RIGHT VALUES

    PORTLAND, TENN. — In a patch of farmland on the edges of this tiny hill town, there's a pristine subdivision with two-story brick houses, deep lawns and backyard pools.

    The Brewers live across the street, in a matchbox house with a weed-choked yard and a backyard beer tub.

    In the subdivision, smooth driveways lead to fancy garages on which are mounted basketball hoops.

    The Brewers have a gravel driveway, no garage for their 100,000-mile cars, and a couple of warped lawn chairs around that beer tub.

    Every morning, when Glenda Brewer leaves for her job as a special education teacher and Pee Wee Brewer wheels himself outside to visit friends, they look across the street into that fancy subdivision.

    Every night, they phone the son who could have put them there.

    And they tell him they love him because he didn't.

    Meet the parents of Corey Brewer, the University of Florida forward who turned down NBA millions to make college basketball history.

    Meet the parents who told Brewer his happiness was more important than their wealth.

    The richest folks in Sumner County.

    Says Glenda, "Seems to us, lots of people who have money are miserable."

    Says Pee Wee, "I told that boy, 'Don't you worry about us none, you follow your heart.' "

    A powerful thing, that heart.

    Brewer's surprising decision to return to school after he had helped Florida to a national championship last season inspired wealthier teammates Joakim Noah and Al Horford to do the same. Today, with last season's core intact, Florida is two wins from becoming college basketball's first repeat champion in 15 years.

    When the Gators play UCLA in the second national semifinal game Saturday in Atlanta, Glenda will be in the stands, having driven four hours south in her rattling PT Cruiser.

    "Don't matter how much money he makes, the only thing I would ever need is a newer Cruiser," she says.

    Pee Wee, a diabetic whose left leg was amputated in November, will be watching in the back room of their nicely furnished but cramped home, on a dusty 15-year-old television.

    "That TV got a do-not-resuscitate order on it," he says with a nearly toothless grin. "When it goes, it's gone."

    Both parents will be hearing the same thing from fans and friends. Both will smile, but neither will understand.

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