A Father First: How My Life Became Bigger Than Basketball (26 page)

All kinds of worry flooded my mind. Was she sick? Was she having a relapse into drug use?

Mom began by confessing that for the last two hours she had been trying to find the right way to tell me of a decision she had made. There was another step past sobriety that she needed to take. “And I don’t want to. But I have to.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know I love you. I know you might not understand . . .” She paused.

Everything slowed. I fought the clock, not wanting to hear, wanting to keep us in the time before whatever was coming next. Quiet, I braced myself.

Mom then stated calmly that she had decided to turn herself in. She admitted, “I’m scared to go back. I don’t want to go back. It’s seven or eight years waiting on me. Maybe longer. Maybe shorter. I don’t know.” She was going to turn herself in, back to Cook County Jail, and would have her case heard at the courthouse on New Year’s Day. All she could do was pray for the strength to accept her fate. For the first time, she was going behind the walls clean and sober. “No drinking, no dope, nuthin’,” she said with a loving smile, “just courage and God to go in.”

I wanted to understand. I knew on some level that she was right. And noble. But in those moments my heart felt broken. Shattered. This wasn’t fair. Was I being selfish? Yes! And, no, I didn’t understand. We had just gotten her back. To lose her again, at a time when I wanted her to be able to share in the joys and the challenges of my life, to make up for lost time—oh, God, it crushed me.

Jolinda Wade, my beautiful mother, took both of my hands in hers and, speaking softly, put it this way: “In order to be the mother that you need in life and the grandmamma you deserve for your kids, I
have
to turn myself back in . . . so I can be
free.
”

Tears began to stream down my face as I leaned down to give my mother a hug, lifting her up off the ground, letting her know without the need for words that I had faith in her. Even if I still didn’t understand. If there were anything I could have done to change her mind or have her postpone the act of turning herself in, I’d have been the first to do so.

But this was not in my hands.

After Jolinda Morris Wade went to turn herself in, ending four years, nine months, and six days of being on the run from the law, we had no idea what to expect on the day of her hearing. Her original sentence had left three years, approximately, not served, even though that time had been reduced with only eight months remaining when she became an escapee.

Though I wasn’t able to attend Mom’s hearing that took place on January 1, 2002, a Tuesday, Tragil gave me a full report soon afterward. She described how many of our family members made their way down to the county courthouse and crowded into one of the smaller, colder hearing rooms. Dressed in their winter Sunday best, they took up every seat in a long row in the courtroom. Grandma was there, along with aunties, uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins, and our two older sisters, too.

T.J. said that everyone rose when the judge came in. They stayed standing until he called for the bailiff to bring in the defendant. At that moment, they turned to see Mom in her prison jumpsuit as she came shuffling into the courtroom, chains draped on her arms and legs.

When Tragil told me that, I could believe it. She said that everyone started to cry. They were thinking the same thing: Mom had turned herself in and put herself at the mercy of the court. Why did she have to be shackled? Obviously, she had been an escapee and those were the rules. But hadn’t her own suffering been punishment enough?

At first, Tragil hoped that maybe the judge agreed. Mom was amazing, my sister told me, as she sat in the front with her back to everyone and stood when the judge addressed her. She wasn’t crying or scared. She stood there, tall and poised, in spite of the chains on her, saying, “Yes, sir, I understood what I did, sir.”

T.J. recalled that she had never seen strength in that form before. Her attitude was humbling, everyone would later say. Everyone was inspired by her courage to stand there, unafraid, letting the court know—
Whatever you want to do, I’m here before you and I ain’t going nowhere.

In reading out the facts of the case, the judge initially noted that Mrs. Wade had voluntarily turned herself in and was there with the support of numerous loved ones. The judge had only one question for the prosecutor: “Why shouldn’t I let her go today?”

Right about then, one of our aunts couldn’t hold back from saying, “Praise Jesus!” Everybody was praying, holding their breath, Tragil told me. These were the days of miracles. Anything was possible.

The prosecutor objected and stated sharply that the reason for not letting Mrs. Wade go was that she owed the time. How much? Eight years.

We had been warned before the hearing that the court seldom showed leniency to fugitives and could give her a sentence of as much as sixteen years or more. Tragil recalled that you could hear a pin drop in the courtroom as they waited for the judge to look back over the papers and then at Mom. After a lengthy silence, the judge asked her to stand.

The sentence was fourteen months. Eighteen months with four taken off. The court had favored her with that leniency.

Tragil reassured me that Mom didn’t cry or weaken. She turned to look at the family, not for long, but showing only love, and then she turned away and was led out.

That report from my sister was all I had to take with me into the future.

What does a young man about to turn twenty years old and become a father do with any of this? I would love to tell you that I had some major revelation that could convince me of all of the good and great things that were yet to come for all of us.

I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready. In fact, I was angry. Not at anyone or any identifiable source. Somewhere deep inside was one pissed-off little kid who’d been waiting on those steps too damn long for Mom to come home—and was told to wait just a little longer.

Hell no. Enough with that bullshit. Oh, I wasn’t just angry. I was furious. I had rage. Of course, I wasn’t ready to admit it. But sure enough, the first day back at Marquette, Coach Crean figured out right away after I’d gotten into some heated arguments on the court with my own teammates that something was up. Again, as he had once before, he called me into the hallway to talk.

What was wrong with me? I almost asked him back, “Well, how long you got?” But I loved and respected Coach C too much for that. Instead, I told him an abbreviated story of Mom’s journey. As I talked, just having him listen and allow me to unload, at least in part, helped me to make sense of all the struggles and sacrifices on the part of everyone who knew and loved me. That allowed me to have my revelation and find a release.

A short while later, I sat down and wrote a long letter to my mother. Strangely enough, even though she and I both liked to write on our own, we had rarely written to each other in all of our years of separation. But Mom had specifically requested that instead of visiting her we all write her.

My letter was the beginning of an important correspondence back and forth. First off, I admitted that I hadn’t understood why she had to go back in. But now I did. On the brink of becoming a parent, I now understood that without going in, she couldn’t become the woman and the mother she wanted to be. I wrote to her that she was my inspiration. In the past she had told me that I was her hero—being steadfast, going off to college, working hard as an athlete. The truth was, as I wrote to her, “Mom, you are
my
hero.”

Later, she would repeat that part of the letter to anyone who would listen. Somehow it helped clean her slate and kept her going during the long months of solitary confinement that she was given in prison. Tragil and I were beside ourselves when we found out that the decision to segregate her from other inmates had been made at the start. Nonetheless, Jolinda Wade, my hero, used that time to write a book of prayers and praise.

Once she was back in the general prison population, Mom also started a ministry behind the walls, setting off on the path toward becoming an ordained pastor after she was released.

Early on in our letters, I also enclosed a picture of myself that she’d asked for. On the back, I promised her that great things were in store for all of us and that we were going to have a fabulous life.

How did I know? Or, what made me so sure? The answer isn’t a
what
but a
who.

He made his dazzling stage debut in life on February 4, 2002—when I stood by as Siohvaughn gave birth to the first of our two children. The connection between me and Von during labor and delivery was the most thrilling experience of being in love. I was in awe of her! And then, oh my God, when I beheld this tiny human being in the doctor’s arms and saw that we had a son who was so beautiful and healthy, I was in an altered state of being. There was no more important moment in our lives than the birth of our child, as far as I was concerned. When I was given the job of cutting his umbilical cord, I had never felt so humbled. A son! We named him Zaire Blessing Dwyane Wade and welcomed him into the world with joy and devotion. And more love than I had even imagined was possible, just as I would feel for Zion when he arrived.

Zaire was perfect. He was a miracle. And I was a father.

I was the happiest young man in the world on that day when I held my child in my arms and he gave me that knowing Zaire look. He smiled! Newborns aren’t supposed to smile. Some say it’s actually gas. No, this baby was Zaire—ready for fun.

Pure happiness. And this was before the fabulous life of basketball stardom, the NBA, and being able to help kids and families who struggled as mine had, and having the ability to make a difference off the court. In my mind, at that point in time, I felt triumphant as a son and brother, and as a family. Dad still had work to do on himself but was starting to come around. Mom had been saved, resurrected, and was on a mission to heal others, even behind the walls. And Tragil could finally focus on her dreams and aspirations, instead of looking after everyone else.

We had never lost faith, even through mighty tests. At last I could let down my guard, confident in the knowledge that the toughest battles and hurdles and struggles for all of the Wade family were behind us.

But they weren’t. Not for me. Not by a long shot.

S
UNDAY
NIGHT

A
PRIL
15, 2011

A
T
HOME
IN
M
IAMI

IT’S LATE ON SUNDAY AFTER DINNER AND THE BOYS ARE ALL asleep.

I’m outside walking through the backyard, checking out the balmy breezes and the starry sky, appreciating being here and now.

The journey into single-parenthood that started a little over a month ago, one I’ve been piecing together with lessons from the past, has done that for me. These are the stories that have been important for me to revisit to understand the choices that I made to fight to be in my sons’ lives.

As much as I tend to block out the most painful memories, I’ve found that they’re valuable just the same. There are the times in our lives when all of us need to go back and revisit a place in the past to fully take stock of where we are in the present. I have to do that a lot in my career. The process keeps me grounded and reconnects me to who I am and what matters to me.

My preference, naturally, is to try to relive only the good and to take the best of what’s been given to me by parents, coaches, and mentors. That said, there are great lessons from the painful moments that get lost unless we have the courage to go back and dig them up.

The effort is worth it. It’s definitely helped me to know that everything along the way has happened for a reason—a truth that I embrace and hope to pass on to my kids.

And to you.

Chapter
Eight

Rookie Season

O
CTOBER
27, 2011

T
HURSDAY
AFTERNOON

M
IAMI

“D
ADDY, WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”