It's just after dawn on a sticky-warm Baltimore Saturday, so for a few more moments, Druid Hill Park can continue its slumber. It's 78 degrees already, headed to 94, the weatherman says. The huge park is all but silent. No one splashes in the swimming pools; the jogging and bike paths are empty. Only the whisper of a breeze off the lake stirs the near-breathless air.

Then, just like that, the stillness is gone. Car doors slam, and the chatter and laughter of five tall, robust black men begin echoing in the air. One man with light ash-brown hair hugs a leather basketball under his arm. It is just after dawn in Druid Hill Park, which means it's time to play ball.

Herb, a k a "Herbie Hancock," unpacks his homemade water bottle. Each night before he comes to the park he freezes water in a large plastic bottle that lost its label long ago. When all the ice has melted, Herb knows it's time for him to head home. By then he'll have played four, maybe five games of full-tilt, full-court basketball on one of the toughest courts in the city.

Players continue to arrive. Some went to bed dressed in their game gear, so all that's left to do is lace up their shoes and get on the court. Most will stay and play and not think of home until sundown.

As players begin warming up, Herb swirls a sip of water in his mouth and swallows. He coughs and hacks, then spits

before stepping onto the blacktop. Someone notices a glob of cocoa butter covering a cut above his sleepy right eye.

"Yo, Herb, what happened to you, man?"

"Some fool hacked me yesterday when I was going up for a rebound," he replies, shaking his head.

In just 20 minutes, the handful of players has grown to a crowd of 40, and the court has come to life. One player unfolds a lawn chair and parks it on the sidelines. Towels, sunglasses, beepers, keys, jewelry and shirts fill holes in the fence.

On the court, balls bang against backboards, and banter fills the air. One player admits to lying to his wife about where he was going this morning. Other conversations cover women, sex, philosophy, tragedies and, of course, basketball.

"Man, Nick Van Exel is a bum!" one player shouts, running down the former Los Angeles Lakers guard. "That's why L.A. is gon' get rid of his sorry [game] ... They gon' be callin' him Nick Van Exile!"

Laughter fills the air.

"OK, fellas, let's shoot 'em up," someone yells.

One by one, the players step up to the free-throw line. This is how the day begins. Make the shot, you play. Miss and you could be sitting on the sideline for hours.

Ten players make the shot. The ball is inbounded. Another day of street ball begins.

From outside the chain-link fences that surround a city's outdoor courts, it is easy to write off street basketball as undisciplined and unorganized - a bunch of guys whose talk is bigger than their game, wannabes and never-weres playing out their unfulfilled hopes and dreams in an atmosphere of trash-talking, drinking and dope-smoking.

But step inside the fence at one of Baltimore's trinity of top outdoor courts - Druid Hill Park, Cloverdale Park, the Dome - and a different picture comes into view: players of all varieties who turn out faithfully, not for fame or money or shoe contracts, but for pride and passion for the game.

In their recent book "Pickup Artists: Streetball in America," Lars Anderson and Chad Millman describe it this way:

"It is one of the grandest theaters in American culture, a place possessed by tragedy, heroism and fate. The stories of the playground and the basketball players who have made their legends there have gone untold. The melodramas of these athletes' lives play out only before the select few who frequent the blacktops."

For most players, though, their relationship with the game is much simpler: They're street-ball addicts.

Among the addicts is Ron Shelley, 41, of East Baltimore. A humanities teacher at the Stadium School, a father of five and a devoted member of the Holy Temple Holiness Church of Deliverance, Shelley is also a former high school and college star whose love for the game is undiminished.

"Comin' out here every week, it's narcotic," Shelley says as he laces up his sneakers at Druid Hill. His anticipation about a day of basketball, he says, begins with the sunrise.

"I wake up and look out the window," says Shelley. "If I can feel the warmth of the sun, that gets my adrenalin running. Out here, you need adrenalin, because you know you're gonna play against the best in Baltimore."

For Daryl Kobi Kemor, a 49-year-old Baltimore writer whose distinctive black and silver dreadlocks swing when he plays, street ball is a release and a joy.

"I love coming out here all the time," he says. "Some guys come out here to get away from the pressures of life, their wives, or just to have fun. What you'll find out here is just a bunch of brothers getting together to hang out and enjoy some real competition and camaraderie."

Here there are no coaches orchestrating the action, just 10 players relying on their own instincts and skills. Day after day, they sprint up and down the hot asphalt - cutting, pushing, passing, setting picks, dribbling and shooting. They'll battle and curse and play through their exhaustion, sweating until their bodies shine and the light is gone.

In Baltimore, Druid Hill and Cloverdale Park in Northwest, and the Dome on Biddle Street in East Baltimore, are the places where players come to worship the game, to make magic, to make moves, to make and break reputations.

The first time Ron Shelley picked up a basketball he was 11. He and his friends didn't have a gym or driveway hoops, so they made baskets from milk crates hung on plywood backboards.

Shelley says he and the guys he grew up with had the worst kind of basketball jones. "Everybody" played basketball, he says. Some kids started dribbling when they could barely walk, and spent their youth chasing a ball and dreaming of making buzzer-beaters to win championships.

Shelley did more than dream. At Edgewood High School, he played with the likes of Dudley and Charles "Tubb" Bradley, brothers who, between them, would later spend 13 years playing professionally in the National Basketball Association. In his senior year, Shelley was an all-state guard when his team won the Maryland championship.

He went on a scholarship to the University of Maryland Eastern Shore, where he earned honorable-mention honors on the Mid-Atlantic Coast Conference all-star team. Undrafted by the NBA, the 6-foot, 215-pound Shelley went on to play in the Baker League, a pro-am league in Philadelphia.

"I played with Adrian Dantley, Fly Williams, Earnest "Ernie" Graham and World B. Free," he says, reciting the names of several NBA stars. To this day, Shelley thinks he might have been able to play in the NBA. But "Destiny had other plans for me," he says with a smile.

It's quite a career to carry into a pickup game. But Shelley knows that on the playground, no one cares about your trophy case, your records, your years in pro leagues. All that matters is what you can do today. That's why, even as he laces up his sneakers and exchanges hellos with other players, he's already got his game face on.

He admits that many things about his game have changed over the years. On the one hand, he's older and wiser. He can see the court better and is more patient, which he thinks gives him a mental edge. But he also knows there are things he can't do

anymore.

"I could dunk back then," he recalls. "I can't do it now. I was quicker, too."

But Shelley still has a seemingly unstoppable long-range jump shot, a shot that has earned him a citywide reputation as a shooting assassin.

As the Saturday morning game gets under way at Druid Hill Park, Shelley takes charge of his team. Then he steps to the top of the key to shoot for first possession. The leather ball arcs through the air and snaps perfectly through the bottom of the net.

One thing Shelley hasn't lost is his confidence.

"I'm one of the greatest shooters in the world," he says, grinning at his opponent. "I can shoot that shot in my sleep."

For a while, the game on Druid Hill's "A" court, the one where mostly older, experienced players like Shelley play, runs smoothly. But after a few baskets the tension builds, and the trash talk begins.

Kemor yells at Shelley to get the ball to "Big Man" under the basket. "Big Man" is Eddie Johnson: a 6-foot-8-inch, 320-pound police officer from Baltimore's Southwest District. Like Shelley, he's played organized ball, at Lake Clifton High and Xavier University.

The defense double-teams Johnson. They grab his arms, lock his elbows, push him - whatever it takes to get around his wide body. Finally, Johnson's had enough. "Foul, man!" he yells.

"Foul?" screams Michael Marks, a loud, irrepressible fireplug of a man. "How can you make that sorry call?"

"C'mon, respect the call," says another player eager to get on with the game.

"I ain't respectin' no ticky-tack fouls!" Marks yells, and walks purposefully to the other end of the court.

It's a classic street-ball moment. With no objective observer supervising the game, everything is up for debate: fouls, traveling calls, double-dribbles - even the score.

"That's the best part of street ball," says Shelley. "There's no refs and no clocks. When you take away all those elements, all that's left is the essence of the game."

Ordinarily, Shelley says, the one who argues his case the best - or the longest and loudest - wins the dispute. But make an outrageous call, he says, and you can expect to get overruled.

"Big Man" finally gets the call, and the ball. He's fortunate. At Cloverdale or the Dome, where the basic rule of play is "no blood, no foul," he'd likely have been hooted off the court.

"You play like a little girl!" Marks yells at Johnson. He may have lost this argument, but he's not about to stop talking trash. In the context of the game, it's as important a weapon as his jump shot.

"But once I step off the court, I'm a totally different guy," he says later, in a soft North Carolina accent. "I work hard. And I'm a nice fellow. All that trash talkin', it's just part of my game."

"A lot of people don't understand that aspect of the game," Shelley says. "It's about trying to get an advantage over who you're playing against I so they can't make their shots or the big plays."

The ball is inbounded. Marks steals it and races down court. Two defenders converge on him near the baseline; as one bumps him from behind, Marks spins away from him, jumps a few feet into the air and launches a long jumper.

Falling backward, he can't see where the shot has gone. But then the defenders turn toward the basket, and Marks, now seated on the asphalt, watches the ball hit nothing but net.

"Damn!" he laughs, getting back on his feet. As he heads back up court, he's still talking trash.

For hours, the games ebb and flow. At times, the only sounds are the ball's slap against the asphalt and the grunts of the players. Amid the rolling lawns and massive trees of the surrounding park, Druid Hill's court seems almost a basketball oasis.

The same can't be said for Cloverdale, surrounded by busy city streets, or the Dome, located in the middle of a crime-ridden neighborhood.

On a typical day at Cloverdale, a boombox blasts music from the late gangsta rapper Tupac Shakur, and an occasional glass bottle shatters against the broken sidewalk. At the Dome, where play generally takes place under the lights, the court is locked during the day to keep out drug dealers.

The courts at Cloverdale aren't as well-kept as those at Druid Hill and the Dome. Most rims don't have nets; most backboards are tilted. But as at the other courts, the bottom line is the same: Who's got game?

A youngster who calls himself Black thinks he does, and isn't afraid to say so. "My J [jump shot] is butter! My J is water! My J is money!" he brags. "When I get in the zone and start raining J's, can't nobody stop me!"

Play slows perceptibly when a new player arrives at the court. He's a scruffier version of the Woody Harrelson character in the playground basketball movie "White Men Can't Jump." A few players glance at each other. It's rare to see a white player on this court.

"Anyone have next [game]?" the new player asks. The question prompts a chuckle, and a joke about "white man's disease" - a fabled lack of jumping ability.

But to the skeptics' surprise, the new player has got a game. He can shoot. He can dribble. He can shake and bake and "break ankles" with his moves. Most

impressive, though - this guy can "talk to God," meaning he can in fact jump, grab rebounds - even dunk.

Women, for the most part, are also suspect at first. Even as college and professional players show how far the women's game has come, the notion lingers that females can't stand up to the toughness of the men's game. But just as a varsity letter or an invitation to a pro tryout means little once a player steps on the court, color and gender usually matter only at first glance.

"When I see a female on the court, I don't think of her as a female," says Ron Shelley. "I see her as a ballplayer. If she comes out here and gets on the court with the big boys, then she's got to hold her own."

Usually, though, the most mocked players are those who arrive dressed like a superstar but lacking a game to match. These are the guys in the Michael Jordan jersey with the matching shorts, the NBA logo ankle socks and the latest pair of Air Jordans, but who can't shoot or dribble to save their lives. For the trash talkers, it's open season.

"You should've saved the money you used on that gear to buy a game!" someone will yell. "You look like a pro, but you play like a scrub."

Real pros do turn out on Baltimore's top courts - city-born and bred players who have made it all the way to the NBA, like Muggsy Bogues, David Wingate, Keith Booth and Sam Cassell. When they return, their first stop is often the Dome at Madison Square Recreation Center, a place where more than one pro got his start.

"The Dome was like being in the Apollo Theatre in Harlem on Amateur Night," says Booth, the former Dunbar High and Maryland star who now plays with the world champion Chicago Bulls. "If you played good basketball, then people came back to see you play. If you didn't, you got yanked off the court."

Most basketball played at the Dome is more organized than the games at Druid Hill and Cloverdale. Annual leagues feature star high schoolers and top area players.

Much of the inspiration for the programs at the Dome comes from the story of one young player whose dreams of basketball stardom ended suddenly, and violently.

In 1985, Craig Cromwell, a 15-year-old East Baltimore resident and Calvert High star, went to a friend's house to watch a game on television. Walking home later that night, he was hit by a stray bullet and killed.

"Cromwell was a really good kid," says William Wells, director of the Dome. "He had a good attitude and good grades."

In Cromwell's memory, Wells decided, the Dome should be a safe haven for other youngsters with dreams of basketball glory. Now each year the Cromwell League showcases more than a dozen of the city's best high school teams. The Dome also plays host to a midnight basketball league that draws 800 to 1,000 people a night.

While a big-time player like Booth helps bring in the crowds, for him returning to the Dome is a reminder of where he started, and how far he's come.

The playground game helped him learn how to play tough, he says. "Getting pushed around helped prepare me for college, for the NBA and for life in general."

But, he adds, he's had to leave some aspects of the street game behind.

"Things you can get away with in street ball you can't get away with in organized ball," he says. "Coaches expect more discipline and things done their way."

For Booth, it's an approach that has paid off.

"Making it to the NBA was my dream come true," Booth says. "That dream began the day I first picked up a basketball."

It's been four hours and five games since play began at Druid Hill Park, and Ron Shelley's shirt and shorts are drenched with sweat. The sun gleams on his wet skin. Shelley reaches for a warm, nearly empty bottle of raspberry Gatorade and says to no one in particular, "I'm tired."

It's been a good day. His team won four out of five games today, taking on a fresh group of players each time.

After 30 years of playing ball, Shelley still can't get enough of the game. He's had stardom and acclaim, he's had a taste of what it's like to play with the pros. What is it about street ball that keeps him coming out?

He answers first by telling you what the playground is not. It's not, he says, a place where players come in hopes of making it to the NBA. You'll find the kids who want that in the indoor gyms, working endlessly on their foul shots and their dribbling. The playground isn't the place to come to hear cheering crowds. It's not a place to dream about never growing up, or to dream about escaping.

For him, the dream that playground players dream is much simpler. "The dream is about mastery and showing your stuff," he says. "The dream is to capture unbelievable moments on the asphalt."

If the pros come out to play, Shelley says, fine. But the playground is not their domain.

"The CBA and the NBA courts may be their domains, but not the playground," he says. "It belongs to the addicts, like me."

Shelley swallows the last of his Gatorade, grabs his keys and heads toward his car. A few of the players have already left; others are gathered under a group of trees, catching a little shade before they go at it again.

It's close to midday; too hot to run another game when there's no breeze, Shelley says. He'll rest instead. This evening, there will be another game here or at Cloverdale, and he'll be there.

Pub Date: 8/09/98