Life Is Not an Accident (20 page)

I decided to spoil my mom with a vacation. She didn't really travel that much, except for a few visits to Aruba, so I thought a trip to the Cayman Islands would be fun. It was beautiful there, and our hotel—the Ritz-Carlton—was so amazing that we didn't even leave the room the day we arrived. We just ordered room service and watched TV. She ate about a quarter of the cheeseburger she'd ordered, before passing out. She started snoring, and I just looked at her and smiled. If anyone deserved to pass out from a food coma after all these years, it was my mom.

The next night, she wanted to go out, so we went to a nice outdoor restaurant where we were seated maybe 20 steps from the bar. We were having a great meal and talking about life. She was always the best sounding board, even if I learned as I got older which sounds to bounce off her and which to keep to myself. As we were deep in conversation about all we'd been through as a family, she abruptly changed course and asked, “Do you want to do a shot?”

“MOM!”

She gave me one of those looks that said,
Your mother isn't a nun
, and we called the waiter over and ordered two shots of Patrón. After downing her shot, she held the glass up and said, “Ohhhh!” smacking her lips.

“Mom, are you okay?”

“Do you want to do another one?”

We ended up doing three apiece. “Let's go dance,” she said, after hearing Caribbean music coming from the bar.

After dancing to a few songs, my knee began to ache, and I headed over to the bar to sit down. As I sipped my drink, it warmed my heart to watch my mom out there holding it down, dancing with anyone and everyone. Eventually, she made her way back to the bar, accompanied by a—there's no other word for it—goddess. “I met this girl on the dance floor,” she said, “and I would like to introduce you to her. Selita, this is my son, Jason. Jason, this is the almighty Selita.” I immediately popped up to greet her and offered my seat. Selita then trumped me and offered the seat to my mom. She already had a leg up in my mom's book. She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. I never wanted to stop looking at her.

“C'mon, guys,” my mom said. “Let's do a shot!”

After a couple more shots, we all ended up back on the dance floor. Making small talk, I asked Selita what her story was. She said she was there visiting family, and I hung on her every word. I finally got the nerve to ask her for her number, and instead she suggested that we meet again the next day at the hotel. I had zero objections.

Those next couple of days were a blast. The three of us would sit in a different cabana at the beach, drinking wine and listening to music. Selita had this way with my mom, which made everything so comfortable. I'd look for music on my iPad and catch them chatting away as if they'd known each other for years. Let's just say she was off to a much better start with my mom than a certain former fiancée of mine.

I remember Selita wanting to change the subject any time I pried about her life back in the States. I figured something was up, but it wasn't my place to push. Instead, for probably the first time
ever, I started to open up about my own story. I showed her the scars on my legs, explaining how they all got there. Pretty intense this early on, but it was cathartic for me, to say the least.

Selita put her hands on my leg and looked at me with genuine sincerity.

“I am glad you are good. Are you good?”

She barely knew me, but she could easily tell I was still a work in progress. One day, she revealed she was just coming out of a bad breakup. Before I could dig any deeper, she grabbed my mom to dance on the sand as reggae played in the background.

On our last night, my mom and I joined Selita and some of her family for dinner at a restaurant on the island. One of the hostesses snapped a Polaroid of all of us. I pulled out my cell phone and took a picture of the photo and sent it to my boy Martin, telling him I had met the girl of my dreams. He texted back almost immediately, saying, “YO, that's a Victoria's Secret model.” After I replied with something like “Good one,” he sent me a few links to prove his case. He was right. And Selita wasn't just any Victoria's Secret model; she was
the
Victoria's Secret model. But at the time, I had absolutely no clue what she did.

One of the sites mentioned how a couple of her past relationships were with New York Giants Pro Bowler Osi Umenyiora and the singer Nick Cannon. I had my work cut out for me. And I thought to myself that if this was where it was going to end, then so be it. My mom was happy, I was happy, and finally we were moving forward, feeling good for a change.

Before we all left the island to head our separate ways, I asked Selita where she lived, telling her I'd love to see her again. I thought it was meant to be when she said Edgewater, New Jersey. I was renting a place just ten miles away in Jersey City.

We continued to see each other when we got home. But things were different. It was my first relationship with someone in the “industry.” Publicists, nonstop appearances, car and driver everywhere. This wasn't my life anymore, and frankly, I hadn't missed it.

It didn't take long to uncover the other side of her personality, which was that she was used to being in charge. Selita was driven and determined. She got what she wanted when she wanted it, and if she didn't, then it wasn't a pretty sight.

Especially when alcohol was involved.

One night, she had a friend in town and asked me if my boy Martin would like to join us. Martin jumped at the chance, since he liked his odds, considering what Selita did for a living. So we all got together at a restaurant in the Meatpacking District. His date ended up being none other than the greatest female athlete of all time: Serena Williams.

After making the introductions, Selita sat by my side while Serena sat next to Martin. Let's just say a lot of tequila was consumed at the table before we made our next move.

After dinner, we were driven to a club called Avenue. When we arrived, we were all escorted in by security and made our way to the table. Selita's publicist and some other friends of hers met us there as the night was about to kick into high gear. While I was making sure everyone was situated, the host got my attention and signaled for my credit card and ID. I walked over to him and was greeted by our waitress, who just so happened to be a former longtime girlfriend of a good friend of mine. She put her arm around me and I gave her a big hug. She handed me the menu and we caught up for a few minutes.

We ordered five or six bottles for our group, I handed her my
credit card and turned around to head back to our table. Just as I looked up, I saw Selita gathering her things. Dumbfounded, I made my way over to her, and before I could even get a word in, she started cursing me out. I'm still not sure what I did to offend her. Maybe she didn't like me leaving her side to chat with the waitress. All I know is this beautiful woman who had been so sweet when she took my breath away just weeks earlier ended up being the female version of Gary Payton.

When Selita was done with her tirade, she bolted for the door, and her whole crew followed in her wake. The last person to leave was Serena who apologized to us for the abrupt change in plans. This lioness on the tennis court was the sweetest, most demure person off of it. I just told Serena that it was “all good” and that it was great getting to meet her. Then I looked over at Martin, whose expression said it all.
Thanks, Jay, for fucking up what should've been a legendary night for me.
Within a matter of seconds, five bottles with sparklers were delivered to our table.

No women and four grand later, the night was officially a bust.

Selita became distant after that night, saying how she needed time. I wasn't exactly shocked to hear, almost three years later, that she got sued for allegedly breaking another model's nose in a club down in South Beach.

I was an immature and spiteful 27-year-old kid at this time. So about a month later, when Martin introduced me to a really pretty girl whom I knew Selita detested, I couldn't help but pursue the opportunity. As much as I wanted to get under Selita's skin by going out with her, the joke was on me. When I first started dating this girl, Selita would text and call me out of sheer jealousy. I definitely got a kick out of it in the beginning, but it didn't take long for me to realize that the benefits were going to be
significantly outweighed by the costs. The only thing worse than being with someone who ran the scene was being with someone who desperately wanted to be part of that scene.

The relationship hit rock bottom when I invited the girl to the wedding of one of my closest friends, in North Carolina. A night or two before the ceremony, I was out with the groom when he pulled me aside.

“Yo, man, I don't know how to say this, and I know it may sound crazy, but . . . I slept with your girlfriend back in the day.”

“Uh . . . come again?”

She denied it, which I thought was very odd. He was one of my best friends and an ex-teammate of mine and he had no reason to lie. I couldn't help but think about all the times I had been unfaithful and dishonest with Noelle.

Well, now you know how it feels, Williams.

M
Y SECOND STINT
with ESPN was going much better than my first. I was improving in the studio, learning to get in and out with my points, talking more clearly and
ssslllowly.
I watched as many games as I could to try to familiarize myself with every relevant team among the 350 or so in Division I—a much bigger task than knowing the 30 in the NBA.

I found ways to practice the skills I'd need to advance in the TV world. The host of a show should be able to have a conversation with anybody about anything, right? So I'd set tasks for myself on a day when I was otherwise just hanging out with friends. I'd say to one of them, “Give me a topic.” He'd say, “Dinosaurs.” And I'd make it my mission to get into a conversation with a stranger—at a bar, in a shop, on the street—for five
minutes, drawing out everything that person knew about dinosaurs. They may have thought I was crazy, but if I wanted to be a great interviewer, I had to learn how to engage someone who might not be in the mood to reciprocate. Besides, in New York City, everybody's used to people who are a little crazy.

I also became a lot better at having on-air arguments without taking it personally. I still don't like confrontation, but I understand now that it's just part of the job description. Everybody's got opinions, and it's not my job to be right all the time. It's my job to be analytical, engaging, and entertaining.

It's funny how things change with the passage of time. Now many of my old teammates are at the tail ends of their careers. Mike Dunleavy has played 14 seasons in the league, and it's been 13 for Booz—they're both going to be transitioning out of the game, and here I am with a 12-year head start. My boys are now the veterans.

In 2012, I flew into Hartford to do a pilot with my colleague Andy Katz at ESPN. We were doing a spin-off version of
First Take
for college basketball. Over the years, Andy and I have become great friends, and while I don't know as much about the history of the game as Andy—I don't think anyone does—I can usually keep up my end of the discussion. I was running late, so I sprinted from my rental car to the ESPN building and then darted into the makeup room. That was when I saw Charissa Thompson being made up in another chair. I had caught her on TV before and always thought she was beautiful, but in person she was absolutely stunning. To tell you the truth, I felt like I was in high school again. My palms were sweaty and I was fidgety, barely able to focus when someone spoke to me.

I tried to ease my anxiety by striking up a conversation with the makeup artist like I usually did, but it wasn't natural, because
my mind was totally on Charissa. Who was paying zero attention to me. She wasn't being rude—she did say hi—but she was busy looking over her notes and talking to everyone else. Charissa was quick. Her intellect and sense of humor were off the charts. I was looking for ways to break the ice, but I kept coming up empty. As she was leaving the room, I noticed the soles of her shoes were red. I felt like it was my last chance before she was gone.

“I see you have your good shoes on, Thompson.”

She turned around, smiled, and said, “You know what Deion Sanders says, right, Jay? ‘If you look good, you feel good. And if you feel good, you play good.'” And she turned and walked out the door. I sat down in the makeup chair, hoping that I'd left a good impression and wondering how I could bump into her again without looking obvious.

They say ESPN is located in Bristol, but really Bristol is located at ESPN. The campus is like a small college expanding in size each year. It feels like a new building is erected there every other month. Then there's all the star power that makes it feel even bigger. You can walk into any room at any given time and run into two or three Hall of Famers just sitting there, chilling. There are also a lot of studios, so it's easy to get lost. Fortunately, the studio where I was meeting Andy was the same one where they shoot
First Take
, which I'd done a few times before, so I knew where I was going. When I finally got there, I saw Andy at the desk. And next to him was the host—Charissa.

We chitchatted as the crew set up the studio, and I hung on her every word. She told me she was from Seattle and was angry with Howard Schultz for selling the Sonics. She loved Ken Griffey Jr. and was a huge Jordan fan. The more she shared about herself, the more I wanted to know.

Reading the teleprompter, she introduced me as “one of the greatest college basketball players of all time,” then stopped short and looked at me. “Really? Is that true?” she said in a way that only she could get away with on live television. She then turned to ask Andy a question, and in an attempt to show her that I, too, could be playful, I interjected: “Charissa, don't you think that since it's Black History Month, that I should get to go first?” She started laughing, and I remember thinking to myself that I might have a chance.