Culture
Johni Broome’s chase for greatness and ‘embodiment of the American dream’
AUBURN, Ala. — Pastor Carl McKay goes back with the Broome family of Plant City, Fla. So far back, he was there for the earliest inklings of the Broome family.
“I was picking my daughter up from the rec center and out comes John (Broome) and Julie (Murray) holding hands,” McKay said of two people who now share 20 years of marriage and three kids, including one of the best college basketball players in America. “They would have been 13. I said, ‘Y’all, stop holding them hands, you’re too young for that stuff.’”
McKay has continued dispensing advice over the years, solicited and unsolicited — like the time he told John that his son Johni clearly was going to be a basketball star and needed to stop wasting time on the football field. The Broomes have belonged to the congregation at St. Luke Independent Church for McKay’s 20 years there. Two weeks ago, the congregation heard McKay’s story of an interrogation he once received from an especially inquisitive child.
“David and Goliath” was the Sunday school lesson, a classic tale of faith, courage and overcoming enormous odds. But the kid wouldn’t let him off the hook. How could this happen? A guy that big? A guy that small? The small guy winning? How does that make sense? Resourcefulness was the answer, of course, and a prevailing trait along with faith and courage that defined the protagonist.
When McKay revealed to the congregation that the questioner was 9-year-old Johni Broome, smiles and nods greeted the twist. America knows 22-year-old Johni Broome as a national player of the year candidate who stars for the top-ranked Auburn Tigers, but Plant City remembers when he was a slow, unathletic, unranked prospect who was passed over by the Florida Atlantic Owls. Without making his basketball success biblical, what a way to frame it: Broome building a slingshot over years and blasting away at his limitations.
“He’s an amazing example for our community,” McKay said. “And that goes way beyond what he is as a basketball player.”
What he is as a basketball player goes way beyond what he was supposed to be, and the 6-foot-10, 240-pound Broome credits the foundational aspects of his life. He still has questions on spirituality for McKay and for Auburn team chaplain Jeremy Napier. He has Scripture inked on his body and on his phone’s lock screen, and he leads the Tigers’ “aura group” of biblical scholars in weekly discussions. His best friends are brother John Jr. and sister Jade’a.
Broome spent hot summer days in Plant City, 24 miles east of Tampa, passing out flyers to market his father’s lawn-care company, and then he’d be the one cutting the grass on the family’s acre of land. When he transferred to Tampa Catholic for the final two years of high school, that meant a 6 a.m. daily drive of more than an hour. It meant getting home at 8:30 p.m. after practice and individual skill work with a trainer.
“He did his chores,” Julie Broome said. “He did his homework. He didn’t do knucklehead stuff.”
If he got a “C,” John and Julie took away his phone and video games for nine weeks.
“I think that happened twice,” John said.
“My family deserves a lot of credit for everything,” Johni said, and yet, even with priorities in order and pitfalls avoided, even with an opportunity to visit his football-playing brother at Florida International and get a taste of life as a college athlete, he was no lock to become one.
Basketball excellence was ordained when Broome was 3 by his late great-grandmother Ernestine Hughes, who looked at the long-legged, pigeon-toed toddler and declared he would be the next Shaquille O’Neal. He didn’t quite turn out to be 7-1 and twitchy, though.
He didn’t even make the first AAU team he tried out for. He missed on the Nike camps. He turned himself into a terrific high school player, 19.6 points and 10.9 rebounds a game as a senior, named Hillsborough County Player of the Year. He got himself up to No. 41 in Florida in the Class of 2020 in the 247Sports Composite and started receiving mid-major interest, though the knocks remained the same.
“Can’t move, too slow, can’t jump,” John said.
“I had no idea who he was,” Auburn coach Bruce Pearl said. “Never saw him, never heard of him. What was he, No. 371 in the nation?”
Actually, it was No. 471.
Florida Atlantic’s Dusty May took an interest and that was Broome’s preference, but the open spots dried up in a recruiting class that included eventual Final Four participants Alijah Martin and Johnell Davis. He went with Morehead State over Bryant, to play for coach Preston Spradlin. The Broomes were thrilled — scholarship, room and board for their kid who had worked so hard to earn it.
“Morehead was a blessing,” Julie said.
And it was a launching point. Broome always loved the game, always had a special feel for it, but now he had college strength training. Now he had film study at the touch of an iPad and sophisticated schemes to absorb. He changed his body dramatically in a year, during which he was named Ohio Valley Conference Newcomer of the Year, destroyed Belmont with 27 points in an OVC title game upset and got his first NCAA Tournament taste with 10 points and nine rebounds in a first-round loss to West Virginia.
Johni Broome reshaped his body during his time at Morehead State. (Courtesy of Broome family)
The following November, Morehead State lost 77-54 at Auburn. Broome had 12 and eight. An Auburn fan chatted up the Broomes and joked that their son should consider transferring to Auburn in the future. They still laugh about it. Pearl got familiar with Broome for the first time in preparation for that game, noticing all the little things he did on both ends to make his team better — and that making his team better seemed to be the priority.
This was an outstanding player, a whiff for all who dismissed him on measurables and missed the nuances of his game. He passed like a guard, rebounded like a center and defended anyone who got in front of him.
“I’ve always said Larry Bird is one of the greatest athletes to play the game of basketball, and Larry Bird couldn’t jump over a line,” Pearl said. “But he had unbelievable balance, hands, timing, vision. All of it was unbelievable. That’s athleticism too. It’s kind of like a golfer who is able to strike the ball a certain way, over and over again. Just because Johni Broome can’t jump very high doesn’t make him a non-athlete. There are guys who can jump out of the gym who can’t catch a cold. Johni has a lot of those same traits that make him special.”
By season’s end, with Broome coming off OVC Defensive Player of the Year and Lou Henson Mid-Major All-America honors, money was flowing to players and players were switching schools like never before. Broome loved Morehead State but had the opportunity to start making serious money as a basketball player. John Calipari and Mark Few were after him. Penny Hardaway wanted a word.
“(Pearl) didn’t get in on the recruitment until like Day 3. I had heard from everybody else,” said Broome, whose eight finalists included Florida, Houston and Louisville as well. “He calls and it’s like, ‘Oh, Bruce Pearl! What’s up?’ The thing I really liked is that he kept it real with me.”
Yes, Pearl sold Broome on his career record of developing players into pros. He said he saw Broome as something stylistically in between the Tigers’ stars of the previous season, Jabari Smith and Walker Kessler. Also, Pearl admitted he didn’t have firm answers yet on roster and resources for the 2022-23 team.
“When we first talked, Walker hadn’t made his mind up yet about going,” Pearl said. “Rather than try to sell (Broome) on, ‘Hey, come play aside Walker,’ I made it clear we had another really good player in Jaylin Williams. I said, ‘Look, if Walker does stay, I don’t have enough for you.’ I think he and his family really appreciated that.”
Kessler decided to go. A few weeks later, Broome chose the Tigers. He led Auburn in scoring in his first season. He was the program’s 14th All-American in his second. He’s jousting with Duke freshman sensation Cooper Flagg for National Player of the Year honors in his final collegiate season, and it’s shaping up to be one of the closest races of all time.
GO DEEPER
Cooper Flagg is on the clock
“I’d like to win it — but mostly, I’d like to win a national championship,” said Broome, who has yet to experience the second weekend of the NCAA Tournament, his 24 points and 13 rebounds not enough to avoid a first-round upset to Yale last March.
“The beautiful thing about the choice for player of the year is they both took such different paths, and neither path is better than the other,” Pearl said. “Since Flagg was 15 years old we all knew how great he was, and not just because he was so gifted but also because he worked so hard and played so hard. And then you’ve got Johni, not ranked, not known, no stars in front of his name. Not one year and then the pros, but five years of college basketball. And here they are, taking completely different paths and actually being in the same spot as players.”
Pearl will declare Broome the clear holder of one distinction in college basketball.
“He has to go down as the greatest player of all time ever picked up in the transfer portal at this point,” Pearl said. “Just look at his three-year run.”
It would have been a two-year run, but Broome was afforded an extra season of eligibility due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Now, he’ll leave Auburn with a college degree and a better chance of going in the first round — The Athletic’s NBA Draft analyst Sam Vecenie projects him to go somewhere between picks 20 and 45.
“NIL allows people to come back and not have to rush to the league to help their families or help their loved ones or help themselves,” said Broome, who has gone through the draft process the past two years to test himself against other prospects. “It allows you to go when you’re actually ready.”
Broome’s readiness comes from the work ethic that gave him this opportunity in the first place, and from added investment that can enhance today’s college athletes. He has signed with sports agency CAA and has worked for the past two years with Minneapolis-based trainer Reid Ouse.
Ouse, who founded Catalyst Training and works with Andrew Wiggins, Mark Sears and Paige Bueckers, among others, is not merely a skills coach. He spent several years as a college assistant coach and attends Auburn games and practices, collaborating with the staff on Broome’s development and how it fits into the Tigers’ schematic priorities.
Johni Broome has worked with trainer Reid Ouse for two years. (Courtesy of Broome family)
He reviews the film of every possession of every game and shares notes with Broome. He works with him on details that can’t be part of every Auburn practice. Broome gets strength training courtesy of both entities, Auburn and his agency. He has always been resourceful; now there’s no resource spared in pursuit of greatness.
“And then there are some plays Johni makes on a nightly basis that people have no idea how difficult they really are,” Ouse said. “His hand-eye coordination? He’s the guy who can play at the YMCA when he’s 70, his hips don’t work anymore, but he’s still able to dominate just because of the way he plays.”
Pearl has almost as much appreciation for the way he leads. There’s no question who’s in charge when the Tigers are on the floor, on both ends. Off the floor, Broome has taken a particular interest in mentoring uber-talented freshman guard Tahaad Pettiford, in Biblical studies and beyond. Of that, Pearl said: “What fifth-year senior is best friends with what freshman?”
GO DEEPER
Meet the 30-year-old play caller behind college basketball’s No. 1 offense
“All the guy cares about is winning,” Pearl said. “He’s the ultimate example of what great support at home can do, and that Broome name? It’s tattooed on his back, it’s embroidered in his jersey, it’s in his soul. He just goes to work every day, trying to do something special for his family. To me, he’s the embodiment of the American dream.”
Broome doesn’t have to be at Auburn. He could have cleaned up in the portal last spring.
“He could have gotten between $200,000 and $400,000 more,” Pearl said. “I don’t mind stating that. He could have.”
But developing, winning and having a good time should count, too. And the Broomes have become close over the years with the coach they call “BP.” Broome said Pearl “says crazy things about four times a week” but also makes himself available to the Tigers at all times.
“A lot of coaches say that, but he means it,” Broome said. “Every time I call, he picks up the phone, whether it’s about something funny, something stupid or something serious. That means something. That makes you want to play for someone.”
Loyalty is serious currency in the Broome household. John and Julie get to McKay’s sermons whenever they can, though it’s tougher during the season with Saturday games and travel all over SEC country. They were on hand for his story about “David and Goliath,” smiling along with everyone else at the revelation that young Johni was his questioner.
Here’s what McKay didn’t tell the congregation: The large check the church had just received from an anonymous donor, to help it rebuild amid $12,000 in damage caused by Hurricane Milton? That was Johni Broome, too.
(Top photo: Kevin C. Cox / Getty Images)
PERMANENCE, by Sophie Mackintosh
Sophie Mackintosh’s novels are always speculative in some way, with either the author or her characters forging a world governed by its own logic and rules. In their boldness and their ability to convey the violence of patriarchy, they recall the work of Jacqueline Harpman — not only the cherished “I Who Have Never Known Men,” but also “Orlanda,” her wild riff on Virginia Woolf’s “Orlando.”
Like Harpman, Mackintosh has a spare and confident hand. Her work is sometimes described as dreamlike; certainly, its contours are sketched with rapidity and confidence and relatively little detail. Her prose operates according to the same principle, at once lyrical and precise, like this from her second novel, “Blue Ticket”: “On the ground was a dead rabbit, disemboweled. Still fresh, the dark loops of its insides glistening like jam.”
When Mackintosh writes about masculine power, she does so in a way that articulates both its seductions and its terrors. Her newest novel, “Permanence,” is less explicitly concerned with the structure of patriarchy, but it has the same erotic charge as her earlier work, the same preoccupation with social prohibitions and the thrill that comes from breaking them.
Like “Blue Ticket,” “Permanence” turns on a highly pronounced binary. In “Blue Ticket,” adolescent girls are issued either a blue or white ticket on the day of their first period. A white ticket denotes a future of marriage and children, a blue ticket one of work — even, it seems, a career. The divide is stark and self-evidently faulty, its coarseness an expression of the brutalizing regime the characters are trapped in.
“Permanence” features a similar opposition, neatly delineated. Clara and Francis are conducting an illicit affair. One morning, they wake up in an alternate reality where they are openly living together. The novel shuttles between these two worlds, one ordinary and familiar, the other a curdled paradise for adulterers.
The thinness of this “city of impermanence” — “fluid, cohesive and yet disparate” — emerges at once. The sky is “uncannily blue,” the newspaper bears no date, the edge of the city is marked by “a slick ring of water, as far as the eye could see.”
Still, a boundary cannot keep the other world from seeping in. Initially, elegantly, this is a problem in the structure of desire. Having been provided the life they dreamed of, in which their longing for each other is fully met, Clara and Francis begin to experience, to their uneasy surprise, boredom and discontent.
Without absence, the intensity of their desire for each other wanes. They even begin, or at least Francis does, to long for the relief of their ordinary life: “Another day ahead of them of petting, giggling, lying around. It seemed insubstantial suddenly, though only the day before he had felt he could do it forever.”
Soon enough, it becomes clear that the problem between Francis and Clara doesn’t lie in the outside impediments of the world they live in, but in their relationship itself. Francis remains troublingly himself — a married father of a small child, reluctant to leave his family, however much he is in love with Clara: “He did love her, and he did want to be with her. … But he already had reality elsewhere, reality which he sometimes felt trapped by, he would admit, but which he could not truly imagine cutting loose.”
“Permanence” might seem like an outlier in the current array of articles and books about open marriages and polyamory, and at first glance the line of distinction between the two worlds, much like the division between blue and white tickets, seems almost old-fashioned. But as Mackintosh persuasively illustrates, the familiar emotions of jealousy, infatuation and eventually indifference — these persist and can flourish in any relationship, however free of prohibition.
“You want this,” Clara tells herself, and then, “You no longer want this,” as it occurs to her that “maybe it was in absence that they loved each other best, and most honestly.”
In her work, Mackintosh devises scenarios that are bold and almost aggressively simplified. But her terrain is complexity and contradiction, and in her hands these oppositions twist and turn in on themselves.
It’s hardly a surprise when the central character in “Blue Ticket” decides to eschew her designation and have a child, declaring, “True and false were no longer opposing binaries. My body was speaking to me in a language I had not heard before.” Nor is it especially startling when discontent chases Clara and Francis from one world to the other, unraveling their relationship.
What is more disquieting is the surreptitious ease with which Mackintosh’s speculative worlds start to align with our own, allowing the reader to see how so many of the old prohibitions and conventions — around choice, around marriage — remain, somehow, firmly in place.
That moment of recognition, in a landscape that is startlingly alien, is the source of Mackintosh’s power as a writer.
PERMANENCE | By Sophie Mackintosh | Avid Reader Press | 240 pp. | $28
Maybe you woke up this morning haunted by the first four lines of W.H. Auden’s “The More Loving One” — or tickled by its tongue-in-cheek handling of existential dread. (Not ringing any bells? Click here to begin the Poetry Challenge).
This is a love poem. Perhaps that seems like an obvious thing to say about a poem with “Loving” in its title, but there isn’t much romance in the opening stanza.
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
Ada Limón, poet
Nonetheless, the poem soon makes clear that love is very much on its mind.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
David Sedaris, writer
The polished informality gives the impression of a decidedly cerebral speaker — someone who’s looking at love philosophically, thinking about how it works and what it means.
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Reginald Dwayne Betts, poet
Musing this way — arguing in this fashion — he stands in a long line of playful, thoughtful poetic lovers going back at least to the 16th century. He sounds a bit like Christopher Marlowe’s passionate shepherd:
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
Auden’s poem, like Marlowe’s, is written in four-beat lines:
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Josh Radnor, actor
And it features strong end rhymes:
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Samantha Harvey, writer
These tetrameter couplets represent a long-established poetic love language. Not too serious or sappy, but with room for both earnestness and whimsy. And even for professions of the opposite of love, as in this nursery rhyme, adapted from a 17th-century epigram:
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell
The reason why I cannot tell.
But this I know and know full well
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell.
There is some of this anti-love spirit in Auden’s poem too, but it mainly follows a general rule of love poetry: The person speaking is usually the more loving one.
This makes sense. To write a poem requires effort, art, inspiration. To speak in verse is to tease, to cajole, to seduce, all actions that suggest an excess of desire. That’s why it’s conventional to refer to the “I” in a poem like this as the Lover and the “you” as the Beloved. The line “Let the more loving one be me” could summarize a lot of the love poetry of the last few thousand years.
But who, in this case, is the beloved? This isn’t a poem to the stars, but about them. Or maybe a poem that uses the stars as a conceit and our complicated feelings about them as a screen for other difficult emotions.
What the stars have to do with love is a tricky question. The answer may just be that the poem assumes a relationship and then plays with the implications of its assumption.
This kind of play also has a long history. Since love is both abstract and susceptible to cliché, poets are eager to liken it to everything else under the sun: birds, bees, planets, stars, the movement of the tides and the cycle of the seasons. Andrew Marvell’s “Definition of Love,” from the 1600s, wraps its ardor in math:
As lines, so loves oblique may well
Themselves in every angle greet;
But ours so truly parallel,
Though infinite, can never meet.
The literary term for this is wit. The formidable 18th-century English wordsmith Samuel Johnson defined a type of wit as “a combination of dissimilar images, or discovery of occult resemblances in things apparently unlike.” “The most heterogeneous ideas are yoked by violence together,” he wrote; that kind of conceptual discord defines “The More Loving One.”
The second stanza is, when you think about it, a perfect non sequitur. A hypothetical, general question is asked:
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Mary Roach, writer
The answer is a personal declaration that is moving because it doesn’t seem to apply only or primarily to stars:
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Tim Egan, writer
Does this disjunction make it easier or harder to remember? Either way, these couplets start to reveal just how curious this poem is. We might find ourselves curious about who wrote them, and whom he might have loved. Tomorrow we’ll get to know Auden and his work a little better.
Play a game to learn it by heart. Need more practice? Listen to Ada Limón, Matthew McConaughey, W.H. Auden and others recite our poem.
Question 1/6
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.
Your task today: Learn the second stanza!
Let’s start with the first couplet in this stanza. Fill in the rhyming words.
Ready for another round? Try your hand at the 2025 Poetry Challenge.
Edited by Gregory Cowles, Alicia DeSantis and Nick Donofrio. Additional editing by Emily Eakin,
Joumana Khatib, Emma Lumeij and Miguel Salazar. Design and development by Umi Syam. Additional
game design by Eden Weingart. Video editing by Meg Felling. Photo editing by Erica Ackerberg.
Illustration art direction by Tala Safie.
Illustrations by Daniel Barreto.
Text and audio recording of “The More Loving One,” by W.H. Auden, copyright © by the Estate of
W.H. Auden. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd. Photograph accompanying Auden recording
from Imagno/Getty Images.
Literature
Oedipa Maas from ‘The Crying of Lot 49’ (1966) by Thomas Pynchon
“The unforgettable, cartoonish protagonist of this unusually short novel is a California housewife accidentally turned private investigator and literary interpreter, and the mystery she’s attempting to solve — or, more specifically, the conspiracy she stumbles upon — is nothing less than capitalism itself,” says Ngai, 54. “As Oedipa traces connections between various crackpots, the novel highlights the peculiarly asocial sociality of postwar U.S. society, which gets figured as a network of alienations.”
Sula Peace from ‘Sula’ (1973) by Toni Morrison
“Sula arguably begins to disappear as soon as she’s introduced — despite the fact that the novel bears her name. Other characters die quickly, or are noticeably flat. This raises the politically charged question of who gets to ‘develop’ or be a protagonist in American novels and who doesn’t. The novel’s unusual character system is part of its meditation on anti-Black racism and historical violence.”
The speaker of ‘Lunch Poems’ (1964) by Frank O’Hara
“Lyric poems are fundamentally different from narrative fiction in part because they have speakers as opposed to narrators. Perhaps it’s a stretch to nominate the speaker of ‘Lunch Poems’ as a main character, but this book changed things by highlighting the centrality of queer counterpublics to U.S. culture as a whole, and by exploring the joys and risks of everyday intimacy with strangers therein.”
This interview has been edited and condensed.
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