You Let Some Girl Beat You? (4 page)

So while I wasn't playing in the NBA, I was broadcasting for them, and getting more comfortable doing the Pacers' games. But I was still only twenty-four years old, and I realized there would be plenty of time to further my broadcasting aspirations. Instead, I was eager to make a living playing basketball, and the WBL was the only game in town. Yes, the WBL commissioner and some of the franchise owners had badmouthed me, and the Angels had traded my rights, but I decided to play for the Gems anyway. Bottom line: I had to play while I still could, or I'd go crazy.

I got out of my contract with the Pacers and in doing so, forfeited the greater amount of the $150,000. They only paid me for the time I was there, and that amounted to about $8,300. In fact their association with me was a net gain for them because each time I made an appearance, I was paid a gratuity. However, that money would end up going back to the Pacers, since I was being hired out as “an employee.” The lesson: Read the fine print.

In the end, none of it mattered. I wasn't in it for the money. I just wanted to do what I loved. I just wanted to play basketball.

“Some of these guys wear beards to make them look intimidating,
but they don't look so tough when they have to deliver the ball.
Their abilities and their attitudes don't back up their beards.”
~ Don Drysdale

In mid-November, the WBL scheduled a press conference to announce my joining, but didn't think to clear the date with me or my agent at William Morris, who had previously scheduled me to appear in Seattle with the Pacers a couple of days before the press conference. Since my brother, David, and the Bucks were playing in Portland and were about to play in Seattle at that same time, I thought I'd stay an extra day so I could see my brother before flying from Seattle to New Jersey.

On the day I was supposed to fly back for the press conference, the Seattle airport was fogged in, so nothing was flying in or out. In fact, Dave and his team had to take a five-hour bus ride from Portland to Seattle after having played the night before. I was able to stay to watch Dave's game, but I knew the WBL Commissioner and the Gems would be angry. Things were getting off to a bad start before I'd even hit the hard court.

When I finally got to New Jersey, the first order of business was to get my uniform. I was polite when requesting my jersey number. “But 15 was my number at UCLA. I'd really like 15.”

They told me they didn't have it. I was dumbfounded.
Can't you make it?
My dad had been #15 when he played at Marquette, which is why I had chosen it.

“Okay, then I'll take number 6,” I said, which was my Olympic number. It was also the same number of my idol growing up, Bill Russell, and my friend, Julius Erving.

“Somebody else has it,” was the reply.

Now I was beginning to get frustrated.
I'm supposed to be your star player, and you treat me like this?
The owner of the Gems, Robert Milo, had boasted to the press only days before that I was the superstar the league needed to fill seats and bring excitement.
But he wasn't willing to make #15, or ask for #6?
The whole thing was starting to feel bizarre, like maybe there was more unfinished business than I realized. I ended up with number #14 and consoled myself with the knowledge that Oscar Robertson and Gil Hodges wore it as well.

Players may tell you that numbers don't matter, but it did to me. David wore different numbers and said it didn't matter. As a rookie, he gave up #21 and ended up wearing #8 because another kid came into the league who really wanted it. Then his second year, another kid from college came in and wanted to wear #8, so David gave it up. That's how we were raised, to think about the team above ourselves. But I never got comfortable with #14, just like I never got comfortable with the Gems, or New Jersey.

I didn't like the East Coast, which was so far away from home and filled with people who often seemed to be in a bad mood for no particular reason. Worst of all, unlike UCLA or Indiana, there was no one to take me in. I could talk to Mom or Sandy by phone, but it wasn't the same thing as being there with them. I was lonely, and it didn't help that I got the feeling the other players thought I'd big-timed them by not showing up for the press conference—like I thought I was too good for them.

Those first few nights, I lay in bed and looked around my small room at the Howard Johnsons near the Newark Airport, my home for the season. In the morning, I'd awaken and notice the wallpaper had inched itself free of the upper most corner of one of the walls. Each morning a little more would pull away, like a prisoner hoping to chisel his way out of prison, bit by bit, during the dark of night. It was understandable. The place was dreary, and it was nice that the autumn rain was just hard enough to obscure the sound of the noisy ice-machine outside my door. But it could have been the Taj Mahal, and I still would have felt lonely and frustrated without friends and family. Only the thought of playing again cheered me.

My first game was on November 24
^th
, and I was pleased with my performance. Rather than smooth things over though, there still seemed to be a disconnect between the other Gems players, management, and me. And it only got worse when they found out about my prior commitment to appear on
Superstars
with ABC. Soon I was leaving the team I'd just joined and heading for the Bahamas for the
Superstars
competition. I knew there'd be bristled sensibilities, along with a hefty price to pay when I returned. By now, I didn't care. I was just glad to get away for awhile.

On the plane ride out, I was surprised by how many people recognized me. I'd been David Meyers's little sister back in California, now, I was the girl who went out for the Pacers. Of course, back then, ESPN was in its very first year. Had it happened in 1999 instead of 1979, the image of my face would have been broken down into a thousand pixels, broadcast through the airwaves, and then reconfigured through a million tubes onto a million TV screens. Had it happened today, I'd be a household name. Yet, that was the furthest thing from my mind. The attention embarrassed me. Sure, I wanted to be praised for my accomplishments like anyone else, but it also made me uncomfortable.

I hadn't seen my mom in months, and I missed her, so I asked her to join me in the Bahamas for some R&R. She was always a wonderful traveling companion, and I knew the weather would be beautiful in December. A bigger plus was that my brother, Mark, and his wife, Frannie, were traveling in Florida, so they joined us and made it all the more fun.

Mom and I arrived a day before the event, but my luggage hadn't, so we were sent upstairs to the wardrobe room where I was offered some clothes to tide me over.

That's where I met Donnie.

It turned out the Dodgers baseball pitcher-turned-broadcaster was there for ABC covering the event along with Bob Uecker, who was well known as the Milwaukee Brewers announcer. They were both so friendly, especially to Mom, who was much closer in age to them than I was. Since Mom and Bob were both from Milwaukee, they had lots to talk about, and the three of them hit it off instantly.

When Don introduced himself to me, I couldn't think of much to say other than, “Hi, I'm Annie.”

“Yes, I know,” he said, with a small grin.

He took me aback.
How could he know? Oh, right, everybody knows.

I had heard that a broadcaster named Don would be there with ABC, but I had assumed it would be Don Meredith. That was the only broadcaster I knew of named Don. This Don was very tall and I noticed that when he smiled, his blue eyes lit up his bright smile, just like the entire Meyers family.

I returned his smile and resumed looking through the clothing rack for something to see me through the series of competitions in case my luggage never turned up. It felt good to be welcomed after my experiences with the Gems.

After picking out some things, I considered my next priority: rest. I knew I had to take time to relax before the series of events the next day. I was there to compete. Nothing and no one was on my mind outside of that. “Come on, Mom,” I said. “We better go.”

The next morning, I was fully rested and raring to go. The only problem was that I hadn't researched how the competition worked, and didn't consider there was a definite strategy to which events you chose and in which order you competed. The ten events that year were basketball shooting, rowing, an 80-yard chip over water onto a green, the bike ride, the quarter mile run, the 60-yard dash, the obstacle course, tennis, swimming, and bowling. I chose the last seven, even though I'd never bowled before. I hadn't really golfed either, but I figured between the two, bowling would be easier.

The island sun was beating down hard on us, and I could feel drops of sweat make their way from my hairline clear down to my neck and chest, which soaked the top I'd borrowed from wardrobe. My events that required the most exertion took place back-to-back during the height of the day's heat, so by the time I got inside the bowling alley, it didn't matter that I'd never thrown a bowling ball before—I was exhausted. My total bowling score barely broke 100.

When the results came in on the final day, I placed fourth. I was furious…at myself. I wasn't used to coming fourth, and I made sure it would never happen again. By the following year, I'd developed the proper strategy and ended up winning not just that year's
Superstars,
but three consecutive years' in women
Superstars
events, and ultimately becoming the only woman ever invited to compete in the men's
Superstars
. Placing fourth taught me a lot about how to play the game. I also learned a lot about the man I would marry, though that was the furthest thing from my mind at the time.

The last night of the competition, ABC took their staff out, and Mom and I were invited to attend. I looked around and wondered why none of the other contestants were joining us. I later found out that Don had specifically asked that we be invited. Mom, Bob Uecker, and Don had a blast, while I did a slow burn over my performance.

The next day, everyone left the Bahamas, including Mom, Mark, and Frannie. My flight wasn't until the following day, so Don invited me out to dinner. Alone.

“What would you say if I asked you to marry me?” he said casually at the end of dinner.

Naturally, I was stunned. We'd only met a few days earlier, he was nearly twenty years my senior, and on top of that, he was already married. He had three strikes against him before he'd even gotten up to bat. I had no idea how to respond. I'd barely said two words to the guy during the entire event. While it had been fun watching him, Mom, and “Ueckie” during the previous night's dinner, laughing over their Milwaukee stories, listening to them harmonizing around the piano-bar while they tossed back scotch and sodas like it was apple juice, I had no intention of becoming anything but friends with a married man.

“Well, I would be flattered…but,” I stammered, then stopped.
That's odd
.
Here I am ready to be very definite and…what?
Looking at him, there was no denying that I felt something. Was it his looks? No doubt he was attractive, but there was also an easiness about him. He was the first man who didn't appear intimidated by me in any way. Up to this point, guys had always acted like they needed to prove themselves around me, as if they felt they needed to be as strong or athletic as I was. But not Don. This man acted like he'd never felt the need to prove a thing in his entire life. I looked around the restaurant before settling my eyes back on Don, and searched for something to say. He was so casual with his arm stretched over the side chair, while I sat with both palms clasped together in my lap.

The waiter came by and asked Don, with no small amount of awe in his voice, if we needed anything else. I'd seen that same kind of deference from everyone who came into contact with him. Don looked up at him with an easy smile. “Just the bill, when you get a chance.”

I wondered how it was possible for a person to feel so at ease in any situation. I knew that feeling comfortable around others required being comfortable with yourself, with every part of yourself. But it was different with me. I was good at sports, I wasn't bad at school, and I had friends. Even though my friends had told me I was cute, I always figured any boy who liked me only felt that way because I was good at sports. It sure wasn't because of my natural grace.

My senior year in high school, I'd gone on a date with a good looking football player, who had dark hair and biceps the size of grapefruits. We saw
The Last Detail
with Jack Nicholson. Afterward we parked high above the city lights, where everyone went to make out. The stifling haze of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne enveloped the area like a toxic cloud, but we thought we were so cool (though I would never so much as try a cigarette). As my date proceeded to put his arm around me, I did likewise and accidentally knocked him in the head with my elbow.

He sat up and rubbed his head. “Everybody said you'd hit me, if I tried to kiss you.”

I could feel the blood drain from my face.
What else are they saying behind my back?
Torrents of pubescent self-doubt flooded my hormone-addled mind.
Had he asked me out on a dare?

There were a few other dates; a lifeguard I watched compete in the Life Guard Competition and a couple of guys in college. But nothing ever came of it. I suffered the same problem of many young women—the boys I had crushes on never asked me out.

Here, now, Don was sitting at this table with me, someone who apparently found me attractive and whom I found myself becoming attracted to in return.
Was it possible?
But the roadblocks came back into razor-sharp focus; the obstacles of age, and that other thing, oh yeah…marital status. I realized we'd make an odd pair with my wholesome, shy, glass-of-milk persona and Don, with enough charisma to fill an entire stadium. I felt both comfortable and uncomfortable; both a part of a very special circle and an awkward outsider all at the same time.

Men had never been my area of expertise, but it was clear this was a man unlike any other. His proposal that night was the first of many to come, causing me to stay on my toes in a way that had nothing to do with jump shots. But then, I would have to stay on my toes on all kinds of fronts, namely the WBL and its ability to compensate me. Looking out for myself while chasing what I wanted was nothing new. It seemed as far back as I could remember, life had been a challenge. Nothing had ever come my way without a whole lot of work and an equal amount of resistance.