BALTIMORE — Carmelo Anthony’s old neighborhood here has seen everything — drugs, guns, thefts and murders. Everything, that is, except a national champion.

Myrtle Avenue is a place where strangers are greeted by barred windows, boarded houses and glass-enclosed cashiers. It’s a place where strangers are met with shut mouths and wary eyes. Unemployed adults roam the street aimlessly.

‘You don’t see too many people around there except the ones that live there,’ says Manhattan guard Kenny Minor, who grew up a block away from Anthony. ‘People don’t come around a lot. There’s a lot of unemployment, a lot of people who can’t find work.’

But mention Anthony’s name, and suspicion melts away. Rather than silent stares, the entire neighborhood wants to talk — all except the pair who say they’re wanted by the police and can’t. Myrtle Avenue needs — and misses — Anthony more than anybody.

‘He made it out of here,’ Anthony’s friend T.J. Keels says, a pair of gold teeth flashing. ‘Not too many people do it. It gives everyone a little hope. It’s hard to make it out of the ghetto.’

Storeowner Catherine Lee, who has owned her corner market for 13 years, steps out from behind the bulletproof glass, temporarily neglecting two customers with muffins in their hands. She talks about a smiling Anthony, who badgered her with daily requests of free candy and bubble gum.

Back then, she denied his requests. Now, she speaks as if she’d give him the whole store.

‘We’re so proud of Carmelo here,’ Lee says. ‘Everybody talks about him all the time. He’s a hero.’

The boys that Anthony grew up with have turned to men. They hang out on the side of the street during the day, appearing precariously close to joining the unemployed wanderers. The hard looks on their faces morph to soft smiles while remembering Anthony.

‘We talk about him all the time,’ Keels, 22, says. ‘We watch all his games on television, and it’s like, ‘That’s the guy who grew up with us.’ He’s funny. He’s still laughing. He’s still smiling.’

Apparently, Anthony’s always worn that now-famous grin. Even Myrtle Avenue — dubbed “Murder Ave.” a long time before Anthony arrived — couldn’t wipe it from his face.

‘Everything,” Minor says. ‘We saw everything. Shootings, robberies, whatever.’

The projects that bordered Anthony’s home have since been torn down. Now, Myrtle Avenue is interrupted by a chain-link fence and construction equipment. The projects are being replaced by brick homes.

‘Basketball was one of the main reasons we got out of there,’ Minor says. ‘That and our friendship.’

It’s amazing that basketball was Anthony’s ticket out, considering the neighborhood didn’t even have a basket. Instead, Anthony’s first hoop on Myrtle Avenue was a square crate.

Upon moving into the neighborhood at age 7, Anthony honed his basketball skills on a crate tacked to an 8-foot building. Eventually, Anthony and his friends pooled their money and bought a portable hoop. They played in the street until after dark.

‘I knew he was going to be something,’ says Delores Brown as she watched over the street from her third-floor window. ‘But I didn’t know he was going to be like this.’

When Anthony left for prep school, the basket disappeared. Now, only the crate, used by three kids — including one with the moniker ‘Lil’ ‘Melo’ — remains.

‘See those kids over there,’ Keels says. ‘He’s probably their idol. They’re trying to be just like ‘Melo.’

Anthony’s friend Lateef Maple keeps all the pictures he can find of Anthony. Most are from the Baltimore Sun, but he’s looking to expand his collection. He asks where he can find papers from Syracuse or a copy of the latest Sports Illustrated.

Maple keeps his pictures in a box. Brown, meanwhile, keeps hers in a book.

Mention Anthony, and even Brown — an ‘almost 70-year-old’ woman who rarely leaves her house because of arthritis — seems as chipper as the street’s youngsters. She’s kept all of Anthony’s pictures, too. Well, all but one.

When he was in high school, Anthony was featured in the paper, and Brown kept the picture hidden away.

‘I always told him I was gonna have him sign it, just in case he got famous,’ Brown says. ‘Then somebody came along and stole it.’

In Anthony’s neighborhood, knowing him is a badge of honor. Sheldon Cox, 22, whips out a pocket organizer and finds Anthony’s name.

‘What’s that say?’ Cox asked. ‘It says ‘Melo. Told ya, I knew him.’

Anthony’s friends reminisce about growing up. The nights they’d sit on their stoops. Or the days they’d walk down to Baltimore Harbor. Or the time Anthony sprained his toe kicking a bowling ball. Or when they thought — before a growth spurt turned him into a basketball diety — Anthony would be a football star.

His friends still talk about his shoes. They say he could have worn an adult’s when he was 12.

They point out his old house, a small, two-story home that has recently been painted blue. They brag about him staying at their houses. Maple jokes about eating all of Anthony’s food. Avon Goodman even brags about how Anthony beat him up during a neighborhood fight.

‘One of his favorite foods is eggs, cheese and ketchup,’ Cox says. ‘Only somebody that knew him real well could tell you that.’

Through all the stories they giggle, laugh and smile. No more worried glances — except when a police car enters the neighborhood and the group nearly leaves.

Anthony’s friends from Myrtle Avenue still talk to him occasionally. Keels says that he talks to Anthony about once a week. The others say they talked to him just before the Elite Eight, passing a cell phone around just to hear his voice.

The memories of Anthony have taken them away from the bars and boarded windows of Myrtle Avenue. Maybe they’re imagining themselves back at Baltimore Harbor. Or maybe they’re visiting him at Syracuse, trying to pick up girls.

‘He was always scared of girls,’ Cox says.

Eventually, though, Myrtle Avenue brings them back to reality. Few residents have cable television, much less a computer, so finding Anthony’s schedule is a constant challenge.

Before the Final Four matchup with Texas, Keels knew that the Orangemen were playing the Longhorns, but he wasn’t sure of the time. Maple planned on watching it but wasn’t sure where.

Anthony still drops by the neighborhood. The last time Maple saw him was during Winter Break. When Anthony comes back, it seems just like old times.

‘This neighborhood teaches you about love,’ Maple says. ‘We’re not talking about money or things he can do. We’re talking about seeing him and chilling.’

But as much as Maple, Keels and the others know about Anthony, there’s a lot they don’t.

‘How popular is he up there?’ they ask. ‘Does he get a lot of girls? What does he do on the weekends? Do you think he’s going pro? Who are his friends? Hakim Warrick?’

No matter how many questions they ask, there’s only one they really want answered. When can they see their national champion?

‘Tell ‘Melo we said hello,’ Maple says. ‘And ask him when he’s coming back.’

Published on April 9, 2003 at 12:00 pm