A Father First: How My Life Became Bigger Than Basketball (27 page)

Zion hits a high note of surprise when I go to pick him up outside the door of his classroom. Since he passed his fourth birthday back in May, the school promoted him to a pre-K/kindergarten classroom and he clearly rules the roost.

The funny part is that he is so attached to Brenda, the boys’ nanny who moved to Florida in May to be with us full time, that instead of thinking it’s cool that I’m there to pick him up, he wants to know, “Where’s Brenda?” As in, is everything okay?

“Brenda’s at home,” I say, and reassure him that nothing is wrong. “I had the day off so that means just you and Daddy get to spend some time together. Whatever you feel like doing. Sound good?”

He nods and shrugs as we walk side by side to the car.

As we head out together, I think back to how much has happened during the eight months since getting that one-line e-mail back on March 11 that changed my life.

The entire last season and the current one (such as it is) could serve as a master class for Team Wade on the ebb and flow that life and sports can bring. How to stay centered between those highs and lows? During a Man Talk, the boys and I had even discussed how to stay centered, a mature concept for all of us, including the challenge of how to look at a disappointment or a struggle and maybe see the upside.

Honestly, nobody likes somebody else trying to tell them how their lemons should be lemonade. Definitely not me. And nobody likes other people trying to say they even have lemons in the first place.

My sons helped me appreciate that fine lesson in those days following the 2011 playoffs. They refused to let me hold on too long to the disappointment. How did I feel? You know, most of the time I’m with my dad, who said it well about himself: “I’m not a bad loser but I like winning.”

Still, when the Heat went all the way to the finals against the Dallas Mavericks and fell short of winning the championship, by two games, how could that defeat not be crushing? For what we had gone through as a team, the target that had been on our backs all season, the scrutiny and the haters hating us for believing that we could win, I don’t see how the loss could have been any less than heartbreaking.

There was another way to look at the story, however. Most teams take multiple seasons to develop all the requirements and cohesion needed to win a championship. To go as far as the Heat did, almost all of us playing together for the first time in that same season, was practically unheard-of in NBA history. That’s exactly what Zaire and Zion helped me see the very next morning after the loss, by barging into my room and not letting me slink under the covers but instead waking me with the messages of “We love you!” and “Time to get up!” and “Let’s get ready for summer!” They even encouraged me to indulge in watching my favorite movie,
Coming to America.
Don’t know why but I laugh nonstop watching it, no matter how many times I’ve seen it.

By the time Father’s Day arrived, I was back to feeling overjoyed at being able to do my most important job in life. We had summer fun planned. My sons were excited to get to see their mom and we were also going to plan visits with Dada.

Ever since I’d gotten custody of Zaire and Zion we had really missed having Dada as part of the family, as he had become early on in the visitation process, and he had missed us, too. For a while, I had thought about the possibility of having Dada come live with us. In fact, even before the custody ruling, I had been thinking about a way to do more to help my nephew since he was really a part of the family. Since I’d gotten into the NBA, I had tried to do more for the younger members of our extended family who were living with some of the challenges that I’d experienced when growing up. Dada was the youngest of my nephews and didn’t have cousins his age close by. In remembering how important it was for me to have brothers when Tragil took me to live with my father, I thought maybe this was my way to “pay it forward” and step up on his behalf, as others had for me.

When summertime came, I decided to bring up the possibility and see how everyone felt. Zaire and Zion were immediately in favor of having their cousin join our household. Then I ran everything by Tragil to see if she would take the lead in having our nephew come out and she was happy to do so. Finally, I went to my sister Deanna, Dada’s mom, to ask if she would agree to him moving in, letting her know that he would be raised with the same love, parenting values, and expectations that were important in raising my sons. Academically, Dada had some catching up to do and I would be working on that with him. She agreed willingly. The deciding factor came down to Dada’s desire to live with us and to have me as his father figure.

By the end of the summer, after I returned from trips to meet fans in Australia and China, and was ready to gear up for the 2011–2012 season, my nephew Dahveon had joined our happy home. What could ever cloud this picture?

Well, under the heading of advanced lessons in ebb and flow, the NBA lockout had happened and didn’t look like it could end anytime soon. And on the day in October when I’m off work and have time to go pick Zion up, the season is very much in doubt.

Ever since late in the summer, when it became clear that cooler heads were not going to prevail so we could allow the season to start on time, the situation has gone from one of “concern” to “scary.” Although the financial uncertainty might not be as tough on me yet as it is for those fellow players who are already on their way to play in Europe, I’m starting to have to think about other options as well. The reality is what it is.

After eight seasons in the NBA, I know this is not a job that can last for that many more years. What, four or five? Maybe six. For me, that is. I mean, as much as none of us want to believe the league could lose an entire season, the real possibility now exists. So finding a way to support my family is obviously a necessity. Another immediate concern is staying in game shape.

For those reasons, my old mantra of “hope for the best but plan for the worst” has become my thought for the day. Yes, I’m an optimist. But life has taught me to be a realist. Life and sports have also taught me that most true of sayings: It ain’t over till it’s over.

And so, before taking the drastic step of seriously looking to play in Europe or elsewhere, I’ve tried to maximize Daddy time by doing things like getting to attend more of Zaire’s basketball games or surprising Zion as I am by picking him up from school and letting him call the shots for where we should go to have some fun.

We stop by a gift shop not far from the ice cream store and Zion starts picking things out—some cool shades, a microphone, a chain, and then a money clip. He is getting ready to be a performer, I can tell.

“Can I get all these?” he asks.

“Yeah, but you know Zaire and Dada gonna be mad.”

“Yeah!”

He puts on his chain and we stroll to get ice cream. In no hurry to get home, we take our ice cream cones and sit outside underneath the Florida sunshine. Wow, it’s ninety degrees in October, with a bright blue, cloudless sky, palm trees dancing to a Caribbean rhythm pumping out of a nearby Cuban restaurant. No matter what all else is going on, these are the moments to soak in and let the blessing speak for itself.

“Daddy, can we put the roof down on the way home?”

“I think that can be arranged.”

Zion has only one speed he likes to move at: fast. That’s something that I got to know during our limited contact early on. The faster the better. Something else I learned is that when the wind is blowing with the roof down, even when we’re not going too fast, he thinks we are.

So I put the roof down, get him all strapped into his car seat in the back, and get behind the wheel, first putting on a new pair of sunglasses.

Zion follows suit, putting on his, too. He asks, “How do you like my shades?”

“Cool! Now we ready.”

Oh, except for the music. I am stuck on the Jay-Z and Kanye West album
Watch the Throne,
which came out in the summer. It’s probably stunted my musical growth. But ready for something different, I start going through the radio dial until Zion hears something he likes.

Roof down? Check. Music turned up loud on the car sound system? Check. Zion and me in our father-son shades? Check. And we are off, driving down the highway toward Miami Beach, laughing and singing along loud and free, waving our hands to feel the rush of the balmy afternoon breeze.

Does it get any better than this? I can’t imagine that it does. Until what happens next, when we get back to the condo where we’re living while renovations are being done at the house. We ride up in the elevator together and start walking down the hall to the door of the condo to join up with the rest of our crew. That’s when little Zion reaches up his hand to give me a pat on my arm—he can’t quite reach my shoulder yet—and he says very seriously, “You know, Daddy, I really like you. And I really enjoyed the time we spent together today.”

That moment touched my heart so much. Zion and I never had as much of the early bonding that Zaire and I were able to have. But the last seven months have brought us both a long way. And I am amazed how Zion had grabbed the opportunity—just the right moment of timing—to express his approval of me. Parents need that, too!

Timing. A huge concept, so necessary as a secret of success, and Zion was already hip to it. Timing, as I had to learn, is not just about what opportunities to seize but when, not just about knowing that it’s possible to turn negatives into positives but how long to wait for that turn and, again, when to change course.

Timing in terms of big decisions has a lot to do with listening to your instincts and listening to input from others worthy of your trust. No period in my life did more to teach me the importance of how to pick up on cues from without and within than back in 2003—not so very long ago.

EVERY BASKETBALL SEASON TELLS A STORY. SCRATCH THAT. Every season tells many stories. Every game is like a season unto itself, complete with a recent backstory, a much longer history, a cast of characters with their own various stories of what brought each to this specific game, this contest, which is about to play out and have its own unique beginning, middle, and end.

Every basketball season has all of those stories, on top of the preseason expectations and buildup, all setting the stage for the most dramatic tale, which comes after the end of the regular season. In college, the NCAA basketball postseason playoff tournament, otherwise known as March Madness, is one of the greatest competitions in all of sports.

At the end of my sophomore year, the 2001–2002 season, Marquette made it to “the dance,” but the thrill was short-lived, since we were knocked out in the first round. Going into the next season as team captain, and an all-American with a certain amount of expectations put on me, I was determined to make sure that didn’t happen again.

If that wasn’t fuel enough, there were other sources, not the least of which came from only thinking of my mom—her courage, her fight, making her decision as she had and not even telling us about the solitary confinement. The only way that we found out was that Mom had written to Pastor Darryl to see about speaking to authorities to provide her with more pencils and paper. By chance Tragil was in the office at the church one day and recognized Mom’s elegant handwriting on an opened letter on the pastor’s desk.

When my sister learned that Mom was being kept in solitary for twenty-three hours a day, with her food brought in through only a slot in the door, we were all upset and bewildered. Tragil immediately got on the phone to Springfield and was able to grab enough attention to the case that Mom was eventually moved into the prison population. We had to continue to have faith that she could handle whatever was in her path. At the same time, whenever I thought of her spending endless hours alone, the weight was hard to bear.

All I could do was to keep praying, to keep writing her, and to keep pushing.

Once basketball season was over that March, a wave of other pressures took hold: bringing in enough money to feed Zaire (at the top of the list), keeping up my grades, and then also looking for summer work to help keep us going until the fall. Into this mix came the decision by Siohvaughn and me to get married. I wanted to do the right thing and in explaining my reasoning to Tragil—who said she’d support whatever I wanted to do and help with the planning for the wedding—that was my main point.

But Tragil did ask, “Why the rush?” We were struggling to put food on the table so she didn’t see why we would put the expense of a wedding on our shoulders, too. We had also talked before about waiting until Mom’s release, set for March 2003. Tragil’s main concern—which she never failed to raise—was that I finish college. As far as going to the NBA after that, of course that was never on the agenda. Not in our discussion. T.J. was still teasing me about tripping over my own feet as a kid! All she cared about was my getting the education and the degree—the only way out, as she saw it. Aside from that, there was also almost a taboo for me against saying out loud that if I did well in the next two years of college, well, going pro could be a reality.