Character Driven

by Derek Fisher

  I had my priorities straight, but knowing that Tatum’s chemo treatment was an outpatient procedure, we had scheduled a return flight for that day regardless of the game back in Salt Lake City that night. The Jazz had helped us out greatly by securing a private jet to take us back and forth. Our only concern about flying so soon after the treatment was Tatum’s leg. We needed to keep her still. We wanted to be back in Salt Lake City to be with our large circle of supporters and to restore as quickly as possible some semblance of normalcy in our lives. Even though Drew was too young to fully understand what was going on, I’m sure that he and Tatum both were picking up on the worried vibes that Candace and I were putting out despite our best attempts not to. Marshall, Candace’s son and my stepson, had been affected as well. He was well aware, at age twelve, of everything that was going on, and I knew from conversations that I had with him, that he was both worried about his half sister’s health and his mother’s mental state. He hated seeing her worried and upset, and the sooner we got back home to him and to our life and its routine, the better it would be for all of us. I also put a call in to the mother of my daughter Chloe. Though she was much younger than Marshall and couldn’t fully comprehend what was going on with her baby sister, I wanted to let her know that things were okay.

  Once we got permission to leave the hospital, we got back to Salt Lake City as soon as possible. If we had any indication from the doctors that it would have been in our best interest to remain in New York, we would have done it. They assured us that nothing more was to be done except to wait to see if the drugs had the desired effect on Tatum’s tumor. We were also reassured because our friend with the medical background was a former registered nurse, and he could monitor the incision on Tatum’s leg and take all the steps necessary in case something happened. The doctors kept telling us that we were in good hands and were comfortable in having us leave.

  In our minds, the major challenge was over—the procedure was done—and the rest was out of our hands. That wasn’t the most comfortable place for either Candace or I to be in. We’re both take-charge kind of people, but we’d trusted in what our friend had told us and then the doctors. Everything had worked out as well as could be expected. We just had to let go and trust that we’d done the best we could, prepared ourselves and executed the game plan to the best of our abilities. We put our faith in God, comfortable in knowing what a prayer warrior Candace had been throughout this time.

  Despite the many times I’d played in either New York or New Jersey and my having lived in Los Angeles for much of my early adulthood, the drive through the west side of Manhattan to the Lincoln Tunnel didn’t do much to settle my nerves. I couldn’t help but think of Tatum’s delicate physiology and be amazed that these potent drugs had worked their way through her veins and arteries. In some ways I wished that when we came out on the New Jersey side of the Lincoln Tunnel that we’d be on the other side of this crisis. In some ways we were, but it felt like being in the waiting room prior to the procedure, with little we could do to help Tatum. More waiting was ahead of us, but something told me that I could do more.

  Once we reached our cruising altitude and were making our way west, thoughts of our play-off series crept back in. I’d done the right thing by my family, and I had another job and another group of people I was beholden to. If I could help that second group out, I wanted to. I wasn’t certain if I was capable of shutting out everything that had transpired in the previous few days, but if nothing else, maybe by being there I’d lend an emotional hand to my teammates. I had placed a second call to the Jazz’s front-office personnel to let them know I was heading home. No one asked if I was coming to the arena, and I hadn’t volunteered any further information. I appreciated that no one in the Jazz organization put me under any kind of pressure to play that night. I still wasn’t certain as we flew over the darkening fields of the Midwest if I was even on the active roster for that night.

  Another “coincidence” played in my favor. Our series was against the Golden State Warriors, a team I had played for from 2004 to 2006. I’d been traded just that off-season, and while some of the personnel had changed, I was still familiar enough with their tendencies to feel comfortable playing against them. I had missed the first game of the series, a game we’d pulled out after trailing by 3 at halftime and by 5 going into the fourth quarter. The Warriors up-tempo style and the performance of their guards Stephen Jackson and Baron Davis, who had combined for 40 points, made me think that I might be needed. Our guards Dee Brown and Deron Williams had done a great job in my absence, but play-off pressure was a whole different thing. We needed everyone on the roster to contribute, and I had no idea if I was on the roster or if I could contribute.

  The flight home was quiet, each of us lost in private thoughts. Candace and I had decided not to reveal any of the details of what was going on in our personal life. While I was up front with the team, I’d been so busy attending to Tatum’s needs and keeping close family members posted on what was going on that I hadn’t had time to even consider what I might do that night, and the furthest thing from my mind was what anyone outside of that small circle knew about the situation.

  When we saw the Great Basin and the Great Salt Lake below us as we banked into our final approach, I still had no idea what I would do if the team called on me to perform that night. Everyone wants to feel needed, but that night I was hoping the Jazz would have the game in hand without me. Once in the terminal, we were all met by my friend and assistant business manager, Duran McGregory. He said to me again how he was thrilled to hear that the procedure had gone well. He told me he had a message from the Jazz. I was on the roster and the team wanted me there if I felt up to it. I discussed things with Candace, and she was all for me heading to the arena. She understood that I had a job to do there as well as at home. With my responsibilities taken care of on one front, it was time for me to do my job. Duran would take me to the game, and a car service would take Candace and Tatum home.

  I was surprised to learn that an unmarked police car was going to escort Duran and me from the airport, which was about ten minutes from our residence in Salt Lake City, to the arena. I was eager to find out how the game was going, and when we turned on the radio, I learned from Hot Rod Hundley that things were not going anything like I’d hoped. Dee Brown had been hurt and taken to the hospital with a possible neck injury when our own six-feet-eleven-inch Mehmet Okur fell and landed on him. Five minutes into the game and the Jazz were down to only ten players. I said a prayer that Dee was going to be okay. I also learned that Deron Williams had picked up two fouls within one minute in that too eventful first quarter. We were forced to use a forward, Andrei Kirilenko, at the point for a few minutes. When I heard all that, my mind started racing. All of this information was coming at me so fast, and I was listening to the game instead of being on the court or courtside participating in it. As the police car’s Mars light strobed the scene inside and outside the car, I had that peculiar sensation of being both in the car and outside of it looking in on the situation as it evolved.

  To make matters more surreal, when we pulled into the players’ entrance and I got out of the car, teams of cameramen and soundmen and photographers were there. With flashes going off and guys hustling alongside me as I strode quickly into the arena to the locker room, I was doing everything I could to keep my mind focused on what I needed to do. I wasn’t exactly certain of what that was, but even getting undressed and then dressed in my uniform helped me filter out some of the distractions. I’d put on a game jersey thousands of times in my life, but that night I had to slow myself down and really think about left arm and right arm, right-side out and inside out, frontward and backward. I wish I could say that a calm descended on me, but I was more like numb, relying on muscle memory to do even the simplest things such as tie my shoes.

  I was surprised by the sea of noise that washed over me when I came out of the tunnel and onto the arena’s floor. I heard a few people shouting my name, and I l
ooked up and was impressed by how many fans had worn baby blue to the game.

  Anytime you come up out of the tunnel, you see the court fully spotlit and gleaming, but that day I really felt that I was walking toward the light. Making my way to our bench, I saw a few of our guys looking at me. I could see a mixture of concern and a happy-to-see-you look. I glanced up at the clock; 3:18 remained in the quarter. Carlos Boozer had just been fouled and was making his way toward the free throw line. I felt as if someone were massaging my tense limbs, easing some of my anxiety. I was much more at home here, stepping out onto the floor of a basketball court, than I was sitting in a hospital waiting room or a doctor’s office. New York City literally and figuratively felt a thousand miles away, and yet in other ways it felt as if I were still there.

  I said a couple of words to Ronnie Brewer, Paul Millsap, and Jarron Collins, letting them know that things had gone well. I didn’t have much time to talk. I heard assistant coach Phil Johnson call my name, letting me know that I was going in for Andrei Kirilenko. Boozer hit both his free throws to extend our lead to 84–80. I walked toward the scorer’s table, and I could hear and feel vibrating in my chest the outpouring of affection from the Utah fans. In the days to come, I would learn more about the amazingly supportive fans and how they embraced my family and me with their show of faith and support. In Salt Lake City, family and faith come together in a unique way all the time, but this was different and special. I can never repay the people for their outpouring of support for the rest of that season. A thank-you can never really be sufficient, but I want them all to know how deeply grateful I am to them and what a cherished place in my heart they hold.

  New York and doctors’ offices and waiting rooms and the fans were out of sight and out of mind as soon as I stepped across the sideline. I immediately went into game mode. On our first possession after the free throw, Carlos Boozer captured an offensive rebound, and the ball was kicked back to me. I fed Carlos for a bucket and was feeling pretty good even though everything seemed to be happening in a blur of motion and emotion. I tried to focus on just merging with the flow of the game. The Warriors made a basket and then we turned the ball over. They converted to pull within a point at 86–85.

  I threw a bad pass a few seconds later; fortunately, my former Golden State teammate Jason Richardson rimmed out a three-pointer at the other end, and we ended up leading at the end of the third quarter 90–89. Jason had gone out of his way to let me know that he was thinking of me and rooting for my family, but like any true competitor, he would have put the proverbial dagger through our collective hearts if he could by hitting those long-range jumpers of his. This was give no quarter and ask for no quarter, as it always was, especially in the play-offs. Stephen Jackson and Baron Davis also expressed their concern, and only later could I fully appreciate how much those words meant to me.

  Despite how numbed I was by the events of the day, the extensive air travel, and the far-out-of-my-routine journey to the arena, I felt the electricity in the air. Not all the buzz in the building was a result of my being there under those circumstances. This was a definite play-off atmosphere, which seemingly soaked in through our pores and fed our adrenal glands. The game was definitely on.

  Those three plus minutes went by in a flash, but when I sat on the bench during the quarter break, I once again marveled at Jerry Sloan’s game-management skills. Getting me in there immediately wasn’t just an act of desperation. He knew that if I had time to sit on the bench, I had time to think. While it’s important to be aware and alert on the court, it’s often more important to react to what you observe while in the flow of the game than it is to ponder things. If I had sat on the bench, my mind might have wandered a bit—I’m only human. By being forced into the action immediately, my body was jump-started and my brain instantly switched to basketball mode. No premeditation, just action. I also marveled that Deron Williams, who seldom got into foul trouble, had earned his fourth. It all seemed part of a larger plan.

  Back on the bench at the start of the fourth quarter, I was better able to focus on the ebb and flow of the game instead of wondering whether I could play and actually contribute. With that question answered, my mind focused more on how to slow down Golden State’s offense. With our guards in foul trouble, the Warriors’ Baron Davis and Jason Richardson were taking it to us with a mix of threes and dribble penetration. With just under eight minutes left in the fourth quarter, we were ahead 99–96. Right before the TV time-out, Baron Davis had converted a layup for his thirty-third point of the night. When one player has a little more than a third of his team’s total output, you know he’s having a night. We had to figure out a way to put the clamps on the guy.

  Following that time-out, we went on a bit of a run. At the 4:52 mark, our center Mehmet Okur hit a three to put us up 106–100. Things were looking good, but with the way Golden State was hoisting up and hitting the three, it was still really just a two-possession game. Just as I suspected, Stephen Jackson hit a trey. Next, Jason Richardson fired up a three, was fouled, and hit two of three free throws. He followed that up by hitting a three, to put Golden State up by a point, 108–107, with just a little more than two minutes to play.

  I went to our assistant coach, Tyrone Corbin, and said, “I can play defense.” He nodded. The competitor in me came to the surface at that moment. I wanted in there, feeling that I could do what we needed to turn the tide. Tatum and my family were in my heart, but the game was on my mind. With 1:13 remaining in the game, Coach Sloan had me reenter. We were down 110–107. A few moments later, the Warriors scored again, and we trailed by 5 with less than a minute to go. On our next possession, Deron made a great pass to Carlos Boozer for a jam. We put the Warriors on the line, and we were fortunate they missed a couple of free throws. With two seconds left, Deron made a runner to tie the game at 113. Overtime.

  The rest, as they say, is history. We jumped out quickly to a lead, but the Warriors scrambled back into it. I forced Baron Davis into a critical turnover just when we needed a stop. With just over a minute to play, we were up by 3 when Deron Williams found me open in the corner. I got the ball in rhythm, got in good bent-knee position, and rose up with my eyes locked on the rim. The shot felt good leaving my hand, but I’d had that feeling before and had been disappointed, but this time my faith in myself proved good—as did the shot. We were up by 6, and I followed up that shot with a pair of free throws in the waning seconds, and we pulled out the W.

  I did something a bit uncharacteristic for me following that three-pointer. As I headed back on court during a time-out after that shot, I pointed to the sky. My faith in God is something personal to me, but at that moment I had to acknowledge that I didn’t make that shot on my own. A higher power, God, had helped me make that shot. Jesus Christ was there for me in that moment in ways that allowed me to find within myself the strength to do my job and do it well. I did another atypical thing for me. After the game, TNT’s Pam Oliver wanted me to do the postgame interview. Normally, they go to the star of the game, the guy who had the most points or hit the game winner. Instead, they came to me because of my family situation. Candace and I had agreed to keep things within the family, but when Ms. Oliver asked me about what had been going on, my gut told me that I needed to open up.

  With tears in my eyes and an enormous sense of relief, I told her, “It was very, very serious. My daughter’s life was in jeopardy. She has a form of eye cancer called retinoblastoma. And the only reason I’m saying this now is because there are kids out there that are suffering from this disease, and people can’t really identify it. It’s a very rare disease. And I want people out there to take their kids to the ophthalmologist, make sure they get their eyes checked, and make sure everything’s okay, because we could have lost my little girl had we waited any longer.”

  I knew that I had a message to deliver. I had to do the right thing, and if I had to feel a little uncomfortable by sharing a personal slice of a sometimes too public life, then I was glad to
do it.

  This book is, in a lot of ways, a product of those experiences. I don’t know that if we hadn’t gone through what we did and received such enormous support locally and nationally, I would have wanted to write a book. I’ve never felt particularly special just because I am a basketball player. I am more reserved than most people and truly felt that what I did in those days dealing with Tatum’s health, and in the days and weeks following when I asked to be released from my contract so that I could work someplace where Tatum could receive the kind of follow-up care she needed, was simply what most fathers, most parents, would do for a child or other family member. I was somewhat taken aback by all the attention the things I did or the choices we made as a family received. I was, and continue to be, enormously grateful for the outpouring of affection and am humbled by the media attention and people’s view of me. On many levels then, this book is payback. Not only do I want people to know about retinoblastoma (Candace and I have started a foundation to promote education about the disease and possible treatments), but I want them to know that what took place in those few weeks was the product of an upbringing, an environment, a long list of influential people, and an agency with capabilities far beyond what we humans can muster.

  As I stated before, I realize that everything that came before the moment when Tatum was diagnosed was preparing me to deal with that crisis. And as uncomfortable as it can sometimes be to have a light shone on me, I feel it’s my duty and my privilege to share with you more of those moments that led to our victory on and off the court. I don’t feel that my life has been in any way extraordinary, but I do believe that I have something to contribute, and giving back in this way is one form of giving thanks for the many blessings my family and I have received. In the pages that follow, I’m going to share with you some of the many lessons I’ve learned that have enabled me to succeed and stay sane in this sometimes crazy game of basketball. I didn’t get here alone, and I’m glad to have you along with me on the journey.