Wohl kid by Wohl kid. For all of the work he does, there are other Mike Nettles coaching football, baseball, boxing and organizing non-sports programs. There's Ms. Dana, the head of Wohl, who oversees everything, so that Nettles can focus on the basketball gym.
"It's a wonderful place," says Rice, the city's recreation director. "It's almost like church."
It's not money, not special drills that built Jayson Tatum. It was this village and the quality time missing from Nettles' previous relationships. It was all spent here, at Wohl, allowing Tatum and so many others to become some of the world's best basketball players.
Toward the end of one of these 15-hour-long days, a little girl walks up to Nettles, who's seated on the baseline. She's about the height of Nettles in his chair.
"Mr. Mike Nettles," she says.
Nettles, yelling across the gym, doesn't seem to hear.
"Mr. Mike Nettles," she says again in a soft voice.
He turns to her and looks her in the eye. His hands are folded in his lap, patiently waiting.
"You're at work," she says, with a sly look. "Why do you have on slides?"
"I'm not at work," he shoots back. "This is where I live."
