See our slideshow of the youth football league at work and at play.
Photo by Chasen Marshall
Tatum and Carlos Honore (center) didn't grow up Fifth Ward residents, but in a short time they've become fixtures in the community. Tatum is holding son Aaron and their son Ashton is front and center.
Photo by Chasen Marshall
"Leave it open!" the pleas come every time. Packed with pads, helmets, footballs and as many boys as can fit, the bed of Carlos's truck will heat up quick.
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The dark gray Chevy truck rolls backwards onto a fence-enclosed field, with grass the color of hay, in the heart of the Fifth Ward. Front doors open and seven kids pile out; once the hatch to the bed is unlatched, another eight practically pour onto the field.
"Shit, it's hot in there!" one says, wearing a sleeveless shirt, royal blue football pants and beads of sweat about his face. It's after 6 p.m., it's 94 degrees out and the back of the truck doesn't have air conditioning.
"Down!" shouts Carlos Honore, 32, the man driving the truck. The boy drops to the ground and begins doing push-ups.
"'N' word it's 20, if you curse it's 20," another boy explains. He's wearing a red shirt over his pads, with black football pants. He's carrying a gold helmet, with a black fleur-de-lis — the insignia of the New Orleans Saints.
These are the Fifth Ward Saints.
A second truck, this one bronze with a dented fender, pulls up outside the gate, and the five boys sitting in the bed hop out. The truck engine makes an ugly sputtering sound, stalls momentarily and then is off.
The group has grown to nearly 30, some arriving on foot. Many have a stretched-out or oversized T-shirt over their shoulder pads; a few wear jerseys. A couple have cleats, but most wear normal shoes. Football pants are common, but they range in colors: blue, white, black, light yellow, red and gold. With so little congruity, the group hardly looks like a team.
Carlos has the appearance of a former athlete: bald on top, with a hint of a goatee, wearing a gray sleeveless shirt showing his tattooed, muscular arms. The definition in his calves says there's still strength in his legs. A whistle hangs from a black cord around his neck. Standing five feet, 11 inches, he towers over everyone around him. None of the kids are more than 13 years old.
Beyond being a team shuttle, the bed of Carlos's truck also serves as the team's equipment room. He pulls out a bag of footballs and tosses it on the ground, and the boys swarm. He pulls out shoulder pads and helmets, distributing them to the kids who've gathered around him. He stops when a spindly boy with a shaved head approaches.
"Where's your birth certificate?" Carlos asks.
"I'll bring it Thursday," the boy responds.
"I need it before Thursday. Your momma home?"
"Yeah. But she don't have a car."
"I'll take you to get it."
"I live on the south side."
"If I take you, would you know how to get me there?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, I'll take you home after practice."
Carlos hands the boy a set of pads and a helmet. "I need to get you a chin strap." As the boy jogs away, the helmet sways on his head.
While the coaches organize the kids to get practice started, Carlos's wife — Tatum, a tall, attractive woman, usually with a small boy clinging to her leg — has turned the hood of the truck into an office. White forms and manila folders are scattered across the metallic gray surface, head shots of the various players are stacked up and a black binder is open. The binder must be ready for Saturday, the first game of the new season — the teams' second in existence.
By the time everyone has showed up, it's almost 6:30 p.m. and more than 75 kids are on the field. Minutes after the boys have separated into the four age-specific teams (Pee Wee, Preps, Junior Varsity or Varsity), a fight starts outside the gate. One of the Pee Wee coaches and Carlos run over to break it up.
The players always get distracted when fights happen. Some start wandering toward the gate or lock their gaze on the fight mid-drill or when a coach is talking to the group. The coaches will only be so patient; they point to the fight and say that's the alternative.
Stay on the field, be a part of something, or go outside the gate and fight for nothing.
_____________________
Driving the streets of the Fifth Ward in the middle of the day, the looks on many people's faces, as they sit on patios of dilapidated homes, at bus stops or walk down the street, say that something along the way didn't work out as hoped.
It's easy to dismiss the neighborhood as overrun with gangs, drugs, prostitution and poverty. They're a part of the Fifth Ward, but in speaking with the residents and cultural leaders in the predominantly African-American community, it's clear that there's more to this area in northeast Houston.
"Ten years ago, yes, it was a tough place to live; the Bloody Fifth some called it," says Dr. Albert Lemons, the principal at Atherton Elementary and a lifelong Fifth Ward resident. "[Today] it's an area with a variety of cultures, a variety of people; it's a safe environment for kids, it's no longer like it was back in the heyday."
Lemons, 65, was one of the early and primary community supporters of Carlos Honore and his football program. The Fifth Ward didn't have anything like what Carlos was proposing. Lemons introduced the coach to key people in the community, in hopes that others would recognize the contributions the Saints could make to kids and parents.
