A Father First: How My Life Became Bigger Than Basketball (10 page)

And that’s got to be funny for anyone who knows that dancing has never been my strong suit. But I could have fooled myself with this game. That’s why when Zaire makes his comment with a chorus of “That was crazy’s” from Dada and Zion, too, I can only say, “I know.”

Normally I walk away from a game, win or lose, and prepare for the next one. But in this instance, I had to watch the replays and review the story of what had happened, as reported that night in the Associated Press.

The headline read: “Dwyane Wade turns back Grizzlies as Heat turn up D in romp.” The article went on to say that the tone had been set at the start for the 118–85 score when “Wade blocked four shots in a dazzling 55-second span shortly after tip-off” and that we had rolled over Memphis with the largest margin of victory since December 27, 2009.

It wasn’t just me. LeBron scored 27 points (sitting out the fourth quarter, too) and Chris Bosh, picking up on our energy, had 18 points and 10 rebounds. Every single one of the twelve active players on the Heat roster put up points.

Whatever they were feeling, I was very proud to be described as the catalyst for the Heat’s firepower on the court. And had to laugh in reading, “Wade was playing defense on everybody. All five of his blocks came in the half, and he inadvertently leveled James on a defensive possession just before intermission.” This turned out to be the fourth time in my career to have five blocks in a game. I also learned from the AP story that to date that season there had only been three games in which guards blocked five shots in a game—and two of those records were mine.

Zaire was right. That was crazy. The quote that did it for me, though, was this one:

Wade’s final line: 28 points, nine assists, five rebounds and five blocks. The last NBA guard to have numbers like that in a game? Michael Jordan, in 1988.

So I guess that’s what I’m trying to say about prayers, promises, and dreams.

And I think that part of the reason for telling the story of where those ideas first came from in childhood is to share the rewards that come from making the commitment to be an involved father. Not because I think it’s easy, but because for all the effort required, you will empower and uplift your children, your community, and, most of all, yourself.

Chapter
Three

In the Backyard

S
UNDAY
MORNING

M
ARCH
13, 2011

A
T
HOME
IN
M
IAMI

I
WAKE WITH A JOLT.

Normally on a Sunday when the boys have come for their visit, I try to get up early so we can play outside together or have some fun in the pool before they have to fly back to Chicago. By reflex, when I see that it’s almost 10
A
.
M
., I’m about to spring out of the bed, but then remember the news that came in less than forty-eight hours earlier.

That’s the mental reminder that the boys still don’t know yet.

I sill haven’t decided exactly how I’m going to raise the subject, other than borrowing from the psychology of one of my favorite movies,
Jerry McGuire,
about a sports agent, played by Tom Cruise, who uses the line with Cuba Gooding Jr.: “Help me help you.”

When in doubt, “help me help you” has let me learn from my kids how best to be there for them.

To put it another way, I have to play it by ear and let my sons guide me in determining how to address what’s going to be happening and how they feel about it. Judging from the sound of a very unhappy Zaire that’s coming from the backyard, this conversation needs to happen soon.

During their last few visits, none of the three boys was eager to go when the time came. But Zaire had started to take our pending separations the hardest. Usually, by the middle of Sunday morning, right about this time, the tears would start to flow.

These Zaire “episodes”—as he and I call them—are also, in my opinion, a healthy way for him to express his feelings. But because he really is a kid who loves life to the utmost—and wakes up every day ready for fun and action—the emotional outbursts do seem out of character.

One obvious explanation for his upsets was the closeness he and I have shared from the time he came into this world. When Zaire was born, I was only twenty years old myself, a college athlete with an uncertain future, not sure how to support a wife and a baby—let alone myself. After the promises that I’d made as a boy that I was going to be different, Zaire was the real test. He was the son I could pledge to be there for, to be around for, in those times when too many fathers aren’t. And I wanted to be around for everything—to see him take his first step, to celebrate when his first teeth grew in, to hear him speak his first words. I wanted to be there for everything that was his first. Plus, I wanted him to be there for my firsts.

Zaire and I had adapted together to the reality of my work schedule. Not easy.

After his mom and I broke up, he and Zion both had to adapt to living in two cities, with the time and distances that involves. Hard for all of us. Zaire always tried to put a tough face on, but I’d hear reports from others that he would count the days on his hands from when the two of us last saw each other and how long it was before we were supposed to have a visit again.

I hadn’t forgotten my own countdowns—to the days when my dad was supposed to come. I’d imagine how he would go upstairs to Grandma’s with us and tell jokes or take us somewhere else. I hadn’t forgotten what it felt like when he didn’t show. Not seeing him and not having him around sucked, and his not coming left me feeling unwanted, unloved, angry.

True, as a kid we didn’t have a phone so we couldn’t get the explanation that something had come up. By the same token, explaining custody arrangements to children doesn’t take away the pain they feel when separated from either parent.

All I could do and all I had tried to do from the start was develop those open lines of communication with my sons so they could be free to tell me what they were feeling. I didn’t want to be Father Knows Best. In fact, I would tell them that just because I was Daddy and earned the money and paid the bills and made the rules so they could get what they needed and wanted, we could talk about their concerns no matter what. We spoke often about how each of them was different and that I didn’t expect them to be alike or just like me. That didn’t mean that I was going to have all the answers. But I could still listen and then hopefully together we’d come up with a solution.

“Help me help you” is in my thoughts as I go downstairs to the kitchen to hear from Rich that sure enough, Zaire is having one of his episodes, complete with a temper tantrum.

Out in the backyard, Dada and Zion are on the basketball court, happily engrossed in some kind of game they’re playing together. In contrast, Zaire’s sitting off on his own, a basketball cradled in his arms, looking sad and lost.

The image takes me back just for a minute to a series of other backyards where I played when I was growing up, sometimes feeling not too different from Zaire on this day.

I COULDN’T COUNT HOW MANY TIMES I REPLAYED THAT afternoon when Tragil and I were supposed to go to the movies on the bus and instead she dropped me off at our dad’s girlfriend’s place for good.

Eventually, when we did talk about it, my sister recalled that she really did intend to go to the movies and then maybe afterward stop by the apartment where Dad’s girlfriend, Bessie McDaniels, lived. Her plan evolved differently when the bus came to a stop right there in that neighborhood and we spotted Donny playing in the back lot of the apartment building. The fact that I was so happy to get out and play with the boys made my sister’s efforts easier. Since we didn’t have a phone for Tragil to call ahead and clear the possibility with Bessie or Dad, she was playing this whole thing by ear.

Unbeknownst to me until much later, when I was in the alley in the middle of a game with the boys, thirteen-year-old Tragil had gone up to the third-floor apartment and said something to Bessie’s mom about me staying. That night, after Tragil left, telling me she’d be back the next day, I went upstairs with Demetrius and Donny and there was no acknowledgment either way about me being there. Like me, everyone else must have assumed this was no different from the other times when Dad had brought us over and we’d stayed.

Those first several nights were a free-for-all! Whatever bedrooms there were in the apartment were occupied and besides the three boys from Bessie’s previous relationships, the household included their grandmother, Grandmom Chris (whose place it was), a couple of uncles, and some additional kids and adults. There didn’t seem to be any rules, or bedtimes, or anything.

As best I can remember, Dad was already upstairs when Demetrius, Donny, and I came in hungry around suppertime. Flashing me the familiar Dwyane Wade Sr. grin, he lifted his hand up in the air for a high-five as I jumped up and tried unsuccessfully to slap it back. In my mind, my father was a giant who towered above me and I was never going to be able to jump that high.

“How you doin’, son?” was all my father said to me. Maybe I nodded or mumbled that I was fine. And that was that.

My soon-to-be stepbrothers and I rummaged around in the kitchen for leftovers, ate what we could find, and then went back outside, where the Chicago summer night air was cooler than inside. When we returned to the apartment late that night, there weren’t any beds to be found so the three of us took pillows off the sofa in the living room and put them on the floor, where we crashed out together in a pile.

In that crazy, fun hangout atmosphere, I was just one extra. Not a problem.

Over those first days when I kept expecting to see my sister, I didn’t want to admit to hurt or confusion about her not returning. But when I could no longer count on my two hands how long it had been since she dropped me off, I began the painful process of facing the new reality. Not wanting anyone to know that I was sad, I’d sneak down to the back lot and sit under the tree—watching for the same bus that had brought me here, waiting for it to come to the stop and let passengers off, hoping for the outside chance that maybe I’d see my sister among them.

My head pounded with questions.

Was Mom doing all right? Was she sad, too, because I didn’t get to come and say good-bye to her? What about Grandma? Who was going to watch
Knight Rider
with her every week? And then there was the issue of my bike, which I was mad about. Earlier that summer I had been lucky enough to be given my first bike, one of the only memorable presents that I’d received in all of my eight and a half years of life.

Where was my bike? I wanted it!

The biggest question was how was I going to look out for myself without Tragil on a daily basis. Come to think of it, I’d always been protected. Oh, no, people would say, you don’t wanna mess with him, that’s such-and-such’s nephew or so-and-so’s little brother. Tragil and I always had that sphere of protection because of having relatives high in the drug and gang games. None of that coverage extended to this part of the Southside. How could I keep myself safe?

The only answer that made sense was to be on my guard now more than ever. The rule became that I could have fun and join in the good times but never all the way, never to let go fully as others around me could. Maybe I was scared that letting go would cause me to forget my promises or that I couldn’t protect myself if I let go, if I allowed myself to be happy all the way.

But in spite of me being sad and mad and scared, none of that compared to the relief of not living in the war zone that I’d left behind. Being in another neighborhood in an equally poor area of the Southside wasn’t like living in another country, but then again, I was able to breathe. The fear and stress of sitting out on a front porch worrying or not knowing when the next police raid might happen was all too much. My worries about my loved ones weren’t over, no, but I could be more of a kid in the new setting.

The more relief I felt, the more I was able to understand Tragil’s sacrifice: how she put her own happiness and security second to giving me back a part of my childhood. And the hard truth that stayed with me was that I felt guilty. My sister was still in the middle of the madness that I had left behind while I was basically enjoying a kind of summer camp with an element of brotherhood that hadn’t existed in my life before.