In My Skin (20 page)

A couple of weeks later, we hosted the first and second rounds of the NCAA tournament, so we actually played two more games at the Ferrell Center. That was great for us, no doubt, but those games are run by the NCAA and they have a different feel than a regular Baylor home game. Our mind-set had shifted, too. Senior Night was a chance for everyone to show their appreciation—for the fans to thank us, for us to thank the fans—but now it was time for us to lock in and defend our crown. We were the No. 1 overall seed in the tournament, and we easily won our first-round game, 82-40. Two nights later, we played Florida State in the second round, and in some ways it felt like we were saying good-bye all over again, because this really was my last college game in Waco. While I was getting my ankles taped before the game, our radio guy, Rick, stopped by the training room and said, “Three dunks! That's how many you're going to get tonight. No woman has ever done that in a game before. You'll get it tonight.”

I smiled and answered, “Okay, Rick!” Then, after he walked away, I shook my head and laughed, because people always say stuff like that to me. If some fans catch my eye as I'm walking onto the court, they'll shout, “Throw one down tonight, BG!” So I didn't think much about what Rick had said until I was jogging to the locker room at half time. We were winning big, 51-20, and I already had one dunk. I also felt like I had so much space in the paint that I'd get more opportunities to dunk in the second half. Florida State was a good team, but they didn't have a strong, physical inside presence, so I was able to get the ball deep in the paint and snag rebounds close to the rim. As I headed for the locker room, I started replaying what Rick had said: “You're going to get three dunks tonight!” And all of a sudden, I thought to myself,
You know what? He's right! That's exactly what I'm going to do!
The idea of it made me excited, knowing I could do something no other woman had done. But I let myself get caught up in the moment, and when I walked into the locker room at the break, I took my phone out of my locker and went to my Twitter page. I wanted to get the fans pumped for the second half, so I sent this tweet: “Need two more dunks on home court for the best crowd ever! #BaylorNation.”

After I put my phone back in my locker, I started thinking maybe that wasn't the smartest move on my part, tweeting at half time. I had never done anything like that before, but it seemed so harmless, and I didn't think anyone would actually question my focus. I wanted to give myself a challenge. And later in the second half, I got my chance, dunking twice in the span of about a minute, right before Kim took me out of the game for good because we were already winning by so much. On the third and final dunk, I grabbed a rebound in the lane with three defenders around me and just went up and threw down a one-handed reverse. I think at other times in my career, I wouldn't have been as forceful in my decision. I might have pump-faked, or turned and tried a little hook shot, because I sometimes worried about looking so powerful—which sounds ridiculous when I hear myself say it out loud. You think guys ever worry about that stuff?
I'm afraid to dunk this ball because people might think I'm too strong.
I can't imagine LeBron James ever has those thoughts in his head, but I did on occasion.

When Kim took me out, the crowd gave me an even bigger ovation than they did on Senior Night, and I gave her a big bear hug. I had chills. It was like another giant going-away party, except now we were heading to the Sweet Sixteen. Of course, once Kim found out I had tweeted at half time—because it was all over the news—she called me into her office the next day for another talk, telling me she would have to make an example out of me. She was clearly annoyed. “Big Girl, you know you're not supposed to do that,” she said. “Now, when I start taking everyone's phones for this road trip, your teammates aren't going to be happy. But you have to take this one on your shoulders. You're the captain.” Then she brought up something else: she said the media had been complaining about us, saying we disappeared after games when we were supposed to be available for reporters. And it was true. Most of us would hide in the back of the locker room as soon as our sports information director announced the door was opening for media. All of a sudden, everyone had to use the bathroom, or fix their hair, or they weren't feeling too good. We would drift away, and the reporters would just be standing around, waiting for us. So Kim said that was the real reason she was taking our phones away, because we needed to step up and deal with the media for the rest of the tournament.

This wasn't the first time she had tried to regulate our phone usage. Like a lot of coaches, Kim would occasionally collect our phones on road trips, and even sometimes for home games, in an attempt to minimize distractions. When we were on the bus heading to an arena, she'd make us turn our phones in directly to her or an assistant coach. But we weren't stupid: we gave her old flip phones, or smartphones we had replaced with newer versions. And she wasn't dumb either: she knew those weren't our real phones. Also, even if I did turn in my real phone, I would still have had my iPad or laptop, so I could still get all my texts and e-mails, my Twitter and Instagram. The crazy part is that nobody said anything about this little phone game we played. Sure, we rolled our eyes because it was still a hassle, an extra step we had to take to get around the so-called ban, but we pretended like we took it seriously, and Kim pretended like we took it seriously. The whole thing was such a silly charade, all for show.

That didn't erase my mistake, obviously; I shouldn't have tweeted during the game. So I told my teammates what was coming, that my punishment would now be theirs, too. Most of them just said, “Really? Whatever.” But a couple of them said, “Ugh, BG, why would you do that?” I reminded everyone that we didn't point fingers, that we were in it together, because all of us had messed up at some point. (Well, except for Makenzie. There's not much room for error when you're the coach's daughter.) They knew I was right, and there really wasn't anything else to say about it. When Kim met with us after practice that day, she announced she would be taking our phones again, because I had tweeted at half time.

The way we were playing, the way we were dominating, I don't think any of us were going to lose sleep over our phones. But if I had known what was waiting for us in Oklahoma City, I would have given Kim every piece of technology I owned.

W
hen I think about my last college game, the frustration and anger rush to the surface all over again, and my heart starts to race. It's like I'm still on that court in Oklahoma City, kneeling next to Odyssey Sims, wondering what the hell just happened. I went through so much at Baylor—the highs and lows of basketball, the highs and lows of trying to be myself—but I never imagined my career there would end the way it did. I never thought we would lose to Louisville, or anyone else, in the Sweet Sixteen of the NCAA tournament. We had gone 40-0 my junior year, and we were 34-1 heading into the Louisville game. I wasn't worried when we were down 10 points at half time, because we had been a strong second-half team all season. We always came back. Kim told us in the locker room, “We dug this hole, and now we need to claw our way out.” And we did. We were actually down 19 to Louisville with about eleven minutes left in the game, and then we made a huge run and took the lead by one point—until the refs called a terrible foul on me with two seconds left, and Louisville hit two free throws to go up again. Even then, I was thinking Odyssey would get the ball and make an amazing half-court shot to win the game.

When O's desperation heave hit off the backboard, I just froze for a moment.
Wait, what? This is it? It's over? This isn't happening.
I was so angry. I was angry at the refs. I was angry at Louisville. I was angry at myself. I just wanted to burst into tears right that second. But I told myself I had to be strong for my team and for O, because she was going through it hard, down on her knees, crumpled up on the court. She carried us that night, and now I needed to pick her up. I reached down for her arm and said, “C'mon, O, get up. We gotta shake their hands. Let's just do this, get off this court, and get back into the locker room.”

I had so many emotions walking through that handshake line. I just kept telling myself to stay focused for one more minute so I could walk off the court and finish my college career with dignity. It wasn't easy. I was really heated. And now I had to walk through that line and congratulate Shoni Schimmel, their guard who had gotten in my face earlier. I felt like I could have slapped half the Louisville team, because that's what they did to me the whole game, and the refs didn't call it. But I also knew I didn't have my best game. I didn't take over like I should have taken over. I didn't keep my head in the game. The Louisville players were talking shit at me the whole time, and I let it get to me. This one girl in particular was going off, and finally I just let her have it. I said, “I'm going pro. I'm going to be the number one draft pick. What are you doing after college?” I mean, damn, being cocky like that is not even in my character. I was just so mad.

But, hey, credit Louisville. They had a game plan and stuck to it. They had two or three people hanging on me the whole time, following me everywhere I went on the floor, slapping my arms, elbowing me, pushing me. There is a picture from that game and it shows one of their players actually pressing her hand into my face. It was crazy physical. Their coach, Jeff Walz, was arrogant but smart. He knew I was basically playing with one arm tied behind my back. Ever since my freshman season, when I punched Jordan Barncastle, I had been careful about keeping my emotions in check on the court. Too careful at times. I didn't always play with the kind of fire I'm capable of—didn't demand the ball or get more physical when opponents pushed me around—because I was worried about crossing the line again. That's not something male players have to think about the way women do. We're judged by a different standard, as if there's something wrong with us if we lose our temper during the heat of competition. Let me tell you, I spent so much energy during that Louisville game battling my own emotions, it was almost like I didn't have enough strength left to step up and dominate. When Shoni Schimmel made that unbelievable reverse layup on me, then ran up in my face, yelling, there was nothing I could do. (She didn't say anything specific; she just let out a wild scream.) Some players probably would have pushed her away—and believe me, I was fuming on the inside. But I just had to pretend like she wasn't even there.

I did the same thing going through that handshake line. I was a zombie. As soon as I congratulated the last person, as soon as we were done with that line, I could feel the anger spilling over. I walked into the locker room and punched the whiteboard, the one that had our game plan written on it. I punched the lockers. I could have broken everything in that room. I had played by the rules, kept my cool, listened to my coaches at half time when they told me not to retaliate no matter what Louisville did. And what did it get me? I just kept walking to the back of the locker room, into the bathroom, then sunk down in the corner and started bawling. I was crying so hard my body was shaking, and the tears were streaming down my cheeks.

I'll never forget that moment: sitting on the bathroom floor, my back against the wall, feeling like all the air had been sucked out of me. It was horrible. I actually went out that night and partied. Some people might not understand that, but when you lose a big game, on such a big stage, the last thing you want to do is go stew about it in your hotel room. So I just said screw it and went out with some friends. I wanted to forget everything. Of course, when I finally got back to my room late that night, I couldn't stop thinking about the game. I cried myself to sleep.

The next morning, everyone was texting me, but I didn't want to talk to anybody. I deleted my ESPN app from my iPhone and avoided TV. I didn't want to see the news about the game. On our bus ride to the airport, I put on my Beats headphones and drowned out everybody. It doesn't happen often, but when I'm feeling like that, there is really nothing anybody can say to make it better. I just need to deal with it myself before I can move on.

AS SOON AS WE LANDED
in Texas, Kim told us all to meet in our locker room after we left the airport. Everyone was looking around and wondering,
Why are we doing this now?
In previous years, we didn't have our final team meeting until a few days after the end of the season, so we all had a chance to process everything before getting together one last time. But after the loss to Louisville, we headed straight from the plane to the gym, and when we got there, the coaches gave us bags so we could clean out our lockers. Then Kim said to us, “I know I probably won't see a couple of y'all anymore because you won't be around.” I felt like those words were meant for me, so I said, “Who are you talking about?” And she looked at me and said, “I know you'll have things to do, the draft and all that, so you probably won't be around.”

That stung me a little, the way she said it. She was right about my upcoming schedule—it turned out to be even crazier than I imagined—but I also felt like she was cutting ties with me right then and there, like I wasn't wanted around the program anymore. I was still reeling from the loss to Louisville, so I just put my head down, cleaned out my locker, and took all my stuff from the gym.

I didn't set foot in there again for weeks.

I
t's true what they say: winning cures all. At least, it was true for me and Kim at Baylor. Whatever frustrations we had with each other—the mistakes I made, the mistakes she made—all was forgiven after we won the national championship. Maybe it was only temporary amnesia, a four-month truce before we started clashing again at the beginning of my senior year. But when people looked at us, they saw something shiny and good, built on a sturdy foundation. And I can't help wondering what would have happened if we had won the title again in 2013, if that picture everyone had of us would still look the same way, with the two of us standing together, shoulder to shoulder, celebrating what we had accomplished.