God and Starbucks Read online

  I’d wake and bake every single morning—literally roll over, shake the cobwebs out, and light a joint. And I’d smoke the whole thing myself. The high would carry me all the way through morning practice. After practice I’d grab something to eat, come home, smoke three or four blunts—big, fat ones—and then get something to eat. Most of this was done with Dog and some of his posse, or with a couple of my friends from home. That was the routine: just smoking and eating and playing ball. Sometimes we’d invite some girls over and have a little party at Dog’s mansion. But it was all very self-contained and clandestine. I got along with all my teammates, but unlike the previous year, I rarely hung out with them on the road, and definitely not when we were home. This probably led people to think that I was more of a straight arrow than some of the other guys.

  Every day began and ended with weed. I smoked to wake up, and I smoked to facilitate sleep. In the middle I smoked because . . . well . . . I liked smoking. The world was a more comfortable and manageable place when encountered through the haze of cannabis. As long as I was balling at an elite level, no one was going to ask any questions. I certainly wasn’t asking any of myself. As far as I was concerned, marijuana was integral to my steadily expanding success on the court. I was calm, relaxed, confident. It was almost as if the game had slowed down, and I could see everything more clearly. Weed was the magic elixir responsible for all of this—or so I told myself. And there was no way I was going to change the routine.

  There was just one little problem: I was not the savviest guy in the world when it came to procuring drugs. It’s not like I had a reliable contact in Milwaukee; for the most part I counted on the largesse of friends or other guys on the team who smoked regularly. Aside from Glenn Robinson, there was no one who smoked as much weed as I did. Benoit Benjamin, a well-traveled veteran center who joined the Bucks in my third season, was also a fairly prodigious smoker, so he’d hook me up as well, but my constant nagging and pestering sometimes provoked annoyance. Just to be clear, none of us was selling weed. We all had money, and Glenn usually had plenty of weed, so he mostly didn’t mind sharing. But after a while I lived in a near constant state of agitation over whether I’d have enough weed to get through the coming days. I didn’t recognize this for what it was: typical drug-seeking behavior, in which the addict’s life revolves around nothing so much as the restocking of his supply. To me it was no more worrisome than making sure I had the right pair of basketball shoes, or that I was properly hydrated during a workout. Weed was just another tool in the kit.

  But if that tool happened to be dull, or, God forbid, missing? I would freak out. Through bad planning or other circumstances beyond my control, this happened with some regularity. We’d be on the road for a few days, my stash of weed would invariably diminish, and I’d have to run down to Glenn’s room to replenish. Dog was my boy, my weed partner, but sometimes I tested his patience. Like a lot of guys who smoke copious amounts of marijuana, Glenn was fond of midday naps. More than once I interrupted him. He’d open the door, and with an annoyed expression on his face, he’d just shake his head.

  “Again, Vinnie?”

  “Yeah, sorry, Dog.”

  “All right . . . come on in.”

  In the same way that I would visit the team trainer for treatment of a sore ankle, I visited Dog for “medication” that would sustain my current level of play. I was an all-star getting accolades for my game, but far from thinking that weed jeopardized that status, I had become convinced that the drug facilitated and even enhanced my career.

  But there was a steep price to pay, in the form of a handful of frightening episodes in which my heart began racing after I got high, and I wound up in the emergency room, on an IV drip, lying to the docs about what had happened and pretending that it was just a panic attack. I’m not talking about a minor escalation of pulse; I’m talking about something that felt like tachycardia—like I was about to have a heart attack. I started thinking about guys like Len Bias and Reggie Lewis and Hank Gathers, young men whose careers and lives were cut short by cardiac arrest. (In Bias’s case, his death was a direct result of drug use.)

  The first episode occurred in March 1996, prior to a game in Chicago, against the Bulls. Chicago is an easy ninety-minute drive from Milwaukee, so we usually bussed for this game. I’d been up late the night before; I set my alarm for eight o’clock (the bus was scheduled to leave at 10:00 a.m.), and smoked a joint as soon as I woke. Instantly, I knew something was wrong. Instead of the usual wave of relaxation that came over me with a morning buzz, I felt a rush of anxiety. I had trouble breathing; my heart raced so quickly and loudly that I thought it might jump out of my chest. I tried to relax.

  Deep breaths . . . deep breaths. Take it easy, Vinnie.

  No good.

  In a desperate, amateurish manner, I tried to meditate, figuring the episode would pass soon enough. But it didn’t. The symptoms escalated, to the point that I thought I might pass out or even die. My college buddy Mike was living with me at the time, so I called out to him for help.

  “What’s wrong, Vin?”

  “I don’t know. I think I might be having a heart attack. You have to get me to the hospital.”

  Mike helped me downstairs and drove me to the emergency room, where I was attended to quickly and dramatically. Medical personnel rushed me right past the front desk and into an examining bay before even filing out the proper paperwork. I was quickly hooked up to an array of machinery, given an IV, and peppered with questions.

  “Do you have a history of heart disease?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever had an episode like this before?”

  “No.”

  “Are you on any type of medication?”

  “No.”

  And then the big one . . .

  “Do you use recreational drugs, and have you taken anything today?”

  Long pause . . . “No . . . never.”

  The docs and nurses were surprisingly calm about all of this. I presume they had heard and seen it all before; whether I was telling the truth or not was almost irrelevant. They were merely checking the appropriate boxes.

  “Well, clearly something unusual is happening, Mr. Baker, so we’re going to have to keep you here for a while and monitor your condition.”

  They recognized me, which helped ensure a degree of discretion and privacy, or at least as much as was possible within the crowded confines of the emergency room. I appreciated the attention and sensitivity and professionalism, but I also knew that I couldn’t afford to miss the bus to Chicago, as then there would be myriad questions to answer—from the coaching staff and management, from fans, and from the media. While this episode was nothing more than a panic attack, it was bound to raise eyebrows. When a team’s star player winds up in the ER—for any reason—it’s big news. Even as the medication coursed through my veins and slowed my heartbeat, as my mood stabilized and the anxiety faded away, and with it the fear of death by cardiac arrest, I squirmed at the prospect of public scrutiny. I felt relatively normal and wanted to get out of the hospital as quickly as possible, before anyone on the Bucks got word of the episode.

  After an hour or so, I told the attending physician that I wanted to leave. The doctor strongly discouraged me, suggested a full battery of tests, and perhaps an overnight stay in the hospital.

  “This is not something to take lightly, Mr. Baker,” he said. “We want to be sure you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine, believe me.” Then I proceeded to spin a convincing yarn about previous anxiety attacks and similar episodes with benign outcomes. The doc was sympathetic, but ultimately unconvinced. I kept looking at my watch, insisting I’d be okay.

  “I have a game to play tonight, Doc. I really have to go.”

  In the end, the hospital declined discharge. If I were to have had a heart attack two hours after being released from the ER with a clean bill of health, the hospital would have been liable. Prudence on their part demanded further testing.
Prudence on my part was something else: I had to leave. So I signed something known as a Discharge Against Medical Advice (DAMA) form, which provided legal absolution to the hospital. I thanked everyone for their kindness and professionalism, and walked out. Mike drove me to the arena, where I caught the bus to Chicago without anyone’s being the wiser. I went through shootaround without incident, got something to eat, and took a nap.

  And then I got high in my hotel room before the game.

  That night I had 21 points and eight rebounds in a nine-point loss to the Bulls. Three nights later, in Atlanta, I had 34 points and 10 rebounds against the Hawks, and two nights after that I had 25 and 12 against the Celtics. It was one of the most productive three-game stretches of my career, and it came on the heels of what felt like a near-death experience. And I was stoned for every minute of each game.

  I’m sure some of my teammates in Milwaukee suspected there was an issue. Terry Cummings, for example, would occasionally give me a sideways glance during practice . . . a look that seemed to say, Son, there’s something going on here. But he wouldn’t put his thoughts into words; it was just something I felt, probably because Terry was such a clean-cut, thoughtful guy.

  Armen Gilliam, another of my teammates on the Bucks, would also toss subtle hints my way: a look of concern, for example, or an inquiry, out of the blue, about how I was feeling. Armen never confronted me personally, but he did talk to my father once. I resented it at the time, of course—that’s what addicts do; they get pissed off when people try to help.

  My output continued to improve, despite my best efforts at sabotage. I averaged 21.1 points and 9.9 rebounds that season, played in the All-Star Game again, and generally continued to perform like one of the league’s top centers. In the summer, though, came another frightening episode related to smoking weed. Much like the previous time, the effects were instantaneous. I took a hit, and my heart started racing. But this one was even worse. My chest felt constricted; I was light-headed.

  Oh, man . . . this time it really is a heart attack.

  I was alone and had to drive myself to the hospital. I raced through the streets of Milwaukee—flying through red lights and stop signs at fifty, sixty miles an hour. Other drivers leaned on their horns as cars jumped out of the way. I felt like I was going to black out behind the wheel. I gripped even tighter as I tried to take slow, shallow breaths.

  Hang on . . . hang on . . .

  At the hospital—the same hospital, incidentally—there was much commotion, just as there had been a few months earlier. Same set of questions, same denials on my part, and the same nonjudgmental response from the doctors. This time, however, I was in no hurry to leave. I stayed for several hours, went through a battery of tests, and ultimately was determined to have suffered nothing more serious than a panic attack. They released me with what amounted to the following recommendation:

  Try to relax.

  I couldn’t relax. Whether for physiological or psychological reasons, my response to smoking had become dangerous and unpredictable. Could I play without weed? Could I even get through the day without it?

  I had no idea.

  I spent a lot of time that summer training with Glenn Robinson. Two or three times a week we’d get together at the Cousins Center, where the Bucks practiced, and work out. The sessions were intense and productive, except on those occasions when I felt dazed and confused. This happened with greater frequency as the summer stretched on; instead of getting in better shape, I was regressing. I had trouble breathing. My legs were heavy and sore. Sometimes I’d get light-headed after just a few minutes of warming up. On the worst days, my heart would begin racing. Then it would slow down. Then it would race again. I could feel my pulse in my throat, as if my heart were trying to climb out of my body.

  It was at once disgusting and terrifying. At the end of one of those sessions I decided that I had to stop smoking weed.

  “I’m done,” I said to Glenn.

  He smiled, laughed a little.

  “Sure you are, bro.”

  I was 100 percent serious. I quit—not quite cold turkey, but pretty close. By the time the season started I had cut way back on weed, and by the middle of the season I had stopped completely. But I didn’t get sober. I just traded one drug for another.

  7

  A New Home in Seattle

  I was young and strong and improving with each passing season. I made the All-Star team three consecutive times in Milwaukee, from 1995 through 1997, but the Bucks remained a mediocre (or just plain bad), small-market franchise, and in that scenario everyone is trade bait. In the summer of 1997, after months of trying to renegotiate my contract, I was sent to the Seattle SuperSonics in a complicated three-team deal. Tyrone Hill and Terrell Brandon went to the Bucks, and Shawn Kemp and Sherman Douglas went from Seattle to the Cleveland Cavaliers.

  The night that trade was announced, I drank to oblivion. And then I continued to drink the next day . . . and the day after that. A three-day binge of epic drinking. I remember going back to my condo on the last night and watching SportsCenter on ESPN, and thinking, Whoa, I’m taking Shawn Kemp’s place in Seattle? Shawn was a superstar—talented but troubled. I found it hard to think of myself as being on the same level as a player like that. I knew there would be expectations in Seattle that I hadn’t experienced in Milwaukee.

  A couple of days later I met with the Sonics’ coach, George Karl. Man, I love that guy. He is a players’ coach, and he had all the faith in the world in me. The truth was, even though I was a three-time all-star, I was not a winner—not in college, and not in the pros. Being an all-star was cool. It got me a sneaker deal and it was great for the résumé. But when you win, there is another level of fame and, especially, respect. Guys like Michael Jordan, Larry Bird, Kobe Bryant, and Scottie Pippen—they’re admired not just for their individual accomplishments, but also for the number of rings they’ve acquired. You score a bunch of points, play in the All-Star Game, but fail to win a title? Then you’re Allen Iverson.

  I knew there was a chance I’d be traded, but Seattle was the last place I expected to land. I was a big fan of Shawn Kemp, and now here I was, trying to take his place.

  “You’re my guy,” Coach Karl told me. “You’re the player we want.”

  Everything about Seattle was different. There were big personalities and big expectations. At the very first team meeting, George said we should win thirty-five games at home (and sixty games overall). Considering we played only forty-one home games, this was one hell of a prognostication. In Milwaukee the previous year, we hadn’t even won thirty-five games total.

  Interestingly, Shawn Kemp and I actually had a few things in common. In addition to playing the same position, we both had issues with substance abuse (mine were less well known than Shawn’s at the time.) Moreover, each of us had been traded, following protracted and unsuccessful contract negotiations. Like me, Shawn had basically been shipped off because he was unhappy with his deal. Wally Walker, the general manager of the Sonics, thought that it was probably best to move on from Shawn given some of his off-court issues, combined with financial considerations. And I kind of fit neatly with the new plan. I was a slightly younger, less experienced version of Shawn; the front office personnel and coaches love the word “potential,” and on paper, at least, I seemed to be a player loaded with that particular commodity. My numbers were improving every season. I had come from a mid-major college program, so it was understood that my development would be a bit slower. No longer a detriment, this was now seen as an attribute. After seven years in the league, with some documented trouble off the court, Shawn was viewed as a player whose best years might be in the rearview mirror. Me? You could argue that I had barely scratched the surface.

  Trepidation turned to excitement almost as soon as I arrived. There is a honeymoon period following these types of transactions. Fans and management are excited about the new player, and the player is excited about getting a fresh start. I quickly fell in love with
the Sonics, and the feeling seemed to be mutual. During my first month or so in town I kept a low profile, worked hard, and generally just tried to fit in. I continued to abstain from marijuana, and hardly drank at all. I was fit and healthy and eager to prove that the Sonics had made the right decision (equally motivating was the prospect of proving to the Bucks that they had made a bad decision). Part of that process was earning the respect of my new teammates. For all I knew, the Sonics may have loved Shawn Kemp and resented my taking his place. Professional basketball is a business, first and foremost, and winning will solve a lot of problems. But every locker room is a fragile little ecosystem, and the sudden addition or subtraction of a key element can have serious consequences.

  Most of my concerns were allayed one day before practice during the preseason. In walked the Sonics point guard Gary Payton, a big smile on his face. I didn’t know a lot about GP at the time, except that he was a bona fide superstar and one of the most respected players in the game. Born and raised in Oakland (which is worth about a million points on the “tough guy” scale), Gary had been an all-American at Oregon State and was the number two overall pick in the 1990 NBA draft. By the time I got to Seattle, Gary was already a four-time NBA all-star (on his way to nine), and a member of the 1996 US Olympic team. A ferocious competitor, Gary was one of the league’s all-time great defenders, as well as one of the all-time great trash-talkers. At six foot four and 185 pounds, he was long and rangy, with quick hands and an even quicker first step to the basket. Physically, Gary did not appear to be intimidating, except from the neck up. With a shaved head and a perpetual scowl, Gary was the epitome of nastiness on the court. He backed down from absolutely no one. And now that Shawn Kemp was gone, this team was his. If you wanted to fit in with the Sonics, you needed Gary’s approval.