Warriors general manager Bob Myers looked ready to play as he waited in the parking lot of San Quentin State Prison. He had on the generic green practice jersey his team was wearing, equally simple black basketball shorts with black compression tights underneath that covered his knees. His white Nikes were well worn. He looked like the basketball addict he is, as if this getup was in the trunk of his Porsche just in case a game popped off.

The truth, though, Myers was ailing. His hip and groin were killing him, enough for him to get it checked out with an MRI.

Assistant general manager Kirk Lacob — the creator of this Warriors’ tradition of staffers playing inmates — is the opposite of Myers. He, too, is struggling with an ailing hip. But he looks like he is struggling. His walk was stiff, the smile on his face contradicted his weary eyes. His hair was in tough-it-out mode.

“I won’t lie to you,” Lacob said. “I do this every year because I like playing. I do feel good giving them this moment. But, mostly, I like playing basketball. And this environment is so unique. The people. The energy. How competitive it is. How much excitement is on the court. You can’t recreate this.”

On top of that, Warriors assistant coach Chris DeMarco, one of the best players on the Warriors staff, couldn’t make the trip. He added himself to the injury list Friday morning. Willie Green, the Warriors assistant coach who once got buckets next to Allen Iverson and dominated the inmates in 2016, skipped this year’s showdown.

Also not ready: JaVale McGee. He missed the car service scheduled to bring him to San Quentin. He took an Uber and was going to be late.

The sixth annual showdown between the San Quentin Warriors and the basketball operations staff of the Golden State Warriors was about to commence.

***

Instantly, the contrast struck me as we walked into San Quentin. It’s such a beautiful scene for such a grim existence. The prison sits right on the edge of the San Rafael Bay. This Friday morning was especially clear and picturesque. Blue skies. Green hills. Beige bricks.

This was my first time attending this annual affair. Most of the people involved were regulars. I worked hard erecting my facade so I could appear unfazed as if I, too, were a regular. Inside: I was an emotional Rubik’s Cube.

I was excited about another cool journalism opportunity. Frustrated because I knew once we got inside those walls, I would see a lot of people who look like me. Nervous because the prep-talk we had included a lot of rules, a lot of don’ts. Irritated because we couldn’t take anything in: no wallet, no phone, no inhaler. Three hours without my phone? Withdrawal is no joke.

Guilty, definitely, because I never visited my cousin when he was here.

Warriors general manager Bob Myers chats with Rahsaan “Sportswriter” Thomas, right, after the Warriors’ basketball operations staff played inmates for the sixth consecutive year. (Eddie Herena/ San Quentin News)

There are multiple layers, and stereotypically steel bars, to get through before arriving at the yard. It’s a spectacle when the Warriors contingent enters the part of the prison where the inmates are — a mass of hugs, smiles and energy as prisoners greeted Myers & Co. at the top of an incline overlooking the entire yard.

The San Quentin media crew kicks into high gear. Rahsaan Thomas, a proud New York native who the Warriors brass dubbed “Sportswriter,” asked questions with the warmest grin. Another man, Shakur, was the on-site reporter assigned to conduct the on-camera interviews.

Beaming at all of it: Bill Epling, a software executive who runs the Prison Sports Ministry that orchestrates the Warriors’ visit, and Don Smith, an engineer from the same ministry who served as the guide. They are regulars volunteering at San Quentin. It is clear they fully comprehend the importance of this event to the inmates.

“You’re just empathetic,” Myers said, trying to explain his feelings. “You don’t judge because you can probably trace to where (all their problems) started. Unfortunately, many of these guys didn’t start with the same opportunities. It’s sad. They probably don’t feel like many people care. So we do this to let them know people do care.”

The Warriors brought the Larry O’Brien Championship Trophy. Officers from the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation served as Larry’s bodyguard.

One inmate walked up to it like it was his. And no one stopped him. They actually celebrated his moment with the trophy. He grabbed it. Hugged it. Took pictures with it. They call him Wall Street.

“I told Bob to bring the trophy, I gotta get my hands on it,” Wall Street said. “So when they pulled it out, I had to. I’ve been waiting for that.”

They call Curtis Carroll “Wall Street” because he is a financial guru. He arrived in San Quentin when he was 16 and has served 21 years of his 54 years-to-life bid. Inside, he learned how to read and trade stocks. He now teaches financial literacy and his philosophies on money and his story is inspiring enough to land him a Ted Talk.

McGee arrived just before the Warriors departed for the basketball court. The introductions went into overtime as the Warriors backup center got the full greeting from the inmates: pictures, hugs, awe-filled stares, kind words and interviews. Finally, the pack started the walk down the incline to the court, which was already teeming with anticipation.

***

The first thing I saw when I walked in was eight Latino men lined on the cement. Their shirts had been taken off, folded and put in front of them on the ground. It was padding for their hands. They dropped down, did some push ups, stood back up and checked out the spectacle at the entrance. Then they dropped down again for more push ups.

In the distance, on a pull-up bar on the far side of the yard, one tatted man was working out alone. But he wasn’t doing pull-ups. He was sitting in mid-air, his feet crossed and his head peeking over the bars, and swinging horizontally using just the strength of his arms. It looked like a work out drill fit for a world-class gymnast. There are no weights in San Quentin. All calisthenics. And this guy was advanced. He stopped mid-workout, without letting himself down from the bars, holding his position, and watched the scene at the top of the hill. Eventually, he resumed.

Oh, this was prison. For real.

You cannot miss the prevalence of black and brown faces. I know the statistics. I was raised in an environment where people receiving jail time was more normal than people receiving college degrees. It is still jarring when you see it in real life. It was a reminder that prisons are filled with people and not just statistics. And that truly hits home when you can see your face in theirs.

Even more jarring: there are so many young faces. It is heartbreaking.

I was trying to be cool, but I was getting choked up. I literally had to stop and pray. I felt smothered by the reality I was witnessing. Usually, thankfulness takes over when thinking about how I’d escaped this fate. But this wasn’t thankfulness overwhelming me. It was anger. The vivid illustration of how overexposed I was to this possibility brewed an indignation within. A few dumb choices, I could have easily been one of those faces staring at us. Or, simply caught up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

From the top of this incline, the macro view of all this was ever so clear — this is the fruit from the institution of mass incarceration. Some of them never had a chance. We were looking down into a valley of dead dreams, poisoned potential, strangled by systemic prejudice and consuming poverty. Due to circumstances beyond my control, and without any consideration to my ability or ambition, I was more likely to end up in prison than to end up a journalist. The visual of how vulnerable I was, picturing this alternate universe of mine, was truly upsetting.

I knew I shouldn’t have watched the documentary “13th” again before this trip. Get it together, Marcus. You have an article to finish.

Allan “Black” McIntosh drives on Warriors video intern Khalid Robinson. (Eddie Herena/ San Quentin News)

The vibe was that of a family reunion at Rucker Park. Music was blasting. Spirits were high. Old acquaintances were renewed. There was a digital clock on the side of the court with the team benches. On the opposite sideline, the score was being kept on a flip chart.

Microphones were hooked to a subwoofer. The three broadcasters, one of them ABC’s sports guru Larry Beil, sat in chairs on a platform wearing headsets. A hand-painted banner read “The Show” in graffiti, the work of the inmates media program. When the game tipped off, that’s where the star of the event could be found.

Everybody calls him Showtime. But SoCal native Aaron Taylor likes to think of himself as the black Chick Hearn. After all, that’s who inspired his love of play-by-play.

He was 22 when he sprained his ankle, keeping him off the blacktop of Overland Park just outside of Culver City. He went to the park anyway and watched. The commentary he offered from the sidelines felt natural.

When he first got locked up, he said depression left him practically paralyzed. Another inmate, trying to encourage Taylor, let him know about the basketball games going down. He started doing play-by-play for games at Centinela State Prison, and what became evident was the decline of the violence and tension on the yard. Showtime’s humor and wit changed the mood.

He got to San Quentin and wound up doing play-by-play for all the sports: basketball, the baseball All-Star game, the “Madden NFL” video game tournament.

“If they’re shooting marbles, I’m doing some play-by-play,” Taylor, 51, said. “To be honest, I’ma brag on myself, this game ain’t (nothing) until I start talking. I bring life to the game, excitement. I make you play better because you want me to say your name. I make you play better because you don’t want me roasting you.”

Taylor wasn’t able to make the Warriors’ first visit in 2012. Working in the chow hall, his duties included serving the death row inmates. The same day as the Warriors’ visit, his boss was sick. Death row inmates must be served, and since he was the only one who knew their system of delivery, Taylor had to run the service. He wasn’t there to call the inaugural, historic matchup.

But he was there for 2013 and hasn’t missed since. His expertise at the craft is evident. His fluid ability to describe what is happening gives it a professional feel. But his nicknames and one-liners are like an improv comedy show.

After a Kirk Lacob 3-pointer: “That was in the face. A deep facial exfoliation.”

When Myers shuffled his feet on a post move: “Bob Myers did a bunny hop in the pea patch and the refs didn’t see it. But I did.”

When Larry Beil asked why they gave the name “3.5” to Andre Belion: “Because that’s his basketball IQ.”

When Warriors video intern Khalid Robinson got knocked to the concrete on a drive: “Dr. Khalid, we have excellent medical care here at the TTA (Treatment Triage Area). Obamacare is still in effect here.”

When Kirk Lacob’s younger brother Kent followed a sweet drive in traffic with an obvious traveling violation the next time down: “He did the Eurostep last time. This time he needed his Samsonite.”

When Myers got fouled shooting a three: “Bob Myers couldn’t make those free throws if they offered parole. Do they fine GMs for missing three free throws?”

When the refs missed an obvious foul in transition: “That’s what happens when you commit a crime in front of everybody. Nobody sees it. They gotta catch it on video.”

“Everything I’m doing,” Taylor said, “is an homage, compliment and tip of the hat to the great Chick Hearn.”

***

One of the first realities to jump out at you is the crazy talent inside this prison. Actually, how great the view is jumps out first. The hills overlooking the yard, on a clear day, is like the view from the picture window of a house in the hills. JaVale and I were wondering whether it was torturous, to be in such a beautiful setting yet confined in these walls, or a benefit, since they get break time in fresh air right off the Bay with views that can make it easy to mentally escape.

Anyway, after the scenery, the talent stands out. It should be an obvious thing. Of course they have talents, right? They are people just like you and me. But it’s just not something you think about, which points to how successfully inmates are demonized. We are conditioned to think that prisoners are inhuman, unredeemable. Their kindness shatters those perceptions.

As soon as we made it to the court, a man named Double RR walked up to me and Antonius Cleveland, one of the Warriors’ training camp invites. He handed Cleveland a deck of cards and commenced to doing a series of tricks worthy of MGM Grand. Then there was Harry Goodall Jr., who has his own business selling handmade greeting cards and drawings.

Showtime sat next to Beil, a former “SportsCenter” anchor, and stole the show. Wall Street can break down mergers and acquisitions. And one player they call ATL had a pristine blend on his mohawk fade, a la James Harden, as if he had a celebrity barber.

McGee played dominoes with inmates off to the side and got schooled something vicious. In 2016, Draymond Green spent nearly all three hours at the domino table, talking trash with inmates. Next to the dominoes is a chess game where you better bring it to have a shot. And, I promise, homie on the pull-up bars was ready to compete for gold on the rings in the 2020 Summer Olympics.

It was pretty impressive. Not just that they have talent, but that despite their circumstances, they were able to let their talents flourish. Movies and television shows have us thinking life in prison is exclusively about not getting shanked or raped. But these inmates revealed a resilience that defies reason.

Eventually, Shakur, the designated sideline reporter, made his way to interview me. He was like a pro: smiling and warm, engaging questions, strong eye contact. It was clear why he was the on-camera interviewer.

Then I learned his story.

His name is Tommy Ross. A Los Angeles gang member, he caught a murder conviction when he was 19. Four days after a crime he has since talked about publicly, his mother and little brother were killed in retaliation. This was back in September of 1985.

How is he smiling? Ever. Imagine the fortitude it takes to hold onto the warmth inside when guilt and hopelessness is trying to hollow you out.

Pictured left: Warriors’ JaVale McGee carrying the trophy into the prison. Picture right: A view of the court from behind the sidelines. (Eddie Herena/ San Quentin News)

The Golden State squad controls the game early. Luke Loucks, another video intern, and Myers carried the Warriors, with Robinson doing some damage to the San Quentin Warriors. But it was clear the the inmates were hungry. They had the deeper squad. Myers & Co. only brought eight players. Meanwhile, the San Quentin squad was going 10-12 deep. Most of them were in great shape and physical, if not as skilled as the Warriors role players.

Golden State thrived in transition and in the occasional spots when they moved the ball in the halfcourt set. But in the second half, the inmates got even more aggressive on defense. The visitor’s offense became basically 3-pointers and Myers’ putbacks. When Loucks — who Showtime called “Luke The Force,” as in Skywalker — started hitting deep jumpers, it looked as if the hosts were in trouble.

But Jason Jones — a stocky point guard they call Octagon, who plays a lot like Khalid El-Amin of Connecticut Huskies fame — kept applying pressure with his drives to the basket. He consistently got into the middle of the defense and set up good shots for his teammates. Eventually, the shots started falling. Back-to-back 3-pointers, one by Tarrion “Ice Breaker” Hart and another by Joshua “J-Buzzy” Burton, put the San Quentin Warriors ahead 86-80 in the fourth quarter. They changed the entire tide of the game.

The Golden State staffers trailed 96-91 inside of two minutes left. During their timeout, Sportswriter came over to the visitor’s bench to get the scoop from Kent Lacob, the general manager of the G-League Santa Cruz Warriors.

“What’s the plan?” Rahsaan “Sportswriter” Thomas asked, his pen and notepad ready for the answer.

“I can’t tell you that,” the younger Lacob responded.

“What you mean you can’t tell me?” Sportswriter rebutted, his arms spread wide.

“You’re the opponent,” Kent said.

“I got a hundred (dollars) on them,” Sportswriter said with his wide grin and spacious eyes, “but I’m on your side.”

The San Quentin Warriors led by two in the final seconds. But Cornell Shields fouled Khalid Robinson shooting a 3. The home team and its fans, who lined the perimeter of the court, were livid at the call, made by one of their own.

Robinson hit all three free throws. Golden State took the lead. On the inbounds, Shields — whose nickname on the court is “Fatality” — went coast to coast. He grew up in Oakland, playing pickup games against Damian Lillard. He knows how to get a bucket. Angry about the foul called against him, he was determined to exact revenge. He looked out of control until he got inside the paint, where he twisted around a defender and scooped a layup that bounced off the glass, off the rim and in.

“I trusted my guys,” inmates coach Rafael Cuevas, a Daly City native, said after the game. “I wasn’t calling a timeout. Not at all. Our guys have heart.”

Golden State had six seconds to retaliate and quickly inbounded the ball, passing it up court. It wound up in Myers’ hands on the left side of the key. Myers backed his man and tried to spin towards the middle for the game-winner. He lost the ball. Time expired. The inmates won.

“It felt good to come through for my team,” Shields said. “I knew I had to step up. I knew I would get it done. I don’t know — it’s just in me. It’s been in me since I was 18.”

***

This next moment hit me like a brick.

Shields, who when not playing basketball just goes by Corn, was all smiles after the game. The happiness shined through his eyes. It was an ambiance of chaotic joy on the court, and he was basking in the glow. I wanted to interview him like I would Stephen Curry, punctuate this highlight for him. I had him to walk me through the game-winning shot, asked him to break down his overall performance, solicited his take on what this win meant for the team. All the usual postgame questions the pros get.

When I finished my questions, he had one for me. He asked if he could shout out some people.

First was Brenda Jackson, his mother. “Her funeral was today.” Then it was his wife, Brittiany Shields, and his two-year old, Aseem.

After I got all the spellings of their names, I doubled back on the note about his mother. I heard what he said before, but I thought I knew what he meant.

“So today is the anniversary of your mom’s death?” I asked.

“No, today is her funeral,” he corrected me. “She died last week. I dedicate this game to her.”

I just can’t. This is too heavy.

Kent Lacob, general manager of the G-League Santa Cruz Warriors, sails in for a left-hand layup. (Eddie Herena/ San Quentin News)

The man they call ATL, built like he was chiseled from the dreams of an NBA GM in need of a wing, couldn’t contain his emotions. About 6-foot-6 and 240 pounds, all muscle, he was strong enough to bull through the chest of Myers. To rise up in the paint despite players hanging on him. But not to hold back the tears.

The San Quentin Warriors had won a nail biter. For just the second time in the six years of the annual competition, the inmates had beaten the team of Golden State Warriors staffers. And they pulled it out in the final seconds, leading to a celebration that resembled a championship. They mobbed each other on the court, crashing into a gate topped with barbed wire.

But ATL wasn’t in the mob, instead off to the side. His joy didn’t manifest in bouncing and screams. It filled his heart. It suffocated his words. It surfaced in tears.

“God is so … ,” he screeched out before stopping, pinching his nose with his right hand as another tide of emotion hit. “I’m just so blessed.”

This wasn’t just a win. This was triumph. This was proof he had the capacity to succeed, an overwhelming example of how doing the right things pay off. This was validation. For this moment, ATL — whose real name is Harry Smith — paid a stiff price.

After starring at Chamblee Charter High, about 15 miles outside of Atlanta, he played JUCO ball at Northwest Shoals in Alabama. He averaged just under eight points in the 2007-08 season. He said he was supposed to transfer to a Division I school in North Dakota before the coaching staff that recruited him left. The coach invited him to the school they were going to, but it was Division II. That wasn’t in line with his NBA dreams. Smith could’ve just played at Clark Atlanta University if he wanted to play Division II.

So instead, he wound up way in California at Modesto Junior College. He then walked on at San Francisco State.

The streets lured him during his time in Cali. In a San Quentin News article, Smith said he was involved in sex trafficking. Somehow or another, he wound up in prison in 2010. San Quentin, the truth about himself, it has humbled him.

Now, he is on track to be released in March, which if all goes well makes this his last game. Still young. Still vibrant. Still hopeful. After years of working on the kind of man he wants to be, he can see the payoff. After putting so much work trying to lead a clean, holy life, this feeling is proof it was worth it.

This win over the Warriors was a metaphor for his growth. It took discipline, maturity, composure. The rising temperatures, the pressure of the game, the height and skill of Myers, the pride on the line, the months of practice, the side wagers, the hilarious announcer, the tension of a close game — they all merged to create adversity. And they overcame. Smith carried them, Shields got them across the finish line.

“I thank God I went to prison,” ATL said, wiping away tears with the back of his thumb. “I wouldn’t be the man I am today. I’m way more humbler than I was. The arrogance I had, the pride. God used this situation to build character, to build me into the man I have to be. I’m just so blessed.“

***

Like rain cleanses the air, ATL left me with the freshness of clarity.

This moment, to normal eyes, might seem so trivial. They won a scrimmage on blacktop, beating a collection of recreational hoopers. For most, it looked like fun. For ATL and his teammates, it felt like freedom.

It was as powerful as it was brief. Knowing it was fleeting, they savored it. And their gratitude for the simplest of pleasures underscored what I take for granted. Not having my phone for three hours felt like struggle. They were grateful for three minutes of bliss. It was inspiring to witness ATL have this moment, to experience the tenderness of his joy. I’m really pulling for him.

He wiped his eyes, shook my hand and left to go spend some time with Myers and Kirk Lacob. I took a step back to just soak in the scene, appreciate what was happening. This scene was a fitting punctuation for the humanity that was on display. The conversations were so fulfilling. The positivity in the air, among people with decades of incarceration under their belt, and decades left to go, was moving. This right here is why the Warriors keep doing this. It feels good that they feel so good.

“I love talking to Black,” Kirk Lacob said, referring to his buddy Allan McIntosh. “I don’t know what he did. But when I talk to him, he’s just a good dude.”

While the inmates were gathering on the court for group pictures, the alarm went off again. All of the inmates had to stop where they were and get down. The visitors aren’t supposed to get down. That’s a way of making it clear they are not prisoners. In the middle of his uplifting moment, ATL had to get down.

Just like that, he was reminded where he was. Of who he was. A prisoner.

Just like that, my anger was back. I was standing. It was obvious I was not a prisoner. But the difference between me and the men sitting doesn’t feel so obvious.

“Black success stories lend credence to the notion that anyone, no matter how poor or how black you may be, can make it to the top, if only you try hard enough,” Michelle Alexander wrote in her book “The New Jim Crow.” “Whereas black success stories undermined the logic of Jim Crow, they actually reinforce the system of mass incarceration. Mass incarceration depends for its legitimacy on the widespread belief that all those who appear trapped at the bottom actually chose their fate.”

I’m not prepared to argue that, on an individual basis, the people who committed crimes didn’t choose their fate, even if their choice was born of their unfortunate environment. I’m just not comfortable making excuses for people who commit terrible crimes. Several of these inmates I spoke with even denounced their former behaviors.

But this trip inside was a peek into the factory. This felt like a systemic operation at work. As I walked out of San Quentin with the Warriors contingent, the same question still gnaws at me: Did these inmates slip through the cracks of society, or did I slip through the cracks of the fate that was meant for me?

Harry “ATL” Smith scoops up a loose ball ahead of Myers and turned it into a break-away dunk. That set up the game-winner by Cornell “Fatality” Shields, seen holding the trophy next to Myers in the top photo. (Eddie Herena/ San Quentin News)

— Reported from San Quentin State Prison