A Father First: How My Life Became Bigger Than Basketball (3 page)

It got so bad that I had to start going to court and filing multiple motions just to talk on the phone to the boys. More worrisome was finally hearing their voices but knowing the words they were saying weren’t their own. And then, more and more frequently, were last-minute claims that Zaire and Zion were sick and couldn’t travel for their visitation with me. Or there were other excuses. Or no excuses at all. The breaking point came in early 2010 when we couldn’t even locate my sons and their mother, the most frightening moment of my life.

That was the turning point for me—when I decided that I had to seek full custody. If this had to be a fight, then by God, I had to fight for my sons.

Here I am now, a roller coaster of a year later on this Friday afternoon following a tough practice, not long after trudging up the stairs to close my eyes for an hour or so. I had begun to brace myself for a decision that wouldn’t be in my favor. The judge, a woman, had indicated that her verdict was most likely coming within six weeks or so. By now I knew that custody cases often tend to be weighted toward keeping kids with their moms. Siohvaughn’s lawyers had argued forcefully that between extensive travel and the demands of my NBA and business schedules I wouldn’t have time to meet my responsibilities as a full-time single dad. The truth was that I had created a schedule that would let me spend more time with them than many nine-to-five fathers. Still, there weren’t many well-known stories of full-time single dads in the National Basketball Association.

Then there was the blow of the court-appointed outside expert who had expressed real concern during the trial about how much the boys had suffered emotionally from being alienated from me by their mother; we had expected her to recommend I be awarded full custody—but, in the end, she advised against it.

All of that had been weighing on me. Plus, this was one of the Fridays when Tragil was supposed to pick up the boys in Chicago and fly with them to Miami for our regularly scheduled weekend. Until they were safe on the flight, I wasn’t going to relax. But even so, I was able to smile, imagining the two of them bounding in the front door—Zaire with his big personality and infectious laughter, Zion with his great powers of observation and his one-of-a-kind sense of humor—and of course the hugs and joy that would follow.

Just before sinking into sleep, I reached for the BlackBerry to have it closer for checking messages in case anything was happening with the boys or if my sister had any updates. And that’s when, seconds later, the sound of Jim’s e-mail caught my attention, causing me to click on it, sit up in the bed, and react with a couple of incredulous “What?’s” before leaping to my feet, again reading those eight words:

DWYANE HAS BEEN AWARDED CUSTODY OF THE CHILDREN

“What . . . ?” I say out loud once more in a high pitch. “You gotta give me more than this, Jim!”

I’m out of my mind, talking to the BlackBerry and to myself.

I call Lisa Joseph, my business manager and point person on just about everything, who works under the umbrella of Henry Thomas (a.k.a. Hank), my sports agents at Creative Artists Agency (CAA). Hank at that moment is trying to get Jim on a conference call. Jim, unbeknownst to any of us, is in the middle of another court case and unable to answer the phone. Apparently Jim had gotten the news on his way into court and only had enough time to send that message.

“Lisa, did you see this e-mail?”

“Yes, but I don’t know what it means!” she says.

My heart starts beating even faster, as she clicks off to call Hank, while I see Jim’s phone number come up on my screen.

Grabbing that call, and then hearing Lisa and Hank conferenced into the line, too, I listen to Jim say in a voice that’s all out of breath, “Oh my God, you just got full custody of the boys!”

In my wildest dreams, I could never have believed what Jim has just confirmed. I want to cry, jump, scream, and shout, and, above all, praise God. But Jim brings us back to the ground and asks, “Have you talked to your sister?”

“No, not yet . . .” My heart almost stops. Suddenly, boom, I panic that something could have happened to stop Tragil from picking up the boys.

“Call her now,” Jim says, calmly but urgently, not wanting to worry me. The documents had been released to my ex’s attorneys at the same time that my sister was supposed to have picked up the boys and were already in the Town Car with a driver and well on their way to the Chicago airport. But anything could have thrown off the timing. There was a stop she was going to make to pick up our sister Deanna’s nine-year-old son, Dahveon, who was going to be visiting me in Miami for the weekend with his cousins. What if they were running behind?

In a full sweat, now out of breath, I call Tragil, asking in almost stutters, in a low voice, “Is . . . is everything . . . are . . . my sons safe?”

The minute she tells me they are in the car, sitting in the backseat on the way to the airport, the weight of the world lifts off my chest and now my tears start to fall. I explain Jim’s e-mail, which Tragil also got.

We just keep saying, “Oh my God,” so grateful that the struggle is over. I’m crying like a baby for joy and Tragil starts crying like a baby, too.

I can hear Zaire’s voice from the backseat, asking, “T.T.?”—as he calls his aunt Tragil—“What’s wrong? Don’t cry!”

She says, “Oh, honey, nothing’s wrong, everything’s fine.” The boys clearly have no idea what’s happening.

I ask Tragil not to say anything to the boys and tell her I want to explain everything to them in the right way at the right time, so they understand that having their main home base with me won’t change anything about how much their mother loves them and will continue to be in their lives. Even if it’s going to take time, I have to explain why we’ll keep the faith that she and I will find that open line of communication so that both of us are their parents no matter what.

Meanwhile, I’m leaving nothing to chance and add security at both the Chicago and Miami airports. Once that’s in place, I race downstairs to share the news with Gabrielle—who is there for the weekend—Rich Ingraham, my chef, and a group of friends who’ve stopped by. More tears follow, along with hugs and prayers of thanks.

Then, in the middle of the excitement and celebration, it hits me—they’re not just coming for the weekend this time. They’re here for good, not returning to Chicago at the end of the weekend as they normally would.

That’s when I immediately switch—like BOOM—into full-time single-daddy mode, calling Lisa Joseph back and asking her to call Brand Jordan to get clothes and shoes sent over ASAP and to check right away with the school and preschool so we can have the boys enrolled by Monday. I also want to set up appointments with their Miami doctors. In our appeal to the court for custody a lot of legwork had already been done. We had already put up security gates and kid-proofed the house for their visits but having extra safety supplies would be good. What we needed was a desk where they could be all set up to do homework. Then there’s Shellye Martin, my longtime interior designer, who has been working on designs to make the guest bedroom where they sleep more kid-friendly. “Oh, and I want to talk to Shellye about how fast we can get the bunk beds. And bedding, don’t forget the bedding!”

Suddenly, I’m like Dwyane Wade, the director, on the phone marshaling the troops, talking about how I need this done, that done, and how fast. Wow! This is not usually my MO but when the responsibility I asked to have is given to me, what else am I going to do but rise to the challenge?

AND THAT WAS WHEN I REALIZED SOMETHING ELSE THAT paved the way for this book. First, it occurred to me that there was no guidebook out there that defined and detailed what being a great full-time single dad really was. Where was the game plan for getting this right? Well, if there wasn’t one, then I would need to draw from the past and do the legwork to create one of my own.

Fatherhood, to me, isn’t something you do for awards or acclaim. It’s a privilege and a huge responsibility. Of course, the recognition I’ve been given has been flattering—except I don’t think it makes sense to honor me for what I should be doing in the first place. That said, I do hope that by opening up in ways I haven’t in the past, I can encourage other fathers or father figures to get more involved with their kids’ lives.

Another reason I’m writing this book is for Zaire and Zion. My hope is that in retracing some of my steps in life, both successful and not, I can pass on important lessons taught to me by others and that I had to pick up on my own. But I also want them to know there are no shortcuts or easy answers to being a father first, my life’s mission. I want them to know I’m learning still, sometimes on the fly.

Who really tells you how to be a dad? No one. Which is why I want to share my discoveries about how every child is different and you therefore have to parent each differently. I want to address the priorities I’m a stickler for—my beliefs about respect, responsibility, hard work, having dreams, and always being open to learning. Just as important, I want my boys, including my nephew Dahveon, to know they are my best teachers when it comes to being a good father.

For those men who are dads but not fully engaged as fathers, I want to urge you not to miss out on the greatest rewards and blessings that your children represent in your life. A lot of guys have approached me and asked how to become more involved when circumstances have kept you out of your kids’ lives. Hopefully you’ll find useful suggestions in my story. Aside from an abundance of reading materials, many communities provide all kinds of classes that promote the values of coparenting, which I can’t stress enough.

My sincere hope is to inspire both fathers and mothers who may feel challenged by single parenthood or by your current situation. I’m really writing for all parents, including those foster parents or relatives who raise kids that may not be biologically their own, as well as coaches, teachers, advocates, and mentors. By investing our love and energy and time in young people and in their development, we change and heal our world.

And, finally, I wanted to write this book for the kid in every single person out there so you can know the power of love and your own possibilities. If my story and the stories of my loved ones have taught me anything, it’s the simple truth that you have to play your heart out until the buzzer sounds no matter how disastrous the score may seem at times, because giving up is not an option.

I can’t promise that will always win you an NBA championship. But as my mother used to say when encouraging me to strive to do great things, to lift others as well as myself, “Your life is bigger than basketball.”

And that saying brings me back to Friday night, waiting for my boys to arrive. I had to gather my thoughts and feelings so I could give my sons the news that inspired this book in the first place. After all the uncertainty, I could assure them that after everything, they were now home.

And, finally, so was I.

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