Life Is Not an Accident (21 page)

Because it was a taped pilot, we stopped and started a lot so the crew could readjust lighting and other stuff. During the breaks, Andy always jumped on his phone to do his college-basketball insider work. Charissa used the time to look over her notes for
Numbers Never Lie
, a program she had to host right after we wrapped. I used the time to look at her. I spent as much of my free time as possible trying to get to know her better. We laughed a lot, and conversation came easily. We just clicked.

After a couple of weeks of texting and calling, she mentioned that she was flying to Chicago for St. Patrick's Day to visit friends. I told her that my cousin Jared and I were planning on being in the city that same weekend to see a Bulls game—it wasn't true, but I figured I could talk Jared into coming along with me, particularly once he heard the reason. Still, I was playing it cool; I said if we could get together, great, but if not, it was all good. She was open to hanging out, and said she'd love to go to the game, too.

When I got to Chicago, Booz, then playing with the Bulls, called to let me know he had left a pair of courtside tickets for me. I then bought three more tickets a few rows back for Charissa and her friends. It wasn't until I was walking up to the United Center that I realized it was my first time back there since the accident.
I don't know why it hadn't occurred to me before then—maybe because I was so focused on Charissa that I wasn't thinking about anything else.

Fans didn't recognize me. I blended right in with everyone else, and it hurt. Not that it should have. After all, I only played there one year, the team lost a lot, then the accident happened that off-season and the team moved on. The night I got drafted, I had hoped to bring another championship to the franchise. Now I was a forgotten man from a forgotten team.

My cousin and I sat courtside for the first half, then Jared decided to switch seats with Charissa so we could have some time together. Although she and I had gone out to dinner before the game, we'd been around people the whole time. Jared went up to her seat and she appeared by my side just as the weight of the whole experience of being back, so close and yet so far from the Bulls court, began crashing on me. I didn't break down in tears or anything, but I was more messed up than I thought I would be.

As I was sitting there, staring out into space, she asked, “Where are you?”

I don't know if it was the genuine concern I saw in her eyes or my need to release my pent-up emotions, but I began to share with her what I was feeling. How sitting there played into all of my old insecurities, how odd it was that the last time I was in this building I was signing autographs and kissing babies, and now no one knew who I was, nor would they have cared anyway. I used to feel a certain amount of electricity when I walked through these doors; now it was just another place, and being there left me empty inside. My stint as a Bull was a lifetime ago.

I didn't go to the locker room after the game. There was no
need to. Everyone I had played with was long gone. I sent Booz a text thanking him again for the tickets and we left. On Sunday, Charissa and I got together for brunch, but I had to head back to Bristol for work later that night. As we parted, she reached into her purse and pulled out a set of keys. “When you go back, you don't have to check into a hotel. Stay at my place.”

Here was this gorgeous woman, someone who could make me break a sweat with a simple smile, and she had just handed me the keys to her place.

Who does that?

Charissa Thompson.

And that was the beginning of us.

In many ways, this was my first “adult” relationship. Charissa, too, had been through a difficult time, having endured a very difficult divorce. We were helping each other move forward, and we continue to do so today. Charissa came into my life just as I was finally discovering who I wanted to be. The angry, easily frustrated, spiteful, impatient person I was in my early twenties had given way to a thirty-something-year-old man finding his way in broadcasting and in life.

The uncertainty I'd felt for so long about my future prospects slowly gave way to a newfound confidence. I was starting to worry less about what others thought, and I began trusting my own instincts. I loved being on air and traveling for work—while exhausting, it was also exhilarating. I no longer feared people approaching me about my accident with comments like “Oh, man, you had it all,” because the truth was that I was finally starting to believe that I
did
have it all. Working in a field I was passionate about; in love with an amazing woman who protected my ego
like no other while challenging me to be better each day; drug free; happy.

For the first time, I took steps to surround myself with people who not only had good intentions but also were honest with me. Someone once told me that people are like trees. Every tree has leaves, branches, and roots. Some people are leaves—hanging there for a minute, but a gust of wind can come along and they're gone. Some people are branches—holding firm for a while until something more powerful occurs and they snap and break away. Then, if you are extremely lucky, you meet a root. A root is a person who holds firm regardless of the elements. I now have roots in my life. And those roots have anchored me to a very special place that I call home, no matter where I live in the world.

In the weeks and months after my accident, I began to notice how some of the people I had always considered friends slowly distanced themselves. The visits became less frequent; the time between phone calls to check in seemed to grow longer. When I was going through particularly dark times, I felt abandoned by people I once trusted and valued. I had been too naive to realize that some of the people I'd considered confidants were interested in me only because of what I could potentially do for them—a tough pill to swallow. The accident helped me cut through the clutter and see who my true friends really were.

For me,
friends
are acquaintances;
teammates
are the people, both on and off the court, who always have your best interests at heart, who stand by you through whatever life is throwing your way. Before my accident, I had a lot of friends, but few teammates. Now, I am fortunate enough to know who my teammates are.

My eyes are wide open.

I
n 2011, right after my 30th birthday, I had a meeting with an acquaintance named John Termini, whom I often ran into in New York City. We got together at 7:30
A.M.
at Dean & DeLuca in the New York Times Building to discuss some business. J.T. was involved in global brokerage at CB Richard Ellis, and I was very interested in commercial real estate and wanted to discuss potential deals down the road. J.T. looked dapper as usual, like he'd walked directly out of
GQ
fashion shoot. I admired how he always seemed to have it all figured out.

Toward the end of the meeting, he asked me if I knew a guy named Carl Lentz. He was a pastor. I said I didn't, but I remember thinking to myself,
That's weird. Does he think I need help?

“I tell you, Jay,” J.T. said. “You have to meet him. He is going to change your life, man.”

Because of Termini's overwhelming passion, I couldn't get a
word in edgewise, and all I could think was
Bro, I am not into all that stuff. Please stop
. J.T. told me that Carl had played basketball at NC State while I played at Duke, and he suggested we all get together to hoop sometime.

“Sure,” I said. “Why not? We hoop every Saturday morning at 8
A.M
at Baruch College. Bring him and let's do it.”

Every weekend for the past year, I had been playing with a group of guys that included my old friend Graham, and the games were always heated and competitive. Perfect for a pastor, right?

That Saturday morning, as I was stretching on the sidelines, getting ready for my Game 7 (which is what I called my weekly Saturday game), J.T. walked in the door. Right behind him was a guy dressed in black from head to toe, with sleeves of tattoos on both arms. I thought,
This can't be the pastor, can it?
As they approached, J.T. looked more like the pastor and Carl like the one searching for his soul.

Just as people stereotyped me while I was growing up, I had done the same to him. My first reaction was to put him in a box, as we all are prone to do.

“What's up, J-Will? I'm Carl. You ready to do this?”

“Damn right,” I replied. Then I thought,
Oh, man, I just cursed at a pastor. Probably not the best way to start.

We were on the same team, and we dominated that day. Carl was a good player and extremely competitive, which shocked me. Then it happened—the biggest curveball of all.

Throughout the game, the player guarding me said some things that I took very personally. So my reaction, like always, was to become lost in the battle. As I was running down the court without the basketball, my man decided to check me with his elbow right in my chest. My first reaction was to swing right back
at him. But before I even had a chance, Carl—a man I had met less than an hour ago—put himself in harm's way to defend me. I was stunned. A pastor was on the verge of getting into a fight to protect a man he barely knew. Carl intrigued me enough that I decided to attend his sermon the next morning.

I had never been to Hillsong Church before, but something about the place felt special. Everyone was around my age, and the energy in the building was palpable. The music wasn't typical church music; it looked and sounded as if there were a rock band on stage. Drummers were playing beats that had me swaying from side to side like I was in a club. And the voices and lyrics had such an effect on me, they nearly brought me to tears.

It felt to me as though everyone in attendance had gone through something traumatic in their lives that had compelled them to be here. We were all looking for a community of people we could rely on to hold us up rather than knock us down. Hands were in the air, eyes were closed; these people believed in something bigger than themselves. This felt like a new team. This felt like a family.

As I started to give in and become vulnerable enough to let my arms and hands extend toward the ceiling, the music began to slow down and the lights dimmed. I heard the same voice from the day before on the court.

Carl's ability to dance verbally with the crowd and keep every single listener engaged in the conversation was extraordinary. His words were so dynamic that they kept me on the edge of my seat. His sermon that day was called “That Girl Is Poison.” Yes, the song by Bell Biv DeVoe. Carl used it as a metaphor for how one wrong move can poison your potential and how it usually happens when you least expect it.

Although the song was about a bunch of guys trying to tell a friend that his girl was bad news, Carl talked about how there are all kinds of poison in life. “That
mentality
is poison,” he said. “That
attitude
is poison. That
seed
that someone planted that still affects the way you see yourself is poison.”

I stood there, staring at Carl in awe. I felt like he was speaking directly to me. My life up until that point had been filled with poison. The Oxy, the alcohol, the people trying to tear me down, my insecurity, my anger, my spitefulness—all poison.

He said, “I am so tired of people circling around the same mountain, falling into the same traps.” I couldn't help but reflect on the years I had spent feeling lost and sorry for myself. I was disgusted with myself for twice wanting to throw away this special gift of life.

I clung to every word Carl uttered that day. The man truly moved me. His words were pushing me to places I had never been before, and after the sermon was over, he looked directly at me as he asked the congregation, “Are you ready for a change in your life?”

And Carl Lentz has been by my side ever since.

He and the church helped me realize that part of being a better, stronger man meant giving to others what I hoped to receive in return: understanding, acceptance, love, and encouragement. It was okay to be vulnerable—emotionally, spiritually, open to real change. But no one has all the answers. In the early stages of my rehabilitation, I was so focused on the things I couldn't do that I often forgot to give myself credit for the milestones I reached. If I wasn't going to acknowledge my own personal growth, how could I possibly appreciate the sacrifices other people had made for me?

My relationship with my dad had always been complicated. When I was growing up, he was often absent, either working long hours or traveling for business. And when he was home, he brought his tension and stress with him. And every now and again, for both of them, it boiled over into something dark.

As difficult as it has been for my mom and me to get past what we endured, I think it's been even more of a struggle for my dad to come to terms with it. For as long as I can remember, he emphasized the importance of taking responsibility for one's actions. When I was four or five years old, I was in the yard playing baseball with my dad when I hit a ball that broke our neighbor's window. The Rengas were like family, but I was still terrified of their reaction. I wanted to run up to my room and hide, but my dad told me that real men accept the consequences of their actions, so we walked next door together. When Mr. Renga, the patriarch, came to the door, I glanced at my dad as he held my hand, then confessed and apologized for what I had done.

My dad had to scrape and fight for everything in his life, and he wanted me to know what it was like to have to work for the things I wanted. He taught me that life is full of obstacles, and it would always be up to me to figure out a way to overcome them. In the aftermath of the accident, I relied on those early lessons to get me through my recovery. To walk again. To run again. To dare to play again. And, most painful of all, to find the strength to build a life when playing ball could no longer be a part of it.

My dad took pride in teaching me the difference between right and wrong, and having to admit that he was the source of so much pain for his family has been no easy task. I know that the man he is today would never lay a hand on anyone. My parents remain legally married and speak daily, but they continue to
live separately and have done so for years. And while my mother doesn't like to dwell on the past, I know she certainly hasn't forgotten it, either. But there are things about my dad that my mom will always value. It would be impossible not to. When I was in the hospital, he was her rock, offering her comfort and reassurance when the doctors weren't sure if I would ever walk again.

In order to have a relationship with him, I had to let go of the animosity and the bitterness. He had taught me how to be a good person, even if he was still figuring out how to be one himself.

I love my father and I accept him for who he was then and who he is now. Of course, his health struggles have brought us even closer. Several years ago, he had a series of epileptic seizures. They have caused neurological disruptions that affect his short-term memory; for a man who values order and control as much as he does, the unpredictability of the seizures has been unbearable for him. Seeing him this way has made it easier for me to empathize with him, and, as his son, I feel a responsibility to take care of him the same way he took care of me when I needed him the most. It was time to forgive my dad and move forward.

What was next would be the most challenging of all: forgiving myself.

For much of my life, I carried an immeasurable amount of guilt that I couldn't protect my mom when I was a child. That guilt was further complicated by my accident. When I signed with the Bulls, I promised myself that I would see to it that my family and friends, especially my mom, were taken care of financially. I was determined to give them a new life. My parents had worked so hard all their lives, and all I wanted to do was reward
them. When it became clear that I would never play ball again, I blamed myself for putting my family's stability at risk.

Knowing that the only person I had to blame for the accident was myself left me angry. Lying in the hospital bed, I thought of all the people I had let down. I was mad at myself for not listening to voices of reason. I was mad at myself for not letting go of the bike when I felt it slip into gear. Mostly, I was furious with myself for throwing away a dream I had spent so many years trying to reach.

The psychological battle was the most arduous one, because it never stopped. Even close to ten years after I was discharged from the hospital, I would sit alone in my room and think about how unworthy I was of the love and care my inner circle gave me. I had cheated on Noelle, and yet she came to North Carolina and cared for me without hesitation. My mom had dropped everything and jeopardized her marriage, all for my benefit. My dad had been robbed of his dream to run a family business. I couldn't take it anymore. For a time, the only way I could shut out the pain and anger was by self-medicating. I hated myself, and eventually I reached a point where I didn't think life was worth living. I was consumed by depression and bitterness and felt like the only option was to take my own life.

My psychotherapist encouraged me to embrace every emotion—sadness, fear, anger—as they bubbled up to the surface. Until I could acknowledge the validity of each reaction, I wouldn't be able to truly face down my demons. We all make mistakes, apologize to those we've wronged, ask for forgiveness. There's a lot of power in that approach; forgiveness not only frees the perpetrator, but the victim as well. In my case, I was both transgressor and victim. For so long, holding on to pain and disappointment had been as natural as breathing.

Many people make bad decisions and walk away unscathed. Some of us aren't as fortunate, forced to pay the price for a life-altering mistake. But if we're lucky, we're able to eventually learn from our mistakes and move on with our lives. To this day I am judged regularly for an accident that occurred a lifetime ago, but I know that I have a choice every day to either feel sorry for myself and continue to let the accident define me or to forgive myself and appreciate the second chance I have been given.

I choose the latter.

I understand that it's an important part of my story, but it's a turning point, not an ending. I won't let it be my whole story.

When I first played at Duke, the game was so much faster than I'd ever realized. It seemed like it was being played at 8,000 miles per hour. By my sophomore year, as I found my way, things slowed down. I had more clarity, and I made decisions with ease. I didn't force the action but instead let the play reveal itself.

Finally, more than ten years later, the same holds true for my life off the court. When you move at warp speed, you don't really take the time to think about all of the small things that have accumulated to make your life what it is. There's a tendency not to reflect on the past, because you're so caught up in the frustration and anger of the present.

My life has always had a purpose. I had just been too obsessed with trying to recover what I'd lost instead of focusing on what I'd found. That's when I realized there are no accidents in this life. The choices I made were ones that reflected who I was at that time—a decision made by a 21-year-old kid whom my 34-year-old self would barely recognize.

I've been asked many times what I would say to my younger
self. I never answered the question, because I honestly didn't know. Of course, it's easy to say I should have grabbed the keys to the Corvette, but would I truly be the man I am today had it not been for the journey?

Up until that fateful day, I needed recognition and affirmation from everyone. I was so insecure that I needed to fight the ones I loved the most in order to feel in control. I was just a scared kid pretending to have it all figured out. The truth is that, at 21 years young, nobody really has anything figured out. You have to live life and experience things to gain perspective. And you make mistakes along the way, while hopefully learning from them in order to grow.

Because of all that I have been through, I never lose faith regardless of any challenge that lingers just around the corner. I've discovered how to love, how to truly work for something I want, and how to accept others and look past their faults. I know where I am and I know how I got here; this was my path, and my hope for others is that they accept theirs as well.