by Lisa Leslie
Fans really liked to bring sparklers to the games. And I mean sparklers like the ones that we light and shake around on the Fourth of July in the United States. The fans in Alcamo would light their sparklers while our games were in progress indoors! We did not play in a huge arena or an open-air facility. Our court was the size of a high school gymnasium in the States. The fans were also allowed to smoke in the building, so while Sicilgesso played, we had to inhale cigarette and cigar smoke as well as those stinking sparklers. My eyes would be burning and watering, and all the players would be choking. Every time there was a jump ball, the game would have to be held up because someone would be coughing or struggling to breathe. And this was on our home court, in front of our home crowd! So much for home court advantage.
Sicilgesso fans really did get into the games, though. They would chant, “Grande Liza! Liza!” for me and, “Chin-see-ya! Chin-see-ya!” for Cynthia. They cheered hard and loud, almost like European soccer fans, but without the violence. The fans in Alcamo were very cool.
The basketball in the Italian League was highly competitive, but the gyms were average, and the weight rooms and facilities were a joke. Since my team was not in the top division, we only played one game per week, but we still practiced twice a day, so we went through an awful lot of practice sessions just to play one game.
The European players were very good scorers. Offense was a top priority overseas. Defense was not. They wanted us to score, score, score, score as many points as possible, but when the opposing team scored more points than us, the defeat was usually blamed on the American players on the squad. And there were a lot of us.
In Italy I played against Ruthie Bolton, Carla McGhee, Andrea Stinson, Kym Hampton, Michelle Edwards, Edna Campbell, Bridget Gordon, and many others from the United States. We all loved the game, and this was the only place to play it as a professional at the time.
The coaches in Alcamo wanted me to play their Italian style of basketball, which really emphasized footwork. Players were allowed to take that extra step in the international game, and it really made a difference. My coach taught me some useful things about facing up, using my feet to my advantage, and making one move, then following it with a second move. I learned to play that international brand of hoops, but ironically, I wound up using it mostly against Americans. Just about every Italian team had an American post player or a scorer from the United States.
I remember the first time I went head-to-head with Jennifer Gillom in Italy. We each put up thirty-six points and just kept scoring back and forth until we both fell on the floor. Jen looked at me and said, “Girl! You are making me earn my money tonight!” I was just a rookie then. Jennifer was a seasoned veteran and an amazing scorer. She could use her body so effectively and was excellent competition for me. But our skills canceled each other out in that game.
That happened a lot in Italy; the Americans on each team would negate each other’s points, so the teams had to hope that their Italian players were better than the opponent’s Italian players. Sicilgesso’s Italian players were not very good, except for a young guard named Francesca Zara, who eventually made it to the WNBA.
At the start of the season, my team was the sorriest squad in the Italian League. It was like a high school team playing against professionals. Sicilgesso had never been competitive, but our owners thought that Cynthia and I would take them directly to a championship. We tried to. Cynthia averaged about twenty-five points, and I posted twenty-three points and twelve rebounds per game that season. Our team started to improve, but to get over the hump, we needed one more experienced player or a point guard who could really pass the ball. I would run the floor all game long, but my teammates could not get the basketball to me. It was frustrating. I was in a foreign country. I was alone. I was only playing one game per week, and I was losing. But I was still happy to be playing and learning more about the game.
Playing overseas is not for everybody. It takes a lot of strength and discipline to handle being that far away from your loved ones. You do not understand the language, and most of the time, you sit in an apartment when your team is not playing, practicing, or traveling. You do not know anybody, and if you are not open to embracing the culture, life overseas can be really depressing.
If I had never opened up my balcony, I would never have met Guisi and her wonderful Italian family. If I had stayed locked up in my apartment, I would never have enjoyed the wonders of true Italian food. It was so fresh! I have never been to an Italian restaurant in the States that serves food the way they do in Italy.
I had to buy milk every two days at the market in Alcamo because it was not pasteurized. I would walk to the butcher shop, and there would be an entire cow hanging in the store and chickens, too. It was quite a sight. The ground beef and turkey meat were always fresh, and the vegetables, pastas, and bread were, too. I get hungry just thinking about it.
My favorite thing to eat in Italy was a brioche. It was plain, circular-shaped bread, kind of like a croissant. There was nothing on it and nothing in it, but a brioche was warm and fresh and delicious. I had it every morning. At the store, I liked to buy three brioches at a time, but the merchants would look at me and say, “Three? That is too many.” They were not used to serving such a large meal to one person that early in the day. But I loved it.
Once you have had authentic Italian food, you do not want the American version. In Italy they do not use cheddar cheese…on anything. They do not use a lot of meat sauces the way we do, either, but the Italians do a lot with mushrooms, fish, and eggplant. The food is fantastic! You can get baked lasagna in Italy, but it is nothing like the lasagna we get stateside. If you want pasta with cheese on top, or your spaghetti all cut up, you are out of luck. Oh, and one more thing. Do not ask for Alfredo sauce in Sicily. It does not exist. I remember when Guisi came to California with me. We went to an Italian restaurant, and she said in her strong accent, “Liza, who is this Alfredo guy?” Her brother, Alfredo, thought it was pretty funny, too.
I had so many great learning experiences in Italy. But living there was hard for me. Sometimes I was so sad and homesick that I was ready to pack up and go home. But then my family would come to visit me for several weeks and I would feel better. I usually found ways to make the most of my time there. It felt like an adventure, and I tried to keep a good attitude about it all. I was playing the sport I loved in a beautiful city, and I was being paid well to do it.
That holiday season, in 1994, I was really excited to go home for a break. I love that time of year, but this particular Christmas was not so very merry for me. When I got back to Los Angeles, I found out that Marcus, the man I had been dating for three years and was engaged to, was seeing another woman, while I was away in Italy. I thought I was going to be sick.
Marcus was my first true sweetheart, and I thought I was going to spend my whole life with him. He was my best friend, and we had made plans for a life together. Now that was falling apart. My love for him ran so deeply that I tried to find a way to forgive him and keep the relationship going. We even moved in together. But our fourth year as a couple was rocky at best. I kept trying to believe I could somehow get past the pain and trust issues and start over again with Marcus, but when his post-collegiate plans did not pan out, he went from never drinking alcohol to drinking heavily. This new Marcus was not as patient or as kind or as attentive as the man I had grown to love.
One time, in particular, Marcus and I had plans to go out for the evening. He had a few male friends over, and I cooked and let the boys be boys. A few hours later, I asked Marcus when we were leaving to go out, and this set him off. He had been drinking and did not want me to question him. He got very angry with me—angrier than I had seen him before—and for the first time ever with Marcus, I was scared. This was not the man that I knew. This was not the man that I loved. His rage had turned him in to another person.
The altercation I had with Marcus that day was brief, but I was not about to stick around to see what e
lse might happen. I grabbed my keys, my purse, and ran the hell out of there, and I did not see Marcus again for almost five years. It was a tragic ending to a relationship that meant a lot to me.
Life threw me another curveball when I got back to Italy in the New Year. My team had improved enough to climb into third place in the league, and we were playing a big road game up north against first-place Como. I was doing well, and then my knee locked. I was so scared! I kept trying to play, but the coaches told me, “No, Liza. You sit out. You wait. Put on a knee brace.” I tried to run, but my knee just kept catching and locking. They thought I had torn my meniscus.
I said, “That is it. I am going home,” and I did not mean home to my apartment. I meant home to California. I was already heartbroken and spending way too much time listening to sad Celine Dion songs and romantic Barry White songs. Now I was hurt. In all my years of playing basketball, I had never really been hurt. Now, here I was injured, and I was in Italy. We Americans always think that our country has the best of everything and is the best at everything, and that nobody else can compare. Well, that was exactly what I was thinking when I told the team officials, “You are not doing surgery on me in this country.” In actuality, I received excellent medical care during my entire time in Italy, despite all the stereotypical “operations gone bad” thoughts that went through my head. But I was still hesitant to have surgery away from home. I was in pain. I was alone, and I was frightened.
I told Vito that if I could play, I would stay, but I was hurting too badly. My knee would seem fine for a while, but then I would start doing some light running and OWWW! The knee would lock straight as a rod, and I would be hobbling again. I was not going to keep playing and gambling that the knee would not act up. It was catching way too often. I think my body was telling me that it was tired. I had never taken a break since I started playing basketball back when I was twelve. Every school year, there had been lots of basketball, and every summer there had always been lots more. Enough was enough. I threw my hands up and made up my mind to go home immediately.
I went back to my apartment and started packing, but Vito came over and pleaded with me. “Liza! No! No! Stay at least until we can get another player over here.” But there was no way I was going to stay. There were no bad feelings. They loved me in Alcamo. When I left on February 7, 1995, the people were sad and crying. I was sad, too. I had built many strong relationships in a very short time, but I had to go. I could not risk it. The Olympics were coming soon. I had to go home and get my knee checked out.
When I got back to Los Angeles, I sought out Dr. Stephen Lombardo, the L.A. Lakers’ orthopedist. I had dye shot into my knee and MRIs taken, but Dr. Lombardo did not find anything wrong. He told me that when my knees got extremely tired, they would just stop and lock up. If I put ice on my knees and got some rest, it usually would not take long for me to recover, but there was no way that I could have continued competing for the Sicilgesso team in Italy. No way.
According to Dr. Lombardo, structurally, my knees were a lot like those of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. They were strong and solid, and would probably allow me to play into my forties. But when my body began to wear down, it would send me a signal that said, “That is enough. Shut it down, Lisa, or we will shut it down for you!”
I knew I had to listen. With the 1996 Olympics around the corner, there was too much at stake. I needed to get healthy and start training again as soon as possible.
The Olympic prep process for the U.S. national team was much different for the Atlanta Games than it was for Barcelona in 1992. The 1992 team was selected in May and then played in the Olympics that July. The U.S. team for Atlanta was picked in May of 1995, then trained, played, and toured for more than a full year to get ready for the 1996 Games.
With a lot of rest, my knee got a lot better, and I made that team. I cannot tell you how excited I was to be preparing for my very first Olympic Games. There were so many amazing people and personalities that made that U.S. women’s basketball squad so very special. Looking back on it, our preparation for those Summer Games was more difficult than playing the actual Olympic competition.
After the team was selected, we worked out in Colorado Springs, at the U.S. Olympic Training Center. One of our conditioning requirements was running a timed two miles. Our entire team went out to the track. It was so cold out there that your nose would freeze, and if you sneezed, your snot would ice up as soon as it came out. I was the only California girl on the team and had never been a fan of cold weather. I wore tights, gloves, and layers of sweats to try to stay warm.
I was a pretty good runner in high school, so I figured I would have no trouble finishing within the sixteen minutes that head coach Tara VanDerveer had allotted. The clock started, and we all took off. Jennifer Azzi and Ruthie Bolton were the best distance runners. They ran hard and were really strong on the track. They finished first, with Nikki McCray not far behind. Dawn Staley was a very good runner, too, but she would do precisely what needed to be done in the time she was given, nothing more and nothing less. Sheryl Swoopes turned out to be better than we had expected. She finished in the middle of our group, but Teresa Edwards, Carla McGhee, Rebecca Lobo, and I were at the back of the pack.
Here is the thing. I can run, but I cannot run in cold weather. Mentally, I was done before I ever stepped on that track. Even with all the layers of clothing I had on me, it was just TOO COLD! I could hear the wind blowing at me, stinging my face and making my eyes water. I am usually a pretty positive individual, but on this day, I felt totally down and defeated. I hated running. I was not used to the weather. I had never run more than a mile. Yet here I was, trying to run two miles in freezing temperatures. Ruthie, Jennifer, and Nikki all loved to run. Lisa? Not so much.
I was done. Finished. When I could not run anymore, I walked the rest of the way, and when I finally finished the two miles, I stopped and put on my warm clothes.
Rebecca and Carla did not finish in time, either. In fact, it was so cold that day, I think half of our team failed to complete the running assignment.
That was not good, because every time a player did not finish in time, she had to go back later and run the two miles again. The slowpokes in the group, like me, wound up running those miles over and over. We had to keep trying until we got it right. Some of our teammates who had beaten the clock would come out to cheer the rest of us to the finish line. That was the kind of camaraderie we had on that team, but the cheerleading was not enough to help me get the job done. I never made it. I could not get over that mental block of running in the cold. I did not know how to pace myself, and the sound of my own breathing drove me crazy. And believe me, my lungs were working overtime in the thin Colorado Springs air.
I was the only player on the U.S. national team that could not complete the two-mile run on time. It took Rebecca four tries, but even she made it.
Our exhibition tour began in late November. We beat the Athletes in Action team in Ohio and then went to the University of Georgia to play the Lady Bulldogs. The tour was under way and the games had begun, but that did not mean that I was off the hook for my running assignment. Tara VanDerveer was not going to let that slide.
I like to compare Tara to Rain Man, in the good sense. She was all about consistency, and her favorite saying was, “Repetition of errors shows a lack of intelligence! You cannot keep making the same mistakes over and over.” So I knew that sooner or later, I was going to have to run those two miles. But I did not expect it to happen when it did.
Tara gathered us for practice in Athens, Georgia, and told the squad, “Lisa is going to have to run her two miles, and if she does not make it in time, the whole team will have to do the run again.”
Oh Lord! I thought to myself. I had some big pressure on me when I went out to the track, but thankfully, I was not alone. Nikki McCray said, “Lisa, I will run with you.”
I was shocked. “You would really do that?”
“I will run with you every other lap. That wil
l help you keep your pace.”
Maybe this was going to work out after all. “Okay, Nikki. Thanks.”
The clock started ticking. I ran my first lap, and then Nikki came up in the lane beside me. She had great form and really looked like a runner. I did my best to keep up with her on the second lap, and then I was on my own again for lap three. When I came around for lap four, Nikki was waiting, all prepped and ready. I was rolling. I had nice form, and my teammate was helping me keep the pace up. When I got to the final laps, I asked, “Nikki, run these last two with me so I can get a really good time, okay?” She agreed and we ran hard together and when I finally finished, my time was the best of any post player on our team and better than some of the guards’ times. I was completely out of breath, but I had beaten Tara’s sixteen-minute monster. I hugged Nikki and barely had enough breath to shout out, “Thank you!”
My teammates were ecstatic because they had been spared the agony of doing that two-mile run again. When Tara found out what my time was, she told everybody, “That time was so good, none of you will ever have to do that run again!”
Everybody was jumping around and slapping high fives, and we all had Nikki McCray to thank. I have to give Nikki her due. Without her, I would have never made it. I might still be running to beat that clock. Even now she will come up to me and say, “Lisa, do you remember when I helped you with that run?”
“Yeah, Nikki. What would you like for dinner?” We both know I still owe her big time.
Playing with this national team was one of the best experiences in my career. The players were extremely talented and hungry, and Tara was the kind of coach who would push you as far as she thought she could. She knew I would have needed counseling if I had let my teammates down. She also knew that I was physically capable of the running challenge but had to overcome the mental aspect of finishing that run. She pushed the right button when she challenged me in front of my peers, and Nikki’s willingness to help me did a great deal to strengthen our team bond. Tara understood team dynamics, and she understood the game completely. She is the best coach I have ever played for.