Thou wilt show me the path of life: in thy presence is fullness of joy; at thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore.
Psalm 16:11 (NIV)
I signed my forty-thousand dollar a year contract with the Atlanta Hawks—complete with a two-thousand dollar signing bonus, as I recall—and headed off to training camp in Savannah, Georgia. Over the course of that long hot summer, Pete Maravich and I got to be great friends during all the activities of the camp. Not only did Pistol Pete take me under his wing on the basketball court, but we both shared a love of the martial arts, and on weekends we would go to whatever Bruce Lee or other kung fu movies were playing in the area.
Pete and the other star of the team, Lou Hudson, were very complimentary of my game on the court and continually encouraged me to just keep working hard, keep my nose clean and stay out of trouble—they obviously didn’t know my mother who had already made all of that crystal clear to me for the last twenty-two years. The guy I was competing with for the final roster spot had not practiced or played nearly as well in camp—in my very objective opinion, and so right up until the moment of my release I thought I would be the guy filling that twelfth roster spot going into the exhibition and regular season.
The last time I had lived at home, I had been packing up, readying myself for a life at Harvard and whatever was beyond. I knew that a season of my life was coming to an end and that I would, more than likely, be living elsewhere from this point forward. Now, though, I had unexpectedly returned home after being released by the Hawks, with no idea what the future might hold. I certainly had no desire to go outside and run into the Washingtons, the Smiths, the Miltons, the Wallaces, or anyone else in the neighborhood.
And so I just hid in my old room. My brother John was still off at college, but my other brothers Terence and Everett, as well as Clifton, were all at home. We had all shared a bedroom growing up, the four of us boys. It was a three-bedroom house that we lived in, and my parents used one, my sister had her own, so the four boys had two sets of bunk beds. And one room. It had always been cozy before—regardless the size, and it was small, four boys sharing it would tend to make it feel cozy—but now I’m sure I was driving my high school brothers crazy, moping and hurting, refusing to leave the house. I stayed that way for the two weeks after my ignominious return.
My parents and my brothers gave me the space I needed and a chance to come to grips with the death of my dream. Upon returning home from getting cut, Mom and Dad were as one would expect parents to be: very supportive, consoling, and encouraging. Mom’s repeatedly exhorted me to “get on with becoming a success in the game of life—after all, you went to school to get an excellent education, an education that would provide the necessary foundation for you, in just this instance, when the rug of athletics was snatched from under your feet.”
They had patience with me, allowing me to sulk and moan for a period of time, but finally after a couple of weeks they said that it was time to get on with my life. After all, preparation for the rest of my life after basketball was the primary reason I had selected Harvard, they reminded me. I just couldn’t imagine anything besides a future in basketball. It was so clear to me that basketball was what I was gifted in, what I was created to do. I was beginning to realize that, for as many years of my life as I could recall, I had always felt as though my identity in the world which knew me, and the world which I knew, was inextricably tied to what I did on the basketball court. Little, if anything else.
Basketball was who I was.
When I finally did start to venture out of the house after my self-imposed two-week hibernation, the reaction I received to my sooner-than-planned return from the ranks of the NBA was varied. My friends—doing their best to deflect the tension and embarrassment both they and I were feeling—provided me with a ready-made list of excuses. “Cotton Fitzsimmons had a favorite” (a favorite player, that he kept instead of me and obviously without regard for ability), “the league was too black” (the implication being that the Hawks therefore needed to keep more whites), and so on. There were still others—a little less deft with their attempts to make me feel any better—who pointed back to what they believed was my ill-fated decision to attend Harvard, rather than a school that would have better prepared me for a longer life in basketball, like North Carolina or UCLA. They had believed, at the time of my college decision, that I would regress in my abilities and lag in my development if I attended Harvard—where the level of competition on the basketball court was not nearly as high—and saw my release by the Atlanta Hawks, or any team for that matter, as inevitable and simply proving the correctness of their hypothesis.
Making matters worse, the regular NBA season had begun and the Hawks’s first round pick John Brown was playing regularly and well, and would end up the season averaging over nine points per game that year. Accordingly, as folks were still learning of my failure to cross the expected threshold into professional basketball, his name would show up in the sports section of the newspaper in the box score as “J Brown,” leading to awkward conversations around the neighborhood at the beginning.
“Hey, James. How are you back in town already? I saw that you had twelve points in Detroit against the Pistons last night—good game.” And others, until everyone in the neighborhood eventually knew that the J Brown they knew wasn’t the one in the box score for the Hawks.
After those two weeks of staying in the house, though, and through much honest introspection, the events and experiences of the last few years began to make sense to me. My time at Harvard and our team’s inability to reach the expected levels of excellence and my failure to make it with the Atlanta Hawks of the NBA, and where and what the next steps for my life might look like, all began to become clearer to me. Some answers to what had occurred were painful to face and admit, as I continued to think through things in the midst of my self-imposed hiatus from the world. I think my parents knew that I needed that time, knew that I would eventually come to a better place.
The bottom line is that I didn’t work as hard to stay on top as I did to get to the top. It was that simple. I knew all along from my time with Coach Wootten what it took to be successful. I was talented, but had always had to work diligently, and a little extra, to supplement my God-given talent, and to shape and improve it to the fullest. Most of us, even the Tiger Woodses, Peyton Mannings, and Michael Jordans of the world—are that way. There was sufficient talent at Harvard and in the Ivy League to challenge me to improve and to sharpen my skills, and the coaching staff was a solid staff, capable of teaching me all that I needed to know to continue to improve my game.
The skeptics may have thought right in predicting I would not enjoy athletic success at Harvard… that playing in the Ivy League would not prepare me for a career in professional basketball. The reasons for my failure were completely my fault, not Harvard’s. I had spent all summer after the draft running, working, training, shooting, dribbling, doing everything I could to get ready for training camp. The reality is, though, that I had needed to do that for every summer of the four years I was at Harvard, not just the one summer before I was trying to step onto the stage of which I had always dreamed. Learning proficiency at a craft requires the steady, diligent application of one’s focus and determination to that craft. Practice, practice, practice. The right way, every time. Time after time after time. Thinking that I could begin that kind of preparation at the tail end of my college career would not begin to make up for the lack of passion and determination that I had exhibited during my Harvard career. Obviously it didn’t, and now I was in a nightmare of my own making. To some extent, I feel I also shortchanged Harvard University by not applying those things I knew I needed to do to improve during my time there. Maybe that’s one of the reasons why our much touted recruiting class never lived up to the expectations which they, and others, had set for it.
All of this deliberation led to my initial conclusion that I simply hadn’t been the self-starter in college that I had been in high school. No amount of looking outside for a scapegoat to pin the blame on would provide the answers I sought—Coach Fitzsimmons, the guy I was vying with for the twelfth spot, the level of competition at Harvard—none of those deserved that tag. Instead, and as hard as it was to face at that already difficult moment in my life, the answer to what had occurred was within me. I should have—and could have—put myself in a position so that anyone looking at and evaluating my basketball skills—even Coach Fitzsimmons—would see that my abilities were at such a high level they could not have even remotely conceived of cutting me. I had not done that, and therefore, when I looked in the mirror, I knew there was no one else to blame for what had occurred but me.
During this process of self-analysis, I also realized that my initial determination that I had been more self-motivated in high school wasn’t entirely true, either. Rather, at DeMatha High I had the blessing and privilege of playing for one of the top high school coaches—ever—who built a great deal of his success on motivating his players to become more than they were at any given point in time. He had spent a career figuring out what buttons to push and levers to pull to get every kid to play as hard as he could, and getting them to practice and prepare year-round as well as he could. He didn’t allow us to cram. Instead—in basketball and everything else we attempted to do—it became a way of life to continually work to improve. To use our God-given talents by making them even better. I couldn’t take all the credit for my work ethic in high school—Coach Wootten deserved a lot of the credit, too. What I realized now—in this moment of failure—was that I needed to learn to apply those lessons on hard work myself, throughout my life. What would I do in the future with all the gifts and abilities I had been given, when given an opportunity to use and expand them—in whatever setting? I began to see it as a responsibility that I had as the recipient of those gifts and abilities—whether basketball related or otherwise—to maximize them to their fullest, for some purpose beyond myself. I was a steward of what had been given me. I was beginning to realize that I had not been a very good one up to this point.
I emerged from my bedroom renewed and with a fresh commitment to my future, and I vowed that I would never allow that to happen again in my life. Never again would I fail for a lack of preparation and effort over things that I could control. Never again would I fail to carry out the responsibility that was mine to make the most of what had been given me. That was a seminal moment in my life and career. I just didn’t quite know yet how it would begin to flesh itself out in the days ahead.
A short time later, I found a job working, along with a teammate Floyd Lewis, within the District of Columbia government. Shortly thereafter, I went for an interview at IBM. Clifford Alexander, an alumnus of Harvard with whom I maintained a relationship, had followed my release from the Hawks and contacted me to tell me that he had arranged for an interview with IBM. Big Blue, with the very traditional corporate culture, including attire marked by white dress shirts and conservative clothing. I really hadn’t paid attention to things like that before, worrying about how to dress for a particular environment, and I certainly hadn’t done any homework before the interview to determine what a conservative company it is. I went over for my interview still in the mind-set of James Brown, ex-basketball player. I had an afro (I had been able to choose my own barber up in Cambridge, without Mom’s input) and thick Clyde Frazier sideburns. I was wearing a velvet blue bow tie with a powder blue shirt, all crowned by a plaid blue suit and thick-soled checkerboard shoes. It seems I deserve some credit though, as at least I left the white leather coat with fur-lined hem and collar, and matching cap hanging in my closet as I prepared for the interview.
But did I mention that I was wearing a shoulder bag?
The man that I was to interview with came out of his office and began speaking with his assistant. I was the only other person in the reception area.
“Wow, James Brown, Harvard College, Harvard Speakers’ Forum, captain of the basketball team, this is an impressive candidate. Where is he?” His assistant nodded in my direction.
“Here I is!” I announced, and leapt to my feet. (I didn’t really say that, but I think that’s the only way I could have made a worse first impression.) He brought me back into his office, sat behind his desk, and took time to instruct me.
“Son, if I didn’t know that you were recommended by a Harvard alum of whom I think highly, I would have taken you through a perfunctory interview and bounced you out of here in a New York minute.” I was puzzled.
“Why?” I asked.
“Why!?” His nostrils flared with exasperation. “Just look at yourself!” He then read me the riot act, informing me that my dress spoke volumes about me, and what I thought about this job opportunity, before I even opened my mouth, and that first impression alone indicated to him that I did not fit the IBM model. As a result, I now wear corporate dress when I’m in a corporate setting, down to making sure that my shoes are polished and my clothing pressed.
I didn’t get that job.
As a result of that experience with IBM and the mentoring I received from the interviewer, things went better when I interviewed with Xerox—I began a job with them in sales, and eventually, sales management, in January of 1974. While I was there, my ultimate superior was Jay Nussbaum, a true marketing genius. I worked seven years at Xerox, learning a great deal from Jay, and building the foundation for much of my business career that was to follow.
After my first year there, however, I asked Jay for a leave of absence. Red Auerbach had popped back into my life again. Coach Auerbach had called and extended an invitation for me to participate in the Boston Celtics Training Camp for the 1974 season, to be held in Marshfield, Massachusetts. Jay was sympathetic to my request. He was a former athlete himself, having played football at the University of Maryland, and had hired a sales staff consisting of a number of former college athletes. His theory in hiring former athletes was his experience that most of those college athletes were competitive, self-motivating personalities and with those basic qualities they would be predisposed to success in the sales world. By and large I think he was right. Jay is one of the most inclusive executives I’ve ever seen, hiring minorities without a second thought. He was like my mom; skin color wasn’t part of the criteria for his assessment of ability and potential. Jay has been remarkably successful his entire career, having been the global head of sales and marketing for a unit of Citigroup, the head of sales and marketing for KPMG Consulting, and the number three executive at Oracle under Larry Ellison, after he finished his tenure at Xerox.
Jay let me go to Marshfield, with a caveat.
“I think you need to ultimately answer the question in your own mind and either pursue it fully or get it out of your system, so I think it’s important that you go.” I nodded in agreement. I believed that I needed to follow this dream at least one more time, but would prefer that I did it without burning any bridges at Xerox. “What I don’t want, however, is for this to be an annual event. Go this time and decide. See where it takes you, and determine where your lot lies. Basketball or business? Give it your best shot now, but I expect that you will not be coming back to me every year asking that you try out again.”
I agreed. That seemed reasonable. And wise. I didn’t want to look back when I was forty or fifty and wonder what could have been if I had tried to pursue my dream, but at the same time recognized that my departure, although temporary, would be disruptive to the company. I was going to make sure that there weren’t any regrets this time.
The Celtics held their camp on an outdoor, concrete court. They were focused on finding out if you were tough and really a team player, willing to dive for loose balls knowing that you’d be skinned up as a result. I was willing and hit the court repeatedly during Celtics camp.
And once again, I was the last player released. Coach Auerbach sat down with me, and I’m sure he had a cigar somewhere that he was working on while we spoke.
“James, you’ve got what it takes to be successful in this league. You have the talent to make it in the NBA, but you didn’t grow as a player in college. You’ve definitely got enough talent to play in the league; you just need to play against some top-flight competition to further season you.” He wanted me to consider going overseas to play, to give me a chance to play regularly against better competition and sharpen my skills and get more experience under my belt.
The more I ruminated on it, however, the clearer my thoughts became. I realized that I wasn’t interested in coming back and barely making a team. If I was going to play professional basketball, I wanted to at least be a seventh or eighth man, one of the guys that came off the bench regularly in each game. I didn’t want to sidetrack my growing technology career to be a twelfth man, who played once a week for a few minutes, if that. I wanted to be a meaningful contributor to some team, some organization, whether that was in the NBA or on Jay Nussbaum’s team at Xerox.
I decided that I had pursued the opportunity enough and had given it my best—despite having learned a lot about what my best would and should be in the future, but that it was time to continue to move on in a different direction with my life. I stayed focused on the tasks at hand at Xerox, and never looked back. Helping make my decision was the fact that the pay scales were similar. I was making as much at Xerox as I would have as a bottom guy on an NBA roster, which made my decision a little bit easier. I was on the path to somewhere in corporate America, I believed, and was now sure that I wouldn’t be headed for a career in basketball.
About that time, I began my spiritual search by sampling a number of churches. Unfortunately, I wasn’t being impacted beyond whatever I may have received in that hour. I still hadn’t figured out exactly how to make my faith personal, and real. Obviously seeds were being planted, though, as I have a vivid recollection of driving home from a training session with Xerox about forty miles outside of DC, driving around in my little green Corvette. It was 1974, I was doing well, making great money at a huge company… but there was an emptiness that I felt. At that moment, for reasons I still don’t understand, my soul was pricked. I realized that I had participated in the hedonistic pursuits of partying and engaging with others in regular happy hours, and hanging out at bars. I wasn’t much of a drinker—I could only handle sweet drinks, things that tasted like Kool-Aid. But I realized that I hadn’t been true to who I was, who my parents had raised me to be, and, most importantly, who God had created me to be.
And so, on a deserted road heading toward my apartment, I found myself beginning to pray. “God, I don’t like this. I don’t like who I am and what I’m doing. If You’ll come into my life, I’ll give my life to You and begin to follow You as best as I can.” In that moment, I immediately felt as if a burden had been lifted from me, and felt a peace come over me, and emptiness filled.
Soon thereafter I was invited to a party and was hanging out with the guys, not doing anything awful, but behaving in a way that I felt was contrary to the commitment I had made on that deserted road to follow Christ—to make Him the Lord of my life. I felt like a traitor. I cried out again, asking for forgiveness and help. I left the party. For me, those series of events marked the beginning of my journey to follow Him as a committed believer.
Thereafter, I began to realize that my work ethic, doing the right things, my talent, education, skill, and whatever intelligence I had were only some of the elements of who I was and what I could bring to bear upon each day of my life to begin to live a successful life. I began to also see the importance of rising above the usual ways of climbing the corporate ladder that seemed to be at the expense of, or causing harm to, someone else. Seeing things that were done to climb the ladders of corporate success through the years made me vow that I would never do those things or take those shortcuts. I began to understand the difference between living a significant life, a life of real meaning that lifts others up, and a successful life, one too often defined by our society in terms of things and power and achievements. I began to see co-workers not as competitors, but as allies and friends together in the midst of a cause greater than ourselves. I began to see the strains my superiors were under and as a result was able to do more to support their efforts so that they could be successful.
I began to accept more and more the responsibility for all I had been given. I began to be a better steward of all the gifts and opportunities that God had given me. I was beginning to build the foundations for the life that I was meant to live.
I began trying to find a church that would be the right place for me to worship. I bounced around for a while, but the odyssey ended when I attended and finally was planted at Rhema Christian Center Church. It’s a Bible teaching church, and Clarence Givens, the bishop of the church when I arrived, provided the teaching of scripture for our congregation. It was almost like being in grad school for me, with the opportunity to dig deeply into God’s Word, much like I had done with the various subjects in my classes at Harvard.
During my third year at Xerox, my father died. He developed pancreatic cancer in 1977 and died after a short illness at the age of 46. My sister had just graduated from Emerson College, and my father was so pleased that he was able to see her graduate. As president of the senior class, she spoke at the commencement and has always looked back with a warm gratitude that she had the opportunity to thank my parents from the podium, in public, for all the sacrifices they made to put her through school. At that moment, she spoke for all of us. One final thing: while in the hospital my father asked to be baptized. It made that day that he left us so much more bearable because we could take comfort in knowing that he is spending eternity in Heaven.