God and Starbucks

by Vin Baker

  Remarkably, given the amount I was drinking, I played pretty well that year. I wasn’t an all-star, but I was still the second-leading scorer on the team (16.6 points per game) and the second-leading rebounder (7.7 per game). Admittedly, neither of those numbers is sufficient for someone who has just signed a contract worth more than $12 million per year.

  With the increase in salary came a commensurate increase in scrutiny—not merely from coaches and management, but from fans and the media, and even teammates. When you sign a big contract, it’s only natural for everyone to wonder whether you’ll still be motivated. I’d be lying if I said I felt the same hunger to succeed that I had felt prior to getting the deal. Additionally, I let my guard down and stopped worrying quite so much about the possibility of getting caught. I became a bit more reckless while indulging my addiction, and predictably the addiction grew worse.

  Vernon Maxwell, a shooting guard who came to Seattle in the summer of 1999 after eleven seasons in the league—long enough to have seen just about everything—was quick to call me on my bullshit. Vern was hardly puritanical in his outlook—he enjoyed smoking weed—but like Gary Payton, he believed there were lines you did not cross. When I would show up at practice, alcohol oozing from my pores, I was crossing a line, and Vernon would let me know it.

  “Vin, gotta tell you. You’re leaking right now, man.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Then Vern would scrunch up his face and sniff at the air. “You’re leaking. I can smell it coming off you.”

  This wasn’t something that happened once or twice. It was a regular occurrence in practice. I didn’t even care. I would just ignore Vern and go right on playing.

  Off the court, I behaved not just hedonistically, but gluttonously. In addition to sneaking alcohol on my own before games, I partied with teammates and friends alike throughout the year, only to an even greater extent than in the past. Strip clubs, gambling excursions to Vegas, dalliances with countless nameless, faceless women—all the things I had been doing in the past, only to a greater extent. The money did nothing to change me as a person; it merely intensified the worst aspects of the person I had become.

  My first child was born in the spring of 1999. His mother, Shawnee, is now my wife and life partner, and Vin Jr. is my friend as well as my son, a fine young man—honors student and budding basketball star whose AAU team I have coached. When Vin was born I was splitting time between homes I had purchased for Shawnee and my college girlfriend, Mora, along with my place in Seattle. Work gave me an excuse to travel, and to be vague about my whereabouts, and money bought tolerance, if not acceptance, from those around me. Until the kids came along, it wasn’t that difficult to be slippery and deceptive. Kids change things, obviously. It’s one thing to be an absentee boyfriend with a thriving career; it’s quite another to be an absentee dad. There are different expectations from your partner. Suddenly, you’re supposed to be around a little more; you’re supposed to want to be around.

  Following Vin’s arrival, I remember one night when I was at Mora’s place, and she found out that I had become a father. She did not even know about Shawnee, although I’m sure she suspected. On this night, though, all secrets were revealed, and it wasn’t pretty. I walked out of the bathroom and into our bedroom, and there was Mora, standing in the middle of the room, tears in her eyes. In her hand was a card, one I recognized immediately. Shawnee had given it to me right after Vin was born. It was a tender and loving card, the kind couples share with each other when they celebrate an important and moving event. You can imagine the details, and how they must have pierced Mora’s heart as she read the words.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” I said. And while this was on some level true, it was far from an adequate explanation. I was sorry that I had hurt Mora. I was sorry that I had cheated and lied. Most of all, I was sorry that I got caught. I was not sorry about Vin Jr. being born. And I was not sorry about my relationship with Shawnee, for I loved her, too. I was in love with two women, and I was faithful to neither. I was a raging alcoholic and narcissist who felt like he could get away with anything. Beyond that, I thought of myself as a nice guy, and once involved in this love triangle, I didn’t know how to get out.

  “I was going to tell you,” I said to Mora. This was another lie. I had no intention of saying anything until I was cornered. “I’m sorry you found out like this. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  Several hours of tortured interaction followed: yelling, name-calling, threatening. To the extent that it was possible, I convinced Mora that my relationship with Shawnee was over, or soon would be, but that things were going to be complicated because now we had a child together. In reality, I had no intention of ending my relationship with Shawnee, or with Mora. Within another year, Mora and I would have the first of two children, a boy named Gavin, and that left me with two families in two different places, and the freedom to visit both women under the guise of simply wanting to be part of my kids’ lives. Both women felt they were the primary person in my life—or talked themselves into this anyway, against all logic and reason. But I was faithful to no one but myself. And so it went for the better part of a decade, until there were five children: three with Shawnee and two with Mora. I took good financial care of everyone involved.

  I actually had people tell me I was being a responsible father, not just by funneling lots of cash to Shawnee and Mora, but by making a point of being involved in the lives of my children. I spent time with them. I hugged them and held them and put them to bed. Did it really matter that I was usually drunk when I did this? The addict lives from one rationalization to another. I was a good and responsible dad, writing checks of at least ten to fifteen thousand dollars a month to both Shawnee and Mora. As a fringe benefit, I was allowed to maintain sexual relationships with the kids’ mothers. And of course the debauchery outside these relationships continued unabated: gambling, drinking, sex. I did whatever I wanted, and still I managed to cling to the reputation of being a swell guy.

  In the fall of 2000, the Sonics’ coach, Paul Westphal, confronted me on my behavior. Paul was a good man, a good Christian, a good coach, but he was under a lot of pressure. We had barely been a .500 team the year before, and if Paul was to save his job he needed to get the house in order and turn the Sonics back into a championship contender.

  Paul was around me every day, and I would imagine he could smell the booze wafting out of my pores; certainly he noticed that my skill and effort had both diminished. Paul did not come right out and accuse me of being drunk during games or practice. Instead, he started riding me, day in and day out. And then, finally, one day he kicked me out of practice. Gary Payton did his big brother thing, tried to intervene, but Coach Westphal was undeterred.

  “No! That’s it!” Coach shouted. “He’s out!”

  This was Paul’s way of sending a message to me and the entire team: It’s going to be me or you, and I’m lighting the fuse that it’s going to be you. Right now.

  Indignant, I marched into the locker room, picked up the house phone, and called Wally Walker. I had no business complaining about anything. I was a drunk. I wasn’t slurring my words or failing to show up for work. I just wasn’t doing my job very well. Moreover, I was in a protective bubble. I was a max-contract player. I was GP’s boy. Hell, I was making eighty million dollars! You’re going to kick me out of practice? No way.

  “Listen, Wally.” I said. “I don’t know what’s going on here. I’m working hard, doing my best, and some people seem to have a problem with me.” Now, this was simply not true. I was dead wrong. But that didn’t stop me. “I don’t know what Paul’s deal is, but for him to kick me out of practice, it’s just not right. You need to do something.”

  The next day when I arrived at the arena, I ran into Nate McMillan, a former Seattle player who had recently become an assistant coach. He had a dour look on his face.

  “They let Paul go,” he explained. “He’s in the locker room right now, getting rea
dy to address the team. I know you don’t want to hear anything he has to say, and he probably doesn’t want to see you, so why don’t you just chill out here for a while.”

  We were 6–9 at the time, not exactly tearing up the Western Conference. It’s possible that Paul might have been dismissed regardless of my phone call to Wally, but I have to believe that by drawing a line in the sand, I hastened Paul’s departure. The NBA is a players’ league, and I wasn’t the first star to have a tantrum rewarded with the firing of his coach.

  Nate McMillan took over for Paul Westphal, and while Nate did a perfectly adequate job, he had his hands full. He inherited a team with high expectations and some significant problems related to salary cap (we had added Patrick Ewing at a cost of roughly $12 million per year), performance, and team chemistry. It was during the 2000–01 season that my productivity began to slide precipitously. I missed six games, started in only 27 of 76, and averaged just 12.2 points and 5.7 rebounds per game, easily the worst numbers of my career. It’s one thing for a rookie or a modestly paid veteran to come off the bench and contribute in this fashion, but when you’re in the second year of a long-term deal worth $86 million? People naturally questioned whether I had deserved such an enormous contract. It didn’t help matters that the Sonics finished with a 44–38 record, good enough for only fifth place in the Pacific Division. We did not even qualify for the playoffs.

  That summer brought a change in leadership to the Sonics, with Starbucks CEO Howard Schultz taking over as majority owner. I didn’t know a lot about Howard. What I knew amounted to what I had read in the newspapers and heard from teammates. Howard was an exceptional businessman who had turned the Seattle-based Starbucks chain into one of the most successful retail operations on the planet. I had no idea whether he knew anything about basketball—on or off the court. And, frankly, I didn’t care. When Howard told reporters very early in his tenure that he was not averse to making major changes within the Sonics, I figured it was just typical owner-speak. Whenever a team has a bad year or two, there is talk of a shake-up. But Howard was more detailed in his assessment. He pointed out correctly that the Sonics were carrying some extraordinary salary weight and not necessarily getting a good return on their investment. Under the circumstances, he said, every person on the roster would be evaluated, and no one was trade-proof, including Gary Payton and me.

  That summer I met with Howard in Seattle. He must have known that something was wrong. Typically, when there is a change in ownership or front office management, or even in the coaching ranks, star players are granted an audience. This was different. First of all, Howard invited my parents out to his home as well—flew the whole family out to discuss my future with the Sonics and how the relationship could be mutually beneficial.

  “Could” being the operative word.

  “Vinnie, you need to make some changes,” Howard said in that meeting. Although he didn’t specifically accuse me of being an alcoholic, he did point out that I was not only coming off a terrible season—one in which I barely resembled the all-star I had been—but that I appeared unfit. The Sonics were paying superstar money for a guy who was no longer even a starter. This, Howard pointed out, was bad business. Howard was not a bad businessman, so he took this personally. I offered very little in the way of self-defense. I was a bloated 285 pounds. I looked like hell. The best I could do was capitulate.

  “I know, Mr. Schultz. You’re right. Next year will be better. I promise.”

  11

  Back to New England

  It was bad enough that I was drinking before games. But when I started drinking during games . . . well, that’s a whole different level of dysfunction. Inevitable, perhaps, given the trajectory of my disease, but still rather startling when I look back on it.

  My in-game beverage of choice was Bacardi Limón, a clear mixture of rum and citrus flavoring that I would pour into a water bottle and store in my locker. Bacardi was crystal clear, so I could walk around sipping from the bottle without drawing attention. I thought no one would be the wiser; however, it attracted attention and suspicion long before I realized it.

  I tried to be surreptitious: take a little hit in the locker room before the warm-up, then come back in before the game and take a few more sips, enough to keep the buzz going, and to allow me to play without nervousness, but more important, to stave off the effects of withdrawal. For the first few games of the season, that was the routine, but before long I was running into the locker room during time-outs and breaks between quarters.

  “Excuse me,” I’d say. “Be right back.”

  If anyone looked at me quizzically, I’d offer a follow-up explanation.

  “Sorry, got to use the bathroom. Must be something I ate.”

  Then I’d take a few swigs from the bottle, throw in some breath mints, and return to the sideline.

  It’s not unheard of for a player to leave the bench during a game to use the bathroom, but I was leaving multiple times each night, and for some reason it never dawned on me that this behavior was viewed suspiciously by my teammates, coaches, the front office, and probably even a significant percentage of fans in the arena. I was blinded by a combination of addiction and arrogance.

  On November 30, 2001, we played the Lakers at KeyArena in Seattle. Got our doors blown off, which unfortunately was not unusual at that point in the season (we were 4–6 through the first ten games). I played all right, had 13 points and nine rebounds in thirty minutes of playing time. Not exactly all-star numbers, but I had long since stopped striving for greatness, anyway; I was perfectly content to be merely productive enough to keep everyone off my back. What I didn’t realize, though, is that once you are an all-star—once you sign the big contract and take the money that comes with it—the scrutiny never goes away. You aren’t allowed to be pedestrian.

  Coaches and newspaper columnists sometimes explained my downfall as “a lack of professionalism.” It was such a vague and euphemistic phrase, one that didn’t come close to capturing the severity of my problem.

  The morning after the loss to the Lakers, I got a phone call from Wally Walker. I could count on one hand the number of times I had received a call from Wally; he was the kind of executive who would wait until he had an opportunity to see you in person. A former player, Wally was usually a pretty friendly guy. He was one of the more successful executives in the NBA. He knew how to run a team, and he knew how to evaluate and acquire talent without breaking the bank. But by now the Sonics’ recent run of disappointing seasons was putting a strain on everyone in the organization. As soon as I answered the phone, I knew something was up.

  “Hi, Vin, it’s Wally,” he said. “Listen, we have an issue that we have to discuss. Right away.”

  My heart began to race. I had trouble breathing. I paused, swallowed, and tried to feign ignorance.

  “What’s up, Wally? You’re making me nervous.”

  I could hear him sigh on the other end of the line. “We know about the water bottle, Vin. And we need to deal with it.”

  All the years of lying and sneaking around had caught up with me, and what I felt more than anything else as I pressed the phone to my ear and tried not to cry was shame. Very quickly, though, my thoughts turned to self-preservation. What would happen to my contract? What would happen to my career, my livelihood?

  “Wally, I don’t know what to say. This is crazy. I mean—”

  He cut me off immediately. Wally was in full executive mode. There was no sympathy in his voice, no compassion. He felt like he’d been duped. And now he was protecting his own job, for which I didn’t fault him in the least.

  “Vin, please. Just stop. We know all about it, we have the water bottle, and we’re going to deal with it as an organization. There’s no debate. Howard is out of the country right now, but he’s going to sit down with you as soon as he gets back.”

  I said nothing in response, just let the conversation hang. I was stunned.

  “Vin, did you hear me?”

&n
bsp; “Yeah, Wally. I understand.”

  “Okay. And, Vin?”

  “Yes?”

  “We still expect you at practice today. Nothing changes until you talk with Howard.”

  For more than a week, life went on as usual. Basketball went on. The drinking went on. I stopped bringing alcohol to practice or games, but I continued to start each day with a bottle of champagne, and I drank Bacardi every night before I played. It wasn’t just a matter of not wanting to stop; I couldn’t stop. I was hopelessly and physically addicted. Even as the noose tightened around my neck, with the entire organization watching and waiting, I did my thing. Incredibly and inexplicably enough, I played pretty well in the first game after my conversation with Wally: 19 points and seven rebounds in a 14-point win over the Milwaukee Bucks. Two nights later I had 13 and six in a loss to the Timberwolves, the beginning of a five-game losing streak. I had six points in one game, five in another. In addition to being physically unprepared for the rigors of professional basketball, my head was completely out of the game. All I could think about was my impending meeting with Howard. I would be outed as not just an alcoholic, but also a fraud and a cheat. I would be fired and publicly humiliated.

  There was no way around it.

  As it turned out, nearly two weeks passed before Howard returned and I made another trip out to his estate. This time I was alone. No Mom and Dad, no teammates or friends. I remember downing a couple of shots of Bacardi before I left, just to calm my nerves, and then settling in behind the wheel of my car.

  Howard is unique in the way he conducts business, and especially in the way he interacts with other people. Here is a billionaire who manages to project a bit of naïveté; somehow he always appears to be the underdog, even though he really isn’t. But I think he identifies with the underdog, and maybe that’s why he connected with me. As I rang the doorbell, I anticipated a swift and unemotional execution. After all, only a few months had passed since the last time I had visited Howard . . . since I had stood in front of him and vowed to change.