Life Is Not an Accident (15 page)

This meant that after each NBA three-point attempt from the corner, I would have to turn and sprint up to the elbow behind the NBA three-point line and shoot, then immediately sprint back to the same corner and shoot again—continuously—for one minute. When the clock hit the two-minute mark, I would have to sprint from elbow to elbow, also outside the NBA three-point line, and shoot for another minute straight.

Done, right? Nope.

For the last minute of the drill, I would work the opposite corner from elbow to baseline, baseline to elbow, until the clock showed zeroes.

Once we got back to the starting position, I was already exhausted from hearing him explain the whole rundown. He looked at me and asked if I understood how the drill worked. I nodded and told him I was ready. Right before we were about to start, he chimed in one last time.

“Now, remember, we're looking to see how many shots you make at each position, how many shots you get up at each position, and how high you will elevate for each shot.”

I stood in the corner, knees bent, with hands ready to catch the ball, taking one last exhale. The clock started, and one manager delivered a crisp pass right to my hands. I tried to jump through the roof with each shot at first position, to prove that I still had my old elevation.

Bucket. Bucket. Bucket. . . .
I hit the first eight shots.

This ain't that bad. Let's go, Jay!

Usually when a player does shooting drills, he wants to hold his follow-through until the ball goes through the rim. But this was rapid-fire. Before my feet even hit the ground, the next ball was already flying toward me with crazy speed. I had no time to gather myself, but had to go up for another shot instantly. This went against every fundamental rule of shooting. By the time we got through the first spot and moved to the second, I was panting, already in a dead sweat.

When I reached the top of the key, halfway through the first of the drill's three stages, my legs were gone. The ball felt like a shot put.

They don't want to see how many shots I'm going to get up, or make. They want to see if they can break me.

I was not one to quit, and I wasn't going to start now just because something was getting the better of me, so I kept going. I saw one of them behind the basket with a pen and pad, marking down every make and miss.

Physical hell and psychological torture all in one.

By this point, I was clanking 60 percent of the shots I was taking. I remember completing the first seven minutes of this drill and, as I was backpedaling to the NBA three-point line for the next shot, thinking about tripping myself just to get a three- or four-second break.

Things turned from bad to worse.

The longer distance from behind the arc exposed just how spent I was, since I couldn't muster the strength to effortlessly shoot from back there. I didn't have either the arm or leg strength to compensate for the weakness of the other. My entire body ached badly at that moment. My shooting touch was extremely inconsistent: some air balls, some balls that clanked the side of the backboard, some balls that slipped out of my hands, and occasionally some balls that went in. It was just around the 14-minute mark when I began to feel the entire left side of my lower body shut down—just in time for the “fun” and “interesting” part: the windshield wiper.

Every time I landed after a jump shot from the left-hand corner of the NBA three-point line, I had to turn to face half-court by pivoting on my left foot and pushing off that same leg to sprint to the elbow, then turn into a jump shot, also from behind the arc. The proper way to turn into that kind of shot is by picking up your left foot as you step into it softly, then swiveling your body
on that same foot after you've placed it down heel-to-toe, until you are faceup to the rim. I couldn't pick up my left foot.

Minor technicality.

At this point in the workout, with my body beaten down, it was traumatic to have to hike my hip up in order to lift my foot and get it back down to the floor, while twisting on my left knee to spot up for the shot. I started limping because of the overall effort that went into each movement. I remember stopping for a second at the first elbow position and reaching down to grab my left knee, which ballooned with inflammation, as if I had a horrific allergic reaction or something.

I was no longer paying attention to whether or not I was making or missing the shots. I was past the point of caring. All that was on my mind was making it out of the drill unscathed, hardly the ideal mind-set for an athlete trying to make a team. When I finished the last spot and the buzzer sounded, I fell to the floor and did my best snow-angel impersonation. I couldn't move and struggled to catch my breath. I must've been lying there for a good four or five minutes when that same assistant coach from before stood over me and said the absolute last possible thing I wanted to hear.

“Time for the next drill.”

You have to be fucking kidding me.

I somehow found the strength to get back up and gathered myself as best I could, almost delusional and in desperate need of another minute to get my bearings.

This can't be real. Another drill? Please tell me I'm dreaming. Wait a minute, is that
Keith Langford from Kansas dressed in a Houston Rockets workout jersey? Why is he here? And why is he here
now
? And who's the other guy he's with?

That was when the assistant coach said, “It's time to get going into our individual one-on-one drills.”

Are they trying to break me? It's apparent, Jason, that they're trying to break you. Look what just happened. I wonder how many shots I made. It couldn't have been many. I wonder how many shots I air-balled. Probably a lot more than I made. There's no way I'm going to be able to stop Keith. Yeah, you're probably right on that one. How are we going to do this? Who's this other guy?

He looks quick. God damn, I didn't know Langford was that tall. He's legit 6'4”. I can barely breathe right now. I hate the way Jeff Van Gundy is staring at me. He always looks so damn studious. Am I limping?

For all I know, I was speaking my thoughts aloud for Van Gundy and all to hear.

Let's just say that the rest of the workout consisted of Keith and his friend blowing by me on the court. I had nothing left to give. All I had was my sheer determination to not be made a fool, so I reverted to scratching, clawing, and holding—desperately trying to find any way possible to not look like a chump.

Too late.

I was broken.

M
Y 25TH BIRTHDAY
came and went, and the thought of playing again was starting to run its course. After another three months of training with Tim, I headed to Houston to train with John Lucas. He was the first pick taken in the 1976 NBA draft by the Houston Rockets. The thing I always loved about “Luc” was that he knew no other way but through the wall—never around it. He was old school. He loved to push people to their limits.

John's playing career took a turn for the worse when his battle with drug use became public toward the end of his career. He still went to therapy every day for his addiction issue, even though he had quit decades ago. I never told John that I was addicted to painkillers, but looking back, I wish I had. He was always a man on a mission, and his steadfast determination to stay on the right track definitely rubbed off. So much so that I quit taking Oxy altogether during that three-month stint with him. It was the first time in over two years that I'd gotten myself clean, and I owed it all to John.

On the court, he pushed me like no one else, but at the end of the day, there was nothing John could do with my drop foot. The constant pounding of my foot, slapping against the ground on each stride, began to take its toll on my left knee. I had to sit out on a ton of workouts because of the bone spurs and the arthritis that found its home in my leg after years of training. Houston was not to be.

Back in Los Angeles, Kevin and Bill suggested a last resort. They thought it could be helpful to meet with a training group called Athletes' Performance at the Home Depot Center (now StubHub Center), in Carson, California, which is the home stadium of the LA Galaxy. They came highly recommended as a global leader in integrated performance training, nutrition, and physical therapy.

Upon arrival, the first person I met was a man named Omi Iwasaki. He was the head trainer on staff and was absolutely brilliant at coming up with new, creative ways of working out. He put me on a nutrition plan for the first time in my life. Each day we worked on strengthening my lower core and increasing the range of motion in my ankle. After the first two weeks, I felt a dramatic difference.

While waiting to do cardio in the main training room, I found myself smack-dab in the middle of the entire U.S. women's national soccer team. Abby Wambach and the rest of her squad were there training as well. Right out of the gate, I could tell Abby was the ringleader. As I struggled on the VersaClimber, there she was, walking up behind me.

“Cardio not looking too good there, huh, Williams?”

I was way too tired to laugh but I managed to smile at her. After I'd been stretching awhile, Omi started joking around with me in front of the team, calling me homeless. Just laying into me about how I was staying at a Motel 6 and that I needed to find an apartment. Without hesitation, Abby looked at me and offered me a vacant room in her apartment in Hermosa Beach. I didn't know who she was at the time, and frankly I didn't care. I just liked her. I accepted on the spot.

After two months of training, Omi called me to his office one day. Exhausted after my morning workout when I arrived, I just plopped down in the chair on the other side of his desk. Omi looked at me with a blank stare.

“Are you ready to come back to the NBA?”

I responded with just a hint of sarcasm.

No, Omi, I've been working with you all this time just to be a better guy.

Just then, he pulled out a sneaker from behind his desk. It was one of my old Adidas court shoes that had been completely modified. A big elastic strap that was pulled through a sleek buckle was fused to the outside of the leather toe box. At the end of the band, there were Velcro strips. He held the sneaker in his left hand while pulling the leather strap with his right, showing how strong and sturdy the band was.

“Try it on.”

At the time, I always wore an ASO ankle brace on my left ankle, and I began to take it off.

“Keep it on. You are not going to believe this.”

After putting the shoe on, he tied my laces extremely tight, explaining that I would need to do so to provide double protection for my ankle. After the shoe was tied, he pulled on both sides of the elastic band and wrapped it around the back of my ankle, connecting the two pieces with the strap. The toe portion of my shoe rose about six inches off the ground.

“Walk around,” he said, with a big grin on his face.

I got up out of the chair and took my first step. For the first time in three years, I didn't have to hike my hip up. The toe box being raised allowed me to clear my gait. It was as if I'd never had drop foot. Omi went on to say that I wouldn't have any issue with pushing off my left foot to jump because the band was elastic and would allow for that kind of flexibility.

I quickly grabbed a ball and we headed to the court. I moved around like it was 2002. I didn't have to think about trying to pull my foot up with each and every step. I could just run with physical and mental freedom.

That day changed everything.

It was time to celebrate.

I will never forget going out to Hermosa Beach with Abby and her friends that same night. We were having a blast doing shots and drinking margaritas. Noelle and I were going through one of our many “off” periods again, so I was out and about, chatting away with everyone. Later in the night, I was hanging out at a bar with a girl I had met that evening. We must have been talking for at least an hour. I excused myself to go to the
bathroom, thinking about how great our conversation had been going and how cute she was.

Who knows, maybe this could lead to something?

On my way back, I saw Abby sitting in my seat. I remember making my way through the dancing crowd on my tippy toes, trying to see what was going on, when I noticed Abby had her arm around the girl. At first I didn't put two and two together, and then, after a beat, I just looked at Abby and said, “Respect.”

A
FTER FIVE MONTHS
of training with Omi, it was time to head back to Chicago to Tim Grover and find my new NBA team. I was faster, stronger, and could move ten times better than when I had last been with him, more than a year earlier. He was fascinated with how the modified sneaker could make that much of a difference but warned how the sight of that strap could be alarming to all the general managers. It didn't stop him and Kevin from putting together a whirlwind tour of NBA workouts for me.

I ended up visiting nine cities in a span of two weeks. We had workouts with the Nets, Raptors, Grizzlies, Suns, Lakers, 76ers, Bucks, Celtics, and Cavs. All I kept thinking was
Now is my time
.

During my first tryout, in Boston, I felt on top of my game with my passing and transitional play, but overall, they didn't think I looked “ready.” In Memphis, I was told I was too slow and needed another year of work. Philadelphia's GM, Billy King, was a Duke alumnus and really liked me. I thought I had a real shot there, but it just didn't work out for one reason or another. By the time I got to Toronto—after back-to-back workouts—I wasn't myself at all. I was sluggish and drained. Between
the travel and the anxiety about each upcoming workout, I had transitioned back into my insecure self.

That is, until my visit with the New Jersey Nets.

Maybe it was having the extra day to recharge, or being back in my home state, but everything felt right about that day. There wasn't any limping, I was turnover free, I exhibited great shot selection, and my court vision was excellent. I wasn't as fast as my former self, but my feel for the game seemed better than ever.