by Vin Baker
We played a game in Chicago that winter, and during the trip I got caught by Hersey with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar. It happened at our hotel in the middle of the afternoon, a few hours before the game. I needed a fix to get ready for the game. Ordinarily I would have either brought something with me, or dispatched one of my boys to make a liquor store run. But I had forgotten to bring anything and I was alone on this trip. Additionally, it was freezing outside, so I wasn’t about to leave the hotel. Instead, I called room service and asked them to send up a bottle of Courvoisier. Now, think about that. It’s the middle of the afternoon, and I’m ordering an eighty-dollar bottle of Courvoisier—an after-dinner liqueur. Crazy, right? I mean, who wouldn’t notice? It’s not like I was anonymous. I was an NBA all-star who had a game that night. But I was willing to take the risk because I couldn’t fathom the idea of playing sober. Not anymore. So, to deflect suspicion, I ordered eight glasses and a bucket of ice, and told the staff I was taking care of some friends. A short time later there was a knock at my door. Outside was a young man from the kitchen, pushing a table set up for a small party. Multiple glasses, a beautiful bottle of Courvoisier nestled in a bed of ice, rivulets of sweat glistening on its neck.
As I ushered the waiter into the room, a door opened across the hallway. It was Hersey’s room. He had heard a noise outside and had poked his head out to investigate. For a brief moment, our eyes locked. He looked at me, then at the table, saw the bottle of Courvoisier, and just stared at it for a moment. Hersey knew full well that I was the only person in that room. He looked at me again. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t betray a single emotion. He just . . . stared. And I couldn’t break his gaze. I was frozen, unsure of what to do. Should I lie and say I was expecting company? Should I just laugh it off? Should I apologize?
I’m sorry, Hersey. I’m an alcoholic and I need to drink before tonight’s game or I’ll play like shit.
Those words actually crossed my mind. Maybe this was the time to come clean . . . to ask for help. But instead, at first, I said only a single word: “Yeah.” I don’t know why I said that, or what it meant. A tacit admission of guilt, I suppose.
Yeah . . . you got me. Red-handed.
After a few seconds, I regained my composure and resorted to lying, a skill any addict learns to develop.
“Got a few of my boys in here with me, Hersey. They want to get your autograph later if that’s cool.”
Hersey said nothing, just nodded subtly. He looked away and retreated into his room. I followed the waiter into my room and closed the door behind me. Then I signed for the delivery and gave the man a nice tip to ensure discretion.
“Have a good evening, sir,” he said with a smile.
“You, too.” And I closed the door.
Did Hersey buy my explanation? I don’t know. And after my first sip of Courvoisier, I didn’t care.
Whatever Hersey may have thought at the time, or later, when my downfall became much more public, it’s apparent now that he truly cared about me and loved me. Hersey is a man who doesn’t just talk the talk, he walks the Christian walk. We never discussed that day in Chicago. Hersey never judged me, he simply prayed for me.
A few times I had heart palpitations during practice or shootaround, and this led to trips to the hospital and more cardiac exams, all of which revealed nothing. My body was crying out in protest over the way it was being treated, but I ignored the obvious warning signs.
My stats actually improved as the year went on, and I finished with an average of 13.8 points per game. Thanks to injuries, though, I played only thirty-two games. There were no postseason honors, and I certainly hadn’t looked like the all-star I had been in the past, but I’d performed just well enough to hold back the floodwaters.
Still, it was not a good year for the Sonics. Coach Karl had left prior to the start of the season to become the head coach of my old team, the Milwaukee Bucks. He was replaced by Paul Westphal, a former NBA all-star whose only head coaching experience had been with the Phoenix Suns, a position from which he had been fired two years earlier. As often happens, the coaching change instilled some new energy, and we got off to a fast start, winning our first six games. But we had holes on our roster and certain players who did not live up to expectations (yours truly chief among them), and quickly settled into a pattern of mediocrity. We lost six of our next nine games and finished the lockout-shortened season with a record of 25–25. For the first time in nearly a decade, the Sonics did not make the NBA playoffs.
After the season, I was a free agent, which meant I could offer my services to the highest bidder. My agent, Aaron Goodwin (who was also Gary Payton’s agent), pushed hard on my behalf, dismissed any diminution in output as being the result of the lockout and insufficient time to prepare. It was an easy argument to make; lots of guys across the league came back out of shape and had comparatively mediocre years. My new contract, we argued, should be based on my full body of work, which included four appearances in the NBA All-Star Game and selection to the All-Rookie team, as well as the US Olympic team, for which I had recently been selected. I’d been in the league six years. I was twenty-eight years old. I was in my prime.
And I was a drunk.
That summer I did not make things easy for my agent. While he was negotiating with the Sonics, I was partying hard and heavy, leading to rumors that my behavior had gotten out of control. When the US national team traveled to Puerto Rico for the Tournament of the Americas, a pre-Olympic qualifying tournament, I was on a roster that included such superstars as Tim Duncan, Kevin Garnett, Jason Kidd, Tim Hardaway, and Gary Payton. It was an honor and a privilege to be part of this team, and to have a chance to represent the United States in Olympic competition. I believed that, and I felt it, and I tried to convey that sentiment to the media and to the coaching staff. There was, for example, a rather long and detailed story about me that appeared in the Seattle Times while we were in Puerto Rico. The story focused on the disappointment of the previous season, and my rather precipitous drop in production, and the measures I had taken to turn things around in the off-season. The writer cited several possible reasons for my disappointing season—injuries, lack of preparation because of the lockout—but generally went easy on me. There were veiled references to taking things more seriously and working hard and maintaining focus. A quote from Gary Payton offered only the subtlest hint of what might actually have happened.
“Right now, he’s working out every day,” GP told the reporter. “He can still go out and have fun, but he understands that he has to get up in the morning and work out, and that’s what he’s doing this summer.”
He was right. I was working out. By the time we got to Puerto Rico I had shed more than twenty-five pounds of fat and gotten into decent playing shape. I was also drinking every day and hitting the clubs at night. Nothing had changed, except I was putting in more effort in the gym to offset the damage I was doing to my body when I wasn’t in the gym. It was a hopeless fight, but one I had to engage in in order to protect the money I stood to make in free agency. A healthy player with my résumé was worth gold on the free agent market; a drunk, even with my résumé, was worth . . . well . . . nothing.
So I had to look good. I had to put in the work, even as I was destroying my body. I didn’t even have the good sense to stay in the hotel and drink strictly in private while we were in Puerto Rico. I drank publicly and privately, which led to coach Larry Brown having to field questions from the media about my commitment. Larry was a basketball lifer who just wanted to get between the lines and teach the game he loved. He had no interest in discussing the late-night antics of his players—especially when those players were grown men.
“He’s doing well,” Larry said in that same Seattle Times story. “I think he wants to prove a point that last year was a fluke. So he’s come in shape and he’s playing hard. I’m proud of him.”
Wally Walker, the Sonics’ president, even called me that summer. The whispers had gained in volume,
and he wanted to know if I was okay. I’m sure he was genuinely worried about my health, but there’s also no question that his interest was fueled largely by business concerns. When you’re in the middle of contract negotiations with a star player, and suddenly you hear that the player is not taking care of himself, you have an obligation to investigate. There are shareholders to appease, after all. There are season ticket holders and advertisers.
“I’m hearing some disturbing things,” Wally said to me. “Are you okay?”
“It’s nothing, Wally. Really. I’ve got it all under control. I’m getting back in shape and I’ll be good as new next season.”
I was drinking every day, more heavily than at any point in my life. I would never again be “good as new.” And I knew it.
My agent wanted a multiyear deal—maximum value for the longest period of time. In essence, this was my career contract. Typically, this happens on the second or third contract, by the end of which your career will either be over or on the downslope. After all, the average length of an NBA career is less than five years. I’d been in the league six years; in four of those seasons I’d been an all-star. I was a proven commodity. It wasn’t unreasonable to seek a guaranteed contract that would ensure financial security for the rest of my life.
Rumors notwithstanding, the Sonics wanted to re-sign me, but there was an understandable degree of apprehension surrounding the negotiations. My production had diminished the previous year and now there were rumors about my behavior off the court. Given these factors, it’s not surprising that the team countered with an offer for a one-year contract. Basically, before agreeing to empty the bank vault, they wanted me to prove that I was fit and focused. I was represented by a talented and forceful agent who had no idea that his client was a full-blown alcoholic. Aaron rejected the offer and suggested to Wally that maybe we should look elsewhere for an employer who would like to acquire the services of one of the league’s best frontcourt players. Wally blinked, and negotiations began anew.
In August 1999, the Sonics agreed to a seven-year deal worth $86.6 million. This made me the beneficiary of the most lucrative deal ever offered to an athlete from the state of Connecticut. Bigger than Ray Allen’s deal. Bigger than Marcus Camby, Mo Vaughn, or Steve Young. Me—Vin Baker. The preacher’s son from Old Saybrook. It was mind-boggling. I didn’t feel bad about taking the money—it was further proof that I could abuse my body and still play professional basketball at the highest level.
I was invincible. I could get away with anything.
There was, however, just one little catch: I had to pass a very comprehensive physical examination. If something unusual was revealed through the physical, the contract would be nullified. This did not concern me as much as it should have. A thorough physical exam accompanies every new contract—it’s a way for teams to protect their investment. All part of due diligence. I flew out to Seattle from Connecticut a couple of days before the signing, accompanied by my mother. Very briefly, during the days leading up to the deal, I had made a halfhearted attempt to cut back on the drinking. I still drank, but I prayed a bit, vowed to God that this deal represented not just a bullet dodged, but an opportunity to turn my life around. He had watched over me, given me a second chance when perhaps I did not deserve one. In return, I would be a different man.
But I didn’t mean it.
The night before my physical, I got a call from one of my buddies.
“Let’s go out and celebrate,” he said.
“Nah, I’m in with the docs for a couple hours tomorrow. Gotta be good.”
He pressed. “Nothing heavy, V. Just a couple drinks. You’ve earned it, bro.”
Yeah, you’re right. I’ve earned it.
We went out, had a couple of drinks, and that was it. I didn’t get drunk, didn’t go overboard. The next morning I woke early, took a long shower, and went to my physical. Didn’t drink that morning, either, because I wanted to be completely clean. But here’s the problem: I hadn’t anticipated that by the time I got to the doctor’s office, I’d be dealing with some fairly serious withdrawal symptoms, the most disconcerting of which was an irregular heartbeat. My heart would race, then settle into a normal rhythm. Then it would race again. I could feel my pulse in my throat. I broke out in a cold sweat, the result of both withdrawal and nervousness. Waves of nausea washed over me. For a moment I thought I might throw up right there in the office. I could almost see my contract going up in smoke.
“Mr. Baker, are you all right?” one of the nurses asked.
“Yeah, I’m not sure what’s going on. Maybe just a little nervous.”
She smiled. “Let’s try something different, and then we’ll run the EKG again.”
“Okay, thanks.”
The nurse held up a hand, two fingers extended. “Take your two fingers, and press them right here”—she applied pressure to the back of her neck, near the base of her skull. “It has a calming effect.”
I did as instructed, and almost instantly my heart began to slow. I pressed harder, moved my fingers around in a small circle, and the nausea receded.
“Pretty cool, huh?” she said.
“Yeah . . . thank you. That’s much better.”
If not for the kindness of that nurse, I might well have failed my physical. Her advice and compassion was worth $86.6 million. After a few minutes she administered the EKG once again, and this time the results were normal. As was every other aspect of my physical exam. I left the hospital and signed my contract that very day. The next night I went out to celebrate with my drinking buddy, GP. When he saw me, he burst out laughing.
“Damn! Somebody just gave this nigga eighty million dollars! You believe that shit?!”
And then we embraced. I was still Gary’s little brother, and he remained, appropriately enough, the highest-paid player in the organization, but this contract narrowed the gap. We weren’t equals yet, and we never would be, but we were closer than ever before. The funny thing is, I’m sure Gary felt like my troubles were over, like he had helped talk some sense into me. It was all so simple to him: Party when it’s appropriate, take your work seriously. Don’t let the two worlds collide. Mine had been crashing into each other for years; Gary just didn’t know it. And the fact that I had just been handed the biggest payday of my life was not about to inspire a change in philosophy.
That’s the difference between an alcoholic and someone who is merely a social drinker, or even a frequent and hard drinker. The alcoholic can’t turn it off—the switch is broken.
I became a full-blown alcoholic during my time with the Sonics, and Gary was the person with whom I did most of my drinking, but I certainly don’t hold him accountable for my failings. I take responsibility for my own actions. To the very end, I think he remained mystified that my problem became as severe as it did, or even that it was a problem at all. He didn’t understand that drinking was my crutch.
A couple of days later, I went back to Connecticut and made an appearance at a summer league game, overdressed in an expensive designer suit and a ridiculous hat. It was a “look at me” moment. A chance to let everyone know that I was special, that I had money to burn. But no one said anything. I was still the hometown hero, and everyone seemed happy for me. A story appeared in the Hartford Courant about how hard I was working to get back in shape, proving I deserved the fat contract; this was in stark contrast to a column that appeared in the Seattle Times in which the writer basically accused me of stealing from the Sonics. The Courant story painted a picture of an all-star who had gone soft in his contract year, a good guy who had perhaps allowed himself to get too far out of shape during the lockout, but who remained one of the league’s best players and a fundamentally decent person.
The preacher’s kid.
I got away with a lot because of my reputation, because I was in fact a moral human being, albeit one who had clearly lost his way. The ink on my contract was barely dry when I started giving away money—not only to friends and family members, but t
o various charitable entities as well. I liked being thought of as a generous man, as someone who would never forget his roots and his Christian upbringing. That I was living an entirely different life from the one I shared with the public was almost beside the point. This was my way of atoning. I’d gotten away with an $86 million heist. I had to do something to make up for it.
10
A Fractured Life
The official diagnosis was “depression.” That was the consensus among several counselors and doctors I saw in the summer and fall of 1999, consultations mandated by the Sonics (Wally Walker in particular) to ensure that the team was making a wise investment. The heart palpitations and anxiety attacks were actually a direct result of my heavy drinking, but both are also symptomatic of depression, so it was easy to reach for that diagnosis. Honestly, though? I wasn’t depressed. I was strip-clubbing and drinking. The only time I got depressed was when I got caught. But I was perfectly happy to agree that I was depressed if it would deflect attention away from the real problem.
Not that the therapy sessions weren’t painful. They were—excruciatingly so, at times. But not for the reasons you might expect. I would admit to being sad, and to having feelings of inadequacy and fear, but I couldn’t reveal the truth. I’d just taken more than $86 million from my employer. If I admitted to being an alcoholic, I risked all of that. So I would sit there on the therapist’s couch, the tears streaming down my cheeks—honest tears, real tears—but unable to reveal why I was crying.
It was horrible, and it actually made me feel worse. I was enduring the agony of therapy, without the soul-baring catharsis that makes it all worthwhile. In short, it made me even sicker because the entire process was built on a foundation of lies.