Life Is Not an Accident Read online

  And then I saw it . . . the pole.

  It was too late. All I could do was tense up, prepare for the impact, and hope for the best. I distinctly remember that in the split second between recognizing I was about to hit the pole and making contact, I actually thought, This should happen to me. During that year, I had constantly lied to the people I cared about. I had cheated left and right on the woman I loved. I had become infatuated with the money, the lifestyle, and the constant attention that came with being an NBA player. It took less than a year to become someone I didn’t recognize, and I thought in that fraction of a second that I didn’t deserve an outcome different from the one that was coming.

  I couldn’t tell you which pole I hit, but the crash sounded like two cars colliding head-on. I couldn’t turn my body completely out of the way, so I ended up clipping my entire left side, which flung me into a horizontal spinning motion parallel to the ground. In those seconds, everything seemed to slow down. While in the air, I remember thinking, You’ve seen this before. You lived this before.

  And I had, incredibly, in a dream four years prior, a dream so strange it had stayed with me. . . .

  It was the night before the first game I ever played for Duke—in Madison Square Garden, no less, at the Coaches vs. Cancer Classic—and I was trying to sleep in my bedroom at the Marriott Marquis high above Times Square. In the hotel, my teammates and I were separated from the rest of the world: it was our safe haven, where we could focus on the mission at hand.

  But I was too anxious to fall asleep. I was about to play Stanford in the Garden, the place I had dreamed of playing at since I was a little boy growing up in Plainfield, New Jersey, just 25 miles away. I was heading into my first game starting for a Hall of Fame coach who had just lost the national championship to UConn only seven months prior, in a game his team was expected to win. I was about to play the biggest game of my life in the shadows of all the Duke greats. Guys like Grant Hill, Christian Laettner, Bobby Hurley, Johnny Dawkins. And I’d be playing before the nation, on ESPN.

  Finally, after hours and hours of tossing and turning, I dozed off. Soon I felt this magnificent, incredible breeze on my face. But I was getting dizzy. In the distance up ahead I saw something that I was going to crash into . . . and then I jerked awake. It was four fifteen in the morning. I sat up in my bed, thinking, What the hell was that?!

  Was that, somehow, a sign, a warning, and I missed it?

  Looking back, I’ve wondered if the fact that my Corvette keys were in front of my Yamaha keys that morning was also a sign I ignored. I definitely ignored the countless warnings about the dangers of motorcycles from people who cared about me. The last thing I heard before getting on my bike was Kevin, my mentor, telling me not to ride—and I hadn’t listened to him or anyone. I was in control. I was making my own decisions. I was being a man.

  And now here I was, flying in the air and spinning. In control of nothing.

  The impact when I landed was immediate, like an anchor being dropped into water. I was facedown. My chest was lying directly flat on the grassy area between the curb and the sidewalk; my legs lay outstretched on top of each other, almost disconnected from my body on the pavement at a 90-degree angle. My lower extremities were motionless as the curb pressed against my abdomen.

  I began screaming Kevin’s name over and over again. I was in so much pain and unable to move, from my midsection down. I was certain that I was paralyzed. With my cheek flush against the grass, I could see Kevin running toward me. As he got closer, I remember his mouth opening wide in shock, almost in disbelief at what he was seeing. All the color left his face as he stood over me, horrified. It looked as if someone had reached into his body and yanked out his soul. His expression was all the confirmation I needed about what I had done. I started crying and pounding my right fist against the grass while yelling, “I threw it all away! I threw it all away! I threw it all away!”

  Kevin yelled for help while pulling out his cell phone to dial 911. I started to feel the sensation of someone pouring a pitcher of scalding hot water from my pelvic area down to my feet. I went into shock as the pain began to override my senses. Kevin was holding my hand, telling me everything was going to be all right, but there was nothing believable about his tone. Everything was not going to be all right—ever again.

  I was inconsolable as I ricocheted from anger to sorrow and back to anger and then sorrow once more. It felt as if time had stood still. I hoped I was having another dream, just like the first one, and soon I would wake up. How could this be real?

  I had done this to myself. And the pain from that reality, as I would soon discover, would not be tempered by morphine, and would last long after my broken bones had healed. As I lay there on the ground, the lower half of my body now feeling like it was on a bed of burning embers, I couldn’t help but think that seeing that biker break his collarbone during one of my late-night rides was yet another sign I had ignored.

  “It’s going to be okay, you’re going to be fine,” Kevin repeated, desperate to get me to calm down.

  I was slowly bleeding to death internally.

  I wasn’t even sure I wanted to live.

  Not long before, I had been lying in bed, gazing out my window at the turquoise waters of Lake Michigan as sunlight tickled the waves. I had a business meeting with one of my best friends in the world. I was going to hit the gym and maybe grab some lunch afterwards. Today was going to be amazing. Today was going to be perfect.

  2

  Imperfect

  By the time the ambulance arrived, I had calmed down slightly, enough to try and answer the paramedics’ questions.

  Do you know your name?

  Yes . . . I am Jay Williams!

  Do you know what just happened to you?

  Yes, yes, yes . . . I just hit the damn pole and I can’t feel my fucking legs.

  So you don’t feel me touching your legs?

  I knew the medic had good intentions, but I was in so much pain that I quickly started to lose my patience with his simple questioning. There was only one question on my mind.

  Am I paralyzed?

  He thought for a second and then told me that I would be just fine. As they continued to assess me, one of them said, “I think you’ve just broken a couple of bones.”

  Having been the daredevil that I was as a kid, I knew what it felt like to break bones. This was something different. Broken bones would’ve been a gift. This was a pain that had exceeded any other pain I had ever felt. I wouldn’t have wished this on my worst enemy . . . and now it was my reality.

  Were they just minimizing the severity of my injuries to try and keep me calm? Was I hearing what I wanted to hear instead of the cold, hard truth?

  Deep down I knew that I would never be the same.

  As they tried to gently adjust my body to lay me directly on my back, it felt as if my insides were being ripped apart. The pain was so excruciating that I begged them to stop.

  “Stop. Stop. Stop. Get the fuck off me. Please. Get off me. Just let me be.”

  They delicately placed my neck in one of those mobile braces to keep me from causing any further damage. Once I was stable, ever so slightly, they tilted my body just enough to slip a board under me. I was then lifted onto a gurney and rolled into the ambulance. As the adrenaline kicked in, the pain took a backseat to fear. I was wailing so much that it felt impossible to catch my breath.

  Just before they put me in the back of the cabin, I yelled to Kevin, begging him to let me use his cell. I dialed the only phone number that mattered. As the phone rang, my heart was pounding through my chest. Pick up, pick up, pick up. As desperate as I was for someone to answer the phone, I knew what would happen the minute I heard my mom’s voice. I wouldn’t have been able to keep myself together. My dad probably would have tried to keep his cool for my benefit, but hearing my mother’s voice would have broken me.

  I got their machine. Not knowing what to say, I tried my best to sound calm. “Hey, Mom and Dad, it
’s me. I’ve been in a really bad accident. I think I’ll be okay, but you guys need to come to Chicago as soon as possible. I love you both so much. Please get here.” Not the message a child wants to leave behind for his parents, but it’s a lot better than hearing the same news from a stranger. At least this way I had a chance to get to them before the news broke.

  The ride to the ER was a complete blur. An IV into my arm, oxygen mask over my face, and a ton of chatter as they assessed my vitals, with Kevin by my side the whole time.

  The next thing I remember, I was being gurneyed into the ER at a frantic pace while a woman was sprinting by my side to let me know that I was at Illinois Masonic. “Jay, my name is Dr. Mellett. You’ve severed a major artery in your left leg. We have to stop the bleeding now.” Panic began to set in once again with a lot more urgency.

  “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.”

  And no one was telling me that I wouldn’t.

  As I lay on the cold, sterile operating table, broken, halogen lighting beaming down, Dr. Mellett stood by my side, firmly clutching my hand. I had no idea where Kevin was, or anyone I knew, for that matter. I was alone, surrounded by complete strangers in scrubs, accompanied by a doctor who, just moments ago, was one of them. Now she was my crutch, her voice my only source of comfort. The only thing I was moving was my eyes, scanning my surroundings in terror. My one friend in the room then spoke.

  “Jay, look at me. Just focus on me. Focus on your breathing. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Just take one breath at a time. It’s going to be okay.”

  As the anesthesia began to take, I thought about my parents. Would I ever be able to see them again? I had so many things I wanted to tell them. For starters, how sorry I was for not listening to them. Sorry for trying to prove my manhood by doing something so foolish. Sorry for not being a better son. Sorry for everything.

  In what could’ve been the last few seconds of my life, I was thinking about everything I had just thrown away. I tried to keep my eyes open, afraid to go under. My eyes would shut and then jolt open, trying to fight the effects of the anesthetic to the very end. I didn’t want to let go. What if I didn’t wake up?

  AS I SLOWLY opened my eyes, not knowing if hours or days had passed, my blurred vision started to give way and I began taking in all my surroundings. My eyes first took account of all the metal rods and bars that were holding my broken body together.

  This can’t be real.

  I then realized I had a tube jammed down my throat and I immediately felt like I was suffocating. I saw Kevin by my bedside. He looked exhausted. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot as if he had been crying for days. It was hard for me to look him in the eye. I was ashamed. Completely emasculated.

  What had I done? This was not just my future, but Kevin’s, too. And my parents? Where were they? I’ve ruined everything for them. My dad had always wanted to have his own business. I made that dream possible and, in the most selfish fashion, took it all away. My eyes teared up; the emotions were too much.

  Kevin took my hand. He was at a loss for words. It then occurred to me that he must’ve felt like a failure at that very moment. My parents had trusted him to look after me, and the accident happened on his watch. Even now, I can’t imagine the amount of guilt he had, even though the truth is that nobody would’ve been able to stop me from this path of self-destruction. Both of our futures were now crushed.

  I was completely covered in bandages from the waist down and my left leg hovered in the air, held up by three metal rods inserted deep into the bone for stabilization. Two more rods, one on each side, were placed into my hips to keep the pelvic bone from further separation. Those rods extended out of my body by a foot or more, at 45-degree angles, all connected by wires.

  My initial reaction was to move my feet. Nothing. I tried to move my legs. Nothing. Nothing fucking worked.

  I mustered up enough strength to lift my right arm and point to my mouth. I wanted Kevin to tell the doctor to remove the tube from my throat. He left the room to get someone to help. I was alone for the first time. A dangerous place to be. Those five or so minutes lying there by myself was the beginning of a tortured hell that would haunt me for the next decade of my life. I was trapped in my own head, having to keep myself from drowning in self-pity.

  Yes, I was alive, but what did that mean? Was I paralyzed from the waist down? Did I want to be alive if I couldn’t play—or even walk—anymore? The answer was NO. I wished I had died earlier that day rather than live with this cursed sentence. I wasn’t grateful at all to be alive. After years and years of questioning myself on the court, I had just started to realize that I was able to do things other people couldn’t. I had been a deeply insecure child through adolescence, and playing ball gave me the confidence I needed for my everyday life. What did I have left if I didn’t have basketball?

  I was alive—and it was killing me.

  The doctor entered to remove the tube from my throat. The process felt like a hot cord was being pulled up from the bottom of my stomach through my esophagus. Once the discomfort subsided, I tried to speak, but to no avail. The doctor told me to just remain calm, that it was completely normal and that he’d be right back with my primary doctor—my friend, Dr. Michele Mellett, the woman who had saved my life.

  When she walked into the room, it seemed as if time had stopped. I wish today that I had thanked her on the spot for saving my life. And for being that one soothing voice that helped to keep me in one piece. But I didn’t—because at that time, I was selfish.

  I tried to talk but could only muster a soft whisper. She leaned in as I once again asked her the only question that was on my mind.

  “Will I ever be able to play again?”

  There was a pause as I watched her eyes scan my body and then meet my eyes, taking inventory of my state of mind before answering. I guess that was the smart thing to do, considering I had just been in a life-threatening accident and the first words out of my mouth were about basketball. Not “Where am I?” or “Where are my parents?” or maybe “Thank you for saving my life.” I asked her the only question that could provide me with some immediate relief. If she answered yes, I’d know that everything would eventually be okay. But if she said no, it would mean my life would be—well, I didn’t even want to think about it.

  The look on her face said, How do I tell this guy I have no clue? She was expressionless. And the silence was deafening. After what felt like an eternity she said, “Let’s not focus on playing basketball. Let’s just focus on trying to get you to walk again.” And then she stood, holding my hand, not knowing what to say next.

  My mind flashed to a game against Stanford in Anaheim during my sophomore year at Duke. We were down a couple of points, and I dribbled the ball the full length of the court in just five seconds to shoot a layup. I missed the shot, but that wasn’t the point. I was lightning quick on my feet, and I had only gotten faster. Now . . . I had to focus on just being able to walk? Yesterday I was beating Allen Iverson off the dribble and now I had to start all over? And she hadn’t even said it with much conviction, but more as an open-ended statement. Like even walking might not be a possibility.

  I didn’t want to be here anymore. It was like someone had put a five-ton weight on my chest and I couldn’t breathe. I’ve always been a guy who wanted to prove pundits wrong. News articles ripping me, fans yelling at me, or even those closest to me not thinking I was good enough—I relished the criticism. This was the first time in my life I felt truly defeated. Completely powerless.

  “I’m not going to be able to walk,” I whispered to myself. I looked over to Kevin for strength, or even a glimmer of hope. But the moment was too heavy even for my big brother to carry. We both just sat there staring at each other in silence, lacking the energy even to pretend I might be wrong.

  Within the next hour or so, my parents arrived. I had never seen my dad cry. I’d heard his voice get shaky on the phone once, but he’d never let me see any
tears. As they walked into the room, his eyes grew heavy with pain and sorrow. I know how disappointed he must’ve been with me for putting my life in jeopardy. I deserved to get a serious talking to from him. But in that moment, he was just my dad. He grabbed my hand, kissed me on the forehead, and began to weep silently. I knew he loved me more than anything, but he was from a generation that didn’t always express emotion. I guess nothing can prepare you for seeing your child’s body in that state. Seeing his face, my mom’s face, Kevin’s . . .

  It was all too much.

  I know each person standing around my bed was happy I was alive. Of course they were—they were my family. But being alive felt more like a consolation prize than anything else. Watching their facial expressions that day confirmed what I already knew deep down. The chances of me playing basketball again were slim. That likely meant all of our long-term plans were shot to hell. My mom had worked multiple jobs, gone back to school and become an education administrator. She began to work on projects with Arne Duncan, who was in charge of Chicago’s public schools at the time; he would eventually become Obama’s secretary of education and almost assuredly would’ve taken my mother to greater heights she could’ve only dreamed of.

  I had embarrassed Duke, Coach K, the Bulls franchise, and all of the Bulls’ fans. When I got drafted, I wanted to change the game—not just on the court, but off it, too. I was going to take full advantage of my college education by leveraging the economic opportunities that came with being an NBA player. I had graduated school in just three years. The platform the NBA was going to provide was limitless with the right business plan attached. I was determined not to be a dumb jock, but I became the dumbest of them all.

  Going out after hours trying to create the persona of J-Will, the Renegade Biker, flying like Icarus way too high for my own good, I was lucky not to get caught by the police—or, worse, have my brains splattered all over I–90. I was fearless, heedless, too arrogant to appreciate the gifts God had given me. I flew closer and closer to the sun until the inevitable happened—crash and burn.