Life Is Not an Accident (9 page)

Thank you, Earl, and have a safe trip back to Westwood.

After we handed them a 76–63 loss, a reporter brought it to my attention that I had gone on a 19-point run. Not fully paying attention to him, I replied with a typical Duke PC response about how our team had the firepower to go off in spurts like that.

“No, no, no,” he said, “I mean that
you
went on a run and scored 19 straight yourself.”

I did what?

After doing away with USC a round later, it was off to the Metrodome, in Minneapolis, for the Final Four. I absolutely hated playing there. Depth perception is everything for a shooter, and nothing messes with that more than stadiums seating 60,000. The dome had a huge gap between the backboard and the crowd, and I struggled to gauge the distance between me and the basket the whole time.

Early in our Final Four game against Maryland, I remember Shane and Chris involved in a ball screen on the right side of the court, with Dun-Dun at the top of the key and me behind the three-point line on the left side. Maryland didn't trap the ball screen, which left Chris, with the ball in his hand, turning to attack the middle of the paint. As he drove, Dunleavy's man left
him at the top of the key to stop Chris's penetration, so Chris instinctively kicked it out to him. My defender then decided to leave me to guard Dunleavy, who had an open look. Without hesitation, Dun-Dun rotated the ball to me.

I caught it and turned to the basket. There was nobody near me, and I was thinking,
This three is going in for sure.
When I got to the peak of my jump and was just about to release the ball, I suddenly realized I had no idea where the rim was. The entire basket was lost in a sea of fans seated 40 feet behind the rim. I had no choice but to blindly fire away, and I remember the ball hitting somewhere on the glass, like something out of a dodgeball game. Everyone looked at me like
Jesus, dude, what the hell was that?
I was just thankful it hit a piece of the backboard.

I missed eight of my nine three-pointers in that game, but the one I did hit gave us our first lead of the game, with about seven minutes to play, after having come back from a 39–17 deficit. We wound up winning by 11. It was Boozer's first game back and there was zero rust: he dropped 19 on the Terps in just 25 minutes of action. I had 23, while Shane had 25 in an amazing all-around performance. I'm still shocked that we found a way to beat Maryland three times that year. (We also knocked them out of the ACC tournament.) They were a fantastic team and ended up winning the national title the following season. But something was special about the year 2001. Beating them in the Final Four set up the championship game against the Arizona Wildcats, the only team ranked ahead of us in the preseason polls.

Unfortunately, I played even worse in the biggest game of my life, but our team played well enough to keep us in the lead
throughout. This time, we didn't need a miracle—and a good thing, too, since I had totally lost confidence in myself.

Up only five points with less than two minutes to go, we needed to cushion our lead as I brought the ball up the court. I locked eyes with Coach K for instructions, at which point he grabbed his shirt with his right hand, tugging it down.

He was signaling for “L.A.”

I couldn't believe he was calling a play for me after the kind of game I'd had. I looked at him quizzically, and he tugged even harder. If he was putting his faith in me, then who was I to question him?

As Shane set the screen, his defender, Richard Jefferson, chose to completely ignore me as I stood a foot behind the arc. I didn't blame him, since I had shot 1-of-9 from downtown up to that point. But for some strange reason, I saw the basket clearer than I had all night long.

Nothing but net.

Our lead was extended to eight, and we never looked back.

As the final seconds were ticking away, I frantically started jumping up and down with pure exhilaration. Chris was bouncing the ball and screaming my name. I looked over at him, unsure of what he wanted me to do, but he kept waving me over until I finally obeyed. When he handed me the basketball, I was baffled. Without saying a word, Chris pointed toward the ceiling with his right thumb. He remembered that dream I'd talked about at the start of the season, and he made it come true. I threw the ball into the air as the clock ran down to zero, and it felt even better than I imagined.

We were national champions.

A
fter the game, the floodgates opened. My voice mail was full and my e-mail was overflowing with messages—not with congratulations, but from strangers reaching out, trying to land me as a client. Throughout the year, there were agents, financial advisers, accountants, and all sorts of people reaching out, hoping to work with me in the future. But now things had taken on a life of their own. Around that time, I was named first-team All-American and the National Association of Basketball Coaches' Player of the Year. I also broke the school's single-season points record. Most people, including those closest to me, assumed my college days had come to an end.

My ultimate goal had always been to play in the NBA. Every other day that season, I'd check online to see where I was projected to go in the draft. It's fair to say it eventually bordered on obsessive. Almost all of the websites had me going first overall.
I'd pay particularly close attention to the projections after a bad game—I had nowhere to go but down, and no margin for error. Had it not been for Coach K's innate ability to keep me from being inside my own head, there's no way I would've ended up playing as well as I did that season. On the court, my focus remained on the team and not on my individual performance.

Off the court was a different story.

With my sophomore season in the books and the championship in hand, my parents were having conversations every week with different agents. The 2001 NBA draft was two months away and I was still slated to be the No. 1 pick. Personally, I knew what I wanted to do.

When we returned to Durham with the national championship trophy, our school held a celebration in Cameron Indoor. Coach K addressed the crowd, then Shane, and as he was wrapping up, the fans began to chant my name.

“JASON WILLIAMS! JASON WILLIAMS! JASON WILLIAMS!”

As I stepped up to the podium, I had no idea what I was going to say, so I went with generic praises and thank yous. As I was winding down, the crowd interrupted me with a loud chant.

“ONE MORE YEAR! ONE MORE YEAR! ONE MORE YEAR!”

Always looking for others' approval, I said exactly what they wanted to hear. “I can't wait to do this again next year.” The crowd erupted.

I came off the podium thinking to myself,
What the hell did I just do?
I sat on that stage wondering how I would be able to wiggle out of the commitment I'd just made. I began to panic about what would happen if I went back on my word. The love and support from Duke Nation meant everything to me. Would they ever forgive me if I went with my gut and declared for the draft?

A few days later, I sat down with my parents and went over the pros and cons of leaving.

PROS LIST

1.
     
Money. An absurd amount. $17,286,153 over four years, to be exact, if I was selected first overall.

2.
     
I would finally have the financial freedom to do what I wanted, whenever I wanted.

3.
     
Competition. Kobe, Iverson, Marbury, Jason Kidd, and all the other stars I had dreamed of playing with and against.

4.
     
Jordan factor. Washington had the first pick, and there were rumors that M.J. was planning on leaving their front office to play that season.

5.
     
Travel. Flying private in Gulfstreams, staying in five-star hotels, renting yachts.

6.
     
Business. Tapping into the Duke connections K had always been talking about. Finally being able to take care of my parents.

7.
     
Lifestyle. Specifically . . . the women. I was with Noelle at the time, but I wasn't exactly a saint. The combo of money and fame would drastically change things in that department.

8.
     
Leadership. Shane was leaving, and it was going to be my team.

9.
     
Injury. What would happen to my draft stock and earning potential if I stayed another year and got hurt?

CONS LIST

1.
     
Maturity. Physically, I was ready. Mentally? No shot.

2.
     
Family. My parents would look to manage “the family business,” which was another way of saying they'd be managing
me
.

3.
     
Money. It can do as much harm as it can good.

4.
     
Friends. Who would I be able to trust? How many “friends” would come out of the woodwork looking for a handout?

5.
     
Distractions. Women and fame would for sure get the best of me.

6.
     
Education. I had promised my parents I would get a degree.

7.
     
Coach K. Losing what would be another invaluable season under his wing.

In my mind, whichever side won out, it didn't even matter to me. I was playing the role of the good son, appeasing my parents at every turn. Rightfully so, they were adamant about me weighing all my options, which included the inevitable sit-down with my head coach.

Sitting in the common area of K's office—this one at least three times the size of his former—we spoke about a number of things: where we thought my development as a player was at the time, things I needed to improve upon (i.e., my abysmal free-throw shooting), maturity and leadership skills. We talked about how different the team culture would be, going from a winning program ripe with tradition to a losing NBA franchise. We broke down all the options, as if we were drawing up a play. Except this wasn't a game. This was my life.

He said, “Jason, I want you to take all this information and process it. Once you leave this room, I want you to truly think about what it means to be different. I don't want you to follow the norm. I want you to blaze your own path. I want you to be a pioneer.”

I always looked to my parents and Coach K for guidance, and all three encouraged me to make this momentous decision on my own. It was a given that my parents would feel let down if I chose
to leave without first getting my degree. Education meant everything to them. And K truly wanted what was best for each and every one of us. He loved me like a son. My staying another year would surely have given him a better chance of winning another national title, but even so, I am certain that my best interest was his only agenda. His call was that I would stand to benefit from another year learning how to lead. And he was right.

But I still should've left.

And he should've told me to go.

I know Coach K would've supported whatever decision I made, but it was a very different time then. Players didn't normally leave him as underclassmen. But when you're projected to be drafted in the lottery, let alone the No. 1 pick overall, you
have
to go. Time has proven this to be the case. Today, even Duke is not immune to players leaving early in this one-and-done era. Luol Deng, Kyrie Irving, Austin Rivers, Jabari Parker, Jahlil Okafor, Justise Winslow, and Tyus Jones are all “guilty.” The present-day Coach K is different—for the better—than the 2001 Coach K. Back then, he wasn't as willing to adapt to the ever-changing landscape of college basketball the way he has so successfully done today. And he has two more national-title trophies to show for it.

Financially, it's almost always going to be in the player's best interests to start his pro career as early as possible. The cap on a player's first contract essentially makes it a paid internship—a well-paid one at that—and the sooner it expires, the sooner the really big money kicks in. Pro life is always going to be an adjustment no matter when you begin it—whether you forgo your sophomore year or stay for all four. The adjustment is jarring for young men of all ages.

Overcome with guilt and the desire to get a college degree, I decided to stay for my junior year. We figured out how I would be able to compile enough credits to graduate in just three years—by spending the next summer taking courses. I would need to take three more summer semesters, which was a small price to pay for having a degree from Duke University for the rest of my life.

There would be pressure. Anything less than another national championship would seem like a disappointment. The season before, we went the entire year without falling below fourth in the polls. We ended up finishing the regular season 26–4, stomped the Tar Heels in the ACC final, and went on to win all six of our NCAA tournament games by ten or more points on our way to a title.

We were the preseason No. 1 in the polls, and I was expected to be national player of the year again. We had a strong team returning, which definitely played a part in my decision to stay. Chris and I were back for more, with freshman combo guard Daniel Ewing coming off the bench; Dunleavy and Dahntay Jones, who had transferred from Rutgers, were our forwards; and Booz, Casey Sanders, and Nick Horvath were back at center.

As much as I respected and loved Coach K, there were times when I was angry with him because I didn't understand his thinking. During games, his intensity knew no bounds, and whenever he yelled that my best wasn't good enough, it took every ounce of me not to respond to him with what was really on my mind. I knew better than to shoot my mouth off, but I had to do something to release the frustration and prevent my head from exploding, so I took it out on my opponents. The more Coach K got in my face to challenge me, the more I would try to kill the guy who guarded me on the court.

Looking back, I get it: K pushed my buttons because he knew I played better when I was angry. I don't know when he figured that out—maybe from watching me in high school or from observing how I responded to his various motivational efforts during my freshman year. Who knows? What I do know is we won a national championship, and I became a two-time national player of the year.

I needed anger. And Coach K almost always did a masterful job of pushing me to the edge without going too far.

Almost.

It's no accident that Coach uses military metaphors when he talks about a team; attending West Point and coaching there had a huge influence on his life. He would often say to us, “Either you're in the trenches with me and we're going to fight, or if you're not willing to fight, I want to make room for people who want to be in the hole with me.” I've watched him extend his arm to somebody and say, “Do you need help getting in the trenches with me? Let me pull you in. Here's a branch, here's your end—grab it.” And if you don't grab it, “Okay, well, I'm going to put my hand out for somebody who wants to grab my hand and who wants to be in here with me.” I've seen people get lost in the mix because they didn't want to buy in completely, or they didn't find a way to express themselves to the point that he knew they were fighting
with
him instead of against him.

But one time in my junior year, he went too far. Or so I thought.

We were in Charlottesville facing Virginia late in the season. Our record was 25–2 going into that game. We were near the end, and despite my atrocious performance, K designed a play for me to drive the ball to the basket.

My stat line at that point was:
4-for-13 from the field, 1-for-7 from downtown, 8 turnovers, 6 assists.

We had been here before, where K would put his faith in me late in games regardless of how I was playing, but
this
wasn't the right call in my book. Booz had 33 points and had missed only one shot, while Dunleavy really started to heat up at the end. So when the time came for me to run the play he designed, I ignored his call and deferred to someone else. We ended up losing the game by three points.

I will never forget that walk back to the locker room. It was brutal enough to have fallen short, but knowing that the onus was square on my shoulders after deliberately disobeying our coach was intolerable.

UVA had these tight, confined spaces for the visitors' locker room. I was sitting next to Chris, who was even more distraught than I was. The loss clinched the ACC championship for Maryland, but I knew we could bounce back and still win the NCAAs.

I put my arm around Chris, trying to take responsibility for my actions. Trying to be a leader.

“It's my fault,” I told him. “I messed up, not you. I was dog shit.”

That was when I heard Coach K chime in.

“Get your arm off of him. You're not thinking about him. You're not thinking about us. All you're thinking about is the draft and leaving. You're not committed to this team. I can't believe you would do that. The play was designed for you and you didn't care. You just did whatever you wanted to do.”

I was having my very own Chris Carrawell moment. I'd defied our coach just like he had two seasons earlier. And to make matters worse, I handled the situation immaturely.

“This is a bunch of shit!” I yelled as I got up from my seat.
“You're always on my case!” I then took a few steps in his direction while punching my fist into the palm of my other hand. “You're always on me about leaving for the NBA. If I wanted to leave Duke, I would have left last year!”

I caught myself then and there, frozen in my tracks, as I saw the look of disappointment in his eyes. Not knowing what else to say, I started to backpedal and make my way back to my seat. I could only imagine what everyone else was thinking after witnessing my outburst.

“Never have I ever,
ever
had a player talk to me the way you just did. Ever. I'm so disappointed in you.”

After that night, there was a little distance between Coach K and me. He didn't say anything directly to me about the incident, but for the next couple of practices he put me on the blue team. Starters were on the white team. That was all he needed to say. Once again, I was angry, so I channeled that rage to punish whoever tried to guard me. It didn't matter that I was on the blue team; we were winning every scrimmage. I had challenged Coach K and it was the wrong thing to do, but I benefited in the end. It was yet another valuable lesson in a long process of figuring out who I wanted to be.