by Craig Sager
I have played more rounds of golf with Junior than with anyone else. There is drinking, wagering, and a lot of smack talk when we play. But it’s a way for us to connect. After knee surgery ended my birthday tradition of running one lap for each year of my life, I turned to holes of golf. You can imagine what sixty-four holes of golf over three courses in one day can do.
I remember, when Junior was about sixteen, we played a round on Father’s Day and he beat me for the first time in his life. And make no mistake, I have never believed that you should “let” your kids win in anything, so I did my best and he still beat me. I admit, I was more upset than proud. But I’m sure he sees it differently.
*
When I was a kid, Dad never let me win at anything, whether it was H-O-R-S-E or a round of golf.
I am well aware that there are two different versions of golf. There is the golf everyone else plays, and there is my dad’s way of playing a round. Squeezing in a round of golf with my dad has been a father-son activity since I could first swing a club, at the age of five. The golf course has hosted some of our warmest memories and most hilarious stories. Each round awakens a rivalry abounding in pride, laughter, and getting in each other’s heads. In the past several years, this has been the most efficient way to spend time with him and escape into his world of competitive fun.
After all these years of playing together, only one outing has ever ended with me celebrating victory.
Every round begins the same way. First we enter the clubhouse, no earlier than five minutes before the tee time. We make our way to the pro shop to check in and ask the most important question regarding the day’s playing conditions: Is the beer cart on the course today? If the answer is yes, we stop at the grill and pack a cooler. If the answer is no, we stop at the grill and pack two coolers. After the cooler, or coolers, are packed with Bud Light and Bud Light only, I find my golf bag and put it on a vacant cart. Half of my clubs are probably in his bag from the last time we played—a recurring problem that I’ll have to sort out later. My bag is already a random bouquet of his old clubs and ones I have accumulated over the years.
Once the bags are on, I make sure I have at least one golf ball in my bag. As long as I have one ball, I can always hunt for another one in the first woods or water hazard I come to, as Dad taught me years ago. Growing up on a golf course trained me for that.
Then it’s time to floor it to the tee box. If there are any shortcuts that offer a quicker route than the cart path, I’m always prepared to take those. If there is a backup because of slow play and there are too many people on the first tee box, I’m ready to skip that hole entirely, without a verbal or nonverbal cue from him. I just keep following his cart and he’ll find an opening and stop eventually.
Luckily, the course is wide-open this time. He is going to slow down and let me decide what color tee box we are playing from. He’ll make it seem like my decision, but we both already know we’re going to play from the blue tee box. I need the extra distance on each hole to gain any possible advantage I can. And if I suggest to him that he should play from the senior tees, I will have to face more obnoxious gloating after he beats me from the blue tees.
The rushing is temporarily done. I park the cart and try to enjoy a breath of fresh air before it’s time to rush up to the tee box. Unless it is a par-3, I already know that I am taking out my driver. Using anything other than a driver will make me an easy target for insults. Even a perfect 3-wood off the tees will get me a reminder from him that I could’ve used a driver if I weren’t a wimp. This is a lose-lose situation. I’m just going to swing as hard as I can and hopefully send a message that I came to play.
But before I think about making contact with the golf ball or how stiff I am without the slightest bit of stretching or warming up, I wait for the most important part: here come the wagers. Because there will be gambling on every hole. My dad will bet on anything: the lowest score on a hole, scoring on the front nine and the total round, closest to the pin, longest putt—you name it, he will find a way to put money on it, often with odds. Even when he plays by himself, he will often hit two balls and wager one Sager ball against the other.
I can hit the ball far and pull off a great shot every couple of holes, but my horrible short game and my average putting are no comparison to his. The better he plays, the more fun he is having. The more fun he has, the better he plays, and he is always having fun on the golf course. The rounds always start out competitive, but by the back nine I’m trying to regain momentum and stay focused, while he is sipping a Bud Light between birdies and pars and pushing me to pick up the pace. The second I lose my grip on the round, it is over. Before I know it, he’ll be singing Queen’s “We Are the Champions” on the eighteenth green, while I have to wait for him to get to his favorite verse so he can point to me while reciting, “No time for losers, ’cause we are the champions…”
If that’s not demoralizing enough, then I have to hear the story of the first time I beat him, when I unwisely told him after the round that he would never beat me again.
“That was the best thing you could have ever told me, son,” he said. “Thank you.”
But not every outing is a father-son battle, and when we are on the same team, it can be even more frenzied and competitive when our forces combine. On his fifty-first birthday, we woke up at the crack of dawn to squeeze in our new favorite tradition. On the thirty-sixth hole of the day, I got my first and only hole in one. I was fourteen years old at the time, and he bragged about it to every person we ran into the rest of the day, “This jerk just got a hole in one on my birthday!”
Whenever we played on the same team in tournaments over the years, it was always a party. No team was going to have more fun or take winning more seriously than ours. The more prizes and ways to gamble the better, and there is no better teammate to have in this environment than him. Every best-ball or scramble tournament we play in allows a team to drop their ball a club length from where it lands. He’s taken that to a whole new level. He and his fifty-inch driver have always kept our teams out of trouble. Over time, I witnessed him go into creeks, ponds, and lakes to use this club-length rule, and all of his golfing friends could share a dozen more stories about his aquatic interpretations of the rules.
Since my dad got sick, I have played with him several times. He has worn a port in his arm and chest, bandages, layers of clothes, big hats, and even surgical masks and I have still not come close to beating him any of those times. Sure, we aren’t pounding Bud Lights like we used to, and the long-drive competitions are no longer included in the list of prop bets, but these outings have been such an important source of my own strength throughout the past two years.
Each hole is like a new lease on life.
27
CAN’T STOP
On the second floor of the MD Anderson outpatient building, just above the main lobby, sits a spacious waiting room, almost the square footage of a basketball court. There are chairs and sofas and magazines, and the area is flush with sunlight from the high-paneled windows. Patients and their loved ones are everywhere, as this is where patients come to check in and wait for blood tests or to receive their chemo treatments. You can see the anguish and fatigue on the faces of many, but you can also see the hope and optimism of others.
It was early April, and I had just wrapped up the NBA regular season and returned to Houston for my eight days of chemo and a checkin with Dr. Pemmaraju. By now I had the routine down pat. I knew the registration staff, the nurses, the doctors, even some of the custodians.
As I was checking in, a woman who looked to be in her sixties approached me at the registration desk.
“Mr. Sager?” she sheepishly asked, almost embarrassed to bother me. “I just want you to know that I am praying for you and that your fight is inspiring to many.”
Now, strangers had shared similar sentiments before, but there was something so special about the words from this woman. She turned to point out her husband in a wheelc
hair and her grandson who had come along from Arkansas; they were seeking a miracle. They were at MD Anderson for the very first time that day, just beginning their journey.
“We are here because of you,” the woman continued, and she introduced herself as Shirley Burns. “We saw that HBO story and we figured whatever hospital you were getting treatment at is where we need to be, and here we are.”
After a few more minutes of encouraging words, she asked if she could pray with me.
Now, when I was younger, church was a big deal in Batavia, and though my parents were not diehards, they did make me attend religious school every Sunday. Back in those days, children who attended religious school at my church for thirteen straight Sundays were awarded a pin, and so each and every week I went, waiting till my thirteenth Sunday in a row to get that pin. When the Sunday school teacher insisted that I had attended for only twelve straight weeks, not thirteen, my mother was furious and told me, “Don’t go back!” I switched denominations and started going to another church with John Clark.
I believe in God, and while I have not attended church regularly for the past two years on doctor’s orders, to avoid crowds, I do believe in the power of prayer. I pray each night before I sleep, thanking God for providing me with a wonderful day, and I pray for Stacy and all five of my children. Do I believe in heaven? Sure, but I don’t like talking about it.
Since my diagnosis, friends and strangers alike have sent me kind notes quoting various verses from the Bible, but based on my experience, many of the true believers struggle to explain the context and the meaning of the words. At MD Anderson, they have a minister on call, to pray with a family or to deliver last rites. Whenever he has stopped by my room to offer his company, I tell him I will gladly accept prayers, but when he offers time to play cards I tell him only if it is for money, and he quickly retreats down the hall.
Anyway, there I was, right in the middle of the hospital waiting room, sitting in a chair holding hands with a stranger as she held her husband’s hand on the other side. She asked the Lord to give us both strength and to watch over us. When it was over, we hugged.
Later that day, Dr. Pemmaraju and I discussed next steps, including a still possible third stem cell transplant but from a donor other than Junior, though he acknowledged that we were a long way off from any real transplant discussion. Dr. P decided to stick with the cycle of Vidaza and Lirilumab to see where it would take us. The report was not good, but it could have been worse.
It was a full eight days in Houston, shuttling between floors and doctors and more tests. It’s funny, I forget the early days of my stay at MDA, when I would notice the pamphlets on the shelf explaining the basics of AML and I would look at every fellow patient and wonder how they stacked up against my fight.
*
I have known NBA All-Star Dwight Howard since he was a high school legend at Southwest Atlanta Christian Academy and have followed him closely from the time he was the number-one overall pick for Orlando and spent time in Los Angeles before coming to the Houston Rockets. (In the summer of 2016 he went home to play for the Atlanta Hawks.) Dwight was one of the first players to reach out to me after my diagnosis in 2014. It should have been no surprise that, on short notice, his foundation organized a blood drive in my honor on April 13 as the Rockets took on Sacramento and planned to recognize me at the game that night. Throughout the day, the local chapters of the Gulf Coast Regional Blood Center took donations at the Toyota Center so that perhaps, one day, they could save someone’s life.
I dressed in my best red plaid jacket, red pants, and red Nikes (all FedExed to me by Stacy in Atlanta) and made my way to the arena early with some friends—Steve Henry, John Clark, John’s son Jim, and Chris Landmesser. As soon as I exited the car in the parking lot, I was greeted with friendly smiles, kind words, and requests for selfies. From the guys on the street corner scalping tickets—many of whom I recognized from my visits through the years—to the security personnel to even the concession sellers, everyone offered words of encouragement and high fives. I made it a point to walk around the outside of the arena to where donors were still lined up to give blood. I met with the Blood Center staff, spoke with donors, and walked through all three donation trucks, where men and women, young and old, all colors, were lying down with needles in their arms. I even ran into Kim Presson, my physical therapist from MDA, who had been so encouraging during my exercise classes. It meant so much to me.
During a timeout in the first half of the game, the Rockets’ public address announcer introduced me to the crowd as they showed me on the video board. I waved and blew kisses to the fans as they stood and cheered.
The following day, Friday, April 15, I had an afternoon reprieve from my chemo and tests at MDA, and three buddies and I went to the Wildcat Golf Club in Houston to play a round. Now, to be fair, the doctors at MDA advised against my playing golf or engaging in any type of physical activity, as my platelets and red blood cells were still low and they were concerned about bleeding. But I had always taken care of myself and was not going to waste a beautiful afternoon by sitting around in a hotel.
Dr. Pemmaraju wants all of his patients to enjoy the life that they have while battling the disease, and he has some basic rules for me to follow as I go about doing the things that I love. I must be on multiple antibiotics at all times; I must get blood work done every few days, so that doctors can proactively give me a blood transfusion if warranted; I have to wear a mask on airplanes, continually wash my hands, and otherwise avoid germs. But, boy, am I grateful for the physical condition I kept myself in leading up to my illness. I am in fairly strong shape for a sixty-five-year-old, and my body has tolerated very toxic levels of chemo over the past two years. Yes, I lost my hair at one point, but no vomiting, no nausea, no body rejection of the chemo, and no memory loss, which I’m told is very rare. Fewer than 5 percent of AML patients at my stage and level can function as fully as I have been during long stretches of my illness.
After we played eighteen holes, I felt okay. When John Clark accidently rammed his golf cart into mine, it gave me a jolt but also some contagious laughs.
“Let’s keep playing,” I insisted after we were done with eighteen. I was starting to feel a little tired but figured I would push through, as always. On the twenty-first hole of the day, my nose started to bleed. And bleed. I could not stop the bleeding. I thought about the doctors’ concern about me bleeding, which, in my case, could actually lead to death. I put a towel around my nose and my buddies drove me back to MDA, where nurses finally stopped the bleeding and gave me yet another transfusion. And a few looks of I told you so.
I shrugged and smiled like the Cheshire cat.
As the NBA playoffs neared, I was even more invigorated and determined to continue working while receiving treatment. I knew that I needed to be in Houston for the monthly eight-day cycles, and it was also the optimal place for me to receive blood transfusions and platelet refills, as there was danger of infections and potential adverse reactions. On days that I would receive chemo, a transfusion, and platelets, it could take up to eight hours in the hospital.
I was hoping to be assigned to an early-round playoff series in Houston, Dallas, San Antonio, or Oklahoma City, as I could make the commute to MD Anderson to receive treatment and still never miss a game. However, Turner assigned me to the Cleveland–Detroit series, and we quickly researched hospitals where I could receive care and have my levels checked.
I felt weak during the series—perhaps the travel and the chemo were catching up with me—but I was buoyed whenever I was in the arena by everyone’s kind words and hugs. When my platelet levels hit rock bottom, which is basically “walking dead,” I received a blood transfusion and platelets at Sinai-Grace Hospital in Detroit, but I never missed an interview, press conference, or moment of a game.
For the Western Conference semifinals, I was assigned the San Antonio–Oklahoma City series which was great for many reasons: I knew it would be a good series, I love
both cities, and I would be able to commute to Houston every day for my eight days of chemo in May. It started on May 9, when I flew in from Oklahoma City for a round of blood tests, chemo, and a consultation with Dr. Pemmaraju. Again, there was not much progress, and my blasts had inched upward a few percentage points. He wanted me to go through the current round of chemo, but we began to discuss searching for a new clinical trial. Discussions of the transplant remained on hold.
On Tuesday, May 10, I received an early-morning chemo treatment, then got into a car for a three-hour drive to San Antonio, to work the Spurs–Thunder game that night. As soon as I arrived at my hotel, the front desk relayed to me that an elderly woman had been awaiting my arrival for two days. I asked the desk clerk if she could give me more information, but alas, the elderly lady had declined to leave a message or a name.
I ran into Turner colleague Chris Webber in the lobby of the hotel, and, after exchanging pleasantries he, too, told me about an elderly lady looking for me. Just as I was about to ask if anyone had anything more than “elderly lady,” a regally dressed woman rushed up to me and started to cry.
She wore brown pants with a coral blouse, a beautiful woman looking more like Betty White from The Golden Girls than Granny from The Beverly Hillbillies.
“Mr. Sager, I am Grandma Carla,” she was able to get out.
It turned out that the eighty-five-year-old grandma, Carla Gomez, had flown down from Chicago just to have a chance to meet me.
“Your story is so different from anyone else’s story,” she shared with me through tears while grasping my hand. “You are so positive and seem to find the good in every situation.” She went on tell me about her life. A lifelong sports fan who was at the game when Jackie Robinson stole home and who was once a professional ballroom dancer, Carla lives on the lake in Chicago, near Wrigley Field. A mother of five, grandmother of eight, and great-grandmother of two, Carla shared my outlook on life and radiated love and happiness.