12

I needed to get out of Vegas as fast as humanly possible. My UNLV experience had been a complete disaster. I needed a new start.

I didn’t know where I was going to go, and after a thawing-out period, I was back to working with Gary Charles and Sonny

Vaccaro on my next move. Gary had eventually reached out to me after the UNLV disaster, and in my mind, even though I forgave Gary and Sonny, I never truly forgot.

Because time was short, my options were limited. It was late August 1997, and most schools had already committed their allotment of scholarships. Besides, few would touch me given what had happened.

So, an old face came back into the picture. Sonny got on the phone with Jim Harrick, the former UCLA coach, who was now the head coach at the University of Rhode Island in the Atlantic 10 Conference. After a few more phone calls and filling out the necessary paperwork, I was off to Kingston, Rhode Island. But there was a catch. There’s always a catch. Gary wanted Rhode Island to hire Jerry DeGregorio as an assistant coach. After the Vegas fiasco, both Gary and Sonny wanted someone to look after me on a daily basis to make sure I stayed below the radar. That someone was Jerry.

He and I got along well, and I really felt like he had my best interests at heart. He was like the white father I never had. Jerry got set up at Rhode Island, and Sonny had his fingerprints all over everything. They hired a lawyer to help with the admissions process.

Once all of Gary’s wrangling and dealings with the lawyer were done, there was still one more step. In a meeting with the university president, Dr. Robert Carothers, some basketball staff, and a handful of alumni, I was quizzed on various topics, from my background to what I could bring to the table if I was admitted. The meeting felt strange to me, as if all these people were prodding me with questions because they didn’t believe in me. After answering everything, I could see they were not convinced. They had one of the best players in the country in their meeting room, but it wasn’t enough.

Then, they asked me to write an essay about my life right there in the room and then read it back to them. It was clear to me that they didn’t think I could read or write. I was humiliated. This grade-school exercise disgusted and embarrassed me. After all I’d been through, all of the low points, each day seemed to bring me a step closer to rock bottom. After reading a page and a half of my handwritten essay, I just stopped. There was an awkward silence in the room as people looked around at one another, shocked that I could read.

As humiliating an experience as that was, I made it through and was admitted to Rhode Island as a non-matriculating (unofficial) student. I had to sit out the first semester of my freshman season and maintain a 2.4 grade-point average to be eligible to play in the spring. Even though I agreed to the conditions, being without basketball for the first time in my life sent me on an emotional tailspin.

I was so depressed that for the first time, I had to get professional help. I went to a doctor who put me through a series of tests. He then put me on Prozac, an antidepressant, to treat my depression and anxiety. I knew I was down, but I thought I was just sad. Even when things were looking up, I’d still feel like I was in a haze, and I couldn’t figure out why. I just thought it was my mood. I really didn’t know or understand what depression was. I could feel the positive effects of the Prozac as the weeks went by. It calmed me down and kept me sane. I stayed on the drug the entire semester.

Once I finally got settled in at school, the pickup games in Keaney Gymnasium, our 3,800-seat home court, provided a much-needed distraction. I really wanted to experience campus life, and I became a social butterfly. Every day we’d eat at the Ram’s Den, the food court, in Memorial Union on campus. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, we’d hit the local college bars.

I didn’t particularly like going to class, but my African American Studies class kept me engaged. I felt like a regular college kid. Soon I began to realize how much better the quiet, leafy green splendor of Kingston was for me than the bright lights and pulsating heart of Las Vegas would have been. Rhode Island’s small-town, close-knit vibe was exactly what I needed, even as I continued to isolate whenever I felt alone or overwhelmed.

I’ve had separation anxiety since my mother died, although back then I didn’t know there was a name for it. I hated to be alone. The feeling that no one was around and that I’d been abandoned could easily trigger the pain of my mother’s death, which constantly lingered, haunting both my dreams and my waking hours. To this day, I find it ironic that when things get the darkest, I choose to be alone. I retreat to where no one can find me. At URI, this happened often enough. I’d hide in my room or at a friend’s on the other side of campus. Anywhere to be away from the mess my life had become.

It was when I was back on the court with the ball in my hands that I felt somewhat like my old self. And I absolutely loved being around the guys on the team.

Cuttino “Cat” Mobley was a below-the-radar, lefty senior shooting guard who was a fountain of constant energy and positivity. He had fashioned himself into an NBA prospect and was the captain of the team. No one at Rhode Island did more to keep my spirits buoyed than Cat. For that, I can never repay him.

Tavorris Bell was a freshman and former teammate of mine from the Long Island Panthers. At a slender six feet six with a forty-four-inch vertical leap, T-Bell was one of the most exciting guys I’d ever played with. He was always a threat to do something on the floor I’d never seen before. I’d known him since I was sixteen, and his hilariously perverse sense of humor was always a welcome respite from the drudgery of depression that hung over me. Whether it was some goofy accent or a character he’d play to get a laugh, there was nobody better to have around to pick me up.

We had some great open runs before the season started. Sometimes we’d head thirty miles north to battle the guys from Providence. Other times they would come to URI. I had some pretty epic battles with Jamel Thomas from Coney Island, who had a brief stint in the NBA. Those pickup games were as cathartic as they were intense. I needed them, and I needed the guys.

But whatever life those runs gave me, it was quickly sucked back out in October during Midnight Madness with the realization that I wasn’t going to play until the spring semester.

The guys were jelling as a unit on and off the floor, and even though they kept me involved as much as possible, I still felt left out. I’d regularly find myself in my room in our team apartment at the Graduate Houses, while the rest of the guys were getting ready for the season.

One night in October, I was feeling particularly vulnerable. T-Bell and I were in our suite around eight o’clock in the evening when everything came rushing back: UNLV, my fractured relationship with Sonny, being redshirted, and, as always, my mom. I couldn’t shake the feeling of failure. I wanted to get the hell out of Rhode Island. T-Bell was caught off guard by my revelations.

I jumped up and fumbled my way to the kitchen, where I found an unopened bottle of Bacardi Limón. I ripped off the cap, went back into the living room, and sat down on the floor in front of the couch. I took swig after swig. I was eighteen and had never really drunk hard alcohol before. I took the occasional sip of Henny, but that was about it. I had never been drunk. Because I had such a low tolerance, I got drunk really fast that night. My throat burned.

“Why the fuck did this shit happen to me?” I cried out. “All I want to do is play basketball and be happy.”

I had downed the entire bottle in less than an hour. I felt warm, delirious, and reckless. But at least I couldn’t feel the pain for a while.

“Man, why you still holding on to that bottle,” laughed T-Bell.

“I gotta finish it,” I drunkenly stammered. “It’s up to me.”

I clutched the bottle like a pacifier for thirty minutes after I drained its contents. I had to get out of the apartment.

“Take me to The Ghetto,” I demanded.

The Ghetto was an area of campus housing where they seemed to put all the students of color. It was actually a nice place, but the veiled segregation wasn’t lost on us. There was a sizeable Cape Verdean population, and many of the women were quite beautiful. T-Bell dropped me off at the apartment of a girl named Rose. But I had no idea where I was.

The next thing I knew, the sun was coming up and I was stumbling around behind Rose’s building. When T-Bell pulled up, he found me next to the dumpster wearing only a wife beater, boxers, and one sock. I was on my knees puking my guts out. He took me back to our apartment, and I crawled into bed. My head throbbed like a Richter-scale–shattering earthquake. There were aftershocks every ten minutes for hours. The room wouldn’t stop spinning, but at least I was in my bed. I stayed there for two days.

The next hiccup came in January 1998, when I was ruled academically ineligible for the spring semester after I failed to maintain a 2.4 GPA. President Carothers released a cold statement:

Lamar Odom is not a student at the University of Rhode Island. He is not an applicant for admission at the University of Rhode Island. I know from talking to him he has the intelligence and the capacity to be successful in college work, and I am very hopeful he will persist in doing the work that is required of him to gain admission to the University of Rhode Island.

Damn. That didn’t help. I needed more Prozac.

With me on the sidelines, the team had a great run through the 1998 NCAA Division I Men’s Basketball Tournament. The Rams shocked the nation, knocking off Paul Pierce and the number-one-seeded Kansas Jayhawks in the round of thirty-two, behind Cuttino Mobley’s twenty-seven points. Rhody made it to its first ever Elite Eight, where we lost to a loaded number-three-seeded Stanford team, which featured three future NBA players.

I was excited for the team’s success, but if I’d been eligible, we would have certainly been a Final Four team or possibly national champions. It would have been one of the best college basketball stories of the decade. I felt like I let the team down, but the guys would make sure never to spin it like that.

Once the season ended, I found out that I was again eligible to play because I had gotten the grades. But there was still something gnawing at me. There was still a demon that needed to be exorcised. So, in June I made a weekend trip back to Las Vegas, where I felt I had some unfinished business. When I arrived on campus, the heat rose up from the pavement and distorted the view. But I could see as clearly as ever. I made my way to the gym where UNLV teammates were playing pickup.

The guys were going hard, but one in particular caught my eye. He was a skinny pogo stick with a weird jump shot named Shawn Marion. I’d never heard of him, but he was expected to be a star after transferring from Vincennes University, a junior college in Indiana. He had recently signed his letter of intent with UNLV.

I laced my sneakers, took the court, and walked directly up to Marion. I was locked in. Zoned out. Whoever was in front of me that day, I gave them the business. I was talking more shit than I ever had in my life. Head coach Bill Bayno and assistant coach Shoes Vetrone came down to watch the games. I wanted them to see what they missed out on. I had to let them know.

I’d brought the ball up the court and told my opponents what I was going to do. I called out threes. Broke down my defenders with my crossover. Dunked with absolute power. Threw pinpoint full-court passes. Shawn looked confused at everything I threw at him. The coaches watched in awe. Afterward, I picked up my gym bag and threw a towel around my head. I crossed paths with the coaching staff, exchanged a few cordial words, wished them luck, and headed out into the afternoon sun.

A weight was lifted off my shoulders yet again. My step felt lighter. UNLV and everything that came with it no longer mattered. For the first time in years, I felt free.