God and Starbucks Read online

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my wonderful mother, Jean Baker; my wife and partner, Shawnee; my father (and pastor), James, who never gave up on me; and God, who always sees the best in me!

  Epigraph

  You never know God is all you need until God is all you have.

  —Rick Warren

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Introduction

  Prologue

  1: Growing Up

  2: Big Fish, Little Pond

  3: The Rookie

  4: “How Bad Can It Be?”

  5: Playing High

  6: Scared Straight (Almost)

  7: A New Home in Seattle

  8: Ego Gets in the Way

  9: A Functional Alcoholic

  10: A Fractured Life

  11: Back to New England

  12: Celtics Intervention

  13: A Career Unravels

  14: Losing Everything

  15: The Prodigal Son

  16: Abyssinian Baptist Church

  17: Starbucks and Second Chances

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Introduction

  I can see it on their faces sometimes. They walk into the store, heavy lidded, distracted by thoughts of the upcoming workday, looking for nothing more than a jolt of caffeine to shake off the morning cobwebs. They peck away at their smartphones or fumble with their wallets, oblivious to their surroundings, until suddenly, there they are, at the front of the line, looking up—way up—at the world’s tallest barista.

  Some feign cool indifference, but most can’t help themselves. I grew up in Connecticut, played college ball at the University of Hartford, and spent part of my career—a rather notorious part—with the Boston Celtics. So here, at a Starbucks in North Kingstown, Rhode Island, there’s no place to hide. First of all, I don’t look like an ordinary guy. I’m a giant in the back there. I mean that literally—I’m six foot eleven, 275 pounds. You see me frothing up your cappuccino, and at the very least you can’t help but wonder, What’s going on here? He must be . . . somebody. Others know exactly who I am: a guy who made, and lost, more than $100 million in his NBA career, a career wrecked by alcoholism and depression and spectacularly bad business decisions. These are the people who stare hard, then suddenly avert their eyes, the sadness nevertheless evident on their faces.

  I know what they’re thinking: How the hell does a four-time NBA all-star, and an Olympian, end up shouting “Tall decaf cappuccino!” from behind the counter at Starbucks? Given half the chance, I’ll disarm the customer with a smile and a few friendly words. I don’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable when they walk into our store, and I sure don’t want anyone’s pity. Trust me when I say this: I’ve been through worse. Much, much worse. There’s no shame in work. The indignity comes from not working, from losing your way through ego and weakness and addiction, and finding yourself tumbling into a bottomless pit of despair and helplessness.

  Want to know what that looks like? Okay, here it is.

  I was a first-round NBA draft pick (the eighth choice overall in 1993) smoking weed every day to alleviate my anxiety, until repeated trips to the emergency room, with my heart racing uncontrollably, prompted me to find another way to self-medicate.

  I was an NBA all-star, drinking after games, and then before games, and eventually at all points in between—draining anywhere between a pint and a fifth of liquor a day—using alcohol to end my career and nearly my life. Make no mistake, that’s what alcoholism is: slow and deliberate suicide.

  I was a man running from responsibility, fathering five children with two different women, and selfishly bouncing back and forth between families and relationships, because money gave me leeway and freedom that others were not afforded. Money, after all, is like a “get out of jail free” card—until it’s gone, and with it the patience and tolerance of those you’ve hurt, and the enabling of those who never really cared about you in the first place.

  I was a former millionaire driving my mother’s Mercedes (the one I bought her with my rookie contract) to a pawnshop, with four old tires stuffed into the backseat and trunk. I sold the tires for eighty bucks, bought a few bottles of liquor, and drank myself into oblivion, until all the pain was gone—the ache in my lower back that signaled a failing liver, and the ceaseless cloud of loneliness that hung over every day.

  That’s how bad it got for me.

  By comparison, working at Starbucks is a walk in the park.

  Would you prefer to say that I got my ass kicked? That I’ve been humbled? Fine, go ahead and say it. You would not be incorrect. But I’m not bitter. I’ve been sober for six years now, and in that time, with spirituality as the foundation, I’ve rebuilt my life one brick at a time. I married a longtime girlfriend, and together we are raising our four beautiful children. I am a licensed minister and assistant pastor at the same church in Old Saybrook, Connecticut, where my father is the head pastor, and where, as a boy, I knew nothing but peace. I’ll probably never be a millionaire again, but that’s fine. Life is good and full of possibilities.

  That’s the point I’d like to get across: that life is worth living, no matter how bad it might get at times. Obstacles can be overcome, demons can be conquered. I’ve been speaking to youth groups both in and out of church, and I’ve done some work with the NBA, helping provide a cautionary tale to young athletes who likely aren’t even remotely prepared for the ways in which their lives will change when staggering wealth is heaped on them. This book is part of my mission. Maybe, by telling my story, I can provide inspiration and hope to those who are facing all manner of hardships, and who are trying to figure out how to pick themselves up and start over again.

  As I tell the parishioners at my church: God doesn’t measure how far you’ve fallen, but he will be there when you’re ready to rise.

  Prologue

  April 16, 2011

  This day begins like all the others, like every gray and godforsaken morning for the previous seven months: with a feeling of utter astonishment that I am still alive. There is no relief attached to this sentiment, no gratitude, just a sense of wonder at how much the human body can withstand before it finally surrenders or gives out. I roll over on the couch, which is where I usually sleep, and squint out at the bleakness of another day rising up to taunt me. As I sit up, the pounding in my head starts almost immediately, followed by heart palpitations and epic, rumbling waves of nausea. I begin to tremble and sweat. I am dizzy and disoriented.

  If this sounds like a hangover—well, that doesn’t even begin to do it justice. Hangovers are for rookies. I am a veteran, a world-class drinker and drug addict who spends his every waking moment trying to dull the pain of a hopelessly wrecked life. What I feel right now is not a mere hangover; it is a body in the throes of withdrawal. The alcoholic drinks all day, passes out at night, and wakes to a craving that can scarcely be described—an immediate awareness that agony lies ahead, and the only way to stop it is to take the first drink. There is nothing surprising about any of this to me, not anymore. I know the routine and have planned accordingly. On the coffee table in front of me is a small portion of an orange, peeled and ready to be eaten, along with a jug of Hennessy and an empty glass. Although I don’t remember doing so, at some point the previous night I laid these items out on the table, knowing they would be needed the moment I woke up. And there they are, ready to be applied like some alcoholic’s balm.

  I reach first for the Hennessy, of course. Pour a small amount in the glass, maybe three or four ounces, take a deep breath, and toss it ba
ck. There is a familiar burning sensation, at once soothing and aggravating. Then I put the glass down and reach for the orange. Sometimes I try to eat the entire piece; on this day I am just too sick, so I squeeze some of the juice into my mouth, try to swallow, and then wait for the inevitable. I reach out, grab a small waste can (also kept nearby at all times), and vomit the meager contents of my stomach—a mix of blood and bile, mostly—into the bottom. The spasms go on for a minute or two, dry heaving so powerfully that my ribs feel as though they are compressed against my spine. Whimpering softly, I fall back into the couch and curl up into a ball. In a few minutes I will begin to feel better. The sweat will dissipate, the headache will subside, and the fog will begin to lift.

  And then I can begin to drink in earnest.

  That’s the way it usually works. On this day, though, the sickness lingers. There is a persistent pain in my lower back; it’s been there for a while now, increasing steadily in severity, a sure sign that my liver is beginning to fail. I rise from the couch, pull a blanket around me, and stagger through darkened rooms. I grew up in this house, and right now it is all I have left. Gone are the mansions and the cars and most of the friends who came with them. My parents live nearby, in a home that I bought for them many years ago, when I was flush with fame and fortune. We never sold my childhood home, so I’ve moved back in. I guess this is what is known as coming full circle, although I don’t recall my parents ever having to worry about the cable company killing service for nonpayment, as happened to me not long ago.

  At the moment I have five children, but I rarely see any of them. Truth is, I hardly see anyone. I’ve burned just about every available bridge over the last decade, and so most days are spent right here, in this living room, completely alone, drinking as much as a gallon of Hennessy every single day. That’s the beverage of choice right now, no better or worse than the Bacardi 151 I used to drink, or even the Listerine I once favored as a way to get drunk without smelling like a drunk. As always, on this morning, I am amazed to be drawing breath.

  I can’t believe I made it through another night.

  Maybe there is a reason God hasn’t called me yet. There was a time, after all, when he was the most important person in my life. Long before I became an NBA all-star, long before I made and lost more money than most people can even imagine, I lived a life of humility and spirituality. I was the son of a preacher, and even when I lost my way, I liked to think of myself as still being part of the flock. It was always back there somewhere, the idea that I was the prodigal son, just waiting for a chance to go home.

  I make my way to the bathroom, turn on the lights, and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Most days I turn away from my own reflection, because what I see disgusts and frightens me. Gone is the world-class athlete with an easy and ever-present smile; in his place is a sad and sick man in the final stages of a death spiral. This is what end-stage alcoholism looks like: yellow, sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, 190 pounds of sagging, wrinkled flesh draped across a six-foot-eleven frame. In my playing days I carried 250 pounds of muscle. Now I am a living, breathing skeleton. A walking corpse.

  For some reason, I stare at the reflection, unable or unwilling to avert my gaze. Every inch of my body aches. Not just a superficial pain, but something much deeper and more primal. I feel it in my bones. I feel it in my heart. I feel it in my soul, which is a surprise, since I wasn’t even sure that particular part of me still existed. This is bottom. Finally, after all these years, this is it.

  I begin to cry, almost silently at first, and then much louder—full-throated sobs that take my breath away. I fall to my knees and, for the first time in many years, I begin to pray. It is a selfish prayer, a plea for relief more than forgiveness.

  “Please, God . . . take this away from me. I can’t do it anymore.”

  There is no response, of course. Just more pain and despair. That’s okay—God is a busy man, and you can’t blame him for wanting to see some evidence of sincerity before extending the hand of salvation. I rise from the floor and walk into the living room. I pick up my cell phone and punch in the number of one of the few people who will still take my call, the one person who will give me another chance, no matter what I’ve done, or how far I have fallen.

  “Dad,” I whisper into the phone. “I’m ready to check in to rehab. Will you help me?”

  He’s there in minutes, and soon the two of us are on the road, my father behind the wheel, me slumped into the passenger seat, sipping from a bottle of Hennessy (as any addict will tell you, if you’re going to rehab, you might as well get high on the way; go out with a bang, so to speak). We barely talk. There isn’t much to say. My father is a hard man, but he is a forgiving man as well. Like everyone else, my parents have kept me at arm’s length for a while now. At some point, there is nothing you can do for the addict but give him the time and space to make his own decisions, and hope that he eventually chooses life over death. For me, that day is today. I am forty-one years old, and I am leaning on my father like a child.

  He walks me to the front door of the hospital. There are no tears, no words of wisdom. He simply extends his hand for me to shake. I take it in mine and pull him close.

  “I love you, Dad.”

  “I love you, too, son. Good luck.”

  1

  Growing Up

  I am not one of those people who can blame their adult problems on an impoverished or abusive childhood. My mother and father left the South during the turbulent sixties, settled in the more tolerant and integrated Northeast, and raised a family. I grew up an only child; there was another baby, born three years before me, but he passed away because of health issues before I came along. In part because of the emotional trauma attached to that event, but also because my folks were just old fashioned, I was raised in a loving but strict environment, and kept on a very short leash. If my parents didn’t approve of one of my friends, then I wasn’t allowed to spend time with that friend. I had strict curfews.

  Both of my parents worked, my mom as a quality-control operator at the Cheesbrough-Ponds cosmetics company, my father as a mechanic and a minister. Old Saybrook is not a racially diverse community, and I was one of the few African American kids at my school. But my life revolved around a Baptist church (more like Pentecostal, really), with a predominantly black congregation, so I kind of felt like I had the best of both worlds. My father was a bad boy turned good. Drank too much, ran the streets, then turned his life around. With a streetwise father like that, there’s no way a kid gets away with much. My parents understood racism and the potential problems of being a black kid in a white town; they also knew firsthand what sort of trouble a kid could find if he was allowed to roam free.

  So I didn’t roam. I went to school and church. I did my homework. I stayed out of trouble. By any reasonable definition, I was a good kid.

  What I wasn’t, at least not for a while, was a good basketball player. I was a classic late bloomer: six foot two and skeletal as a ninth-grader, I got cut from the varsity and the JV. I loved the game, but the fact is, my physical development lagged far behind my enthusiasm. I wasn’t big enough or strong enough to bang inside, and my handle was too weak for point guard, the position I’d played in eighth grade. Like most kids who get cut, I went home and cried to my parents, who were thoroughly disengaged from youth sports and really couldn’t comprehend my disappointment. Mom worked the second shift (4:00 p.m. to 1:00 a.m), and Dad was at church all the time. They were too busy to get caught up in their kid’s high school sports drama. There were more important things to worry about.

  Sorry, son. Maybe next year. Now go do your homework.

  But in the off-season I worked hard, continued to play, and didn’t feel sorry for myself but rather used getting cut as motivation. I wanted to prove to the coaches that they had made a mistake. Besides, I loved hoopin’. Couldn’t get enough of it. I wasn’t the biggest or toughest kid, but I was passionate about the game, and that goes a long way. While other kids moved
from one sport to another depending on the time of year, I focused exclusively on basketball. Like a lot of kids, I dreamed of one day making it to the NBA; unlike most kids, I devoted all my energy to making it happen, regardless of whether it was a realistic goal. Somewhere between the ages of thirteen and sixteen, most boys develop interests that challenge their devotion to sports. In my case the transition was delayed by several years. All I needed to be happy was a ball and a gym. I was a decent student—not high honors or anything, but solid enough to stay out of trouble. I didn’t party or stay out late. I just played ball and went to school and church. All day, every day.

  Good thing I was patient and determined, because I was far from an overnight success. Even in my sophomore year, things didn’t pop right away. I was a six-three wing still relegated to the JV. One game, after scoring 20 points, I felt pretty good about myself, and kind of swaggered into the locker room as the varsity was getting ready to come out. As I passed one of the older guys I gave myself a little shout-out, just to let him know that I was a baller.

  “Dropped twenty tonight,” I said.

  He shook his head. “Whatever, Bako” (my nickname). “You’re on the JV.”

  True enough. And until I proved otherwise, that’s all I was.

  Genetics trumps almost everything, though. My father was a drinker. A couple of my uncles, too. I was predisposed to alcoholism. But my dad was also six foot seven, so I inherited the tall gene as well. You take the good with the bad, I guess. I had my first legitimate growth spurt near the end of my sophomore year, and by the time I started school as a junior, my father and I were the same height. Of course, he outweighed me by a hundred pounds and still scared the hell out of me, but the added size did wonders for my confidence, as well as for my basketball game. The other thing that helped was competition. The whole summer before my junior year, I played two or three times a week at the YMCA in Westbrook, Connecticut. These were grown-up games dominated by current and former college players and playground legends. At first it was hard to get into the games, but I waited my turn, and once given a chance, I moved the ball, played hard on defense, and kept my mouth shut. Respect came slowly but steadily, and pretty soon I was a regular. My father would drop me off at six and pick me up at eight. For two hours I’d get my butt kicked, and then go home. Dad rarely even asked me about those games, but I think he approved. He wasn’t an athlete, but he liked the idea that I was showing some initiative.