I was sitting in my man cave with the lights off, thinking about the upcoming season. A lot of things were pinging back and forth through my head. I had just come off one of the best seasons of my career, and even though it was beginning to get emotionally taxing, I was still enjoying shooting Khloé & Lamar because it meant I got to spend all my time with my wife.
But my cocaine use had spiked in the summer of 2011, and I rarely touched a basketball all summer. I wasn’t going to be in proper shape come training camp. That didn’t worry me much because I knew I could ramp up my conditioning in a short window if necessary.
I’d be okay, I told myself over and over. One of my favorite things about my basement man cave was that it was one of the quietest places I could go. Khloé hardly ever came in because she knew I needed a place where I could be alone with my thoughts. I had taken up meditating to clear my head and ease the anxiety that seemed to flare up all summer.
The triggers were everywhere: my cousin’s death, the demands of the show, my impending basketball mortality, the drugs, and the infidelity. The tranquility and solitude of my man cave kept me sane and allowed me to recalibrate on a daily basis. It was there in that tranquility that my world changed.
My phone buzzed, and I saw my agent’s name, Jeff Schwartz, on the caller ID. I answered, and he hit me with news that blindsided me: the Lakers had traded me to the Dallas Mavericks. I asked him to repeat himself because I thought there was no way that I heard him correctly.
“I just got off the phone with Mitch Kupchak,” said Jeff. “He was extremely appreciative of everything you gave this franchise, but they’re going to move you.”
It knocked the wind out of me. I could feel the rush of emotions rising from the pit of my stomach, but for the moment I just sat there, phone in hand, unable to speak or even form a coherent thought.
Mike Brown had recently been hired as head coach of the Lakers because Phil Jackson had retired again, and I had spoken to Brown not two weeks prior. He told me he was looking forward to working together and wanted me to keep the momentum from the last three seasons alive and well. I told him I’d been working hard that summer. I left out the part about doing cocaine the night before.
Obviously, Brown had known more about the Lakers’ front office dealings than he’d let on. His voice had been upbeat, and his words were supportive, so getting traded was the last thing I was worried about. I still had a year left on my current deal and had become the first Laker to win the Sixth Man Award. I had created this false sense of security in my mind that they would never trade me because of everything I had been through during the time I had been with the organization.
My sixth-month-old son died during my second year with LA. And I was still struggling to comprehend my cousin’s death. Everyone in the organization was incredibly supportive. Factoring in my role as a cornerstone of two championship teams, I fooled myself into thinking I had accrued enough goodwill to be untradeable. I thought I was going to be a Laker for the rest of my career. Los Angeles was my second home. The organization was my family. I was going to retire a Laker.
I was very wrong.
The trade destroyed me mentally, and I could see the most miserable, least productive year of my career barreling down on me like a runaway freight train. Even if I had been in shape and sober, I still wouldn’t have been able to give the Mavericks anything. My love for the game vanished into thin air. My competitive nature faded like day disappearing into night, and there wasn’t a positive thought in my head.
I was also underweight, stressed out, and self-medicated.
I didn’t want anything to do with the Lakers either, and that was a strange feeling because that franchise was my life. I was consumed with anger. Mitch Kupchak, who was singing my praises at the Sixth Man press conference five months earlier, didn’t even call to let me know. I loved my teammates, but I didn’t want to speak to them. It would only make the hurt worse.
When I arrived in Dallas, my first conversation with Mavericks owner Mark Cuban was fairly routine.
“Lamar, we’re really excited to have you,” said Cuban. “You’re coming off a great year and will be a big part of what we do. I can’t wait to see you and Dirk [Nowitzki] on the court together.”
It was really just jerk-you-off bullshit. I was as professional and cordial as I could possibly be, but I was already planning my escape. I simply did not want to be in Dallas. My mind was in such a funk, I knew I was never going to recover. I had to go about the normal routine of arriving in a new city despite the fact I was in a haze. Meet my new teammates. Greet season ticketholders. Learn the playbook. Find a place to live. Do interviews. On top of that, I had my obligation to Khloé & Lamar.
But I was honest and told Cuban I was in a bad place mentally.
“I’m not doing well right now,” I said. “God has just dealt me so much that it’s hard to take. I’m not dealing with it.”
“We’ll take care of you and support you as best we can,” replied Cuban. “This is a family down here.”
The lockout-shortened 2011–2012 season was a lost cause for me on the court. I played poorly from the first tip-off to the final horn. I could never put together two consecutive good games. Hell, I had a hard time putting together a good quarter. I didn’t hustle. I barely boxed out. I’d just hope the days and weeks would fly by.
That wasn’t even the worst part. Cuban quickly grew to resent me; it seemed his goal was to make my time in Dallas as miserable as possible. He rode me constantly, talked down to me, and questioned my manhood in front of others. During home games he’d grab his usual courtside perch and proceed to hurl obscenities at me.
“You’re so fucking slow and out of shape,” Cuban screamed at me during a dead ball situation early in my ill-fated tenure with the Mavs. “Waste of fucking money.”
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Hustle, dammit!”
“This is just awful.”
The owner of the team was heckling me. He was cursing me out in front of fans and players. It said “Dallas” on my chest. I play for you, asshole! Would Jerry Buss, owner of the Lakers, ever do something like this? Would any decent human? And the players on my new team, guys I barely knew, were watching all of this play out. I had no idea what they thought of me. But how could they possibly respect me if I didn’t stand up for myself?
I searched for answers anywhere I could. Was he hating on me because the Lakers used to kick their ass? Was it the reality show? Was I actually that bad?
I wanted to lash out. I had fantasies of just walking up to him and sucker-punching him. I needed to take my aggression out, but I kept it as cordial as possible whenever we were on the team plane or in the locker room. I’d give him a half smile and my least threatening voice. I had to placate him. Convince him I wasn’t a physical threat. Because I wasn’t going to win if I went down that path. But apparently, he didn’t have any problem being physical with me.
During one homestand, I was having possibly the worst game of the season. Head Coach Rick Carlisle subbed me out, and I looked for a seat near the coaches, but none were available. So I went down to the only open seat at the end of the bench. Right next to Cuban.
Cuban extended his right foot and kicked my shin. “Come on, motherfucker!” he shouted.
I was stunned. This wasn’t a tap. I felt it. That was the last straw. It was painfully clear he did not respect me as a man. I felt the adrenaline rush through my body. In an instant I was transported back to Linden Boulevard, where the slightest act of disrespect could be fatal. As I sprang up, Vince Carter, who was sitting next to me, grabbed my arm tightly and leaned in.
“LO, chill out,” Vince calmly said. “Don’t do it. It’s not worth it.”
A physical confrontation with Cuban would have been the end of my career—a dark moment that I would have been remembered for despite being a two-time NBA champion.
What if Vince, who I had the closest connection to on that team, hadn’t been sitting there? What if he had been paying attention to the game and hadn’t seen the incident? I can say beyond a shadow of a doubt that Vince Carter saved me from catching a charge and ending my career in disgrace.
As I slogged through the season, absorbing one slight and disrespectful act after another, Cuban would deal me one final indignity just because he could. On March 2, I was assigned to the Texas Legends, which was the Mavericks’ D-League affiliate. A roster spot on the Legends was generally meant for NBA hopefuls on the fringe of the league who the Mavs deemed worthy of development. It was an alternative to playing in Europe. It was a place where players made an average of $14,000 for the entire season.
The move was solely meant to humiliate me. Hell, no, I wasn’t going to do it. That would have meant I went from Sixth Man to the D-League in less than nine months. I would rather retire. A day later, I was recalled without playing a game for the Legends.
On March 24, during a 104–87 loss to the San Antonio Spurs, I got my first DNP-CD (did not play—coach’s decision) of my career.
Things came to a head on April 7 in Memphis. We were in the locker room at halftime. I had played four scoreless minutes in the first half. Cuban had been hounding me all game, and he stormed into the locker room, got up in my face, and angrily screamed at me in front of the team, asking me if I was “in or out.”
I didn’t take kindly to it. Once again, he didn’t treat me like a man. That’s not how you handle something in front of the entire team. Man, it was heated. I had fantasies about decking him, but that wasn’t the way out. I never played another game for the Mavs.
Here’s what Cuban told ESPN:
Everybody goes through ups and downs. Every player does. We tried to put him in a position to succeed. You guys saw it, saw what we did. It didn’t work. And I just asked him, does he want to go for it or not? Is he in or is he out? I think he thought we were playing poker. I just didn’t get a commitment. And that was the end. My job is to look at every player, employee, whatever and just treat them individually and put them in a position to succeed. I’ve failed miserably on this one. It’s not the first time and won’t be the last time. Move on to the next. Did I get my money’s worth? No. I don’t know that the word’s “cheated.” But did I get my money’s worth? No.
Real nice.
In the end I averaged career lows in points (6.6), rebounds (4.7), assists (1.7), and field-goal percentage (35.2).
On June 29, the Mavericks dealt me to the Clippers as part of a four-team trade. At the very least, the worst chapter of my basketball life was over. But my downward spiral would only pick up steam. I was about to spin out of control.