Ball State basketball player deals with depression

MUNCIE, Ind. (AP) - Under the dimmed lights of Worthen Arena, late at night when the whole place feels overwhelmingly empty, Trey Moses would wander. He'd end up in the locker room crying to himself.

Often last season, just hours before, he'd be in the same gym blocking shots in practice or celebrating buckets in front of fans. Those fans included little Luke Vormohr, who loves his buddy, "Sissy Trey." In another seat, Mickey Deputy, one of Trey's best friends. And there's Brian Bahlman, the 40-year-old season ticket holder with Down Syndrome who Trey met through Best Buddies.

The then-18-year-old center was always helping someone, with a soft spot for special needs kids. Pictures of quiet, lovable Trey Moses smiling with friends filled his social media feeds. He even went viral after asking Ellie Meredith to senior prom, helping to break down taboos behind her disease.

It was hard to imagine Trey anything but happy.

But alone in the depths of Worthen Arena was a side of him few knew. And that was the point. In that hugely quiet building, Trey could be alone. He didn't take any of that back to his dorm room, shared with teammate Tahjai Teague, either. Instead, he'd head to an off-campus house shared by veterans Franko House and Bik Gill, where space was a little more private. "I'd wake up and he was on my couch," said House, who didn't yet know what was going on.

Trey was carrying thoughts of suicide and didn't know who to tell or how to tell them. Couldn't even tell his mom, who heard the full extent of his pain more than a year later, from a news story. She called him crying when she found out, but Moses promised it wasn't her fault.

"I was just so hurt and I didn't know what to do," Trey said. "Coming here late at night, there was nobody here. It was just my way of being alone.

"Being by myself."

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The Georgetown University Medical Center found in 2013 that 17 percent of student-athletes showed signs of depression. There are also long lists of pro athletes, like star running back Ricky Williams and boxer Mike Tyson who have struggled with mental health issues.

When kids are in class, plus working out 20 hours a week and traveling for games on the weekend, life can be overwhelming. Answers can be hard to find.

The scariest part, though, is even if Trey would've known exactly where to get help, he may not have pursued it for fear of being called soft. The 6-foot-9 center was then and is now working to be more physical in the paint. Can't show weakness down there.

"There's a stigma that you've got to be strong all the time, especially if you're a guy," Trey said. "But that's not realistic. . If you need to cry, you can cry. That's what I tell everybody: It's OK not to be OK."

And when Trey says he's telling everybody, he means it. He's posting about his depression on social media and sharing stories like this one. Even in his darkest hour, the now-19-year-old athlete found another way to help others.

Once he started talking about depression, life got a little easier. He found the help and support needed through teammates, coaches and counselors. Above all, he says relationships made through Best Buddies are what kept him here, kept him going. He doesn't know why, exactly, but has an idea.

"I guess it was just God's way of giving me a purpose," he said, "but they've become my passion in life."

Assistant coach Brian Thornton, the first coach who knew about Trey's depression, hasn't seen anything like this. It's rare for most Division I basketball players to even have a second interest, he said. And Trey isn't just interested in helping others, he's dependent on it.

"As time has gone on, it's made me realize that it is probably part of the reason he does all those things," Thornton said. "Because he has had some struggles, he wants to help others."

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Trey had his share of scary moments in his first summer on campus. His world got dark when his grandmother abruptly passed away. He felt empty at times as he made the jump to college basketball - which his body wasn't totally ready for yet.

Eventually, Troy Hershman, a long-time athletic trainer, learned to gauge Trey's ups and downs. He's not a counselor, but players confide in him. So his role became that of an "entry point." He listened, then pushed him toward the appropriate help.

Trey broke down in a Worthen training room the week of November 25th, 2016, before Ball State hosted DIII opponent IU Kokomo. He was coming off the first scoreless game of his career. Maybe that had something to do with it, maybe not. Either way, it all burst.

"Sometimes these things come to a crescendo," Hershman said, "and kids have breakdowns."

Hershman brought coach James Whitford into the loop that afternoon. He agreed that Trey shouldn't practice and quickly became an advocate for his mental health. Every time they sit down for a one-on-one meeting, Whitford brings it up first: "How are you?"

So it was easy enough to get out of practice with Whitford's approval, but Trey had just seen his teammates, too.

They knew I wasn't sick, but that's what (the staff) had to tell them at that point," Trey said. "That kind of sucks, to miss a practice because you're labeled as sick."

Again, something that might make him look soft. He hated that day, but it was key to his recovery. Trey started going twice a week to Ball State's Counseling Center for demanding but therapeutic conversations.

For the first time ever, he was forced to talk about his depression. His counselor wouldn't let him take steps back to the dark places he'd been to. It didn't take long for him to rediscover the joy basketball once brought him.

"I started to really not love basketball last year," he said. "It wasn't for anything on the court - I felt like I was playing well - it was just, you know, the depression was really attacking me."

He was back practicing the next day and went on to tally 22 points and nine blocks over the next three games. The season was up-and-down for the freshman, on and off the court. He capped it on a high note, though, by racking up 30 points, 23 rebounds and 10 assists in three postseason games.

Hershman thinks that last stretch, too, was a turning point for Trey.

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Eventually, he opened up to teammates. Zach Hollywood and Tayler Persons, along with Gill and House, were some of the first he told.

"When he finally told me, I felt good," House said. "I didn't want him to think he couldn't talk to me like that. When he did come out, I told that if he ever needed anything just to call me."

Trey often posts on Twitter and Instagram about his fight with depression. Some days they're bright, promising messages of recovery. Others they're dark reflections on obstacles he's faced.

When the first news story published, teachers in his hometown told Shelly Moses, Trey's mom, how shocked they were. In middle school, when Trey first faced suicidal thoughts, nobody understood what he was going through. It may not have been in Worthen Arena, but he'd always found a way to be alone and keep his feelings secret.

So Shelly called.

"She was crying, apologizing for not realizing or noticing," Trey said. "I just told her that I was really good at hiding it. That was my point: I didn't want her to know. Not many people in my circle knew."

What stands out to Shelly, who still lives in the eastern suburbs of Louisville, is the help her son has received at Ball State. From teammates, coaches, fans and counselors alike, he's had people around to help him.

Still though, there's no mom on that list. She wishes it could be her there making sure he's OK, instead of communicating through daily calls and FaceTmes or the occasional tweet.

"I would love to see no more posts on Twitter or no more sad text messages," she said. "I would love for him to find - whether it's medication or therapy, whatever it might be - something to help him get past it."

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Coaches think Trey has All-Mid-American Conference potential.

For the next two years, though, it'll be about helping Trey grow as a young man, whether that means Thornton lets him crash at his house or tweaks his post-hook. In addition to coming a long way off the court, Trey averaged 9.2 points and 8.3 rebounds per game as a sophomore on 56.1 percent shooting. He was one of the MAC's top defenders, too.

"His future is going to be bright," said Thornton, a former Xavier player and assistant, "in a lot of respects."

His world was dim for a while, and he still has down days, but life is getting brighter. Those nights in Worthen seem like a different life altogether.

"I got through it," Trey said. "But with this platform, I'm wanting to open up and let everyone know that they can get through it too."

Trey often shows off his tattoos on social media, too. He's got sentimental pieces on his left arm, one a tribute to Down Syndrome and another of the Louisville skyline. The elephant on his right arm, a little less sentimental, is new.

But one that stands out from the rest is the semicolon on his forearm. Project Semicolon, born from social media in 2013, was a movement meant to give hope to people struggling with suicide, depression, addiction and self-injury.

That piece reminds him, every day, that, "the author uses a semicolon when he could've chosen to end his sentence."

Trey, no longer alone in the dark, will keep going.

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Source: The (Muncie) Star Press, http://tspne.ws/2pLSb6g

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Information from: The Star Press, http://www.thestarpress.com