(BALTIMORE – August 3, 2026) – Dwayne “Kosher” Wood was standing outside a basketball camp when I called him.
That detail says almost everything.
Decades after Baltimore basketball helped shape and protect him, Kosher is still around the game, still around the children, and still trying to provide the next generation with some of what his generation received.
This time, however, the young people would not have to pay for it.
“When we do stuff, I like for the kids to have no cost,” Wood said. “Because when we came up, everything—we didn’t have to come out of our pocket. Our parents didn’t have to come out of their pockets.”
That principle is central to the work of Wood, Gregory Branch and the Talley Ho Foundation. Their tournaments, camps and community programs are not simply about putting basketballs in children’s hands. They are creating spaces where young people can encounter Baltimore’s living history.
They want the children to meet the men and women who paved the way.
They want them to understand that the game did not begin with social media, shoe deals, mixtapes or highlight videos. Long before those things existed, Baltimore’s courts were producing legends—and Baltimore’s neighborhoods were producing the people who helped those legends survive.
As Kosher and I talked, another of those legends, Keith Goodie, joined the conversation.
Suddenly, it was no longer an interview.
It became an oral history.
Greg Branch and the Work Behind the Scenes
Kosher was determined to give Gregory Branch his flowers.
“Greg don’t get a lot of credit,” he said.
According to Wood, Branch is continually thinking about how to give something back to the community while keeping programs affordable for families.
“He’s always talking and trying to give back to the community,” Wood said.
Baltimore loves the visible figures—the great players, winning coaches and recognizable names. But the city’s basketball tradition has also survived because of people working behind the scenes: securing gym space, organizing schedules, finding uniforms, raising money, contacting former players and making certain the children can participate.
That is part of what the Talley Ho Foundation represents.
The organization is not merely preserving basketball. It is preserving access.
That distinction matters. A child cannot be shaped by a gym he cannot enter. A family cannot benefit from a program it cannot afford. And Baltimore’s basketball tradition cannot continue if its history is never introduced to another generation.
The Men Who Set the Foundation
Our conversation began with Mr. William Wells.
I had recently interviewed Wells, the legendary former St. Frances Academy basketball coach who amassed more than 500 victories during a 28-year career. But numbers alone do not explain his importance.
“He set the foundation,” Kosher said.
Wells possesses the kind of knowledge that cannot be found in a box score. He remembers the players, coaches, gyms, neighborhoods and relationships that created Baltimore basketball as we knew it.
More importantly, he understood that basketball was never the final destination.
“It wasn’t even about basketball,” Kosher said of the older men who guided his generation. “Basketball wasn’t their problem. They told us about life—how to be better people.”
That is the lesson behind this entire series.
The most important question is not always what a young person does on the court. It is what that young person does after leaving it.
Men such as Wells and the late Mr. Lee understood that coaching did not end at the baseline. They exposed young players to discipline, responsibility and possibilities beyond their immediate surroundings.
“We owe them,” Kosher said.
The debt is now being repaid through service.
When the Legends Come Back
At the Legends Tournament, young players were able to watch the men whose names have circulated through Baltimore basketball for generations.
Some came to compete. Others came to encourage. All of them brought history into the building.
After one team lost, former McDonough standout and NBA draft pick Al Leslie spoke with the players. His message was simple: Losing was not the end of the world. They had to return to work.
“You’ve just got to work harder,” Kosher recalled.
That brief interaction demonstrated why the presence of older players matters. A young athlete may hear the same instruction from a parent or coach, but it can carry a different weight when it comes from someone who survived the journey himself.
The young people could see men in their 60s still connected to the game and one another. They could observe what basketball relationships look like after the cheering stops.
That is what Kosher wants them to witness.
“That’s what it’s all about,” he said. “They see those guys who paved the way for them.”
For some grown men, merely stepping onto the court at the Dome was an emotional experience. Kosher remembered players in their 40s who had never competed there. They took photographs and called their families.
“It’s a big deal,” he said.
He did not have to convince me.
I came out of Easterwood Park. When somebody tells me to come to the Dome, I understand what that means. Certain buildings are more than recreational facilities. They are sacred ground within Baltimore’s basketball culture.
They Knew They Were Going to Dunbar
Kosher and Goodie belonged to a generation for whom Dunbar High School was not simply one educational option among many.
It was the destination.
“We already knew at eight or nine years old that we were going to Dunbar,” Kosher said.
That statement stopped me.
At eight or nine, I did not know where I would attend high school. But Kosher and the boys around him had already watched older players make the journey. They had attended games in Dunbar’s old gym. They had seen what the school represented and imagined themselves becoming part of it.
Dunbar was producing more than basketball players. It represented Black achievement, discipline and belonging.
I had attended Baltimore Polytechnic Institute before transferring to Dunbar. Poly challenged me academically, but Dunbar allowed me to become a whole person. At Dunbar, I found another dimension of myself—socially, culturally and personally.
Kosher and Goodie understood exactly what I meant.
Dunbar gave us something that cannot be captured fully by championships. It gave generations of Black boys a place where they could envision themselves becoming men.
Basketball as Protection
Baltimore was a tough city then, just as it is now.
The difference was that many young athletes were surrounded by a network of adults, older brothers, coaches, neighbors and even street figures who insisted that certain children remain on the right path.
“We were protected,” Kosher said.
If the people in the neighborhood recognized that a boy was seriously trying to accomplish something, they would not allow anyone to interfere with him. Older men might have been caught in their own struggles, but they still warned the young ballplayers against following them.
They knew which children belonged in the gym.
“They better not catch you on the corner,” Kosher recalled.
Basketball created a kind of safe passage. It allowed young men to cross boundaries that otherwise divided neighborhoods. Kosher remembered traveling into communities where outsiders could not simply walk without knowing someone.
But basketball gave him relationships.
If you were with the right person, you were all right.
That was the hidden power of the game. It connected Lafayette Courts, the Somerset area, Gardenville, East Baltimore, West Baltimore, Annapolis and communities throughout the region. The gym became neutral territory, and the players developed a network much larger than a single housing project or street corner.
The Truth About the Projects
Outsiders frequently describe Baltimore’s former public housing communities as though they contained nothing but danger and despair.
Kosher remembers something more complicated.
Many of the families around him had both mothers and fathers in the household. Children could eat at their friends’ homes. They had clean clothes, food, structure and adults who knew them.
“We ate every day,” he said. “We had clothes. We were clean—soap and water.”
They did not think of themselves as poor.
“We felt like we had been rich all our lives,” he said.
That richness was not measured by bank accounts. It was found in relationships, supervision, shared meals and the knowledge that adults beyond your own parents were paying attention.
That does not erase the poverty, violence or drugs that eventually devastated many Baltimore communities. It does, however, challenge the lazy assumption that nothing good existed there.
The projects produced families, scholars, workers, coaches and some of the finest basketball players Baltimore has ever seen.
They also produced Dwayne “Kosher” Wood.
Geography, Fear and Discovery
Baltimore’s neighborhood lines were real.
People from Lafayette did not casually wander into every other community, and outsiders did not simply walk through Lafayette. You had to know somebody.
When I first visited Lafayette Courts as a Dunbar student, I was scared. But once inside an apartment, I saw wall-to-wall carpeting, large sofas, televisions and families living lives that did not resemble the frightening images outsiders had created.
The people inside were wondering who we were, just as we were wondering about them.
It taught me an enduring lesson: Do not judge people based on what you think you know about their address.
Kosher understood. Basketball had taught him the same thing.
The game brought young people from different economic circumstances into contact. Some lived in public housing. Others came from Gardenville, which Kosher remembered as relatively comfortable. Still others lived in large West Baltimore homes that looked like mansions to children accustomed to rowhouses and apartments.
On the court, those differences did not disappear, but they became less important than whether you could play.
Baltimore’s Forgotten Recruiting Network
The conversation with Kosher and Goodie also uncovered another important part of Baltimore basketball history: the recruiting pipeline that existed long before recruiting became an online industry.
Programs and coaches throughout the region knew where Baltimore’s best young players could be found. Catholic and private schools—including Cardinal Gibbons, Loyola and McDonogh—watched the neighborhood leagues and recreation programs closely.
Players moved through youth teams, winter leagues and BNBL competition. Some eventually attended Dunbar. Others were recruited into private-school programs.
Kosher recalled players coming from throughout Baltimore and as far away as Annapolis to compete. He mentioned names such as Norman Black and Dale Simon as part of the broader basketball circuit that connected the region.
The talent pool was deep because the children played throughout the year and because knowledgeable adults were constantly developing them.
Baltimore did not accidentally become a basketball city.
There was a system.
It was not written down, formally branded or managed through a centralized organization. It lived through coaches, recreation centers, neighborhood teams, school gyms and word of mouth.
People knew where the players were.
More importantly, the players knew where they wanted to go.
The Ones Who Made It Out
Our conversation turned toward the difficult paths that many members of our generation faced.
Drugs destroyed lives across Baltimore. Cocaine, heroin and the violence surrounding the drug economy consumed talented people who might otherwise have had very different futures.
Some of us were exposed to things no child should have witnessed. Some became addicted. Some were incarcerated. Some never made it home.
Kosher could have taken another path.
He did not.
That does not mean he escaped Baltimore untouched. None of us did. The trauma stayed with many people even after they left the city or achieved success elsewhere.
That is why I resist criticizing legends for not appearing in Baltimore often enough to satisfy everyone. Baltimore can be demanding of the people who survive it. We want them to return, but we do not always consider what returning may require emotionally.
Muggsy has continued giving to young people, in Baltimore and in Charlotte. His service still matters. A person does not cease representing Baltimore because he builds a life somewhere else. Easily, I could choose to set up shop in Atlanta. It’s a second home. However, that doesn’t mean I don’t love Baltimore. It doesn’t mean I won’t return. But I am quite sure I don’t owe anyone an explanation because I have given back and always will. That’s how we were raised and don’t need reminders.
Kosher agreed.
“You ain’t going to never please everybody,” he said.
The fact that these men survived, built lives and continued helping young people is itself a form of giving back.
Ordinary Men Who Did Extraordinary Things
One of the recurring themes in these conversations is humility.
Muggsy Bogues has described himself as an ordinary person who was fortunate enough to make it. But those who watched him work know fortune is not the whole story.
He was told he was too small at nearly every stage. He worked anyway.
The odds were stacked against him. He kept chopping them down.
Kosher and Goodie come from that same Baltimore tradition—not necessarily because they shared Muggsy’s professional career, but because they understand the persistence behind it.
They did not become legends simply because they could play basketball.
They became legends because they survived, remembered and returned.
Kosher said they regularly used a term whenever Muggs’ name would come up, “Against All Odds.” Everywhere he went, he won against all odds. That impeccable determination is exemplary of the Poet spirit.
Keeping the Game Going
Near the end of our conversation, Kosher spoke about opposition—the people who do not want to see community efforts succeed, no matter how sincere the intentions may be.
His conclusion was direct.
“We’re going to keep kicking,” he said. “The game has to go on.”
That may be the most important line in this chapter.
The game has to go on because the children still need somewhere to play. They still need adults who know their names. They still need to meet the men and women whose accomplishments prove that their neighborhood does not determine the limits of their lives.
The game has to go on because Baltimore’s history cannot be reduced to crime statistics, abandoned buildings or stories told by people who never lived here.
The game has to go on because William Wells, Mr. Lee and countless neighborhood coaches created something worthy of preservation.
Now Dwayne “Kosher” Wood, Keith Goodie, Gregory Branch and the Talley Ho Foundation are carrying it forward.
And my assignment is clear.
My position is no longer on the court. My position is to cover the story—to document the names, preserve the memories and let the world know that Baltimore basketball has its own history, its own heroes and its own news coverage.
Kosher understood.
We all have a position to play.
The legends return. The elders teach. The children watch. The organizers keep the doors open.
And I tell the story.
Because the game has to go on.
