When I left for UNLV in 1997, Liza was off to John Jay College of Criminal Justice to pursue her love of forensics and criminology. The first time she saw The Silence of the Lambs, she knew what her calling was going to be, but she ended up having to put her education on hold.
Late that fall Liza started to feel sick and couldn’t pinpoint why she was exhausted and nauseated all the time. Whatever it was, it couldn’t wait any longer, and she went to see the doctor, who confirmed her worst fears: She was pregnant. And terrified.
Her mind began to race. How would she tell me? Would she have to drop out of school? How could she afford to have a baby? Was her life over? She believed it was, but most of all, she feared telling her mother, who put nothing over her beloved Catholic faith. Her mom didn’t believe in sex before marriage, let alone an unplanned child out of wedlock.
For the first few months of her pregnancy, Liza was a wreck. She went out of her way to hide any sign that she was carrying a child. She cried herself to sleep nearly every night, stopped seeing most of her friends, and lost interest in the things she once loved. Worst of all, she knew that day was coming when she couldn’t hide her condition any longer, and she would have to tell her mother. She practiced by telling a childhood friend first but still held out as long as she could. When the day finally came, it did not go as planned. It went way worse. She sat her mom down at the kitchen table and quickly broke the news through tears.
Her mother burst out crying and launched into a screaming fit. She paced back and forth in their small kitchen and prayed.
“What have I done, Lord?” she cried. “Why my child?”
The revelation had a seismic impact on their relationship and their household. Once brimming with love and warmth, it turned cold right along with the seasons. Her mother didn’t speak to her for four weeks. They would pass each other in the hallway without so much as a glance. They ate breakfast without exchanging a single word. The news was not treated as a joyous occasion, and Liza worried about her future. I only called when I knew Liza’s mom wouldn’t be there. If her mother picked up, I hung up.
“I know it’s that boy,” her mother would say.
When Liza told me, I took the news differently. I was numb, confused at first, but after our initial conversation, my mind was made up.
“I don’t want to have an abortion,” Liza told me with a soft, determined voice I had never heard before. “I’m serious. I want my baby girl. If you don’t feel the same way, I will leave you. Do you?”
I could hear the truth in her quivering voice. It was a mother’s love. That was precious to me. I looked at her and imagined what my baby girl would look like. I touched Liza’s cheek gently with the back of my hand, and then I pulled her close.
“I want this baby,” I told her as my voice cracked. “We’re gonna have a baby girl!”
She began to cry. She pressed her face to my chest, leaving tear stains on my shirt. This was my Destiny.
As the summer of 1998 rolled around, and I was figuring out my situation at URI, the stalemate between Liza and her mother began to thaw. Liza was seven months pregnant and making regular visits to the doctor. Liza’s mother prayed on it. Soon after, she would devote all her free time to helping Liza raise her granddaughter with love and care—much as she had done with Liza.
I was going to be a father at eighteen years old, and I was about to have some real-life responsibilities that most teens didn’t have to worry about. The realities for Liza were much different. She had to pull out of school during the second semester of her freshman year.
I wanted to be a good dad. I wanted to be a better father than mine was to me. I wanted to be the man he wasn’t. I promised myself that I would love my kid in ways that Joe never loved me. My kids would look at me and smile, knowing that they had a good father. They would be proud to call me Dad.
On August 8, 1998, our daughter was born at St. John’s Hospital. She was an angel to me from the first time I held her in my arms. I couldn’t believe how big her brown eyes were. Liza had always loved the name Destiny and I felt that it was fitting. We gave her the middle name Catherine to honor my mother.
As Destiny came into the world, I was heading into my first official season of college basketball, and there was a lot of hype. Folks in Rhode Island weren’t used to it, but it followed me everywhere, so it felt normal. The media attention expanded exponentially. Rhode Island was ranked in the top twenty-five in the AP preseason poll. Sports Illustrated came to town and wrote a lengthy story. Everything was going well . . . until it wasn’t.
The first game of the season, I started out on fire, racking up twenty-five points, eleven rebounds, and ten assists. But that’s not what I remember about that game.
In our first matchup, and I’m not sure what possessed me, I wore a pair of Nike Air Jordans during a nationally televised game on ESPN. After a quick start, we were featured in a magazine spread with an action shot of me swooping to the hoop with the Jordan insignia on the bottom of the shoe displayed prominently for the camera.
Sonny nearly lost his mind. In the world of sneaker branding, there was no bigger offense. To Sonny, this was worse than getting caught with a prostitute. This was treason. Now Sonny had to go back and explain to his Adidas bosses. Sonny and Gary grilled me for days afterward.
“What were you thinking?” demanded Sonny. “Do you know how bad this looks?”
As usual, I wasn’t too worried about it. Plus, Sonny could never stay mad at me for long.
Shortly after that, we had a quick break from classes, and I decided to head down to New York. I jumped on the train and Liza surprised me by meeting me at Penn Station. I had been a swirl of emotions and wanted to talk to her. My mother was never far from my mind, and depending on the day, the sadness of her memory could hit me like a flash flood.
We got something to eat and then headed to Grandma Mildred’s house, where I opened up to Liza. Everything came rushing out. I cried and I told her how hard it was to struggle daily with the loss of my mom. Things were happening fast in my life, and I really wanted Mom to be there for me. And not only did I miss her, but there was almost no one to talk to about her. As an only child, I had no one else to shoulder the burden. I had to do it alone, and sometimes it got so heavy I couldn’t carry it. I found out that day that Liza could carry some of it for me, and that night we talked about it for the first time.
After an up-and-down season, we sat at 19–12 heading into what would be a surprise run through the Atlantic 10 Tournament. I had a terrific year with averages of 17.6 points, 9.4 rebounds, and 3.8 assists on 48 percent field-goal shooting. Although I was open to staying at Rhode Island for another season, my name was being bounced around as the possible number-one overall pick if I declared for the NBA draft.
Several hours before the Atlantic 10 title game, Gary called and wanted me to meet with Sonny at his suite. Once I arrived, Sonny and Gary introduced me to a man I’d never met before.
“Meet Dan Fegan,” said Sonny. “He’s your new agent.”
I thought to myself: That ain’t my agent.
I can’t say for sure what happened, but when universities and corporate interests are involved, deals will be made. Gary was a power broker. Once again, I was being bought and sold.
Gary vehemently denied it. I didn’t realize that a lot of relationships were about to go off the rails. This was where friendships forged over the years would be tested. I left the hotel suite without saying anything one way or the other, and once again, my head was filled with everything except what I was supposed to be concentrating on: the biggest game of my life in three hours. I took a quick nap to free my mind.
When we arrived at the old Spectrum arena in Philadelphia, my head was pretty clear. I was focused and had a great week of practice. The game was physically exhausting. In classic John Chaney fashion, Temple contested every basket with bruisers like future NBA player Mark Karcher and six-foot-ten DC native Kevin Lyde. Their zone was just as impregnable as it was frustrating. We hoisted one missed jumper after another because we just couldn’t get into the paint.
The score was 59–59 when I ripped down a rebound from a long three with ten seconds to go. I advanced the ball to half court, and we called time-out with 6.1 seconds remaining. Coach Harrick tried to calm us down on the sideline. But it just felt like chaos. The moment was so big.
“This play is going to Junior,” screamed Harrick.
That’s what he called me. Junior. He kept screaming that Junior was getting the ball. He didn’t have an actual play. Nothing was drawn up. I had missed my last four shots, but it didn’t matter.
“Just get it to Junior,” Harrick implored.
We inbounded the ball in front of Temple’s bench. I was highly aware that there were just six precious seconds on the clock. As soon as I got the inbounds pass beyond half court, I took off downcourt near the left sideline and tried to rock myself into a rhythm, realizing I had to get the shot up quickly.
It was just feeling where the sideline was. Anticipating where the three-point line was. My senses were on fire like never before. Then I looked up at the clock and just let the ball go. Not to be cocky, but under that type of immense pressure . . . I knew it was going in as soon as it left my hand.
I never heard the horn, but I saw the ball drop through the net. The place exploded. I turned and ran down to the other end of the floor. I think that was the fastest I’d ever run in my life. I fell to the floor in the corner of the opposite baseline. My teammates tackled me. I could hardly breathe. I started to cry. My teammate Antonio Reynolds-Dean wouldn’t let me get up, trying to stretch the moment forever.
After the game I was drained. I sat at my locker with tears running down my face. I cried like a baby. Ten minutes later the sports information director told me it was time to go to the press conference.
“Just let him sit for a bit,” Antonio said to the SID. “Let him get it all out.”
It was the single best moment of my basketball career.
Outside the locker room everyone was waiting. Gary had a huge smile on his face. At least I was back to wearing Adidas, I’m sure he was thinking. I found Greg and embraced him.
“Hey, man, we’re outta here,” I said, letting him know that save for the NCAA Tournament, my time at Rhode Island was over.
“I got two more years of school left,” Greg said. “My moms ain’t letting me leave New York until I got my degree in hand.”
“Nah, let’s go. Wherever I go you have to come, too.”
“We’ll figure it out, Lamar.”
That was good enough for me. Right then, life was good.
A week later Rhode Island lost to UNC Charlotte 80–71 in the first round of the NCAA Tournament. And just like that, my amateur career was over. I had gone back and forth about whether or not I wanted to stay in school or declare for the draft—my typical indecisiveness—but deep down I knew it was time.
I was ready for the next level.
After the season ended, I left Rhode Island and returned to New York. But New York isn’t exactly the kind of place to escape to when everybody wants to know what your next move is. Things started happening quickly. There were many matters to deal with, including picking an agent, pre-draft workouts, and signing with a sneaker company. That’s where Sonny would come back into the picture. After years of bringing me to his events, giving me advice, and wooing me at every turn, Sonny wanted to see a return on his investment. I had always known this day was coming, and I dreaded it.
Even though things between me and Sonny were rocky, he still desperately wanted to fix them. And it’s not as if he wasn’t riding high. He signed Kobe in the spring of 1996, and their hug at the NBA draft that June, caught on camera, signified a new era for Adidas basketball. The following year, Sonny landed his prized Tracy McGrady, giving him the two most exciting young players in all of basketball.
A few years before, Sonny had moved from Southern California to an apartment in New York City in order to be closer to Kobe. After Kobe was signed, sealed, and delivered, Sonny kept a room for me in his apartment on Madison Avenue near Central Park. His wife, Pam, would pack the pantry with sweets, including boxes of cheesecake, my favorite. I had a key to the apartment and could drop by whenever I wanted to get away. Pam would take me shopping and we’d go to the movies. It was almost like I was her son.
After the season, Sonny naturally wanted to talk to me about the series of huge decisions that lay ahead of me. Most importantly, whether or not I was going to follow in the footsteps of Kobe and Tracy and sign with Adidas.
Sonny takes his food very seriously. Oftentimes meetings, decisions, and deals revolved around food, particularly Italian food. Both Sonny and Pam were great cooks, so one day not long after the NCAA Tournament, Sonny arranged dinner at his house to talk about the future.
The spread was elaborate. There was pasta Bolognese, linguine, breaded chicken, eggplant, and salad with romaine lettuce, cucumbers, and tomatoes topped with balsamic vinegar. I mean the works. It rivaled New York City’s finest Italian restaurant. Pam had started cooking three hours before I arrived.
When Gary and I showed up, Pam greeted us at the door. She always had such a warm smile and genuinely seemed to have a special affinity for me. Sonny reminded me often how much she loved me. The atmosphere was warm and friendly, but deep inside I could feel a tension growing. My stomach was in knots.
We sat down to eat, and the food was delicious. Sonny was to my right at the head of the table. Gary was to my left, and Pam sat across from me.
“Lamar, we been through a lot together,” Sonny started. “I’ve seen you grow, mature, and learn. I’ve seen you become a man. I want to sign you to Adidas, and I want to be your personal manager.”
“No,” I said flatly without even considering it.
It seemed like time just stopped. They were clearly not expecting that response. I looked up at Pam and she was appalled. You would think “666” was scrawled on my forehead the way she looked at me. And I loved Pam. We really connected from the moment I met her, but at that table she looked right through me.
In their minds, this dinner was just a formality. All Sonny had to do was say the word and I’d fall in line as usual. I mean, I was just a kid from the hood who followed the money and lacked the ability to make important decisions for himself. Right?
Not this time.
It was Vegas. It had been nearly two years since I was dumped out in the desert with no one to call, and the hurt feelings were still warm in my veins. Over and over in my mind, I had played the day I got my dismissal letter and that following week. Now I was supposed to act like it never happened. A twelve-million-dollar offer was supposed to make me forget that Sonny, who surely knew about my dismissal before I did, never called me?
There in his dining room, for the first time, I stood up for what I believed. I was proud of myself. I held my ground. I would not be bought—not this time. I made my decision. I never wore a pair of Adidas again.