The Legend of Ray Johnson

Part 1 of 4:

The best writing advice I ever received was “write what you know.” If you’ve read

my two novels, The Blue Team and Wardrobe Of The Wolf, you are well

acquainted with the flawed but lovable character, Ray Folsom.

Did you know that this character is based entirely on someone I knew in real life named Ray Johnson? His story is fascinating, and I hope you take the time to read this.

Me and Ray on Folsom Street

Ray and I met in prison. I was visiting. Ray was incarcerated at the Buena Vista

Correctional Facility in the mountains of Colorado. It was the summer of 1988. I

was playing for the Athletes in Action basketball team. We were in Colorado for a

training camp before heading to Brazil for a month. We were at the prison to play

against the inmate team.

It was a medium security facility but there was still razor wire and plenty of guards

and locks and when we came onto the court in our short shorts and tank tops we

were greeted with whistles. Despite the intimidating atmosphere we ended up

walloping the prison team. After the game we milled about on the court hoping for

a chance to share the gospel with a prisoner.

A well-built middle-aged man in prison garb approached me. He was of average

height, with brown hair and glasses. What stood out were his impressive shoulders

and biceps. The guy was built like an NFL wide receiver. He said his name was Ray.

We struck up a conversation and thirty minutes later exchanged mailing addresses.

I’ll never forget the end of our first meeting. The gym had been cleared out by

then, all the prisoners sent back to their cells and my teammates were headed to the

exits. It was just me and Ray and he was clearly enjoying the conversation and

wanted to keep talking. Just then a guard barked out “Johnson!” Ray’s head turned

sharply to see who it was and his countenance did a 180, instantly changing from

jovial to submissive. He was not a free man. In more ways than one.

Ray in Denver

There were no cell phones or email back in 1988, so Ray and I communicated the

old fashioned way—letters in the mail. For the next four years Ray wrote me

dozens of letters from the many prisons where he was housed in Colorado: Rifle,

Brighton, Boulder, Golden, Buena Vista.

I still remember his prison number: 46012 It was on the outside of the envelopes

that contained all his letters, part of his return address, just like you and I would

put down our apartment number.

Ray was in his early forties. He was an alcoholic and had spent the better part of

his adult life in and out of prison. In his letters he regaled me with wild stories

from his past—riding around the west in empty railroad cars, getting into fights,

getting arrested, and his many prison stays. He also wrote about prison life, his

faith, hopes of an early release, the ability to conquer his alcoholism, how much

our friendship meant to him, and most of all his workouts. He loved to do pushups,

pull-ups, jump rope, and hit the heavy bag. His letters were long and rambling,

written in hard to read cursive on yellow legal pad paper. I still have every one of

them.

Ray's Letters

When I graduated college in May of 1990, I took a two weeklong trip out west

with my college buddy, Dan. Along the way we drove through Denver. Ray had

been released early and was living in a half-way house in the city. We met

downtown and hung out for a few hours.

I finished my graduation trip then went back to play my final year of college ball.

Ray violated his parole, not for the first time, and was sent back to prison. More

long letters followed. His news was much of the same. It was one of my letters that

changed the course of our friendship. I told him I was moving out to Colorado.

To be continued...