The Kings tried to do the right thing after Stephon Clark’s shooting. It wasn’t enough.

After Sacramento police murdered Stephon Clark, organizers shut down entry to two Kings’ games, challenging the NBA — long considered the most progressive league — to do more.

Riding around South Sacramento in Berry Accius’s tiny, blue Honda can feel like sitting in a stuffy call center. His phone never stops ringing, though that should be expected. Accius is the man who led a horde of protesters to shut down entry to the Golden 1 Center for a March 22 Sacramento Kings’ basketball game, four days after police killed Stephon Clark. The calls are a side effect of being the point person for one of Sacramento’s explosive moments.

We cruise along Interstate 5 a week after the arena shutdown when one of Accius’ calls prompts more than just perfunctory responses. Turns out the caller is Garrett Temple, the Sacramento Kings guard who won over this community with pointed criticism of the responding officers who killed Clark. “Yoooooooo,” Accius belts in a causal, boisterous tone. “That’s a real dude,” he says. “That’s a real motherfucker right there, man.”

We turn left onto Meadowview Road, just south of downtown, where streets are dotted with urban blight. There are overgrown lots next to gas stations, vacants, a tour of churches, and shuttered schools. Accius turns to me as I look out of the window. “Smell opportunity, yet?”

This is the neighborhood where Clark was killed by police. Clark was trying to get into his grandmother’s house but police in the area, responding to neighbor’s calls about a man vandalizing nearby vehicles, took Clark for their suspect.

Police said they first thought Clark had a gun. Later police said Clark had a crowbar. Those officers claim it was only once Clark was felled by gunshots that they identified he merely carried a cell phone, a discovery body camera footage later revealed was plainly evident before the bullets.

Clark was shot at 20 times and struck eight, mostly in his back. Nearly every bullet that ripped his body could have been fatal by itself, according to an independent autopsy. The shards collapsed his vertebrae, shattered a lung, and tore apart his arm. Sacramento Police let him bleed to death instead of offering immediate medical attention, too scared to approach in case the dying man flashed a weapon that was never there. Clark’s body was so desecrated by gunfire that the practicing Muslim was unable to have a ritual washing before he was buried.

Circling the neighborhood where Clark was killed, I had to pause. It is always difficult to comprehend how another person can die under the government-sanctioned violence common in America’s police state. Accius agreed. It’s why he led hundreds to shut down the Kings’ arena.

“The Golden 1 shit that we did, that’s going to go down in history for how folks look at implementing a real boycott over a major system,” he says. “People may think they aren’t affected, that they are inconvenienced. Well, directly or indirectly now you have to deal with our problem.”

The protest that Accius led was a catalyst for the Kings to collaborate in deeper ways with the community. Accius was invited inside by a Kings’ representative to talk with Kings owner Vivek Ranadivé as the crowd began dispersing. He thought he was going to be arrested. Ranadivé wanted to learn more about the protests and expressed a commitment to the community. Accius advised the owner on the on-court statement he’d make later that night and helped facilitate communication between the Kings and other Sacramento organizations. The next day they sat down with each group. Ranadivé was emotional and shed tears about a senseless killing. The meeting ended with a plan to create the Build. Black. Coalition.

With protests blocking the entrance to Golden 1 for two out of three home games after Clark’s shooting, Mayor Darrell Steinberg and policeworked together to allow for protest but to also safely get fans in the arena. Fans were able to enter a March 25 game without delay. Inside, both Kings and Celtics players took the court wearing T-shirts with “#StephonClark” on the back and “Accountability. We are one.” on the front. Members of both teams also appeared in a PSA about police brutality.

Two days after that, protests shut down the arena entrance for the Mavericks’ game, forcing the Kings to update their security plan.

Confronted with this reality, the Kings have struggled against the limits of their civic ties. In 2013, when Ranadivé bought the team, he vowed to be visible to Sacramento. He touted “sports as an agent of change.” By 2016, after rounds of lobbying for a new arena, Ranadivé stated that he viewed his position as an NBA owner as a form of community stewardship. “It’s incumbent upon you to be the standard-bearer and set the tone for what’s important in the world and how we can shape dialogue.”

The Kings, like every other American sports entity, traffic the idea that teams are a focal point of pride, an economic engine for each city. If so, there cannot be an argument for how close a relationship sports has with its community that can be honored if the community beckons that same team to act and are met only with a moderate response.

The NBA’s progressive stance makes them an outlier among American pro sports leagues, linking them to the concerns of the black communities, where the majority of their players and a sizeable chunk of their fans come from. But it took a game to be postponed, an arena’s gates to be blocked, and money to be lost for a team to consider additional actions. Protests in Sacramento illustrated a flaw in the NBA’s caring script. Coordinated call-outs and well-meaning PSAs won’t prevent murder and aren’t enough to stop more protesting.

“I wouldn’t apologize, ever, for stopping a Kings’ game because Stephon can’t go to another game with his kids and enjoy basketball. There are two Americas that we live in. One’s for black folks. And there’s another one for everybody else,” said Sonia Lewis, a lead member of the Sacramento Black Lives Matter organization. “These conversations are not going to end today just because [Vivek] gave a peace offering.”

The NBA often rolls out similar messaging every time black people are murdered by police. When Trayvon Martin was killed in 2012, the Miami Heat wore hoodies and wrote messages on their sneakers to remember Martin. In 2014, when Eric Garner was killed in New York, multiple players wore shirts reading “I Can’t Breathe,” citing Garner’s final words while being choked to death by police. When Philando Castile was killed in his car and Alton Sterling shot on a Louisiana pavement, players engaged in an on-stage PSA at the ESPY’s. After Clark’s killing, more T-shirts and another PSA.

Compared to other pro leagues this looks uplifting. But for a league that posits itself as uniquely progressive when it comes to the expectations of its athletes, is it reasonable to push for more? What responsibility does the NBA have, in light of their stated focus on equality? That question is what pushed Accius to protest and has allowed him to engage NBA players and Ranadivé, who was compelled to denounce the “horrific” shooting, the night of the first arena shutdown.

“We recognize that it’s not just business as usual,” Ranadivé said to the sparse crowd who managed to attend the game. “And we are going to work really hard to bring everybody together to make the world a better place, starting with our own community, and we’re going to work really hard to prevent this kind of tragedy from happening again.”

When the arena closed again on March 27, preventing fans from attending another Kings’ home game against the Mavericks, impeded fans were less forgiving this time, and footage captured confrontations between ticket holders and protesters who attempted to remind a city of what a basketball game can make one forget.

Sacramento was teetering. Even after Ranadivé and the Kings’ well-meaning gestures, it was clear that shows of goodwill only stated what should be obvious. Clark’s family was visibly grieving, bursting into city council meetings, cussing at politicians, and appearing on national networks to make sure his name wasn’t forgotten days after his murder. Protesters continued disrupting the normal civic rhythms of the city. Those most affected by racism’s grasp, pushed for more than T-shirts, more than speeches, even if no one could agree on what more would be enough.

So the team pushed it a little further and reached out to Accius and other city leaders to figure out how to proceed, with baby steps. The team announced a formal partnership with the local Black Lives Matter movement and the Build. Black. Coalition, a group of several local organizing factions, with plans to hold a forum and to create an educational fund for Clark’s kids, and try to “support transformational change.”

The deadly use of force against people of color has been a near-weekly occurrence in America, sparking a decade of protest, city-by-city. Disruption typically follows in the aftermath and athletic ambassadors regularly express concern, often on the court, and use their public platforms to bring national attention to the most recent killing. This leaves Sacramento as an example of what was possible. And it creates a frustrating burden for everyone in the middle of a tragic moment: the need to ask for more while knowing that what’s being asked isn’t an unthinkable request.

“Notice the NBA: it’s never about equity. They always talk about equality. They sell T-shirts saying that,” Accius says, referring to the Black History Month warm-up shirts that spawned a Nike campaign. “But don’t they know we not equal? There’s no equality when you’ve had a 10 mile start in a 100 mile race and you driving a Mustang and I’m driving a Pinto.”

Photo by Justin Sullivan/Getty Images

South Sacramento Christian Church off Stockton Avenue provided a Friday afternoon reprieve from the two weeks of public grieving and protest since Clark’s shooting. The church hosted the first forum from the Kings’ new local partnership with community leaders, and in so doing became a sanctuary to heal.

People in vibrant, kinte cloth backpacks milled around the food trucks out front. Black boys dribbled basketballs around the parking lot, launching fadeaways into net-less hoops. Smiling black girls skipped from inside to out, flexing colorful, purple barrettes. DJs spun oldies, from some soulful Frankie Beverly to bars from Arrested Development.

Around the hall there were Kings-branded notebooks on every seat, decorations bearing purple-and-black and backdrops with team logos for photoshoots when players arrived. At first, it seemed odd that a forum meant to discuss and process a murder was decked out in promotional material. But in the current landscape of league-sanctioned player activism, where similar forums have appeared in NBA cities from Los Angeles, to Memphis, to here, branded with USA basketball and league materials, it fits in with the expected response.

Yet, as gracious as the Kings were to back such an effort, the consensus of organizers I spoke with wondered if the offer was a compromise to end arena shutdowns and appease contentious fans hungry for basketball and disillusioned by protest.

“I don’t know where the bottom line is with the Kings and their games,” Les Simmons, a coalition member and the pastor at South Sacramento Christian, told me. Simmons said he can’t worry about the Kings’ intentions or speculating on any “financial contribution that would come” because of the importance on fixing Sacramento after Clark’s killing.

Many voiced the same sentiment as Simmons. Several organizers expressed a need to prioritize blackness here like anywhere else, a city that has a near 100-year history of economic repression and white vs. black divisiveness. Racial segregation in housing has been a standard since 1920. It leaked into the schools, wasn’t rectified by the passing of Brown vs. the Board of Education, and, as recent as 2014, black and white children still attended segregated public schools. Not to mention, the lack of resource facilities in neighborhoods like Meadowview and a use of force issue making Clark the fifth black person Sacramento police have killed since 2015.

Many here used the phrase “equity not equality” when explaining this to me, a call for access to the same resources and assets that their white counterparts are often born with. It’s a fair question. What do maximum, equitable resources look like for black lives? There is no clear answer.

“It’s not ‘oh, you did a great job and now you can go on about your business.’ No. No. No. No. No,” said Ryan McClinton, a Sacramento native and organizer with Sacramento ACT (All Congregations Together), part of the coalition, before the forum began.

“How are you really investing in a long-term strategy of changing the reality that we are walking in?” he continued, expressing this frustration with the NBA and Sacramento. “We’ve seen philanthropy efforts. We’ve seen the shirts come out. But what was the follow through that we’ve seen in our neighborhoods? What has changed?”

When the forum began, local kids were scribbling in notebooks, reflecting on a week that brought turmoil to this town. More than an hour later, Temple, Carter, and Kings’ legend Doug Christie appeared outside. People had already started congregating inside by time the players arrived, but the group perked up upon the players’ arrival. The trio told gathered press outside the church about their sorrow upon hearing about Clark’s killing. As sincere as they were, they were expected answers to expected questions.

Then, Carter opened up a bit.

“Athletes and entertainers that think they can’t be a part of this … Your voice is just as important as your physical body here,” he said. “Obviously, [everybody] can’t be here because of east coast, west coast, or whatever the case may be. But your voice matters.”

Organizers implored players to take part in their protests. I asked Carter, since players are giving reasons they can’t attend protests, if he was planning any on-court demonstrations.

“Uhhhhhhh,” he said. “I just want to take baby steps.” He paused. “It’s all about getting everybody to understand what we are trying to do. What we are trying to do now is raise awareness and get some eyes and ears first. Once you get people listening you can go from there. The most important thing, in my opinion right now, is not to skip steps.”

I asked Carter if kneeling or protesting on court could accomplish the same goal.

“It could. It could. But ...”

That’s when Temple cut him off. “What we are doing right now, having these cameras in our face, has created that radical step.” he said. “I think what we’ve done, ourselves and the Kings’ organization in general, was create awareness. The eyes are on Sacramento right now. I think that’s the biggest thing that comes from a protest.”

The three were whisked inside after that. Kids recited poetry about their fears of policing in their communities, black children, vividly, tearfully, showing their grief. Before the night ended, a teenager with colorful dreadlocks grabbed the microphone and directed the most pressing question of the evening to the players.

“Why didn’t you guys come out to the protest when we were encountering ignorance outside of Golden 1 Center?” Keishay Swygert, a 17-year-old from Oak Park, asked. The room erupted. The players seemed puzzled, looking at each other, deciding how to answer.

“I’ma be honest, I thought about going out the first time,” Temple said. But he believed people wouldn’t hear him in the crowd, that the NBA is his platform and the reason people are gathered. “There are certain ways to change things. You can’t just react. We’re not just reactors. We are actors.”

After applause from the audience, Carter went one step further.

“I do basketball camps at home, I always tell my kids think before you act,” he said. Carter said he wanted the game to get shut down, he expressed support for the protests, but, he still had a job. “How many cameras were there? How many times have you seen that PSA on social media?” he asked. “We’ve set the tone for how this is supposed to be done.”

After their comments, Swygert ran back to her seat. What was said was jarring to her.

“When it comes to it, deep down, they’re not really with it,” Swygert said. “They answered my question and said, ‘We think, before we act.’ So, they’re basically saying the protesters don’t think before we act? We know what we are doing. You can’t say we are doing this because we don’t have anything to lose. I’m 17. I have everything to lose. We are doing this because we are willing to die for this revolution. If you think your job in the NBA is more important than this revolution then that’s a major problem.”

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While walking through Sacramento, I wondered about the difference between rhetoric and disruption, words and action. All week, residents had shut down the doors at Golden 1, yelled at politicians and policemen, and carried the torch this decade of protest has passed from city to city after every killing.

A man was murdered in Sacramento. An owner felt empathetic and took a bold, wild swing at the issue. Players gave oratory support. People, like Accius, say even those things never would have been happened if this arena wasn’t caught in the hellfire.

Rhetoric is only powerful when it leads to action. As is, the NBA’s progressive rhetoric too often only leads to more rhetoric, though it gets held up as trailblazing and brave. At what point, when speaking about the pain blackness endures, will it come time to take another step further?

On Saturday inCesar Chavez Park, that is something I ask Matt Barnes, the former Kings swingman and Warriors vet in town holding a rally for Clark. Barnes initially wanted players from both teams to show up. The Warriors originally said they were open to the idea. Players said they’d discuss it on the team bus the day prior and said they wanted to lend support. Hours before the rally began, the Warriors said they weren’t attending. Temple arrived, but for no longer than 10 minutes.

Barnes said he understood why players weren’t coming. Their jobs took precedence over a rally on game day. Barnes admits that if he was still playing, he might not even be out here.

“A lot of these guys support the cause but they also have a job to do and an obligation for the contract they signed,” Barnes says. His intentions for this rally become clear. He’s here to honor the fallen, but he’s not here to march. Barnes wants Sacramento to return to normal, which means opposing another arena shutdown expected this night.

“It’s not the Kings’ fault. It’s not the Warriors’ fault. This is a police problem. If they want to shut things down, they should go down to the police station,” Barnes says. I ask him if he understands why people chose the Golden 1 Center as the main center for protest in recent days.

“I understand it. I completely understand. But, like I said, let’s keep an eye on what the real problem is,” he says. “If they want to protest and do something, go to the police station. Talk to them and get on their doorstep. Take it to the politicians. Talk to them. Because the Kings have a platform, but they also have a job to do. I know a lot of them do care and will speak up but it has to be the right time and place.”

It is important to understand the space in which the game and protest operated. Shoot-around for the game ended before 1 p.m. Barnes’ rally began around 12:15 and ran for nearly two hours. The game was set to tip off just after 7. The practice arena was a five-minute walk from the park.

As the rally finally commenced, attendees went through familiar call and responses. In the front I saw Salena Manni, Clark’s fiancee. The grief on her face was palpable. She barely looked up. She tried to hold herself from crying, tugging at her child on a sunny Saturday.

After awhile she retreated, taking a deep sigh, sucking her lips in, turning away from the sunlight. Manni walked to Clark’s grandmother and gave her a deep embrace, tears splashing her cheeks. This is the pain that captivated a crowd, brought players to care, and closed arenas. And it’ll happen again in another city. All of this will feel like preparation for continued despair.

Rev. Shane Harris boomed to the crowd, pleading for change.

“It’s time for America to face this crisis. It’s time for justice in this area,” he yelled. “From basketball arenas to marches we are gonna keep Stephon Clark’s name alive.”

NBAE/Getty Images

There was a stillness at the Golden 1 Center the night the Warriors came to town, the fifth home game of the protests. Maybe it was the nearly 200 officers in riot gear, one-fourth of the town’s muscle, watching the perimeter with numbers that have increased since the protests have began.

Sacramento’s stomach for protest had shifted by that point. The Kings’ TV announcer, Grant Napear, said it wasn’t his job to discuss such things on air even if the team was involved. “If I spoke out on all the injustices in the world the I’d never be able to talk sports and I host a sports show,” he said. “So not gonna happen. Sorry.” A local nurse, posted a viral comment on Facebook saying Clark “deserved” to die for “being stupid.” She has raised $25,000 since being fired.

With a lousy season for the Kings coming to the end, and one of the NBA’s most popular teams in town, a return to regular season basketball would’ve been the distraction that sports are often touted to be. The power players at the arena, those best equipped to speak in support of change, were ready to give that to Sacramento. Before the game started, Kings head coach Dave Joerger rolled his eyes and gave a slight chuckle when asked why he didn’t attend the rally Barnes, one of his former players, hosted for Clark.

“I’d be happy to answer any questions about tonight’s game,” he said.

Minutes later Steve Kerr was asked the same thing. “Uhh, yeah, because I’m coaching the Warriors tonight and we’re kind of busy today,” Kerr said. In his voice was the assumption that the Warriors, known around the league for being socially aware and active, were of course supportive of the protests. But, Kerr said, they also had a job to do. “We are here to play a game tonight. You have to pick your spots and do your job and take care of your business.”

Kevin Durant said something similar from his locker when I asked if he considered reaching out to organizers.

“I haven’t thought about it at all. Like I said, it’s a lot going on. I still have to keep going,” Durant said. “What I want to do is play basketball. But, I’m sure there’s a lot of people that are helping out.”

Durant’s thinking was something I heard all week from players to coaches when they were pushed on why their words weren’t enough, why their “support” couldn’t manifest beyond statements. It’s why Kerr’s initial answer wasn’t enough.

“You don’t think there’s a contradiction there when you talk a lot about race or an issue like that,” I asked Kerr. “But then there’s a march and somebody gets killed and you don’t actually show up?”

“You serious?” he shot back.

“Yeah, I am,” I said.

“OK. It’s up to each individual if he is going to pick his spots to make his contribution to society. I’m very confident and comfortable in my own skin. And [our players], what they do for our communities, the way they speak out, the way I’ve spoken out. I feel very, very confident in what we’ve tried to do and I’m also, very, very serious about my job. So, you can balance that whichever way you want. You can be accusatory if you’d like. I’m comfortable with what our team does and with what I do.”

It’s not lost on me why Kerr met the question with indignation. He is one of the most outspoken coaches in the NBA, and that makes him a rarity in pro sports. His candor in interviews is the expectation. While he has used his platform well, while he has often spoken with rigor, while he has appeared at local marches that already had the support of the nation’s majority, it is harder to leave that comfort — of speaking about justice and preaching about race from an arena — to actually meet, not only acknowledge, the injustice you speak of when it confronts you at your door. Especially when the people most directly affected by injustice are pleading to break from what’s normal, what’s expected. Because the status quo is for the right things to be said, for the game to be played as normal, and for Stephon Clark to become just another injustice that happened.

“Action. Revolutionary action. That’s what we need now. The time for talking is over,” Accius, the organizer told me last Monday afternoon. “They will never understand that shit. To them it doesn’t make any sense.”