Less than a year before, it had been Sonny’s grand plan to unite me and Tracy McGrady. So, it felt kind of ironic that in my final high school game, I would be matched up against T-Mac.
In the spring of 1997, at the end of my senior year, I headed to Auburn Hills, Michigan, to play in Magic’s Roundball Classic, an All-American showcase that Sonny sponsored. There would be at least a half-dozen future NBA players putting on a show. Naturally, Sonny put Tracy and me on opposite teams and breathlessly hyped the showdown in the weeks leading up to the game.
But the would-be storied matchup fizzled. McGrady played like the best player in the country. Damn, he looked like an NBA All-Star. He knocked down pull-ups, hit threes, made ridiculous passes in transition, and was on the receiving end of one highlight alley-oop dunk after another. One particular play stands out in my mind to this day. I controlled a left-handed dribble at the top of the key, hit T-Mac with a head fake, and blew by him. I had nothing but space in front of me. Opportunity was calling on me to throw it down with authority.
I just couldn’t elevate for some reason, so I laid the ball up softly with my left hand. Out of nowhere McGrady swooped in and swatted the shot, which ricocheted violently off the backboard. In a microcosm of the game, McGrady got the rebound and was off and running to orchestrate another highlight fast break while I stood and argued with the ref. What’s more, McGrady seemed to develop an instant rapport with the speedy six-foot point guard Greedy Daniels, as if they had played together all their lives. Greedy had just committed to UNLV and wondered if I was going to join him.
“What’s the deal? You coming to Vegas?” asked Greedy earlier that week.
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” I said. “I’m going to decide soon, I think.”
“You know we need you, man. Let’s do it.”
Truth is, I didn’t want to think about it. Big decisions intimidated me, and I tried to avoid them as best I could. There was a lot of pressure, people constantly in my ear, and the fear of making the wrong decision gnawed at me. Regret seemed to linger with me, and I didn’t want to add to the existing pile of woes.
Meanwhile, big decisions weren’t a problem for McGrady. Although he was quiet and reserved off the floor, he had a certain swag and confidence about him. Shortly after he dazzled his way to MVP honors at Magic’s Roundball Classic, McGrady confidently declared for the draft. From complete unknown to future NBA star in nine months. I was in awe, but I had my own future to figure out.
In fact, that very weekend in Michigan I was going to make my college decision. My family flew out. Gary Charles and Greg Nunn made the trip. I had no idea where I wanted to play my college ball.
Sonny, Gary, Greg, and a group of family members gathered in my hotel room. On the counter in the bathroom of the suite were four hats: Kentucky, UNLV, UConn, and a Knicks hat representing the NBA. I had to go in the bathroom, lock the door, make a decision, and then come out wearing one of the hats.
Everyone in the room offered their opinions about where I should go. Gary liked Kentucky. So did one of my family members, largely because they had accepted money from the school. Greg and Sonny wanted me to go straight to the NBA, which, back then, didn’t happen very often. I wanted the college experience, as I was looking forward to a year or two of bulking up and playing against tougher competition.
I went into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. I didn’t want to look at the hats. I stood in front of the mirror and looked at myself. Who am I? I thought. I often struggled with that question. I only knew that I didn’t have much of an answer. Would I find answers in one of the hats? Would one of them make me a complete person? Would I satisfy people? Would I disappoint them? What if I lifted up one of the hats only to find more regret? Would the things I’d done come back to haunt me? Or worse, the people I loved?
I let out a breath and turned on the faucet to splash water on my face. I looked at myself with the water dripping off my cheeks. It made me look like I was crying. Was I actually crying? I wanted to feel something and nothing at the exact same time. Again, that would become a recurring theme in my life.
I didn’t want to put any of the hats on, because I didn’t want to make a decision. I flipped the seat down, sat on the toilet, and stared straight ahead. I paced back and forth. I lay in the tub. I curled up on the floor. I did push-ups. Splashed more water on my face. I tried to picture myself winning a national championship. It would have made a great movie montage.
But mostly I pictured my mom, Cathy. She would know what to do.
“Just be nice to everyone,” she would tell me. “Go with what’s in your heart.”
Outside in the hotel room, I could hear people coming and going. No one ever knocked on the door. I must have been in there for two hours.
I picked up the Kentucky hat and stared at it.
In December of my junior year at Christ the King, Kentucky played Iona at Madison Square Garden. Kentucky coach Rick Pitino scheduled the game so I could see them up close. They were the number-two team in the country and had a roster full of killers. Antoine Walker. Derek Anderson. Tony Delk. Ron Mercer. Four NBA players right there. They drilled Iona 106–79 as we sat in the front row. Kentucky won the national championship that year, making Rick Pitino’s pitch even easier.
The reality is, I knew exactly where I wanted to go: UCLA. But there was no Bruins hat on the counter . . . for a reason.
Okay, let’s back up.
Five months before, to the day. That’s when the course of my life and basketball career quietly changed. UCLA head coach Jim Harrick was fired for covering up details about an improper dinner. He had taken star twin centers Jason and Jarron Collins from Los Angeles, and Earl Watson from Kansas City, out to a recruiting dinner along with several members of the coaching staff and five current UCLA players including Jelani McCoy, Cameron Dollar, and present Golden State Warriors general manager Bob Myers.
Harrick’s trouble began shortly after he filed an outsized expense report for the dinner for thousands of dollars that caught the eye of the athletic department. At the time, UCLA’s athletic director, Peter Dalis, called it the biggest expense report he’d seen in fourteen years.
The whole thing centered around the fact that there were two more players at the dinner than the NCAA allowed. Dalis accused Harrick of falsifying the expense report to cover his tracks. Harrick fought the allegations and swore Dalis had it out for him. In the end, Harrick was dismissed. He wasn’t happy. He let his feelings be known at his farewell press conference.
“The punishment doesn’t fit the crime,” said Harrick. “Dalis has been after me for years. I’m not saying I’m not at fault. If it was unethical, I apologize. Sometimes I use poor judgment. But it’s no violation. I just feel the punishment is too much.”
Either way Harrick was out. And so was I. That’s why there was no UCLA hat in the bathroom that day.
Fourteen days after Harrick’s dismissal, I signed two NCAA letters of intent: one with UNLV and one with UConn. Signing two was highly unusual, but it bought me time and prevented me from having to make a decision then. Funny enough, the next day I played my first game for Redemption Christian in front of coaches from UNLV and UConn and rang up twenty-four points and fifteen rebounds.
But back in that bathroom, I had to make a decision. I came out holding the UNLV hat. I still didn’t want to put it on.
Then it was time to do the press conference, which would be my formal announcement to the world. Gary took the hat and put it in a custom-made Adidas bag. Then he started to prepare for the announcement. He called UNLV head coach Bill Bayno and his assistant Shoes Vetrone with the good news. But more importantly, he had to call Rick Pitino, who was fully expecting me to come to Kentucky and would not be happy with the latest development. But Pitino was nowhere to be found, and Gary was stressing like mad.
The press conference was to take place in the Pistons’ locker room with sports commentator great Dick Vitale conducting the interview. Gary walked up and saw Sonny and Dickie V talking. Now, Gary was decked out in a four-button suit with one of his trademark fedoras. Gary loved to roll in style. He must have had a dozen of those suits and twice as many hats. Vitale was adamant, however, that Gary take off the hat when on TV.
“You can’t wear that hat on TV,” exclaimed Vitale. “You’ll look like some kind of mobster or drug dealer.”
Gary, who was a vice president at Citibank on Wall Street, was furious and refused to take off the hat. All of a sudden, a three-way argument broke out about a hat. And it wasn’t even my UNLV hat! I guess it was a strange and fitting end to my recruitment.
After I made the announcement and did the interview with Vitale, it felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Everyone made plans for dinner to celebrate. Gary excused himself to use the bathroom. As he was standing at the urinal, Aunt JaNean stormed in and grabbed Gary by the throat. Gary’s pants were hanging down and JaNean was livid. What a mess.
“You’re in the men’s room! What the hell is wrong with you?” shouted Gary.
“This better be some kind of joke,” screamed JaNean.
She was angry that I didn’t go to Kentucky and that Gary’s fingerprints were all over the UNLV deal. But they made up two weeks later when it was announced that Pitino left Kentucky for the Boston Celtics.
And with that, my high school career officially ended, and the spotlight would only get brighter, the stakes bigger, and the pressure more intense.
I needed to go home.
Liza and I had stayed in touch, and when I got back to New York, we met up for a slice of pizza. Since my senior year was so chaotic and disjointed, I almost completely forgot the normal rhythm of the everyday high school experience.
“I can’t believe it’s almost over and prom is coming up,” Liza said, catching me off guard. I had completely forgotten about prom.
“Who are you going with?” I asked sheepishly.
“No one really.”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
“Yeah, sure. Okay.”
I was happy she agreed because I felt like I could make it up to her for leaving Christ the King without even telling her. She was totally in the dark when I left and found out through friends. She had no idea about the drama I was going through and didn’t forgive me for months. I was embarrassed that I was flunking out, so I just couldn’t face telling her. I really wanted that moment at prom with her. I had such great memories at Christ the King and made so many good friends that I deeply hoped to end on a happy note. I needed to feel normal, and going to prom was just about the most normal thing I’d ever do in high school.
The prom for the graduating class of 1997 was held at a fancy hall in Flushing Meadows, Queens. When I saw Liza in her dress, I thought she looked like an angel. Royal blue was her favorite color, and she had spent the day getting her hair done. I was so excited to see friends I hadn’t seen for so long that it felt like we spent the entire night catching up. People peppered me with questions about UNLV, but I didn’t want the night to be about me. I wanted one night where I didn’t have to be that Lamar Odom. There was a professional photographer in the back, and we took several pictures to freeze the moment in time. At the end of the night, everyone got out on the dance floor to cut loose one more time.
I officially ended my high school experience slow dancing with my arms wrapped around the girl I intended to marry.