Claudy Paul never could have foreseen the feeling of empowerment that would eventually replace the raw sting of what he was hearing one afternoon on his way home from school.

As a black freshman at mostly white Charlestown High School in Boston, Claudy was not entirely naive about certain things that might be said. But he was also quite popular, the vibrant and determined vice president of his class, and never before had anyone been so blatant, so hurtful, about the color of his skin.

It happened at the bus stop when Claudy interrupted the conversation of a schoolmate, an older white guy, to tell him that his bus was approaching. The schoolmate summarily dismissed Claudy by snapping: "You listen, nigger, this ain't no Dorchester," making reference to a predominantly black part of town. "You better wait till I'm through talking."

Tears started down Claudy's cheeks. "Because this guy had said it with such passion," Claudy remembers. "He was speaking to me like I'd committed a crime or something."

No, Claudy never could have imagined anything positive coming out of this. He never could have imagined sharing his story with millions of people across the country or being known at the White House. Never could have imagined becoming something of a poster child for a sports-related program called Team Harmony that encourages teen-agers to take a stand against prejudice and bigotry.

And all because of a gifted basketball player named Reggie Lewis. A basketball player gone almost five years now - a player whose marquee value was once determined by points on a scoreboard but whose legacy is now being measured by the most meaningful statistics of all. Lives touched. Hope gained.

*

For Lewis, who was raised by a single mother in a tough section of East Baltimore and graduated from Dunbar High in 1983, the game of basketball was both tonic and provider.

In two seasons at Dunbar, playing with friends like David Wingate, Tyrone "Muggsy" Bogues and Reggie Williams, all of whom he would later see again as professionals in the National Basketball Association, Lewis contributed greatly to a team that won 59 straight games and claimed a mythical national title, as determined by USA Today.

His achievements at Northeastern University in Boston, not exactly a basketball factory, were even more impressive. Lewis piled up enough points to become the ninth-leading scorer in the history of major college basketball while leading the Huskies to four straight appearances in the NCAA tournament.

And then he was picked in the first round of the 1987 NBA draft by the cross-town Boston Celtics, one of the most storied franchises in all of sports. He simply hopped on the Green Line and took the subway over to Boston Garden to join the ranks of the great Larry Bird and company. Lewis later signed a five-year contract worth $16.5 million, became an NBA All-Star, and eventually succeeded Bird as captain of the Celtics.

This was all storybook stuff. But neither fame nor fortune would ever be enough to make Lewis feel complete. He would also need to make a difference in this world. As an undergraduate, he had talked about some day being a probation officer so he could help young people in trouble. As a professional athlete, in sharp contrast to what we often see and hear from so many high-profile Generation-X athletes, Lewis not only accepted the responsibility being a role model, he embraced it, even cherished it.

"Which is one of the things I always loved so much about him," says his college sweetheart, now Donna Harris-Lewis, to whom he was married in 1991. "Reggie was always doing something for other people, especially young people."

His charitable efforts were both plentiful and much celebrated: the annual Thanksgiving Day turkey giveaway to help feed the poor; his tireless work with the Boys & Girls Clubs, the NBA Stay in School program, the Governor's Anti-Drug Council, the Walk for Hunger and the Special Olympics; countless visits to schools, hospitals, community centers and city parks, where he would often just stop by, unannounced, to offer his encouragement.

Though subtle and understated - hardly the typical adjectives for a 6-foot-7 scoring machine - Lewis was quietly confident and always engaging. His easy smile was immediately disarming. His interest always seemed to be so genuine.

All of which explains the way former Northeastern president John Curry once defined the dual roles Lewis came to serve in his adopted city of Boston: "Superman on the basketball court and Clark Kent off it." And that was without Curry even knowing about the plan Lewis and a friend named Jon Jennings had been formulating to help fight racism.

Meeting of minds

They grew into the NBA together, Lewis and Jennings. As a young scout and then assistant coach of the Celtics, just three years older than Lewis, Jennings felt that he kept having to prove himself. As a young player, Lewis was trying to fit in with a group of well-decorated veterans - Bird, Kevin McHale, Robert Parish, Dennis Johnson, Danny Ainge - already wearing championship rings.

Lewis and Jennings often huddled to talk basketball. As their friendship developed, though, they talked even more about other things. One of their recurring subjects was race relations. Jennings being white and raised in rural Indiana, which will never be mistaken for East Baltimore, there was always plenty to talk about.

"It was never really contrived, never purposely brought up," Jennings says. "But we discovered a lot about one another - and also about ourselves."

Jennings specifically remembers their conversations during and after the Los Angeles race riots of 1992: "Both of us were very concerned, and we wanted to work with kids in the Boston area. We wanted some type of venue for young people from all racial and ethnic groups to come together, somewhere to discuss their issues and also to celebrate their good works."

What a welcome contribution this would be to a region long associated with racial strife. And so Jennings and Lewis kept kicking around ideas. Unfortunately, their brainstorming was brought to a horrible halt.

Late in the afternoon of July 27, 1993, Lewis collapsed on the floor of a Brandeis University gymnasium, in Waltham, Mass., while lightly shooting baskets during the off-season.

He had already been getting a variety of medical opinions from heart specialists for several months, since suffering a dizzy spell during one game and then suddenly slumping to the floor during another, but there had been no consensus among the experts. Lewis had been living in limbo, wondering if he would ever be cleared to play again for the Celtics.

But now he was fighting for air. When the paramedics arrived, they found Lewis in cardiac arrest. They struggled to raise a pulse, but could not, and then rushed Lewis in an ambulance to nearby Waltham-Weston Hospital.

At 7:30 that evening, Reggie Lewis, young and strong, hooper and humanitarian, devoted husband of Donna, father of baby Reggie Jr. and once again expecting, was pronounced dead at the age of 27.

There would once again be much debate about the medical attention he had received, and especially about the cause of death. There were even news reports - vehemently denied by Harris-Lewis and never proven true - that Lewis might have used cocaine at some point. Ultimately, however, the death certificate would list the cause as adenovirus 2, a virus that can be associated with the common cold as well as much more serious ailments. The certificate stated that the virus had led to inflammation of the heart, widespread tissue scarring and finally cardiac arrest.

The funeral, carried live on both television and radio, was said to be the largest in the history of Boston, with an estimated 15,000 people lining the roadways and viewing the body in Matthews Arena, where Lewis had played for Northeastern. Among the mourners were Sen. Edward M. Kennedy, former Gov. Michael Dukakis, the Rev. Jesse Jackson, and numerous members of the NBA family, including Commissioner David Stern.

Eulogies focused much more on Reggie the person than Reggie the player. And much was made of the tribute drawing an incredibly diverse crowd. Black and white. Small children and senior citizens. Boy Scouts and business people. Dignitaries and homeless folks.

Richard Lapchick, director of the Boston-based Center for the Study of Sport in Society, a man who had spent some 25 years working in the area of race relations, said it was the most uplifting interracial event he had ever seen in the city: "This was no ordinary love affair. This was passion for a man who transcended race and class. One man, one athlete, helped us transcend all the issues that separate us."

And the final resting place Harris-Lewis picked for her husband would always be a poignant reminder of that. Instead of having him buried in what Bud Hanson, president of Forest Hills Cemetery, termed the "high-rent district" known as Milton Hill, she chose a multi-ethnic area called the Garden of Tranquility.

Tribute to a friend

"It was one of the most difficult times of my life," Jennings says, still slowing his speech and lowering his voice when he is asked to talk about it. "It was the first time I ever lost a peer, someone I was that close with."

Soon, after consulting with Harris-Lewis, Jennings decided to develop the Team Harmony concept as a tribute to the memory his friend. Working with the Anti-Defamation League of New England, Jennings secured the support of all four professional sports teams in the area - the basketball Celtics, football Patriots, baseball Red Sox and hockey Bruins - and booked Boston Garden for the first Team Harmony event.

The idea was to help young people realize that regardless of their backgrounds, regardless of skin color, religion, sexual orientation or anything else that might set them apart, they needed to learn to respect each other's differences. There would be speeches and entertainment and plenty of time for youngsters to share their personal stories with each other.

Players and coaches from the four teams would talk about their own experiences and cheer on the students. Then there would be a series of school and community follow-up projects to foster further dialogue and enable Team Harmony participants to reach others with their message.

Even Jennings, ever the optimist, was amazed by the immediate appeal of the program. On Dec. 13, 1994, more than 6,000 students and teachers from 300 schools streamed into Boston Garden for what quickly became an incredibly festive and informative celebration of diversity.

Team Harmony was an even bigger success the second year, with more and more athletes, politicians and business leaders signing on to join the students, and then came a boost in the form of a plug by one of the most influential people in the world. In her 1996 book "It Takes a Village," Hillary Rodham Clinton glowingly cited Team Harmony in her discussion of approaches to promoting affirmative living.

It was only a matter of time before the first lady would be sharing a stage with young Claudy Paul, the Boston student who had been so stunned and hurt by that ugly racial epithet at the bus stop.

Ambassador of Sports

Last summer was a big turning point for both Jennings and Team Harmony. After losing his NBA job when former University of Kentucky coach Rick Pitino took control of the Celtics and cleaned house, and after a semester exploring his love of politics and history at the John F. Kennedy School of Government at Harvard University, Jennings survived a rigorous selection process to become one of 15 White House fellows, the federal government's near equivalent of being a Rhodes scholar.

He routinely prepares what are called "hot issues" briefings for delivery to the Oval Office and works closely with the Justice Department on a variety of matters. Unofficially, though, Jennings might as well be Ambassador of Sports. He has spearheaded several high-profile efforts to engage sports fans in President Clinton's initiative on race, most notably a nationally televised "town meeting" with prominent athletes and coaches. He is always giving some NBA player or college coach a special tour of the White House. And when the Chicago Bulls were in town, Jennings joined the Clintons in the luxury suite of Washington Wizards owner Abe Pollin to watch the game.

It was quite natural, then, that Jennings would invite the Clintons to Boston for Team Harmony. And Mrs. Clinton was able to make it. Last December, much to the delight of the 11,000 students in attendance, she joined a small group of their peers on stage for a panel discussion.

Claudy Paul, by then a senior at Charlestown High, was first to address Mrs. Clinton. After telling her about his initial experience with racism back in the ninth grade, Claudy said, "From that moment, I felt like my dreams were all shattered away from me."

"It was obviously a really shocking event in your life," Mrs. Clinton responded. "Did you ever try to sit down and talk with that young man?"

"Yes, I have," Claudy said. "He was like, 'I'm sorry, but some of my best friends are black. I'm sorry, I lost my temper.' And I learned to forgive him."

"You know, I think it's really important that you did have that conversation and that you gave that young man a chance to tell you he was sorry," Mrs. Clinton said. "Because lots of times we do things that we don't feel very good about a day later or a week later. But if we don't get a chance to express that we are sorry and to change our ways, then we can get hard on the inside, and then we start to justify what we do, don't we?"

Claudy nodded in agreement. He smiled wide and felt so good all over - as though he had just discovered something new within himself. A new voice. One of the many thousands of voices that the memory of Reggie Lewis keeps inspiring.

Someone from NBC called and invited Claudy to New York to retell his story on the "Today" show, which he did. Mrs. Clinton talked about Claudy in a subsequent speech on race relations. And Claudy was flown to Washington for an organizational meeting and sponsor reception as part of a Team Harmony expansion into other cities.

"Team Harmony changed my life, plain and simple," Claudy says now. "It encouraged me to speak out and let my voice be heard. It made me really touch people through my experiences. If we put our heads and hearts together, we really can help to stop racism. I know that the root is deep in the ground, but I also know that together we can pull it out."

It might as well be Reggie Lewis himself speaking these words - and, in a sense, it is - because something very powerful happens when a dead man is still creating voices. The voices end up speaking for him as well, allowing his spirit to keep echoing through the years, and in the case of Lewis, letting us know that, yes, his widow had it exactly right in a poem she once wrote after her husband was gone.

Character is one thing that never dies.

Pub Date: 7/22/98