Unlike our 2007–2008 campaign, the Lakers headed into our second consecutive NBA Finals with the league’s best record and as the heavy favorite. After sailing through the Western Conference playoffs with a 12–6 record, we were to face the upstart Orlando Magic, led by star center Dwight Howard. Kobe came out cooking in Game 1, dropping forty points, eight rebounds, and eight assists, joining Michael Jordan, Shaquille O’Neal, and Jerry West as the only players to record a stat line that amazing in the NBA Finals.
Our defense smothered the Magic’s inside-out offense, holding Howard to just one field goal. The rest of the series, the Magic made key adjustments and improved their ball movement, but still, we cruised to a 4–1 series victory, bringing a title back to LA.
And just like that, I was an NBA champion. It was an idea that didn’t truly sink in until I went to a boxing gym about a month later, and Mike Tyson walked up to me and said, “What’s up, champ?” Mike Tyson! But after the final game in the series, in the visitors’ locker room, once we were done going wild during the customary champagne party, I just sat there at my locker alone, tears streaming down my face while I held the Larry O’Brien NBA Championship Trophy. I ran my fingers across the golden basketball atop the base. It was glistening from champagne. I could see my reflection in it. I held it as if I were holding a newborn. I never wanted to let it go. I was an NBA champion.
Kobe walked over to me, put his hand around my head, and embraced me. I had never seen that kind of excitement emanating from the game’s best player.
“We did it! We did it,” Kobe cried. “We fucking did it.”
When it seemed the champagne was gone, Kobe stood in the center of the room and said, “We’re gonna bring it in one time. Come on Phil, Mr. Ten.”
Phil Jackson had just won his tenth championship and was hiding out in the relative safety of the trainer’s room without so much as a drop of champagne on him.
“You’re settled down, right?” he cautiously asked. “We’re saying the Lord’s Prayer, right?”
“Yeah, we’re done,” replied Kobe.
Of course, as soon as Phil stepped to the middle of the locker room, Kobe doused his hair with a full bottle. In about thirty seconds we must have emptied ten bottles on him. And that was back in the day before teams outfitted the players with ski goggles to prevent the champagne from stinging their eyes.
“I’m lucky,” I told the cameras after I got dressed and headed for the bus. “I’m one of those people who knew what they wanted to do at nine years old. I saw myself winning an NBA championship. I’m lucky.”
I was lucky indeed. And I will forever be a champion.
However, what was supposed to be one of the best days of my life was instead a haze of pain and disappointment, complete with the incessant dull pounding and stinging anxiety of a bad hit.
We arrived back in Los Angeles for a couple days of revelry before the victory parade. I partied pretty hard, but I actually couldn’t tell the difference because I partied hard all the time. I guess this time it was just louder and more festive. The night before the parade, though, I stayed in, took out the coke, and invited a beautiful young lady to my house.
The next morning I was lying in my room, passed out. I have little memory of the previous twelve hours. Greg started banging on the door, saying we had to leave for the parade in an hour. All of the players had to meet at the convention center downtown to get checked in and board the bus that would take us along the parade route.
It took thirty minutes for me to muster the strength to stumble from my bed to the door. The light burned my eyes. Why was it so hot in here? I came out of the bedroom into the hallway, dizzy and sweating. Just completely out of it. Greg looked pissed. Then he stopped, furrowed his brow, and noticed something. There was blood dripping from my nose. I had done so much coke I couldn’t feel my face. I thought the blood was just sweat.
“I’m not going to the parade,” I said. “I can’t make it. I’ll just watch it on TV.”
Then Greg reminded me who else was going to be there.
“What about Destiny and Lamar Jr.?” he asked. “You forget about your kids?”
Damn. I had. They had been living in LA for the last couple of years, attending elementary school. The school had given them excused absences so they could attend the parade. They were down in the kitchen having breakfast while I was upstairs bleeding from my nose. I couldn’t get it together, so I sent the kids back to school. They were heartbroken.
But Greg, along with my friend Mack, who acted as my driver from time to time, wouldn’t let me miss the parade even after I sent my kids away and they had to tell their teachers and classmates that their daddy was sick and couldn’t go to the parade. But they had the parade on TV at the school, and there I was on the float. My kids didn’t know I had gone. It looked like I just ditched them. They were embarrassed and confused and crushed.
“I thought your dad was sick?” a teacher asked them.
When I sobered up, I realized it was one of the worst things I had ever done as a father. I put my own selfish needs first. I put my beautiful, innocent children second. Now I was actually sick to my stomach with embarrassment. I just wanted to hide away from the world. Winning the championship felt like a million years ago, even though it happened a week before. I just wanted to escape from my own life. I checked into one of my favorite hotels, Shutters on the Beach in Santa Monica, blasted the AC, turned off my phone, and drew the shades tight.
I wanted to get high.
After the parade, the reality of winning the Finals and having my life change in the process was just starting to sink in. I was certainly reaping the rewards that came along with newfound worldwide attention, but I knew I was still in love with Taraji. We continued to spend a lot of time together, and she was a big part of my life, even though I wasn’t being faithful to her.
Right after the Finals she told me she was going to China in July to begin filming the Karate Kid remake in which she had landed one of the lead roles. She would be filming for a month in several major cities as well as at the Forbidden City, the Great Wall, and the Wudang Mountains. She was adamant about me being by her side to share the experience with her.
I didn’t want to go. I knew not doing so might have a big impact on our relationship, but I was still basking in the glow of a huge victory, and I didn’t want to spend my summer in remote locations on the other side of the world. What if I couldn’t get coke? Worse, what if Taraji discovered my habit?
She was disappointed in my decision.
To this day, I still have the same level of respect for her that I had the moment we met, and my love for her was real. She’s an incredible woman from the inside out. None of her success today, from Empire to Hidden Figures, surprises me. I can’t overstate her importance to black people and black culture.
I don’t think I ever connected with another black woman as deeply as I did with Taraji. And to be honest, because of that fact, it hurt that much more when we broke up soon after I decided not to travel with her. As a professional athlete you’re stereotyped for dating white women. Here I had this beautiful, successful, loving sister, and it gave me a sense of pride to be by her side. It’s just that I met Taraji at the wrong time in my life.
Our last phone call was brief. I assured her we’d pick up right where we left off when she returned, but I could sense deep down that she knew it was over. I was deflated when we hung up because I knew I was letting a good woman get away. It was the last time I ever spoke to her.