Catch a Star

by Tamika Catchings

So my teachers never really knew my struggles to hear—not my second-grade teacher, nor teachers through the rest of grade school, middle school, and high school. No one asked where the hearing aids I wore at the start of school had gone. To my knowledge there was never any record on file of needing a hearing device, no notes from speech therapy evaluations. It was as if the hearing aids and my hearing problem never existed.

  How different my life might be if there were records and notes, if I hadn’t thrown those devices into the vacant lot, if something more had been made of the struggles.

  But I paid a price. I had to work harder. I had to become more diligent. I had to dig into life. And when I did so, God helped me discover tools that would not only get me through school but help me excel in my learning and then help me achieve so much in basketball. And life.

  God took my mess and made it into a miracle.

  During my second-grade year, Dad became involved with the Little City Foundation, which provided innovative and personalized programs and services to children and adults with autism and developmental struggles. The foundation was located near Chicago in Deerfield, Illinois.

  And then, suddenly, the most wonderful thing happened. Dad’s new opportunity meant that we’d have to move once again.

  I couldn’t wait. Before the end of the school year, we started packing and planning the move out of Abilene.

  I began to think how much better Chicago would be than Abilene. Anything would be better for me than Abilene. I was sure I’d not only be leaving Texas but all the teasing and taunting behind me. I wasn’t going to be picked on for those big box hearing aids in Chicago. But there were my glasses to contend with still, and soon I would be getting braces on my teeth. And I still struggled to hear and was extremely self-conscious about how I sounded when I talked, though I couldn’t always hear myself.

  But these wouldn’t be the greatest pressures to come. Sometimes the toughest battles are those we never hear coming.

  Sports had become the one area of life where I wasn’t so miserable. On the court, in the field, at the park, even in the driveway, I could fit in without fear or question. I was at home playing basketball—or any other sport, for that matter.

  When I was in third grade, Mom and Dad signed up Tauja and me for our first basketball team at the Deerfield Park District. I was so excited! My first real team . . . and with my sister. We walked into practice that first day to be greeted by our new team, mostly boys (I think I remember a couple of other girls), and us. Dad was the coach. I don’t remember if that even bothered me. I was there to showcase my skills. Playing in the neighborhood, I’d already discovered I excelled on a basketball court. I could speak and hear its language like no other.

  And if I could be really good at basketball, perhaps it would be my way of besting those who made fun of me. Just possibly, if I worked hard enough at the game, it could be my salvation.

  The more I played basketball, the more I realized how my hearing loss became my secret weapon. The more sports I engaged in, the more I understood that all the learning and coping techniques I used in the classroom would also pay off in basketball.

  Basketball is a sign language, after all. Not only the intentional head nods and hand signals, but the unintentional body language of players in motion that told my searching eyes what the player would do. I learned to read the subtle signs and signals of a player dribbling down the court or behind the line, passing the ball, and making the shot.

  On defense, I learned to look around to see if someone needed my attention. I might not be able to hear what a teammate was yelling, but I could see what was coming. I learned then so many adjustments that I use in the game now: keep alert, watch, look around and over your shoulders, check and recheck from side to side. When I was in the game, my head was always moving to see what was going on, what my team captain or coach was doing or saying from the sidelines. I was learning to dial into my surroundings and to focus no matter what the swirl of sound—a crowd or music or players—around me.

  Basketball became my escape. Basketball became my voice. And basketball became my home.

  I began to challenge some of the kids who teased me to take their issues onto the court. I knew I could win with the ball and the hoop, and there was a little less teasing afterward.

  Basketball helped me make some friends in the neighborhood. They may not have understood my struggles, but I had their respect on the court. I could dribble faster, jump higher, and shoot more accurately than most of them. Born with the hearing loss that naturally disconnected me from life and with a shyness that made friendships less likely, I longed for connection. And now, because of basketball, some kids were hanging out with me.

  I shot hoops every chance I got. On the court, I functioned very well without the hearing aids. And our dad did teach us about the game, although I never remembered a time saying or thinking, Our dad is famous.

  When I got older, yes, there were some opportunities that came our way as kids because of Dad having played in the NBA and his later role working with the NBA Retired Players Association. But—and I think this is cool—there was never one moment when I thought, Pay attention to how we play the game ’cause my dad’s a pro. No, he was just my dad.

  And even if there were some opportunities for me, there certainly were no advantages. In basketball at the college and pro levels, your only “opportunity” is what you do on the court. Your success doesn’t come from a dad or older siblings or friends. It’s all about you being your best self in playing the game.

  And even then, I always wanted to be the best me on that court.

  That doesn’t mean I wanted to speak up, though. I was still self-conscious about how I sounded talking without my hearing aids, unable to hear the sound of my own voice. And this played a big part in my relationship with Tauja. We established a kind of barter system in our friendship.

  Early on, Tauja played basketball because she was good at it, but really we were quite different. She was more of a girly-girl than I was. Where I’d rather slide home through the dirt, dust, or mud on the softball field, she loved playing with dolls. Where I loved getting grass burns on my knees in soccer, Tauja preferred to keep clean and play dress up or tool round the neighborhood on her bike.

  That often made me cringe, especially when she would beg, “Tamika, would you please play dolls with me? Pleeease?”

  I’d give her the look that said don’t even ask because I hated playing dolls. I truly did. I’d do anything to get out of it.

  But Tauj would barter. “If you play dolls with me for thirty minutes, I’ll play basketball with you for thirty minutes.”

  How could I argue with such a plan? So more times than I wanted, I’d give in so I could have somebody to play basketball with—and you could see the outlet for my defeat on all our dolls’ faces. Tauja’s dolls would be organized in a line, their hair fixed just so, their outfits coordinated and pretty like princesses. Then you would find my dolls scattered around the room in various states of dress and undress, the heads off, the hair cut, some missing arms or legs. But all this was better than what eventually transpired between us on the court.

  Later, Tauja would say she played basketball with me for the companionship. She played to hang out with me—and to get to play dolls with her sister. But she wound up becoming very good in the game of basketball, and I was never very good at playing dolls—especially given my tendency toward mutilating them.

  While we were the best of friends, allies in a lot of ways, Tauj and I were also fiercely competitive. Maybe it began in how we tag-teamed a lot against our brother.

  Poor Kenyon got the brunt of most of our conspiracies and jokes, though I was the one who got into trouble a lot because I followed Tauja. Whatever she said to do, I would do. For instance, Tauja always had money when we went to the convenience store on the corner near our house for penny candy. Yes, sometimes we’d collect coins from our piggy banks before going, but most of the time Tauj already had what we need
ed. Who was I to question her deep pockets? She was my spokesperson with an inexhaustible source of candy money.

  Only, come to find out, the money wasn’t so inexhaustible. In fact, it wasn’t Tauja’s. The money came from our brother’s huge roll in a piggy bank he hid deep in his closet. Only no one can hide anything from Tauj.

  We’d all learn, too late, that she was going into Kenyon’s closet and taking change from his coin rolls. By the time he realized it, three-fourths of his piggy bank money was gone.

  And I was the one who got in trouble. “I didn’t know where she always got the money,” I protested.

  I didn’t always win over my folks with my innocence. Tauja would have an idea, but because I was the curious one, I’d carry it out. So guess who got into trouble?

  That’s probably where our friendly competition started. Tauj could win a game of words and egg me into doing things, but on the court my actions could speak for me. For one thing, I was now growing a little faster than she was. So when we took to the driveway with the ball, just the two of us, our competition sometimes ended in a brawl. It would take Dad confiscating the ball to make us stop.

  And ten minutes later Tauj and I would be the best of friends again.

  4

  Pressure

  I could always see it in her eyes. She worked so hard . . . I told her, you’re gonna be great at something. Whatever you decide you want to do, you go all the way. There’s no in-between.

  Harvey Catchings, former NBA player, Philadelphia 76ers and Milwaukee Bucks

  It’s funny how the places that can bring you together with someone can also be the places where you bump heads. As much as the game of basketball brings some of my best memories of good times with my dad, it’s also where we have had our greatest struggles.

  Early on, because we are such a sports family, basketball was where Dad and I connected. Most of our time together has been talking about basketball, watching it, playing it—and playing the game was mostly what we did. We were always on our way somewhere to a game: one of his or Kenyon’s, or mine and Tauja’s.

  I see most of our similarities in basketball too. Dad always worked hard at the game and on the job. When we moved to the Chicago area, Dad became immersed in his job, going nonstop, and he involved us because his work wasn’t just something he did for a paycheck. It was his passion, his life. So we’d do a lot of community outreach events as a family with the kids associated with Little City Foundation. I saw the passion Dad had for his work, and how he loved what he did so that it even spilled into what other people would call their personal time. Work was always personal for him, and it is for me too. So I believe I got a lot of my drive and work ethic from him.

  Dad’s bubbly, on and off the court. I remember watching him play in one game in Italy. It was Valentine’s Day or Mother’s Day—I don’t remember the specific holiday. Mom, Kenyon, Tauj, and I were sitting on the sidelines, and all of a sudden Dad ran over to us with an armful of roses for Mom. Everyone cheered, and he handed them to her with a flourish and a kiss, then ran back to the game as everyone hooted, clapped, and cheered. He was just larger than life like that.

  While I don’t think of myself as larger than life, I love to do things that make people smile and bring joy, and I can be lively too, more now than when I was young and so shy.

  But we’re not alike at all in so many other ways. He can be hard on people. He was especially hard on me. He pushed really hard. To the point of hurt.

  It didn’t start that way. The turn came after seventh grade. We’d been talking about goals and what we might want to do with our lives and be when we grew up. Someone asked, “What is it you really love to do?”

  My answer didn’t take hours of deep thought or soul searching like some kids’ did. My response was almost immediate. I wanted to play sports. While I loved volleyball, and pretty much every sport I played, there wasn’t professional volleyball or professional softball at that time. Back then, even basketball didn’t have a professional level for women. But that wasn’t stopping me. I had every confidence that I could play in the NBA. With the guys. Just like my dad.

  Claiming basketball as a profession seemed so natural. I sat down and wrote my goal on a piece of paper: “One day I’ll be in the NBA.”

  I didn’t write, “I’ll be in the NBA despite the fact that I’m a girl.” No, I wrote, “One day I’ll be in the NBA.” Period. I would follow in my father’s footsteps, be like Dad playing pro, but not necessarily because of him. I was going to do it my way.

  I took that paper and pinned that bad boy on my bathroom mirror, and every day when I woke up that’s the first thing I saw. I looked in the mirror and saw my dream, my goal, right there, and it became more achievable, more attainable, day by day.

  Of course Tauj asked about it. “What’s this?”

  “You know,” I told her. She did know. She could always read me, but also there was my goal written in black and white and on paper for her and anyone to see on our bathroom mirror.

  “Have you told Mom and Dad?”

  I did then. If I didn’t, I knew Tauj would. She was always good at being my confidante, but she was good at getting into all our business too. So I announced, “Mom, Dad, this is what I want to do.” I didn’t ask for their permission or blessing. I just knew this was what I was going to do.

  To their credit, they didn’t say, “Well, honey, that’s nice. You can be good at basketball, but no females play in the NBA.” They never once shot down my dream. I love them for that kind of encouragement for and belief in not just me but my brother and my sister too: Whatever you want to do, we know you can do it.

  Dad seemed extra supportive. He said, “You know, if you work hard and continue to focus on what’s needed, playing pro is definitely something you can do.” Then he went a step further. “I’ll help you as much as you want me to help you,” he said.

  And that’s how it started.

  Dad’s words still echo in my head: “Tamika, as soon as you say, ‘Dad, I don’t want you to help,’ or, ‘Dad, I don’t want to play basketball anymore,’ or whatever the case may be, never feel like I’m going to look down on you or anything. If pro basketball is something you choose to do, and right now you want to play, great. But if you get to a point where you don’t want to play anymore, then I’m behind you moving on and doing something else.”

  A lot of kids would think that’s awesome. And I did too. Of course.

  What I didn’t expect was what Dad’s support meant every moment I was in the game. His way of helping was to be in the game with me, watch every move, analyze it, bring up the missed opportunities or where I could have been stronger. His support meant to push, and he pushed too hard sometimes.

  He was demanding. He was that dad who wants you to do more, be greater, shine brighter. “You’re so much better,” he’d say. “Your teammates are looking for you to step up your game.”

  “Yeah, Dad.”

  “You can give them so much more.”

  “I know, Dad.”

  “Your team’s only going to be as successful as you are, you know. If you’re not taking over the game, who do you expect to do it?”

  Yeah.

  He was that dad.

  Having that dad was hard for me because I’ve always been a team player. I like to pass the ball. I like everyone to get involved. I like to see what we can do together. I never wanted to be the only one in the spotlight. I tried to tell him this once.

  “That’s great,” he said. “But you need to score more. You need to shoot more.”

  What can I say? I felt like his love was conditional at times. Maybe he loved me more when I did great but not as much when I didn’t do great. We bumped heads like that a lot.

  Mom stayed out of it. But Tauja often defended me.

  I remember one time—rather, I remember a lot of times—when Tauja had to step in and still the waters between us. Starting in high school, and more recently in my WNBA career, I never performed well
when my dad was in the stands for fear that I wouldn’t do enough, or I wouldn’t play well enough and would have to hear his rambling about would’ve, could’ve , should’ve. Finally, after enough tears, arguments, and then silence between us, Tauja had a conversation with him.

  “You know, Dad, sometimes you’re way too hard on Mik. She loves the game so much, but sometimes you take her joy away. Sometimes she’s not looking for you to be her coach. She just wants you to be her dad.”

  Dad responded with, “I just know she can do more. Her team is relying on her, and it’s frustrating when you know someone’s potential and they’re not meeting it. I don’t want her to be like me.”

  Of course, that struck a nerve with Tauj and she had to let him know. “Dad, she’s already done more than you did in your career. She’s her hardest critic and you just make it worse sometimes. I think you need to stop thinking about you and your career and focus on being positive to help her in her career.”

  I needed that bridge. As I got better and more active in the game, Dad’s expectations became bigger, heavier, deeper waters to tread. Sometimes I felt so adrift from him. It wasn’t so much what he was pushing me to do that felt hard; it was that he had this standard of perfection I wasn’t meeting on the court, only that transferred to off the court too. I felt maybe I wasn’t acceptable if I wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t fitting into his picture of me as a daughter, the basketball star. It was that unbearable weight of trying to fit in again, only this time in my own family, with my own dad.

  That weight plunges deep into you, hurts deeper than I can say.

  I never felt that kind of judgment from Mom. Whether or not I played well, she always met me after a game and said, “Oh, Tamika—you played great.” Even when I didn’t play great, she’d say that same thing.

  Sometimes I’d call her on it. “Mom, no, I wasn’t my best tonight. I didn’t play great.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “You’re my daughter. I’m so proud of you out there. I loved how you played and put your heart into it. I love you just the way you are.”