Pat Riley never asked me directly about my past marijuana use. He hinted at it and demanded that it stay behind me . . . that it would be unacceptable in his organization. I think he believed that I wouldn’t let him down. Still, he insisted that whenever I went out at night, I be accompanied by a security guard of his choosing. That turned out to be the Heat’s head of security, David Holcombe, a stocky, brooding, no-nonsense former cop who would later go on to be Dwyane Wade’s personal security guard for nearly his entire career.
If I was planning to go out, I had to let Holcombe know, and he’d show up at my house or meet us out front of the club and shadow us the entire night. The next day he’d give Riley a full report of everything that went on. If I slipped up or didn’t let him know about my plans, I’d get an earful from Riley the next day. On road trips, Holcombe always occupied the room next to mine.
Given that we went to strip clubs three nights a week, I’m not entirely sure what his reports consisted of. We’d often leave the club as the sun was coming up, with a couple strippers in tow. (It always surprised me to see the sun. Strip clubs don’t have windows, so we never knew what time it was.) I’m guessing the reports didn’t include the time a well-known young NBA player, two years away from his first All-Star Game, was buck naked in a chair as a stripper gave him a lap dance.
“Put some damn clothes on,” I told him. “You know how many people have been in that chair?”
If I was the voice of reason, you knew it was bad.
Preseason rolled around, and Riley’s legendary three-hour practices were as tough as expected. Even though Stan Van Gundy was actually the head coach, this was still Riley’s organization. He was responsible for putting it together and for any resulting success or failure. If you’re not in great shape on day one, you’re going to be in a considerable amount of pain. Guys were puking and gasping for air the first week, but Riley didn’t care. He doesn’t pay you to be average or out of shape.
I loved the culture and the camaraderie right away. The Heat offered the kind of structure and support I’d lacked so far in my NBA career. There was a great mix of talented, versatile veterans led by the smooth tenth-year swingman Eddie Jones and interior banger Brian Grant, who was a consummate professional and voice of reason in the locker room. Then there was the future of the franchise, the dynamic twenty-two-year-old rookie Dwyane Wade, who was billed as the player at the center of Miami’s championship hopes. I had to find my role and was still uncertain when I should be a facilitator or an aggressor.
In the early fall of 2003, we were in Puerto Rico for a preseason game against the Sixers, and I really wanted to impress Pat. If he told me to jump, I’d ask how high. If there was a brick wall, I would run through it. He talked to me every day about improving even the smallest detail of my game: from body language to taking a breath on the free-throw line. For Riley, there was no such thing as a detail too small. Since this was a preseason game, the starters were going to get big minutes in the first half and then sit the rest of the game. I wanted to show out for Riley.
But in my mind, I played like a bum. I couldn’t put the ball in the basket to save my life. I went to the hole with abandon, but nothing dropped. So, I focused instead on rebounding. I was a force on the boards, pulling down sixteen rebounds. I dropped one playmaking dime after another. Took three charges. After the game, Riley approached me. I thought he was going to be disappointed because my offense was so weak.
“That’s what I’m talking about, son,” he said excitedly. “That fire is what I’m looking for. Play like that every night and there’s no limit to how good you can be. That’s what the fuck I’m talking about.”
Riley taught me the true meaning of the word “disposition.” It was one of his favorite words, and he would repeat it over and over. How you carry yourself. Your body language. How you react when things aren’t going right. The image you put out for others to see.
For all our promise, the Heat got off to a terrible start, losing our first seven games and eleven of our first fourteen. Riley wasn’t happy, but he didn’t push the panic button. He was too cool for that. While our record didn’t reflect our talent, there was a sense that things would come together soon. Wade was spectacular early on and would make the kind of athletic plays that left you in awe.
One of my close friends on the team was Queens native Rafer Alston, who grew up not far from me and was a certified New York City legend. I was a few years younger than Rafer and had looked up to him when I was a kid. There wasn’t anyone from New York who came up after Rafer who didn’t emulate him in some way.
Better known as Skip to My Lou, he was in his fifth year—and with his third team—in the NBA after rising to fame at New York’s legendary Rucker Park in Harlem. Pat Riley loved his toughness and ability to manage an offense. His role was to back up Dwyane Wade, who started at point. But Skip was just trying to do anything to stay on the team.
He had a nonguaranteed deal and worried daily whether or not he would be let go. If he made it to January 11, the Heat had to lock him in for the rest of the year. The morning of the eleventh, he got the good news that his contract was guaranteed for the remainder of the season.
To celebrate the news, I organized a trip to our favorite strip club. It was great to see him sit back and relax. I just felt like it was one boy from Queens looking out for another. He ended up starting thirteen of the next sixteen games and was a key piece of our playoff run.
About halfway through the season, Liza and the kids moved in, so the shenanigans at the house pretty much came to a standstill. We still occasionally went to strip clubs, but I came home at a decent hour to be respectful to Liza. I still enjoyed all Miami had to offer, but we had gotten the orgies and rendezvous with strippers out of our system for the most part. For a while after Liza moved in, my life began to resemble the kind of existence I’d always dreamed of, and we did family things every weekend.
There were barbecues, birthday parties, and movie nights. We went to restaurants as a family. My kids went to the beach for the first time. Seeing them run down to the water and then flee the surf as it came in is one of the most vivid memories of my life. Destiny was five and learning to ride a bike and developing a love for reading. I’d regularly take her and LJ to the bookstore to buy books, puzzles, and educational games. Our backyard became the center for most of our family activities. I taught LJ to swim, and he took to the water like a dolphin. We had a rule that if you were standing within one foot of the edge of the pool, no matter who you were or what you were wearing, you got pushed in. More than a few cell phones were destroyed that year in Miami.
For the first time in my life, I felt like a real dad. Putting smiles on my kids’ faces was rewarding beyond words. Giving them a safe environment where they had everything they could want was priceless. I had something I cared about more than myself. Most importantly, I kept a vow that I had made to myself. I didn’t become my father. I did it the right way. That’s the most important way my children were different from me. They had a father they could be proud of.
I had stopped smoking almost completely. Riley was pleased with my punctuality and professionalism, and as a result, he pushed me even harder.
“Think Magic Johnson,” Riley would say. “Magic Johnson, son!”
“Yes, sir!” I always responded.
I knew how important Magic was to Riley. There was no one he held in higher regard. As a result of clean living and my newfound laser focus, I was playing the best basketball of my career. As a team we hovered around .500 and were fighting to make the playoffs by late spring. I went on a tear.
My confidence was high after recording a near triple double (sixteen points, nine assists, and seven rebounds) on March 4, 2004, against the Milwaukee Bucks. But I needed a game to establish myself as the catalyst of the team and propel us toward the playoffs. Enter the 45–15 Sacramento Kings, two days later. As we walked onto the floor, I could see Pat Riley down the hall at the end of the tunnel leading out to the court. He lowered his head and stared directly at me.
“Carry us!” he said as I ran by. “Carry us, O!”
I did. I carved my way to the basket. I set up my teammates. I ran the break. I was a terror on the boards. Went after every rebound. Kings forward Chris Webber’s head nearly spun off his shoulders trying to guard me.
When it was over, I recorded a monster triple double: thirty points, nineteen rebounds, and eleven assists. To this day, it is the only such game in Miami Heat history. I went on to record five more double doubles in the next three weeks, including twenty-six points, eighteen rebounds, and four assists on March 26, against the Mavericks.
I led the Heat to a 9–1 record, putting us squarely back in the playoff mix. I was named Player of the Month in March, the only time in my career I was awarded the honor.
I was in such a good place in my life.