God and Starbucks

by Vin Baker

  As much time as I spent in group and individual therapy at Rushford, I spent even more time in prayer, and reading my Bible. I asked God to give me strength. I asked for one more chance. I vowed not to let him down again.

  In rehab, doctors and therapists generally have nothing against religion or spirituality; they just don’t believe in miracles, or even shortcuts. They believe in science. They believe that healing takes time and diligence, particularly if the patient has already relapsed multiple times. I understood their concern. But this time was different.

  I was different.

  I wasn’t at Rushford because I was trying to save my basketball career or because I had violated the terms of a contract. There was no employer or union standing behind me, ordering me to complete a certain level of treatment or face dire financial consequences. I had nothing left. No money, no career, no home, no family. I was far beyond the point where anyone wanted to stage an intervention on my behalf. I wasn’t worth the effort. I was beholden to no one, and that made it all a little bit easier. I had entered Rushford because I wanted to be there. This was the first time I ever went through rehab without a single visitor or phone call, in part because I wanted it that way, but also because there weren’t many people who knew I was there, or who would have cared anyway. It was just me saying, This is it. I’m going to get sober. There were no conditions to it. I found that liberating and empowering.

  I was alone, and because I was alone, there was less pushback from the staff than there would have been in the past. The Celtics weren’t checking up on me. The NBA had long since stopped caring. Rushford didn’t even have to contend with meddling family members. Without any sort of outside pressure, there was only so much the staff could do to coerce me into a longer period of treatment.

  I stayed at Rushford for only a week, just long enough to safely detox. I knew I didn’t need thirty days of therapy. I just wanted to make sure my vitals were clear and that I wouldn’t have a seizure after I left the hospital. I didn’t want to be shaky and craving alcohol or Librium or Xanax. Once I had reached that point, I checked myself out. Technically, I left Rushford AMA—against medical advice. I signed the appropriate paperwork absolving the center and its staff from any liability in the event that I relapsed or suffered some type of catastrophic medical event after I went home.

  On the day I walked out, none of the doctors or therapists expressed anger or disappointment. It wasn’t like I was the first person who had checked out AMA. Moreover, I had not been belligerent or arrogant.

  “I’m ready to go home,” I said. “I’m going to be okay.”

  The same therapist who earlier in the week had tried very hard to convince me that I was making a huge mistake now offered only a smile and sincere encouragement.

  “We don’t want to see you back here, Vin. We’re rooting for you.” She paused. “Remember—thirty meetings in the first thirty days.”

  I nodded. “I know.”

  I had no idea what I would do next; I knew only that alcohol would not be a part of it. I’d been a hard-core drunk for ten years, but that person was dead now. In his place was someone who wanted to get on with life.

  My father picked me up the day I checked out. We hugged at the door, although this time the embrace was fueled not just by love but by happiness and hope. On the ride home I started talking to my father about spirituality and how much I missed the church, which had been the foundation for my life—for everything good that happened to me—when I was growing up. I quoted scripture to him, and he soaked it all in without an ounce of judgment. I told him that I had changed, and that I was never going back.

  He nodded.

  “I mean it, Dad.”

  “I know you do, son.”

  “Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “I want to go to church with you this Sunday, if that’s okay.”

  He smiled, almost imperceptibly. “Of course.”

  Until I got sober I didn’t realize the enormity of the damage I’d done. I had burned so many bridges in the preceding decade that it was nearly impossible to find anyone willing to accept the notion that I had changed. My drunk charm was gone, along with my money. I reached out to various people to both apologize and reconnect; more often than not, the response went something like this: “Vin, I don’t think you understand the magnitude of what you did.”

  “Yes, I do. And I’m truly sorry. But I’m sober now.”

  Long pause. “Doesn’t matter, brother. Too late.”

  I may have tried a little too hard to convince people that this time I was serious, that finally I could be counted on. I had to remind myself that I’d been gone a long time. It wasn’t like the world was sitting around eagerly awaiting my return, as Shawnee pointed out to me during one of our first conversations after I got out of Rushford.

  “Vin, no one cares whether you’re sober. You’re trying to make this a badge of honor, and it’s just not. You’ve done so much harm. The last thing anyone cares about is your sobriety.”

  There was so much rubble, so many people suffering because of the choices I had made. I was trying to stop the train, and all around me people were saying, “Too late, the crash already happened.” The anger was understandable. It would have been nice for everyone if I had experienced this epiphany several years earlier, like when the Celtics told me to stop drinking. I would have had $20 million in the bank. Now I was crawling from the wreckage while everyone around me was dying.

  I had no right to expect anyone to celebrate.

  Ultimately, I went back to the one place where they had to take me: Full Gospel Tabernacle in Old Saybrook, the church in which I had grown up, and where my father was still a minister. I had a lot of work to do in order to fix my life, but I figured it had to be built on a foundation of sobriety and spirituality. If I could remain healthy and connected to God, I’d be okay. I could handle anything else.

  I went to church the following Sunday, just a few days after getting out of Rushford. I wanted to keep a low profile for a while, but my father was so excited to have me back that he decided to introduce me to the congregation. Full Gospel Tabernacle is a small church, but the place was packed that day. My father looked out over the congregation and basically told them that the prodigal son had come home.

  “I took my son to rehab. He was there for a week, and now he’s back! Stand up, Vin.”

  I slowly rose from my seat, raised a hand of acknowledgment, and felt the eyes of the crowd on me. I looked at the faces, some of which I recognized. There was a mix of appreciation and confusion.

  Wait a minute. How long was he in rehab? A week?! And now he’s okay?

  It probably seemed implausible to just about everyone except my father and me, and only one of us understood that it was a bit too early for a grand entrance. But Dad believed in me. Buoyed by the power of the Holy Spirit, and the unwavering love of a parent, he welcomed me back into the fold in a very public way. The problem was this: Dad had invoked my name on numerous occasions over the years, often from the pulpit. He would describe my struggles and then proudly announce that I was in treatment and getting help. And then I would relapse. I don’t doubt that some people began to tune him out after a while when he talked about my supposed rebirth. It’s only natural for people to be skeptical, just as it is only natural for a father to never lose hope.

  “Dad, I don’t mean to be ungrateful,” I said after church that first day. “But you have to understand—I’ve been to rehab five times. It might be best not to talk about that part of it too much. I went there because I wanted to physically get better. I didn’t go there to be cured of addiction. Spiritually, I made a commitment, and I’m going to trust in God. I’m going to pray. And that’s how I’m going to get better.”

  Dad nodded. “I understand.”

  I don’t mean to sound preachy, but the fact is, I am a preacher—a licensed minister. It’s just that my evangelism now is less about standing in the pulpit than it is speaking with youth gro
ups and others who have faced struggles similar to my own. I’m not a fire-and-brimstone kind of guy, but I do believe that by sharing my story, and demonstrating that recovery is possible, I’ve found meaning in life. Fame is fleeting, fortune is a lie. Without friends and family and a connection to something bigger than ourselves—community, society, God—we are lost. Buoyed by that connection, we can endure all manner of tribulations, and accomplish almost anything.

  For me, the first steps back to a whole and normal life involved recovering my health and spirituality. I knew how much damage I had done to my body and mind. Drinking had destroyed my foundation. I knew that I had no shot at rekindling a relationship with God unless I healed my mind and body. That’s why it was so important for me to get into rehab: not as a long-term fix, but as acute care. Getting sober was just a part of the bigger picture, which was getting closer to God and restoring my relationship with him.

  It took strength and prayers to go into rehab. But my goal, and my plan, was different than it is for many people who enter rehab. I’m not saying it’s the best course of action; I’m just saying it worked for me. In AA they talk about the importance of sticking with the program after you get out of rehab—getting to thirty meetings in thirty days, for example, finding the right sponsor and leaning on him or her for advice and support. I think that’s great, and I understand why it has been such an effective program and helped so many people over the years. But I was getting so much from church that I just felt like that’s where I needed to throw all my energy and purpose. I don’t have anything against AA meetings—I went to a few when I got out, and found them supportive and beneficial. For me, though, it wasn’t the right vehicle. I needed something more intense, something from a spiritual and theological standpoint.

  Nothing about my fall or recovery has been anonymous. I’m certainly not going to suggest that fame makes it harder to maintain sobriety, but it does complicate matters. Look, I’m not asking for pity. I accept full responsibility for my actions, and I know that I’m not the first public figure to become an alcoholic or a drug addict and lose all his money. It happens, and a certain degree of schadenfreude can be expected. If you’re stupid enough to lose $100 million, you shouldn’t expect much sympathy, especially if alcohol, drugs, and gambling contributed heavily to the loss. But I was committed to recovery and I wanted to go about the process differently, in a way that made sense for me personally. I had to put the process of physical and emotional restoration before the process of redemption. As soon as I felt healthy and physically free of the craving of alcohol, I jumped headlong into reconnecting with my church and, by extension, with God.

  Full Gospel Tabernacle conducted Bible-study classes every Wednesday night. I became a fixture. There were Sunday school and traditional church services on the weekend. And there were other opportunities as well. I tried to get to at least four church services a week in an effort to restore my relationship with Christ and with God. It’s strange—I had never been at a lower point in my life, and yet I was filled with hope and optimism. I had lost everything—money, fame, livelihood, family, dignity—but in God’s house I was not judged; I was accepted. In church, at least, I had a fighting chance, and it quickly became my refuge.

  For the better part of a month I sat quietly in a pew and listened to the services. I read the Bible with a fervor I had never known. I was raised in the church, but like a lot of kids had not felt a personal connection to the messages I heard. They washed over me and gave me a blueprint for behaving appropriately and honorably in a world that does not always value these things, but the connection was tenuous. Now it was different. Scripture and parables spoke to me in a way I’d never known. They reached into my heart and into my soul, as if to say, “This is about you, Vin. Are you listening?” And I was. Intently.

  One day after Sunday services I approached my father with a proposition.

  “I’m ready to teach, Dad.”

  He was skeptical at first, not because he doubted my sincerity, but simply because I was still in the early stages of recovery. The wounds were still raw, and in that state it’s not unusual to get carried away with the possibility of a new life, and yet be unable to follow through when the novelty wears off or when things get hard again. Moreover, I had no background in teaching or preaching, aside from the fact that it was the family business. But my worthiness stemmed less from theological wisdom than it did from practical, real-world experience, and from personal testimony. I figured that by merely standing up in front of the congregation and telling my story, I would have something to offer.

  “Are you sure?” Dad said. But he said it with a smile, so I knew he actually liked the idea.

  “Yes,” I said. “I feel like I’ve come back from the dead, and I want to share that feeling. I know that the process of restoration and redemption, starting with me praying and having faith in God, could heal me from addiction. I want to share that message.”

  Testimony of this sort—in which a layperson takes over the pulpit—is not embraced in all churches. But Full Gospel Tabernacle, while located in the Northeast, is clearly rooted in the spiritual tradition of fellowship common in Southern Baptist churches. I was allowed to stand up in front of the congregation and talk about my journey. This wasn’t easy, of course. I’d grown up in this church. I knew these people. They were my friends and family. I had been a hero to them, a local boy who made good—who took all of God’s gifts and put them to use in a positive way. And then I lost everything. I had squandered God’s generosity, which is often viewed as a sin of the highest order. I had no idea how people would respond to hearing my story.

  As it turned out, they welcomed me back with open arms. I really was the prodigal son! I had come after years of wandering, after years of self-destruction and moral decay. Instead of being rejected, I had been embraced by my father.

  And by my Father.

  All I wanted to do now was repay my debt, and the only way I knew how to do that was by sharing my story, by baring my soul in the hope that it might offer encouragement to others who were lost or struggling.

  I had returned to the church in part because the church was my family, and I needed their support and acceptance and love. I went back to Full Gospel Tabernacle to strengthen myself. All the rubble that I had created—with my career and with fans and teammates and organizations—mattered not in the least once I walked through the front door of that church. I couldn’t go back to the life I once had, and I didn’t want to go back, anyway. The church was a place where I could rediscover who I was, as opposed to what I was. It was a place where I could be quiet, and I could listen, and the spirit of God could move me, and manifest itself in my life without any distractions, without anyone saying, “Oh, he lost it all. What’s wrong with him?” I wasn’t worried about anything other than my spirituality and my health. The financial wreckage? It didn’t matter. That was going to unspool in an ugly way for at least the next five years, and there was nothing I could do about it. And frankly, I did not care. A lot of people who once were wealthy and then become poor never recover. They stew in self-pity or beat themselves up over mistakes they have made. Mainly, they just miss the comfort they once knew and the lifestyle they once had. Ego becomes an enormous obstacle to acceptance and recovery. From the moment I returned to the church, I didn’t feel that way. Whatever pit I had thrown myself into, I knew there was only one way out: not by scheming or dreaming about reclaiming lost wealth and fame, but rather through cultivating humility and spirituality.

  I was there to heal, and I did that by telling my story over and over, and by starting every testimony with an expression of gratitude for where I was in the healing process.

  “I’m sober today. It’s been thirty days since I’ve had a drink. And I thank God for that.”

  To me, the freedom was miraculous. The fact that I did not even want to have a drink was bigger than Peter walking on water. Not too long ago I had a conversation with my father about the fact that my six-year anniv
ersary was approaching. I haven’t thought much about time lines and milestones since I stopped drinking, but this one hit me hard.

  “Dad, do you realize I will be six years sober on April 17? And I’ve never thought about going back.”

  It’s that last part that stops me cold, that fills me with wonder. In five years of sobriety, not only have I not relapsed, I’ve never even felt close to a relapse. I say that not with arrogance, but with a deep sense of gratitude. I feel like I’ve done the work necessary to remain sober, but I also know that many people still feel the pull of addiction, still think about what it would be like to have just one more drink. And I wonder why I’ve been so fortunate to escape that temptation. The only thing I can think of is that for me, the approach that works is one that involves committing to a higher power.

  I can’t do any of this on my own. I won’t make it without God in my corner.

  16

  Abyssinian Baptist Church

  Let’s talk about miracles.

  No, not the big kind—like the parting of the Red Sea or the healing of a terminal illness. Miracles come in many shapes and sizes, and defining something as miraculous is often just a matter of perspective.

  Take, for example, something as simple as food. In my last couple of years as a drunk, I barely even gave it a thought. Perpetually sick and exhausted, inebriated or hungover, I often went days without a legitimate meal. In the last few months of my alcoholism, I barely ate at all, becoming malnourished and cirrhotic along the way. Food got in the way of drinking. It smelled bad, it tasted bad, and it took up space in a belly that wanted only alcohol.

  As the craving for liquor subsided and the toxins were slowly removed from my body, I began to notice something. I could smell food from a great distance, and it smelled fantastic! Didn’t matter what it was: anything from a salad to a platter of ribs, it all looked delicious. Only an alcoholic or a drug addict can truly understand what I’m talking about—the way all needs and desires are superseded by the single-minded pursuit of getting high. For the longest time, nothing mattered to me except the next drink. My body demanded only alcohol. Now, suddenly, I’d get up in the morning and eat a massive breakfast: eggs, bacon, pancakes. Whatever. Three hours later I’d be eating again. Dinner was a feast. Naturally, I began to put on weight. At first it was good weight—weight that needed to be restored to my skeletal frame. Within a couple of months I looked like a relatively normal, healthy man. And a few months after that, I looked like maybe I was enjoying the process of becoming reacquainted with food a bit too much. I didn’t care in the least. On the few occasions when I would look in the mirror and notice I didn’t exactly look like a professional ballplayer, I’d hear God whispering in my ear.