A wannabe is a person who wants to be somebody. More times than not, they want to be the usual suspects – glitzy stars that flash on the television screens and are glossed over magazine covers.
With their acrobatic moves and gravity defying abilities – so revered and godlike – they are put on a pedestal, where money, fame and power are characteristics the wannabes seek.
Ryan Francis wasn’t a wannabe player. He didn’t grow up with the desire to attain a crossover like Allen Iverson and a roundhouse dunk like Vince Carter, although he was capable nonetheless.
He was a wannabe teacher with an interest in computers.
Basketball was merely a ticket out of the streets, landing him in Southern California.
He wasn’t a wannabe, but a been.
Francis-been a Southern boy that grew up in a single-parent Louisiana home. He-been a respectable young man that addressed his elders with “sir” and “ma’am”. He-been a charmer with a wide-infectious smile. He also been a basketball player – with promise. One that could-a-been revered one day and coulda-been inspiring many kids to wannabe him.
The Baton Rouge product was a guard recruited out of Glen Oaks High School, where in 2005, he led his team to an undefeated season and a 4-A Title.
At USC he was the Trojans’ court general – he started all 30 games – and assisted in a nine-game winning streak, their longest since the 2001-02 season, and defeated three top 25 RPI teams in UCLA, North Carolina and Arizona.
Francis earned honorable mention selection to the All-Pac-10 Freshman team.
His accolades out measured his undersized 5’11” body, and the scrawny kid of only 19 years had a heart beyond his frame.
But his heart came to it’s very last beat before he ever saw his 20th birthday.
Francis was killed in a drive-by shooting this past Mother’s Day weekend in his hometown of Baton Rouge.
His recognition came from the hard asphalt; and so his roundtrip ticket brought him back home, to that Louisiana asphalt where he was shot multiple times by someone that will amount to a never-was.
His locker room cubicle will remain indefinitely empty. To pay homage, his No. 12 jersey will lie in place.
There’s no doubt that an empty cubicle will not be needed to remind the program of its loss.
USC coach Tim Floyd wrote in the media guide:
“A life shouldn’t be measured by its duration, but its donation. All the players thought Ryan was their best friend. All the coaches thought they were the closest to him.”
But what was his donation?
Surely, he wasn’t just another hoop dream or another lost son.
Beyond his abilities on the court, he will forever be remembered by those that knew him as Ryan Francis, the person-not Ryan Francis the player.
No, Francis wasn’t any wannabe. In the end he was a 19-year-old would-a-been. And the only thing that prevented him from being was an ounce of blind lead without feelings, without heart.
