I Should Be Dead By Now

by Dennis Rodman

  Lately, Michelle and I have been talking about taking D.J. and Trinity down to Dallas so my mother can see them for the first time. This isn’t an excuse for me to hook up with her. I’m still not ready for that. Someday, I hope my mother and I can have some kind of relationship, but as far as me finding a way to love her like a normal son loves his mother, I don’t think that’s going to ever happen. I’ll keep on taking care of her every month, but that’s about as far as it’s going to go.

  If you think my relationship with my mother is fucked up, that’s nothing compared with my relationships with women. It’s one of my biggest failures in life. Sure, I’ve had sex with some of the most beautiful women on the planet—and like a comedian once said, “The worst I ever had was wonderful”—but as any guy will tell you, that don’t mean shit at 2:00 a.m. on a Tuesday, when you just rolled over after having a go with some stranger in Bumfuck, Finland. At lunch the next day, a bar a year later, it may sound cool—“I banged Miss Fjord 2005.” But the night of? Get my ass out of here!

  My biggest flaw doesn’t get much serious play in the Beyond the Glory video. They just skim the surface, pulling up the usual sensational headlines. But these were real relationships, not the cartoon parodies you see in the media. Losing Alexis almost did me in; I still wish my son Chance was in my life; my thing with Madonna was as serious as a heart attack; I was in love with Carmen—ended up with a broken heart; and I’m still struggling to make a go of it with Michelle.

  “He gets caught up in a relationship. That’s more important to him than any game or anything else,” Thaer said in Beyond the Glory. “He’s succeeded at basketball already, but he’s never succeeded at a relationship.”

  Too true. So how does FOX handle this major sink hole in my life? They spend 58 seconds on Annie and Alexis, 18 seconds on Madonna, 52 seconds on Carmen, and don’t even mention my son Chance and his mother. My relationship with Michelle gets 36 seconds, and she’s the only woman who’s taken seriously. They make no attempt to figure out what went wrong. Not that it’s any big secret. It’s like I said in that phone call to my mother after Michelle filed for divorce in 2004:

  “I’m involved with a woman—a woman who wants a lot more than I can give her.”

  That’s the story of my love life in a nutshell. What they want that I haven’t been able to give is fidelity. That was the issue with Carmen. And that is the issue with Michelle. Hell, that was the issue with the “librarian.”

  “He is who he is. And he always told her [Michelle] that ‘I am who I am. I’m gonna be who I am, no matter what.’ And that’s how it went,” a friend told a reporter. “And she accepted that until she didn’t want to accept it. Then she caused problems.”

  After all these years, I’m guess I’m still looking for a woman who won’t “cause problems.”

  “He’s not gonna find her, either,” a friend told a reporter. “He finds ones that say they will, but they always change their minds.”

  Then they leave, and I’m fucked.

  “When he loves somebody and cares for people, and then they leave him, it hurts him, and he doesn’t recover as fast as most people,” my mother said in Beyond the Glory. “He doesn’t move on. He can’t move on.”

  Now I’m searching for a way to have a successful relationship with Michelle. Could happen.

  While Michelle was at the Sturgis motorcycle rally, I took care of Trinity, and we ended up going to church together.

  “And it just happened to be that service was about marriage and vows,” Michelle told a reporter. “So it was really bizarre the one he picked—about being committed and being faithful.”

  I’ll say.

  Michelle took this to be a sign from God, and we are now scheduled to attend marriage counseling with the preacher. Hope springs eternal. Meanwhile it’s been over a month since I told Michelle I wanted to renew our vows and buy a house together— still no answer.

  So what’s the big Dennis and Michelle wrap-up?

  “That we’ll eventually live happily ever after?” said Michelle. “Dennis and I are soul mates. We’re never gonna be apart.”

  I hope so. But it’s like I told the reporter: “Even though I’m with a woman who I think will give me that satisfaction, not just in bed, I still have my doubts. I’ll still always have doubts. No matter what the situation is, I’m always gonna have doubts.”

  EPILOGUE

  “Blocking out,” AKA “boxing out,” is a technique defensive players use to keep the guy they are guarding from getting a rebound. It’s taught by every basketball coach at every level of the game from coast to coast and continent to continent with drills, drills, and more drills that players have run “since they’s babies.”

  Here’s how one basketball writer explained the technique:

  When the ball is in the air, the defensive player gets between his man and the basket. Then all in one motion, the player pivots 180 degrees, crouches, makes contact, and backs his opponent away from the rim.

  “You’ve got to sit on their legs and sit in their crotch,” said the late Al Lo Balbo, a defensive guru, “and then use your elbows a little bit.”

  When should players use the technique?

  “Block out on every shot,” said Hall of Fame coach Bob Knight.

  Blocking out is so important that some coaches have started keeping stats on it. Nothing is more fundamental to the game.

  And Dennis Rodman? I rarely, rarely boxed out. First, I wasn’t strong enough. Can you imagine me trying to back Shaq away from the rim? That was the “immovable object.” I was like 220, and he was two pounds shy of a Hummer. He was a fucking load, man, a load. Crouch? I was a six-foot-eight guy surrounded by people six foot ten, seven feet. I didn’t need to be giving away any height by crouching. They’d just reach over my ass and snag the ball. If I was body to body with anybody, it was back to back.

  What I did instead of boxing out was get intertwined with the guy, got all wrapped up in his arms, legs. The ball came off the rim, and it was a question of who could get untangled and get to it first. That was usually me. It was like a judo move, y’know? I was using my leg strength for leverage, using his weight against him. It was wrestling without the take-downs. Some guys didn’t know how to handle that, got frustrated, and if I was lucky, they would start playing me instead of the ball. Now the guy was more interested in whipping my ass than getting the rebound. But I was so quick, so fast, so elusive—it was like trying to box out a ghost—and the guy would end up putting a body on air. Next thing he knew, I’d be sweeping the boards and firing an outlet pass to Ron Harper. The guy was left running down court shaking his head.

  “How did Rodman do that?”

  And I was doing it every night, every fucking night, going against the great centers in the league—Patrick Ewing, Shaq, Hakeem Olajuwon—everybody. They are four, five inches taller, outweigh me by 40, 50, 60 pounds, and not one of them could stop me. And so Dennis Rodman, this small, skinny, wiry guy won seven consecutive rebounding titles playing against these guys with their own zip codes. That’s unheard of—that’s crazy.

  So come the end of my Chicago run, Dennis Rodman, the greatest rebounder in the game, was sitting around waiting for the phone call offering me truck loads of NBA-elite-megastar cash. The kind of cash that makes strong men weak and weak women—let’s say they’re “sexually attracted.”That call never came, and I was like, “What the fuck is going on?”

  I guess once I left Chicago, I left my safe place, my home— where people really embraced me no matter what I did. And people in the league were like, “Fuck Dennis now. He’s not with Chicago anymore. Michael, Scottie, and Phil Jackson are not there to protect him.” When the dust settled, out of all the great players on that Chicago team, I was the only player who didn’t get picked up—the only one who didn’t get picked up. Everybody in the NBA turned their backs on me. Why is that? Here’s one of the greatest rebounders of all time: why is he not playing? I still haven’t figured it out.

/>   So I ended up sitting on my ass.

  If I’d played the full season in 1999, I would’ve won the rebounding title. If I’d played the next year, I would’ve won the rebounding title. But I didn’t get that opportunity.

  Even today, when coaches, owners, and GMs are sitting around talking about the kind of guy they’d like to play for them, my name always pops up.

  “Dennis Rodman.”

  “Dennis Rodman.”

  “Dennis Rodman.”

  But it seems they don’t want me to actually play; they just want to sit there and yap about my ass. Sometimes it can get downright weird. In the spring of 2005, after Cleveland owner Dan Gilbert chatted me up about a possible 10-day contract that never materialized, the Cavaliers denied ever talking to me. After I talked to Pat Riley about playing for the Heat, he called Darren, not me, with the bad news. He was like, “I have too much respect for Dennis to turn him down in person.” What’s that all about?

  Everybody’s always telling me, “You’re a great player. You’re this. You’re that.” But when it comes down to pulling the trigger—nothing. And I’m like, “Where are you?” I’ve got a suggestion: quit kissing David Stern’s ass and give me a shot. I’ll swallow my ego and try out. I’ll come to rookie camp. I’ll do anything except sweep up

  (can’t handle the Dallas airport flashbacks)—or plug in your favorite disgusting sexual favor here—to get back on the court. What do you have to lose?

  Los Angeles, California, June 15, 2005. After weeks of speculation, it came to pass on the 55th day that the prophecy was fulfilled. “Lakers Turn to Hire Power,” screamed the cutesy Los Angeles Times front-page headline. “Lakers Get a Re-Phil,” read the even cutesier headline on the sports page. Yea, verily, visionary coach Phil Jackson was to return to the fold.

  Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

  The same man who had branded prodigal son Kobe “un-coachable” only months before, was rehired to shepherd the 34-48, playoff-challenged Lakers back to respectability.

  “There’s some hope,” Phil told the Associated Press.

  I’ll say—I’m thinking now I have an “in.” Phil Jackson? One of my favorite people of all time. L.A. owner Jerry Buss? Same deal. Whether or not I end up playing for L.A., I know these two guys will be straight with me. And while we’re talking comebacks, why not go for the whole enchilada? Get Michael and Scottie on board. I’m thinking a few people might turn out to see the three of us play in the L.A. home opener on November 3—best be booking the Rose Bowl for that one. Now all I’ve got to worry about is what to do with the hair.

  Sports reporters are forever asking me how I want to be remembered. Well, as a hell of a basketball player, certainly, but not just that. People come up to me all the time, and it’s like, “Wow, you’re not just an athlete. You’re a pop icon.” Yeah, I’m that and a role model and a piece of history, and most importantly, a symbol of hope for people everywhere who are afraid to open up and be themselves. That may be what I’m most proud of. People see the way I’ve lived my life so far, see how I took a lot of chances and not only survived, but thrived, and they’re like, “Hey, I can do that, too.” So I freed people up, showed people they could be themselves—say, feel, dress, and act the way they want to—and actually get away with it.

  So I hope people will remember me for that.

  I also hope my kids will remember me as a good father; my neighbors will remember me as a good citizen; and that some day, somehow, some woman will remember me as a good husband. But if I had to boil it all down and put how I want to be remembered on a tombstone, it might look something like this:

  Here Lies

  Dennis Rodman

  A cool motherfucker A down-to-earth, straight-up, in-your-face, son of a bitch with a big heart A big, big, heart.

  And while I’m at it, if there’s any room left, they can chisel this in stone:

  Reality Check: Don’t follow a path. Blaze a trail.