A Father First: How My Life Became Bigger Than Basketball (2 page)

Looking back, I can’t remember when various worries started to wear on me. I do know that by eight years old, the things that would shock most adults who weren’t exposed to what we were had started to become normal. Drugs were a major part of the culture, a way of life, and so were the gangs who controlled the corners—the Gangster Disciples and the Black Disciples, or GDs and BDs, as they were often called. In the Englewood area of Chicago’s Southside where we lived, you could get anything. Weed, crack, heroin, and any substances in between. Everything was in plain sight: people snorting, smoking, shooting, getting busted, being handcuffed by the police and carted off right out in the open for using and/or selling, many going to jail or winding up dead.

Our dad—who lived in a somewhat better neighborhood, also on the Southside, but much farther south and west from where we were—visited us fairly often. He might just come by and check in or take us out to do something fun, or, on occasion, have us stay with him overnight. Whenever Dad was staying at his girlfriend’s house, her two sons who were around my age included us in whatever games they were playing or planning. And, yeah, basketball was at the top of that list!

Dad was by no stretch of the imagination what you’d call well-off, as he now and then reminded us that he did pay child support. But compared to how we were living—no phone, sometimes no electricity, often hungry, yet too proud to tell anyone—Dwyane Wade Sr. had stability. Dad was employed for most of his working years by Anderson Printing Company, in their delivery business, getting up at five o’clock every morning, day in and day out. That meant he usually came to see us on weekends—or every other weekend, and sometimes it was a month or two months between visits. On the Saturdays when he was supposed to be coming, Tragil and I would wake up early and go wait by the door for hours to watch for the first sight of his old sky-blue Chevy chugging down the block. The minute we saw it, we raced each other to greet him.

On some of those Saturdays, something would apparently come up, and Tragil and I would wait all day, with every sighting of a car down the street getting our hopes up until it finally drove up close enough for us to see that no, it wasn’t him. On those occasions when we’d wait at the door all day long for Dad to arrive and he never showed, there wasn’t much we could do to hide our hurt.

Later, when I became a father, these experiences would stay with me as reminders to be careful about making promises to my children. This was something that was especially true during the prolonged divorce proceedings—when the boys and I couldn’t see each other for long periods. Whenever we did see each other, we’d part not knowing when we’d see each other again.

Those days when Dad didn’t show up were among the few instances when I can remember Mom really getting mad at him. Otherwise, my parents were almost never critical of each other in front of us.

All of that was less in my thoughts than it was in Tragil’s on that day when she and I hopped on the bus to go to the movies. My sister might have realized that I was about to reach a dangerous time in my life. With Mom not around as much and Dad coming by less—as he got involved in doing more to take care of his girlfriend’s boys—Tragil had been making a lot of offhand comments lately. She’d say, “Sons need fathers!” and “Dads can teach things mommas can’t.” Maybe she knew I was getting closer to the age when hanging out on the corners would be an obvious next step, and had decided she’d better do something before it was too late.

Many members of our extended family had gone in that direction, some gaining clout in the GDs, others in the BDs. For a while, that meant nobody messed with me, by virtue of who those relatives were. But that was about to end now that my turn was coming. Clearly.

That’s what you did when you got to be ten, eleven, even eight or nine: you fell in line. If you had the maturity, you fell in line. You might come in as a watch-out kid, your job being to watch out for everyone in case there was any sign of the police. Then you’d graduate to holding the drugs and, from there, go on to selling them. And so on. I’d never actually said to my sister, “I know there is gonna come a time soon when I’m gonna be put in that position,” because that would be as unnecessary as saying the day after Sunday is Monday.

Those were just the facts of our lives that I chose to ignore that day, especially once Tragil and I got to our seats on the bus on the way to the movies. Off on our end-of-summer adventure together, I wanted to enjoy the ride and block out the somber feeling that something else was coming to an end: childhood. So I did what was in my nature—to appreciate the present moment—and just paid attention to sights outside the bus window.

The bus ride did seem to go on a lot longer than I’d expected. I knew that the movie multiplex my sister’s friend had told her about was not so far away. But I didn’t care how long it was taking. Tragil, usually much more talkative than me, didn’t say anything and seemed content to see me so happy. How far we had gone, I couldn’t tell, except we were still on the Southside. The neighborhoods seemed to be improving block by block. The farther from our house we rode, the safer and more family-friendly the streets began to look.

At West Seventy-Ninth and Marshfield, I got my bearings and realized this was where my father’s girlfriend, Bessie, lived. At the bus stop, I looked over into the back lot of one of the three-story apartment houses and recognized it from Dad having brought me to play there. That was when, to my surprise, I spotted Donny, one of Bessie’s sons.

Seven years old, Donny was in the back lot by himself, wielding this big toy sword like he was doing battle with a tree and then mixing in karate moves to defend against imaginary opponents. Looked fun to me. Real fun.

Tragil didn’t waste any time before asking, “You wanna stop and go play with Donny?”

“Yeah . . . ,” I began, hoping not to sound too excited since we were having our brother-sister day together. Probably, I thought, we were just stopping by for a short while and then going on to the movies later.

“Let’s go, then.” Tragil jumped up and led the way so we could get off the bus before the doors closed.

While my sister went up to Bessie’s apartment—where there were usually different people stopping by—I joined Donny in the back lot to get in on the sword battle. Before long, Donny’s older brother, Demetrius, showed up with a basketball, plus a couple of other kids he knew. Now the games could begin! The alley alongside the building became our makeshift court while we rigged up a crate that had no top or bottom to serve as the hoop. Demetrius was head and shoulders above all of us—in height and skills. But given the unstoppable competitive streak in my DNA, I was determined I’d catch up one day.

The hours flew by. When Tragil finally came out to the alley to get me, we were still in the thick of the game, having so much fun I’d completely forgotten about our earlier plans.

“You ready to go?” she asked with a little smile, like she knew the answer.

“No.” Had to be honest.

“Well, you could stay, if you want. You could stay the night.”

“Cool.” I started over to Demetrius, who had the ball. Then I turned around to Tragil again to ask when she was coming back to get me.

“I’ll come back, Dwyane. I’ll come back tomorrow.” She may have hesitated before leaving after that, maybe to stay and watch us play, maybe not wanting to go back home to her own uncertainties. She might have even known, before I’d figured it out, that she probably wasn’t returning there anytime soon.

A day went by without Tragil returning to get me. The fun of hanging out, plus knowing I was going to be around my dad more often, must have distracted me from worrying. It took me about a week before I realized Tragil wasn’t coming for me at all. At first, I didn’t want to believe that. But then I counted the days in my head, one by one, how she hadn’t been back that following day, or the day after, and so on, and finally there was only one conclusion: she wasn’t coming back. Then it dawned on me that the plan was never to go the movies, that for some reason, she had decided to trick me.

It took some time before I could grasp what my sister was doing. She was getting to be that age herself, close to high school, when she would have to figure out a plan for her security, how to make her way in the world. She had been taking care of me all these years and now she had to take care of herself.

Years later, Tragil told me how hard it had been to walk away that day in the alley. She was proud that beforehand she had spoken her mind to Dad, telling him he needed to step up and take a more active role in looking after his son, and she was even prouder that he agreed. Her plan had worked, she said, mainly because one of the most important lessons Mom had taught Tragil was to be strong and to say how she felt but also to remember that there is a time, a place, and a way to do so. That’s how she had been successful in speaking to Dad. But Tragil couldn’t explain anything to me back then.

My sister recalled, “I got to see you playing, enjoying yourself, and I was about to cry my eyes out, so I had to walk away fast. I didn’t want you to see me crying.”

Our mom had placed her faith and trust in Tragil and expected her to make that most unselfish of decisions, to get me into a situation where there would be more opportunity to have a better life, to go after dreams that might not have been possible if I had stayed where I was. Tragil did it for Dad, too, who stepped up in many ways, working on our father-son relationship, which wasn’t always easy but laid the groundwork for what I have with my own sons. Tragil did it for our mother, above all, so Mom could find the strength to overcome all that stood in her path—and become the living miracle she is today.

Looking back, I give my sister so much credit for what she did for me and for all of us. But in those first days and weeks away from the only home I knew, the truth is that I felt lost, alone, and overwhelmed by everything that had changed instantly the moment she hurried away.

Still, deep down, I understood that Tragil had saved my life.

THE POWER OF THAT MEMORY HELPS ME PUT JIM’S NEWS about custody into perspective this Friday afternoon. I force myself to exhale and release some of the pressure that’s been building all this time.

Very few people other than those most close to me know how hard this has been on me. My ex had fed the press so many untruths that to this day, some of the public, including loyal basketball fans, aren’t aware they’ve been proven false and retracted. The damage these accusations caused led me to file a defamation suit against her immediately. One of the most damaging of these claims was that I had given her an STD. This was disproven almost immediately and the lawsuit she had used to put that lie out there was withdrawn. But it’s impossible to undo this kind of damage. For the record, the accusation wasn’t true, is baseless, and was eventually seen by the custody judge as part of the all-out effort to alienate the boys from me. Then there were her accusations that I had been physically abusive. Again for the record, these were also false. I’ve learned over my years in the NBA that there are some knocks that come with the territory—and I’ve gained a thick skin. But where I drew the line was when absurd charges were also filed against my sister Tragil and my girlfriend, Gabrielle Union, and allegations were made against members of my family, as well as friends, whose only guilt was loving me and wanting to see me have time with my sons.

Gossip did just as much damage. In the press, I was painted as a poor lost kid who was taken in by my ex and her mom in high school and never would have ever made it without their efforts. Then, it was said, I left once the going got good. We’ve all heard stories like that before so they sound true—even though the facts don’t back them up. On top of that, when my ex filed a suit for damages on behalf of the boys against Gabrielle, the press went to town to portray Gabrielle as a home wrecker. The court threw out that suit, of course, and Gab and I rose above the noise, becoming closer in the process.

All of this was shocking and regrettable. But the issue of alienation—what the court sees as one parent’s repeated attempts to prevent a child from having a healthy relationship with the other—was the most disturbing. When I filed for divorce in May 2008, I asked for joint custody. Siohvaughn then sued for sole custody. That was the beginning of the longest custody trial in Cook County family court history.

I believed—and still do—that children need their dads and their moms in their lives, and I never set out to fight for full custody. Siohvaughn is a most loving, caring mother and the boys love and adore her just as they do me. But it had become clear to me, even with court orders that she comply with a visitation schedule allowing my sons to travel twice a month from Chicago to Miami—usually in the care of Tragil—that she was going to disregard orders and throw up every and any excuse to keep me from seeing them. Something had to give. I kept hoping for a reasonable resolution, but that seemed less and less likely as the changing teams of lawyers on the other side threw up hurdles.