Jase Richardson’s Second Chance HouseBy a reporter embedded in the story
It began, as many stories do, with a game-winning shot.
Jase Richardson had just drained a buzzer-beater against Illinois, sending Michigan State to the Big Ten Finals. The crowd roared. Broadcasters lit up. His name trended nationwide. But even in the madness, his mind wasn’t in East Lansing—it was in Memphis, Tennessee.
That same night, after the press conference and obligatory victory celebration, Jase sat alone in his dorm, scrolling through photos of a run-down, boarded-up house on Crump Boulevard. It wasn’t pretty—peeling paint, broken windows, weeds tangled through a rusting fence—but Jase saw something else: redemption.
Less than a week later, Jase announced he was investing $3.6 million into transforming that house into a shelter for homeless youth. The news surprised everyone. A sophomore college athlete with NBA potential didn’t usually drop millions on real estate in a state he had no public ties to.
But there was history there. Hidden history.
“I don’t talk about it much,” Jase admitted to me months later, sitting in what was now called Second Chance House, a newly restored facility with lavender-painted walls, warm lighting, and the smell of fresh cornbread wafting from the kitchen. “But I spent two months in a shelter when I was sixteen. Nobody knew. I told my coaches I was staying with friends.”
Back then, Jase had lived in Las Vegas. His mother worked double shifts. His father—a former NBA star—was overseas coaching. A legal battle over housing left the family split and Jase couch-surfing, hungry, and scared. It wasn’t until a youth outreach counselor in Tennessee, whom he met while at an AAU tournament, helped him find stability that he felt like life could be rebuilt.
“She told me something I’ll never forget,” he said. “‘You don’t have to be in control to have direction.’ That stuck with me. When things got better, I promised myself I’d give that chance to someone else someday.”
The house on Crump had once belonged to that same counselor, Lorraine Baxter, who passed away in 2023. Jase learned the house had been left to rot. No city plans. No buyer. So, he bought it outright and then poured everything into it.
“I gave up the car I wanted. The draft party I planned. Even sold some memorabilia,” he laughed. “This—this felt bigger.”
The transformation was staggering. Where there had once been broken glass and cracked foundations, now stood twelve private rooms with lockable doors, a community study center, a counseling office, and a rooftop garden where teens could grow their own food.
The shelter was designed not just as a place to crash, but as a place to heal. A live-in staff included therapists, social workers, and a former chef from Beale Street. Kids were referred by schools, local police, and nonprofit agencies. Each got a personalized plan: school enrollment, skill-building workshops, and even stipends for part-time jobs.
But Jase didn’t just bankroll the project—he stayed involved. He flew down after games. Spent summers on site. Read college essays with the teens. Played pick-up ball with them in the backyard hoop he’d helped install.
“It’s one thing to donate,” said Trina Bowers, a program manager. “But Jase? He shows up. He listens. He remembers birthdays. These kids don’t need saviors. They need someone who shows up.”
Word spread fast. Sports networks picked up the story. Analysts debated whether he should have waited until after the draft. Jase didn’t care.
“Money can come later. But those kids need help now,” he said.
One of those kids was seventeen-year-old Kiondre Taylor, who had been living in his car before landing at Second Chance House. Now, he’s applying to colleges and training as a youth mentor. He calls Jase “Coach J.”
“I thought it was fake at first,” Kiondre said. “Like, why would someone like him care? But he does. And not just about ball. He cared when I failed algebra. He cared when I lost my uncle. That’s real.”
By the end of the first year, Second Chance House had housed 62 teens. Thirty were reunited with family. Fifteen enrolled in college. Five entered skilled trades. Only one returned to the streets.
In an era where athletes often brand philanthropy as image management, Jase’s decision stood out for its authenticity. He rarely spoke about it publicly. His social media remained focused on basketball. But behind the scenes, he created something bigger than stats.
And when draft night came, Jase walked the red carpet in a simple gray suit. No entourage. No flashy chains. On his wrist, a woven bracelet made by one of the kids from the shelter.
The cameras caught it. Analysts commented. But when asked about it on stage after being selected 12th overall by the Charlotte Hornets, Jase just smiled.
“I promised myself I’d never forget where I came from,” he said. “This bracelet reminds me of that.”
His first major purchase? A second property—this time in Flint, Michigan—where he plans to launch another shelter focused on displaced teens from foster care.
Jase Richardson, the rising star of college basketball, had quietly become something rarer: a 20-year-old millionaire not just building his brand—but building bridges for others.
And back in Memphis, under the Tennessee moon, Second Chance House glowed like a lantern in the dark.
Because for the kids inside, it wasn’t just a shelter. It wasn’t