Killer Crossover, page 3
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That mentality made it to the playground, too. As I grew up from a kid and entered grammar school, it was all about toughness. When I was young, I would play all types of sports. Football, baseball, soccer, volleyball. I was short (in grammar school, I was about 5-foot-3 at a time when some of my peers were 6-foot-6 or even 6-foot-9 by the eighth grade!), so I’d play running back or sometimes even quarterback on the football field. I could throw the ball and run fast. Despite my size, I’ve always been athletic. We never had shoulder pads when playing in the neighborhood. Just your sneakers and a ball. Sometimes you’d go for a long pass or go across the middle and, if you did, you’d better watch yourself. Some kids left the game unable to walk. You’d hit your head on rocks, run into poles, you name it.
Charles Darwin would have been proud of us—only the strong survived. On the diamond, I liked to pitch and was good at it. But I found the outfield boring, so I stopped playing. I also liked playing volleyball. We had volleyball tournaments in grammar school, playing different classes around the city. And my coach would tell me that I wasn’t supposed to step in front of my teammates and take their shots but, he added, when the game was on the line, it would be good for me to do so. I had to give them confidence during the game but, if we needed a point, I could take things into my own hands. Together, we won the seventh grade tournament.
Growing up how I did, I became observant. Alert. I was smart, even though I hardly ever did my homework. When I played basketball, even as a youngin, I knew how to lead by example, 11how to direct people. “Set a pick for him, get that guy open!” I’d say to a teammate dribbling the ball at the top of the key. “Move, cut! Set a back screen!” Some older guys would ask me how I knew how to play this way. I’d just say, “Look and learn.” I knew how to pay attention to details. It was all right there on television when we watched the game. It was like the game slowed down when I watched it. I could see every move.
There were so many legends from Chicago—Isiah Thomas, Doc Rivers, Cazzie Russell, Terry Cummings, Mo Cheeks, Rickey Green, Mitchell J. J. Anderson, and more. I’d just take stuff from their game and incorporate it into my own. Whether on TV or in a high school gym, I watched what they did and made it my own. I was on a team with Rickey Green, who was drafted by the Golden State Warriors in 1977 and was an All-Star with the Utah Jazz in 1984, and just by watching him play twice a week I found myself ahead of the game. Rickey would even ask me how I handled the ball so well, and I would ask him how he got it up the court so quickly. We gave each other tips, even though he’d already been in the league for a decade. That’s how you get better: never stop learning.
Being so close to current and future pros like that would give me the confidence to play better. It’s not only the physical tricks we traded but knowing that I was accepted by big names like that made me feel good about my game. Like I belonged. You know it when you belong with the big guys—they pick you for their team, give you high-fives or say things like “You hoppin’ now, boy!” Indeed, brains-plus-trauma is a potent combination. If I had talented guys on my team, we’d be unstoppable. If I had a weaker squad, I’d do everything I could to instill energy and strengthen them. I did the same thing when I played soccer. At 12day camps during little tournaments, my teams would always do well. My secret? I tried hard and was never scared to fail.
My camp counselors would ask me, “How do you know how to play soccer?” And I’d tell them I saw it on TV. I was coordinated and observant. Those were the keys for me. Those traits alone could keep me going. They got me through the days of getting picked on. When you’re short, you get picked on. That’s a fact—especially if you want to be a basketball player. For me, it started in sixth grade. The other kids would say, “You can’t play!” or “You’re too small!” But it just drove me harder. If you can handle it, things like that just make you stronger as a person. It turns your mind into metal, and iron sharpens iron. It makes you pay attention to detail. It makes you understand that if you want to be the type of player you dream about, then you have to deal with naysayers and shit talkers. Most people, all they do is talk. Those who can’t do something just talk about it. The trick is to be someone that can do it. So, you just work on your game. Alone. In the cold. In the snow. Everything is about being the best. You realize that it’s death to stick around lower levels. That’s the benefit of being picked on. That’s the benefit of your peers choosing other people ahead of you. You tell yourself, Okay, they think HE’S better? Time to show ’em he’s not. You get relentless.
Today, I am 5-foot-11 and three-quarters of an inch tall. And while that’s not short for the average man, it is for an NBA player (who average around 6-foot-6!). Growing up, my parents thought I might not even get as tall as I am now. My dad was always saying, “When you going to grow, boy?” But I could still play. In sixth grade, I tried out for the class team and did well. The coach told me to come back and try out for the seventh-grade team. So I did that and did well there. Then he said, 13“Come out for eighth grade tryouts.” But even if I was good enough to play on that team, he cautioned, I wouldn’t because of my height. But I played so well in the tryouts that I made the squad.
The first uniform Coach gave me fit like a dress. My mother had to alter it. At some point in grammar school I got a little growth spurt, but that was it for me. Thankfully, I have long arms.
And while I didn’t have long legs, I’ve always had quick hands and quick feet. You have to lean on your attributes, not your shortcomings. I did what I had to do. When I was young, I dribbled the ball everywhere. I’d dribble it to pick up milk from the corner store or when my dad asked me to buy him cigarettes or pop. I knew by the time I hit sixth grade that basketball, more than anything else, was what I wanted to do. What I wanted to be best at.
My grammar school coach was a man named Donald Pittman. He taught me my foundation, teaching me how to be effective from anywhere on the court. I’d seen my dad do it in real life and now I wanted to learn how—to be just like him. So Coach Pittman taught me from square one. He showed me how to post up. How to drop-step. How to shoot with my left and right hands. How to take jump-hooks. How to go to the hoop fearlessly. How to work hard. How to take a hit and give one back and still make the shot. He taught me how to run a team and be a captain. He taught me how to be a leader.
One afternoon, he took me out of school to go on a drive. It was in 1977, if I remember correctly. I was in sixth grade and eleven years old, and we went to the city’s International Amphitheatre. He wanted to show me a star guard who was 14playing for St. Joseph’s in the Chicago high school semifinals. Coach Pittman said, “I want you to check this little guy out. He’s No. 11.” So I didn’t take my eyes off him. He was killing everybody. Dribbling, shooting, scoring, defending. “That’s how you play,” Coach Pittman said. “ME?” I replied. “Yes,” he said. “That’s how you play. You make your team better. You give your team confidence like he does.”
Coach gave me confidence that day. As we sat there watching the future NBA Hall of Famer from St. Joseph’s, I began to think about my future as a hooper. I wanted to play the game the way it was supposed to be played. I wasn’t thinking about the pros or even college. I just wanted to prepare my team to win and get better. “I don’t play like him!” I said. Then, without missing a beat Coach Pittman said—and I’ll never forget it— “Believe me, yes you do.” That’s when I started patterning my game after the great Isiah Thomas. Still, though, despite what Coach said, I didn’t see stars in my eyes. When your life is so hard as a young person, you don’t get an ego too quickly. At least, I didn’t.
* * *
My mom and dad separated when I was in the sixth grade. You never want something like that to happen, but I was glad it did for my safety and that of my family. Still, it was hard to get over. My mother wasn’t taking his shit anymore. She left him in 1978, but even then it took him some time to figure it all out, to understand what he needed to do to get sober. We had to stay away from him for two years. He didn’t want to let my mother have the house. To get away, mom took us to a friend’s house and we stayed there until she figured her next move. He 15knew he couldn’t bother her there because the woman she was staying with was the ex-wife of one of his friends. That man wasn’t going to let my father mess with his ex and their kids. Wasn’t going to let him bang on their door at all hours, not with his children there sleeping. Dad knew he’d have to answer to the guy if he acted up. So he had to leave it alone. All he could cling to was spite. It was a smart move by my mother. After they formally divorced, which was around the time I graduated grammar school, he was out of the family house for good and we could move back in. My parents never got back together, and it took me the better part of a year to be willing to see him again. I still loved him, but I knew I had to have space.
A little later, mom got herself a new job. She knew she was going to have to take care of herself, so she got a gig as a postal worker delivering mail. Good benefits and a pension. She walked neighborhoods putting letters and packages into people’s mail slots in hot summers and snowy winters. She did it all for me and my brother—her boys. She always talked about her boys. She sacrificed for us, and did an incredible job raising us, too. She would take days off from work without pay so that she could show me the bus routes I needed to take in order to get to school every day.
She always wanted to make sure I was safe and that she knew where I would be during the week. Mom was selfless. As far as her new postal job, she didn’t like it one bit. But she worked it diligently, day in and day out, until I finished college and made the NBA. Once I made the pros, she said she was done with working altogether! “You’re in the NBA now,” she said. “You can take care of me now.” And that was just fine by me. I could take care of her for a little while then. It was my turn to carry the load 16for her in that way. And I was proud to do it. I wanted to get her everything her heart desired.
* * *
As a kid, I either wore Chuck Taylor’s or PRO-Keds. I used to like the all-white ones. My mother would tell me, “You can only have one leather pair of shoes for the year.” So I would get them right before my first basketball game of the season. And I took care of them bad boys like they were my babies. All year long, I felt so lucky to even have one pair. Every day after school I’d come home and clean them up. If they needed white-out, I’d paint them. I would scrub them with a toothbrush and soap, too. These shoes were mine, so I had to take care of them. I rarely ever got something I wanted, so when I did, I had to dote over them daily.
Of course, quietly, I wanted more than I got. Growing up, we weren’t poor, but we didn’t have money to throw around. Not with how hard my dad drank when I was a kid. If I ever asked my parents for something, I was always ready to hear no. If you ask a question, you should always be ready for that. If I didn’t need a new pair of shoes, I knew I wouldn’t get one. To this day and all through my NBA career, when someone told me no, I understood. Today, I often hear kids ask their parents, “Why not?” And I think, wow. If you asked my parents “Why not?” in the ’70s, you’d get your ass handed to you. And if you said it the wrong way, you might have been knocked out on the spot.
Back then, you learned how to keep your mouth shut. Maybe that’s why I talked so much trash on the court—I was making up for lost time. Yes, you had to keep your mouth shut around your 17parents back then. They worked too hard for you to talk back. At worst you could give a face and walk away, but even that was risky. Patience is an important virtue. You’ve got to be patient. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t work hard. It just means that not everything comes to you right away. Sometimes you have to create your own future with your own two hands.
* * *
As a boy, some of my favorite memories involved creativity. I had a good group of friends, and we used to make stuff all the time. We made our own basketball rims to put up around the house. We also rode bikes around the city and made our own fun. We used to shag balls for golfers and make a little bit of money. That’s what I miss most when I think back on my life. Hanging around the neighborhood with my buddies. I miss those days in grammar school. The way we could find joy in the littlest things. We went from park to park, basking in the camaraderie between friends. Playing football, fighting each other on the playground in good fun. Just learning about the world as kids do. On weekends, someone would come over to your house and just sit on the porch waiting for you. Maybe as early as seven or eight in the morning. They’d knock on your door and before you knew it there would be half-a-dozen guys hanging around. You’d talk for an hour and then someone would suggest getting the bikes. Then you’d throw some decent clothes on and be out all day. That’s freedom, and something many kids this generation have no clue about. It was definitely a different time, but it was a special time.
The best food in the neighborhood was at this place called Italian Fiesta. They had the greatest pizza. Thin crust. And 18Harold’s Chicken, which is still there—don’t get me started on their bird. There was Leon’s Barbeque, too. There, you could get a plate of French fries smothered in BBQ sauce for 75 cents. That would fill you up all day, enough to play basketball until the night set in. The fries would be so hot that they’d burn the roof of your mouth. Your hands would be sticky and your tongue would be on fire. Sometimes four of us chowed down on one of those big plates. It was great. A group of boys just getting out into the world.
You need friends like that in your life when you’re coming up. Like my buddy Alonzo Meadows, who lived two doors down. We’re still friends to this day. Ever since 1977. We’d run around the city together, testing each other, having each other’s backs. Then when you came home at night, if no one was watching the TV, you’d sit yourself down and put on Hawaii Five-0, Happy Days, Kung Fu, Lost in Space. We’d watch Godzilla and King Kong movies. We only had the three network channels and WFLD on channel 32 where the cheap horror movies would come on. Those scary ones where you couldn’t look away.
* * *
Sometimes, when kids know they’re good at sports, they start to think about Division-I schools or the pros. For me, it wasn’t about that. The only thing I started thinking about was the pro-am at Chicago State University. I wanted to be a good high school player, and I wanted to play in that game. When I was a kid, I’d get there at 5 p.m. for a seven o’clock game because they were so packed. That’s where I saw Isiah Thomas, Terry Cummings, Rickey Green, Rod Higgins, Mo Cheeks, Reggie 19Theus, Mark Aguirre, J. J. Anderson, and even Michael Jordan come through and lace ’em up. To me, that was making it. The best to come through Chicago were welcome there. That was the badge of honor I dreamed of. If I played there, it meant I was one of the best in town.
To get there, during the summers, I played on a team based in a community center near my house. Those were the best organized runs available when I was in grammar school. There were no AAU or traveling teams. Back then, we played outside. What that taught me most of all was how to fall. You didn’t want to bust your ass on concrete and get those strawberry scrapes on your knees or the palms of your hands. Didn’t want cuts on your elbows or forearms. You learned how to keep your balance. Today, most kids only play in indoor gyms. They don’t know the dangers of asphalt. But that’s how you got better.
Little did I know, though, that should have been the same mentality I had for my schoolwork. There were dangers everywhere in Chicago, including being lazy in school. Sadly, I succumbed to that. I struggled in the classroom—not because I was dumb or couldn’t handle the work, but because I didn’t focus. And I paid for it. It’s embarrassing to say, but I flunked and had to repeat the eighth grade. If people were ridiculing me before because I was short, now they had even more ammunition. I wasn’t slow or stupid, but I sure made myself look it by failing. It didn’t help that my home life was a mess or that my parents’ marriage was falling apart before my eyes.
What was worse? Until I got my grades up that second go-round, I couldn’t play on the team. My mother was not happy at all. In fact, she actually thought my coach held me back so that we could win another grade school championship with me 20back again in eighth grade. We’d already won a bunch my first eighth grade year, but I told her that wasn’t the case. I’d messed up all on my own, not doing my work. I’d just been going to school, occupying blank space. I only cared about basketball and the local tournaments and the games against other schools. For those not from the area, Chicago really cares about its grammar school and high school basketball leagues.
But when I repeated the year, all the coaches would let me do were drills and calisthenics, like running the stairs and wind sprints. I wasn’t allowed to play in any of the scrimmages or the games. In the end, it was a wakeup call—one I sorely needed and one that was good for me to experience at such a young age. Thankfully, I managed to turn my situation around. I passed grammar school and was able to move on into high school. That wasn’t anything easy, either. In the warzone of inner-city Chicago, it’s never just one thing out to get you. There are always landmines.
21
2 Carver High
The older I got in Chicago, the more gangs and fighting through them seemed to be part of my life. Today, as I write this, there are still gangs doing horrible stuff in the city, and it breaks my heart. As I approached high school, it was especially bad. The gangs were constantly trying to recruit me and my buddies to join their ranks. I had to run from them more times than I could count. Down alleys, hiding under cars. Sometimes I had to pull snow in front of me as I hid underneath automobiles so that the gangs couldn’t find me. Once I got to high school, you couldn’t go in certain bathrooms because that’s where gangs like the Disciples or the Vice Lords hung out. You couldn’t wear your hat brim a certain way without offending some of them. You’d have to use an out-of-the-way bathroom upstairs and be late to class just to avoid them. Where I lived, the main gang was the Vice Lords. Today, there is an estimated thirty-five thousand members in that gang alone, spanning dozens of cities around Illinois and Michigan. Founded in 1957, they’re one of the oldest street and prison gangs in Chicago. Sometimes four or five of 22them would chase me. You can’t fight four or five motherfuckers at a time every day. It’s impossible. So I had to plan long, circuitous routes home to avoid them. While I never wanted to be in one, their members were everywhere.
