In the wake of a fatal shooting, a college coach shows the essence of true leadership

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Amira McCleod was going to spend Thanksgiving at her coach’s home, and she did not want to hear another word about it. McCleod never asked Damel Ling if he was fine with this arrangement. On the first day of October practice, she marched into his office and told him how the holiday would go down.

This counted as progress at Monroe University, major progress. As a freshman last year, McCleod seemed disconnected from her team while spending most of her time on the bench. She struggled with the adjustment to college life and to Ling’s tough-love approach.

“We butted heads about a lot of stuff,” the coach said, “partly because she was stubborn like me.” Ling wondered over the summer if McCleod would even return to school, and sure enough, she made it back as a much more committed athlete and student.

“A completely different person,” Ling said.

Everyone noticed. McCleod’s teammate, Moryliz Marquez, asked her if she had been working out with NBA players and training with Michael Jordan. Ling charged his sophomore guard to start stacking good days, one on top of the other, and she responded by stacking good weeks. McCleod made the starting lineup as a tenacious 5-foot-3 defender who could cover opponents seven inches taller in the post, and a bond was formed with the 6-foot-3 coach who had loved her competitive spirit from the first time he saw her play at Lincoln High in Jersey City.

Bearded and bald and built like an NFL offensive lineman, Ling is an imposing limb from the coaching tree of Bob Hurley Sr., the legendary (and legendarily volatile) Naismith Basketball Hall of Famer who once built tiny St. Anthony of Jersey City into the finest high school boys team in America. Ling works a sideline like his former St. Anthony’s boss, and McCleod came to terms with his delivery in Year 2 in the Bronx.

“If I got on her hard the day before,” Ling said, “she walked into my office the next day with a smile on her face.”

And that smile was something else. Lit up every room she walked into, her teammates and coaches kept saying. It didn’t matter that McCleod was playing at the non-scholarship Division III level of juco ball at a school planted under elevated train tracks a few miles from Yankee Stadium. She was chasing big-league dreams.

“We’re definitely going to win a chip this year,” she told her teammate at Monroe and Lincoln, Salimah Williams.

The business administration major and Kyrie Irving fan wanted to win the national championship this March in Texas, spend her final two seasons at a four-year school near her mother’s Baltimore home, play professionally overseas, and someday own a clothing and sneaker store. Her goals seemed within reach on the afternoon of Saturday, Nov. 22, when her 10th-ranked Express beat Dutchess Community College to improve to 8-1.

She was the third Monroe starter introduced by the public address announcer that day at the school’s New Rochelle gym. Number Eleven, A-meeer-ahh Ma-Cloud. She bounced off the bench in her gold uniform, high-fived teammates, coaches and officials, and then played the game, as they say, like it was her last.

McCleod was constantly around the ball, finishing with four steals and four rebounds in a season-high 30 minutes. Never a big scorer, she grabbed a wayward Monroe shot late in the second quarter, split two defenders, and banked in her only basket over a taller Dutchess opponent while falling to the court. Seconds later, McCleod tied up a post player, forcing a jump ball that granted possession to Monroe. She clapped her hands hard and enthusiastically jogged down the floor.

“Strong as hell,” Ling called her. He subbed out McCleod with a minute left in the fourth quarter and victory secured.

In the locker room, the coach told his players that they had Sunday off, that they should get some rest and finish their schoolwork. McCleod was looking forward to joining friends that night at a house party on Long Island.

“Coach Mel,” she said. “I’ll see you Monday.”

“See you then,” Coach Mel replied.

The Thanksgiving date in Jersey City with Ling and his wife, Latoya, their daughters, Dominique and Kimora, and their 1-year-old grandson, Dion, was only five days away. Amira Khaliya McCleod left the gym feeling good about her plans.

She had seven hours to live.

In Coach we trust

McCleod’s mother, Monique Baldwin, could not be the one to go to the J. Foster Phillips Funeral Home in Queens to make sure her daughter was presented properly at the viewing and service. Monique asked Amira’s coach to go in her place. That’s how much she trusted Damel Ling.

McCleod was shot dead at age 19 by a stranger at that house party in Hempstead, the unintended victim of an accused gunman from nearby Baldwin who also shot and wounded two 20-year-old men. She was standing at the corner of Willow and Kennedy when police said the 18-year-old suspect showed up at the party, got into an altercation with the host, backed away from that host, and fired three shots from his handgun.

Police said McCleod had attempted to run from the gunfire. Paramedics declared her dead at the scene. “She was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” said Det. Lt. George Darienzo of the Nassau County Police homicide squad.

From the moment he got the unfathomable late-night news from Williams, Ling knew he was about to be tested like never before. He had been coaching at New York and New Jersey high schools and colleges for more than a quarter century, ever since he graduated from Wheaton (Mass.) College as the captain of his basketball team. He had counseled many of his young female and male players over the years through family issues, relationship issues, all kinds of issues, but never had one of his players been a homicide victim.

No coach ever expects to become a grief counselor in the middle of a season. Ling works two jobs around the clock, including an overnight shift as a county investigator on the New Jersey side of the river, and yet he has fully devoted himself to an essential third job of guiding students through the trauma of losing one of their own.

During the crisis, Ling has embodied the essence of true leadership. He has represented the best of what it means to be a coach.

Officials at the family-owned school, from President Marc Jerome on down, rallied around the team, but those young women were turning first and foremost to the man who thought of himself more as their older brother or second father. One player actually called Ling “Father” every day.

“Before my freshman year, I was calling him ‘My dad’ too because he is like a dad to us,” Williams said. “He’s tough on the court, but he loves us. If you need someone’s shoulder to cry on, he’s always there, no matter what.”

Amid all the crying after McCleod’s death, Ling empowered his athletes to make a decision that was exclusively theirs. If they didn’t want to play their scheduled game at Suffolk County Community College that Tuesday, three nights after the shooting, they absolutely did not have to. And within five minutes of Ling sharing that fact, his players told him that they were playing … and playing for McCleod the rest of the year.

Though it’s often trite to compare a team to a family, to be around the Express in their grieving period was to understand how much the coach-player relationship eclipsed the standard transactional pacts of college sports. Ling, the players and McCleod’s mother kept checking in with one another to make sure they were holding up. One of Ling’s proteges, Eric Lyles, McCleod’s high school coach at Lincoln, worried that his friend was keeping his true emotions buried within while projecting an outward show of parental strength.

No shocking in-season tragedy is the same. As Dallas Cowboys coach Brian Schottenheimer found this year in the wake of Marshawn Kneeland’s death, and as then-Marlins manager Don Mattingly found in the wake of José Fernández’s death in 2016, there’s no playbook or manual to follow in shepherding a team through the pain.

Ling did not have access to the support provided by the global platform of professional sports. He confronted this monumental challenge in obscurity at a commuter juco that plays its games at a sister campus in Westchester County or at Monsignor Scanlan High School in the Bronx.

“And he still always made sure he was the rock of that program,” Lyles said. “As much as what happened to Amira may hurt him, the kids never saw him down. He’s been there for every single one of them. That’s a lot for any human being.”

Ling said he leaned on his immediate family and on friends from childhood and college who included mental-health professionals and social workers “to help me navigate through this personally.” The coach eased up on his players in practice while studying their body language for signs that they were struggling and in need of a break. He repeatedly reminded them that his office was always open and his phone was always on.

Meanwhile, when Monroe’s players saw that their coach, in his words, “took my foot off the pedal,” they pressed him. “They asked me, ‘Coach, are you good? Are you all right?'” Ling said. “They were more worried about how I was doing.”

The Suffolk game was particularly difficult for Ling. He saw his players break down during warmups, the national anthem and a moment of silence. He saw a look on Williams’ face that suggested she wasn’t mentally there; Williams had turned to the scorer’s table during the game expecting to see McCleod checking in.

Ling was trying to find his equilibrium around the bench, where McCleod’s No. 11 jersey was draped over a chair next to a framed photo of the sophomore guard.

“I didn’t know how to be hard on my players in that game,” Ling said.

His Express won, 69-48, and Williams found it fitting that she scored 11 points, matching McCleod’s jersey number. Ling took his players to Queens afterward to meet with McCLeod’s mother and family. They presented Monique Baldwin with a team photo signed by all team members, and they released balloons into the sky. They laughed together. They wept together. Everyone felt at home.

The Express won their next four games, improving their record to 13-1 and moving up to No. 5 in the NJCAA Division III rankings. Along the way, Ling’s players have written McCleod’s name and number on his pregame board.

“You’ve got to find ways to grieve and let it out,” Ling said. “I’m proud they’ve shown resiliency in a way that I don’t think I would’ve seen from one of our other teams going through something like this. … It might have broken other teams.”

Ling has a 51-28 record in his three seasons at Monroe, and now his Express have a good chance to make the 12-team national tournament and, perhaps, to realize McCleod’s dream of winning the whole thing. After losing two starters — 6-foot-1 center Princess Sidibe and 5-foot-5 guard Winter Smith — to ACL tears, Ling has been relying more on the team’s most prolific scorer, Beverly Williams, and on one of McCleod’s closest friends, Aneyah McLamb. Their source of motivation is clear.

“We’re playing for something bigger than ourselves,” Ling said.

He is leading this full-time cause as a part-time coach who never got into the business for financial gain. Ling works as an enforcement supervisor for the Hudson County Improvement Authority, investigating possible illegal dumping of solid waste from 11 p.m. until 6:30 in the morning. He then takes a PATH train to the World Trade Center, walks to Fulton Street, and grabs the 4 train to Monroe.

Sometimes he’ll start coaching after a two-hour nap. Sometimes he’ll go without any sleep at all. Ling puts in 40-50 hours a week practicing, recruiting, preparing for games, traveling to games and coaching in games. If his assistants are sick, he’ll drive his players in one of the school’s vans. And then he’ll get back on the train and head to Jersey City for his overnight shift.

In a profession that rewards multimillion-dollar wages to the Staleys and Auriemmas of the world, Ling makes less than $30,000 a year at Monroe.

Injuries as a college player sent the former Hudson Catholic (N.J.) High School star down this path. The X’s and O’s of the game always came easily to Ling, whose coaching role models included Rick Pitino, John Thompson, John Chaney and Hurley. Ling landed his first job, in 1999, at Centenary University in Hackettstown, N.J. He made $18,000 as a community service coordinator on campus, and $0 as a volunteer coach.

Ling later spent four years as St. Anthony’s junior varsity head coach and varsity assistant, helping Hurley and his top aide, Ben Gamble, advance the dynasty. “Damel might be a little emotional on the bench because that’s the tree he came from,” said Hurley, whose sons Dan (at UConn) and Bobby (at Arizona State) are known for their combustible game-night dispositions. “Damel could be ominous on the sideline.”

So his style wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. Ling conceded that he was too set in his ways when dealing with administrators and parents as a younger coach and believes he has matured into a leader more willing to compromise.

He wants people to know that the most meaningful part of his job is the communication with his players away from the gym. “Once we step off the court, I’m going to be the first one to laugh with you to make sure you understand we’re in this together,” Ling said. “You can come talk to me about anything.”

Monroe is a perfect fit for him, according to athletic director David Spiegel, who says the creation of a sports program in the Bronx in 2017 was designed to give opportunities to the city students who make up the Express roster. To watch Ling’s team is to see a spirited New York/New Jersey style of play that speaks to a life experience requiring fortitude.

“Pressure doesn’t get to them at all,” Spiegel said. “For the most part, our players have had more difficult things in their lives than a 9-point deficit with five minutes left. They shine in those moments because coach Ling knows how to get the best out of them in those moments.”

After their final game before the holiday break, a victory over Herkimer County Community College, the Express players cheered and danced around their coach as “Happy Birthday” played on the gym speakers. Ling turned 48 that day. The team gifted him a retro pair of red and black Jordan 1s.

Ling said he will never work for another junior college. He has poured everything into these players and this program, and that was never more evident than it was at McCleod’s funeral service.

Ling stood tall near his player’s white casket, facing hundreds of mourners who included neighbors, teammates at every level, elementary school teachers from P.S. 15 Jackie Robinson in Queens, and a former classmate who had joined the Army and was stationed in Germany when she got the call that left her broken, unable to breathe, and desperate to make it back for McCleod’s candlelight vigil.

In a dimly lit room with a low ceiling and stained-glass panels on a side wall, Ling stood among flower arrangements and an oversized photo of his defensive stopper, in her gold uniform, cradling a basketball against her chest. He looked out at McCleod’s mother, Monique, and spoke from his heart.

“When Amira came to me as a freshman,” he said, “I’m hard, I’m demanding, and my girls can speak to that. But I was really hard on her because I really knew what she could do. I saw more in her than she saw in herself. I’m sure her family heard from her, ‘The coach is always yelling and screaming. The fat guy is always mad at me.’”

Mourners laughed. Ling then spoke directly to McCleod’s mom.

“Mo,” he said, “I told you from the day I met you at Lincoln that when I recruit you, you become family. And when you are family, I’m loyal as hell, and I’m never going to back off that. So you’ve got me forever. You’ve got us forever.”

Ling said his team’s strength had left him speechless. He credited an assistant, Ramon Terry, for helping him build a culture at Monroe that transcended the game, a culture on display throughout the ordeal.

“As I told my young ladies,” Ling said, “we’re never going to get over it. But we’re going to get through it together.”

The coach finished by pointing out that everyone in the room was connected through McCleod.

“Let’s remember her for who she was,” he said, “the energy she brought to you. It’s all positive from here on out. It’s all about celebrating the life she lived.”

As Damel Ling stepped away from the podium, the packed room erupted in applause. The people who had gathered on this cold, gray day in the city to say goodbye to Amira McCleod knew they had just heard from a leader.

They knew they had just heard from a coach.

This article originally appeared in The Athletic.

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