I had survived, but I still needed to live. I was still an addict. After the hospital, my life was up and down and directionless. I had recovered physically, more or less, but I was as vulnerable as I had ever been.
So, in November 2016, Greg organized an intervention in the two-bedroom apartment that I lived in just off Ventura Boulevard in the Valley. Greg, Al Harris, Liza, Destiny, and Lamar Jr. were there. I came home after hanging out with friends. I did not expect this shit. I was caught off guard and didn’t know how to react. I saw Destiny and Lamar Jr. I was shocked.
“What are y’all doing in my apartment?” I asked.
“Sit down, bro,” Greg said.
I resisted.
“No, you need to sit down, Lamar,” said Al Harris, my life-long friend. “This is real. We have to talk.”
The room got quiet. My entire family was here. All of my friends. From Queens. From Miami. From my Lakers days. There were nearly a dozen people. I was nervous, scared, and defensive. I was being ambushed and I knew why. They wanted to save me.
I saw Destiny. She was crying already. I broke down. Her beautiful face was the only thing stronger than the pull of drugs.
Her love was stronger than addiction.
“There is nothing to lie about, bro,” said Greg. “You know, and we need to fix it. Your children are here. It’s now or never.”
I looked at Destiny. My beautiful baby girl. Born in the summer of my eighteenth year. She didn’t choose her name or her destiny. I gave both to her. Tears streamed down her face. I broke. I died in that moment.
“Are you okay, Daddy?” she said.
My seventeen-year-old baby girl. I heard the words. It was like a rocket shot me through a wall. There was an explosion of drywall and realization. Because my firstborn had tears running down her face.
I remembered when I was first with Liza. It was a cold December day. We were kids. I told her everything would be okay. She got pregnant. Our lives changed from that day forward.
Then LJ spoke.
“I hate this,” said Lamar Jr. “I hate being scared. I hate not knowing if you’re going to call me. I hate not knowing when I wake up if you’re going to be alive. I’m scared.”
That really fucking scared me.
The room stopped, as did my heart. LJ is an incredibly quiet child. I had never heard him speak like this. He was fourteen years old, a beautiful, strong, independent boy.
Unlike his father, who was a coward. Scared of mirrors, lest he see what he’d become. I didn’t want LJ to look at me. I saw myself in LJ. I saw my father in me. There was no way LJ saw himself in me. But I was still his dad. But I was also sick. My son was stronger than me.
That hurt me worst of all. Grown men were crying. No one could talk. LJ stared at me. Liza buried her face in her hands. I had met her in homeroom at Christ the King when I was the same age as my son was now. I was young and innocent. I wasn’t an addict. I wasn’t famous or rich. I took the bus to get to school. I thought she was pretty.
They laid it out for me.
“Rehab or we ain’t fucking with you,” said Greg.
After it was over, I went into the back room. Destiny and LJ followed. I told them that I loved them.
“Daddy, I don’t want see you like this,” said Destiny.
My heart died. My baby girl. The most beautiful accomplishment of my life had told me that she wanted me to live. I broke down.
Then Greg came in.
“It’s this or nothing,” he said. “We gotta do rehab.”
“Let me think about it,” I said.
Even after seeing my devastated children, I didn’t go to rehab right away. The intervention didn’t work. Liza and the kids went back home to New York. Greg continued with his life. I went back to what I was doing the moment before I walked in on them in my apartment. A few days later, Greg got a phone call.
It was Bunim/Murray Productions, which produced Keeping Up with the Kardashians and Khloé & Lamar. They wanted to do another show, titled Rebound. It would be about my life after death and how I would make it back. They were ready to cut a $200,000 check up front. Greg came over to my house and dropped the news.
“The money is there,” said Greg. “But there’s one condition.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“I don’t want to have anything to do with you unless you go to rehab. Thirty days. It has to be now.”
But rehab is expensive. This discreet facility in San Diego was going to cost $100,000. Sobriety ain’t cheap. To pay for it, a show called The Doctors agreed to cover the cost in exchange for an exclusive interview before and after I left rehab. They shot the “before” interview at Greg’s house. The next day, Greg drove me to Casa Palmera in San Diego. I checked in for alcohol, drug, and sex addiction. It’s a beautiful, expansive campus where they pamper you and treat you like royalty. But you’re not allowed to have a cell phone, even though I was able to hook up a burner phone so I could keep in contact with people. A few days after I checked in, there was a friends and family day. Greg, Liza, Destiny, and Lamar Jr. all showed up.
It was going well and everyone was happy that I was getting the help I needed. The doctors and specialists discussed my history and explained how my addictions manifested and stemmed from my need to self-medicate. I spent Christmas and New Year’s there. I did the full thirty days, and then Greg picked me up. I felt healthy and refreshed in a way I’d never felt before. I thought then that I was gonna be all right. When I got in the car, Greg handed me $50,000 in cash as part of the payment from Bunim/Murray Productions—$50K feels heavy in your hands. Then we got the hell out of there.
A few days later, my friends organized a welcome home party for me at The Lobster, my favorite restaurant in Santa Monica. Everyone was there. Luke Walton. My old teammate Brian Shaw. Keyon Dooling. People from Queens. Greg and his wife. It was an amazing night and I felt truly loved.