God and Starbucks

by Vin Baker

  Relax, son. You’re not playing basketball anymore. Don’t be self-conscious. That’s a trick of the enemy.

  Without basketball, there were no expectations. All I had to worry about was getting better and staying sober. For nearly a year I didn’t really do anything as far as fitness or conditioning were concerned. I didn’t play basketball or go to the gym to work out. It was all about spirituality and strength. For me, it was enough to wake up in the morning clearheaded and unburdened of the desire for liquor. If a side effect of that was a spare tire around the middle, well, there were worse things in life.

  My only worry was that I had five children and virtually no contact with any of them. I waited several months before even attempting to reach out to Shawnee, with whom I still maintained at least a cordial relationship. We weren’t close, for she had been put through a terrible time because of my drinking and various other indiscretions. Shawnee was happy for my sobriety, but it took a while before she was willing to allow me back into the lives of our children. There was so much hurt and so much pain, because when my financial demise came, it affected not only me, but also everyone around me, especially my kids. Shawnee had to work hard to hold things together. She accepted food stamps; she borrowed money so that she could pay the water bill and the electric bill. She did what she had to do in order to take care of her kids. She was angry with me and hurt. I cringe even now at the thought of what I put her through. I will forever remain grateful that she allowed me back into her life, and into the lives of our children.

  It was the fall of 2011 when Shawnee and I began speaking regularly. The conversations usually centered on our kids, with me asking for updates and anecdotes, trying not to seem desperate or demanding. I wanted to rekindle my relationship with them, but I knew I had no leverage whatsoever, no right to ask for anything. All I could do was cling to my sobriety and continue to lead a healthy and spiritual life, with the hope that eventually Shawnee would see that I really had changed, and that my intentions were pure. It was a lot to ask. Financially, I had virtually no resources, so it wasn’t like I could improve their lives through monetary means. I had nothing to offer but my love and support. The thing that gave me hope was Shawnee’s innate goodness; she is a compassionate woman whose family has struggled with addiction issues. Ultimately, she came to believe that I was committed to sobriety, and that building a relationship with our children would not only help me in that regard, but would also be beneficial to them as well.

  I began spending time at Shawnee’s house, getting to know our three children. And for the first time in my life I understood the meaning of unconditional love. I had little to offer aside from my time, but that seemed to be enough. Pretty soon we were seeing each other several days a week, and I’m proud and grateful to say that my kids have been the most important part of my life ever since.

  I wish things had worked out as well with my other two children, but that relationship has been more challenging. Their mother took me to court shortly after I became sober and accused me of hiding money and failing to provide adequate financial support. There was no money; I was beyond broke. Nevertheless, a settlement was reached and I have done my best over the years to meet the terms of that settlement, but the anger and bitterness continue. And that saddens me. It hurts terribly that I don’t have much of a relationship with those two children, because I’ve spent some time with them—mostly when I was drinking—and they are beautiful kids. I’d like to repair my relationship with their mother so that I have an opportunity to give them what my other kids have seen: A sober father. A spiritual man who has something to offer.

  Money remained a problem in those early days, though I tried not to become overly stressed about it. I figured that if I could stay clean and sober, eventually opportunities would come my way. A conversation with Charles Smith, a retired NBA player, led to an invitation to take part in an overseas tour in December 2011 sponsored by the newly formed Professional Basketball Alumni Association. It seemed like relatively easy money: travel to China and play a series of low-key exhibition games in front of adoring fans who would not be offended that we were all long past our prime. A promotional poster for the event listed the stars in descending order of fame and popularity. At the top, in the largest letters, were the future Hall of Famers Dennis Rodman and Scottie Pippen. On the next line, in a slightly smaller typeface, were Penny Hardaway, Gary Payton, and Clyde Drexler. Then came Larry Johnson, Cliff Robinson, Mitch Richmond, and Dale Ellis. My name was on the bottom line, in type so small as to be almost unreadable.

  I was not really bothered by it. For me, this was a purely mercenary venture—a chance to make some money, pay off some debts, and help support my children. My contract included a stipulation that I would not drink. There was some partying on that trip, but I was not involved. I saw evidence of it only in the aftermath, on buses that carried us around in the morning hours. One day, for example, some of the boys were joking about what a hard night it had been, and how they were feeling a little worn out. I smiled and tried to make light of the situation.

  “Glad I wasn’t there.”

  A couple of the guys smirked and laughed, as if to say, Yeah, we know how that turned out.

  I was the NBA player who blew it all. Even among my peers, I was considered a train wreck. In a previous life, in those situations, I was the life of the party. Now I was the punch line of a joke.

  I could handle that. What I couldn’t handle was the actual physical exertion associated with returning to competitive (or even noncompetitive) basketball. On a roster populated by guys who weren’t exactly in peak physical condition, I was the softest. I thought I did all right, all things considered. But after we returned from the trip I got a call from Charles Smith.

  “Listen, Vin,” he said. “I’m going to be able to get you on more of these trips, but you’ve got to be in better shape.” He paused, and then he hit me hard. “Seriously, man. You’ve got to shed some of that fat.”

  Under different circumstances, an assessment that blunt might have broken me and sent me right back to the bottle. This time, though, it barely scratched the surface. Immediately, I started eating differently, watching my calories, and getting to the gym on a regular basis. There was no pressure; I did it because I wanted to be healthy and to feel better about myself. If the by-product was a chance to take part in another tour, great. If not, well, at least I’d be fit, and that was a good thing.

  In early 2012 I made a call to Howard Schultz. Howard had been an owner in Seattle but was no longer involved in basketball by this time. We had always had a good relationship, but basically we were boss and employee. I’m not even sure why I called Howard or what I expected. He was a smart and generous man, and I figured maybe he’d have some thoughts on what opportunities might be available.

  He returned my call on a Tuesday night. I was in my car at the time. When I saw the number light up, I pulled over quickly and parked on the side of the highway. My heart was in my throat as I said hello.

  “Vinnie!” Howard yelled, like we were old college buddies or something. “How are you, my friend?”

  And just like that, the anxiety melted away.

  “I’m doing well, Howard. How are you?”

  “Very good, and Starbucks is doing fine.”

  I didn’t know what this meant. I had forgotten the path that Howard had taken, that he had left Starbucks and the company had struggled a bit, only to recover when Howard returned.

  “That’s good to hear, Howard.”

  “Thank you, Vinnie. I must say, you sound great.”

  I laughed. “Well, I’m just trying to piece things back together, sir. It’s a big job.”

  “That’s okay, Vinnie. I understand. What can I do for you?”

  I wasn’t looking for a handout. I sought information . . . guidance . . . mentorship. In return I would offer Howard a better version of myself than the one he used to know. We talked for a while and then agreed to meet the following month in New York
, along with Howard’s wife, Sheri, and their son, Jordan. At the time I was working part-time for the Bridgeport Housing Authority, doing outreach with inner-city youth. And I was coaching a middle school basketball team. I was grateful for the work and for the opportunity to fill the day with productivity. But it wasn’t enough to pay off the debt I had incurred or to support my children.

  “Tell me what’s really going on, Vinnie,” Howard said when we got together in New York.

  I gave him the abridged version, much of which he already knew. I stayed away from the gory details, and tried to focus instead on how well I was doing spiritually. I talked about my church, and the peace I had found.

  “Howard, everything spiraled out of control,” I explained. “I started making bad business decisions with my restaurant. And I kept drinking. With New York, I kept drinking. Even in the settlement with the Celtics, I kept drinking. But I knew that God would pull me through this. I could feel his power and his strength. And I’m happy at church now. I know God has a plan for me. I just need a way to make a living.”

  It went on like that for a while, with me referencing God and faith in every other sentence. Finally, after about the tenth time I used the word “God,” Howard interrupted me.

  “Vinnie, do you believe in God for everything?”

  I hesitated. Was this a trick question? I wanted to answer honestly without detracting from the fact that I needed help financially.

  “I don’t know about everything, Howard, but I do believe I’m getting an opportunity to get back on my feet because of God. I believe I’d be dead without him. Absolutely.”

  Howard nodded. “Okay . . .”

  A couple of hours later, when I got back to Old Saybrook, Howard called. He sounded upbeat.

  “I think we have something for you, Vinnie. We’ve put a lot of thought into this and it feels like the right fit.”

  I was so excited! My mind began racing, thinking about the possibilities. Maybe Howard was going to set me up with some kind of partnership, put me in charge of a dozen Starbucks shops, with an option to buy in through sweat equity. I’d be a retail magnate in no time! Or maybe he’d put me on the corporate fast track. Howard was a powerful man; anything was possible.

  Anything . . .

  “There’s a church in Harlem—Abyssinian Baptist Church. Are you familiar with it?”

  Abyssinian was nationally renowned, so I had at least a passing familiarity with the church. But not much more than that.

  “Dr. Calvin Butts is the pastor there,” Howard continued. “He’s also a friend of mine.”

  “Okay,” I said. I had no idea where any of this was going.

  Howard gave me the name of one of Dr. Butts’s assistants. “I want you to reach out to her. Tell them we talked. They will be expecting your call.”

  I was very confused, but didn’t want to sound ungrateful. “That’s great, Howard. I can’t thank you enough. But . . . what exactly am I calling about?”

  Howard laughed. “You need a job, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, start by telling them that.”

  As soon as I got off the phone, I began doing research on Abyssinian Baptist Church and the esteemed Dr. Calvin Butts, who was not only Abyssinian’s pastor, but also the president of the State University of New York (SUNY) College at Old Westbury and an influential leader in the African American community. I did some reading about the Abyssinian Development Corporation, a rather powerful entity in Harlem, and realized that Dr. Butts was a powerful businessman as well as a religious and academic leader. The assistant with whom I spoke, as it turned out, was technically an employee of Abyssinian Development, which led me to believe that I was being considered for some type of job within the corporation, probably something to do with public relations or community outreach. It seemed like a good fit and made perfect sense.

  It was also an erroneous assumption on my part.

  We met in Dr. Butts’s office in Harlem a couple of weeks after my phone call with Howard. I had done my homework, so I knew much more about Dr. Butts by this time—enough to be appropriately impressed and even a bit intimidated. He tried to put me at ease, but like Howard, he controlled the conversation in a way that left me feeling somewhat disoriented.

  “So, Vincent. Tell me about yourself,” he said. “What brings you here?”

  “To Abyssinian?”

  He smiled and shrugged, and I got it. He wasn’t asking how I got to Harlem, or to Abyssinian. He wanted to know how I had reached this point in my life. I wanted to ask, “How much time do you have?” but instead I gave him the abridged version. We talked for a while; the conversation twisted and turned, touching cryptically on matters of faith and spirituality, of community and education. The one thing we did not talk about was business or employment. Most of the research I’d done was on the Abyssinian Development Corporation, so I was prepared to pitch myself as a strong candidate to join that organization. I thought it would be good and interesting work. I also thought it would provide a decent income and help me get back on my feet and provide for my family.

  Dr. Butts had something else in my mind, although he was slow to release the information. I left that meeting with no job offer and no idea whether I’d ever return to Abyssinian.

  “Let’s stay in touch,” Dr. Butts said.

  We talked again a few days later. There were more trips to New York to discuss my possible role within Abyssinian, and slowly I got the idea that he wanted me to be part of the church, not Abyssinian Development. He eventually made a call to my father and revealed his plans—before he had even told me.

  “I want Vin to be my youth minister,” Dr. Butts said.

  My father swelled with pride, forgetting for a moment that I had never really preached. My experience at Full Gospel Tabernacle was restricted to Bible study and offering testimony as a layperson. I was a man of faith; I had returned to the church. But I was no preacher. That didn’t stop my father from offering a glowing recommendation.

  “He’s ready to go,” Dad said. “He’s been running all along.”

  All of this occurred without my knowledge. “Dr. Butts gave me a call the other day,” my father said, as if it was no big deal. “We talked about you becoming the youth minister at Abyssinian.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “Yes. I told him you’d do a great job.” He paused, smiling proudly. “And you will.”

  I was scared to death at this prospect, but I also needed both a job and something worthwhile to do with my life. Abyssinian would meet both of those needs. It was an incredible opportunity, and one that I figured, in my naïveté, would likely offer significant compensation. Youth minister at one of the most famous churches in the United States. It sounded like a prestigious position, one that carried with it a great deal of responsibility. But it wasn’t really a job. It was more like an academic fellowship, the parameters of which I was slow to grasp.

  For more than a month after my initial meeting with Dr. Butts, I drove into Harlem twice a week, for services on Wednesday evening and Sunday morning. Dr. Butts wanted me to get a feel for the church, to understand what services looked like, and to meet some members of the congregation. I had no formal role whatsoever. I was merely an attendee. Each trip was an emotional and financial drain. I was nearly broke, barely able to scrape up enough money to pay for gas and tolls for the ride from Old Saybrook to Harlem. The first time I sat in a pew at Abyssinian, my heart sank as the collection plate came my way. I watched as people, many of whom were of limited means, filled the plate with tens and twenties. Or fifties. I fumbled for my wallet. Inside was maybe thirty or forty bucks. I swallowed hard, removed all but a few singles, and placed it on the plate.

  That I had reached a level of such impoverishment was unknown to Dr. Butts, as it was to almost everyone else. Howard had told him of my struggles, but I don’t believe he understood the extent of my collapse. One day after service he took me around Harlem to visit some older members of
the church. This was something Dr. Butts did from time to time. He would reach out personally to parishioners who, for reasons of age or infirmity, were unable to attend service. His energy was boundless and his commitment to Abyssinian and its members unflagging. We were standing outside a brownstone, waiting for someone to answer the door, when Dr. Butts gave me a hard look.

  “So, Vin. Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure, Dr. Butts.”

  “You lost . . . everything?” His expression was a mix of disbelief and compassion.

  I shrugged. “Yes, sir.”

  “Really? I mean . . . everything?”

  I’d been through this before. How do you explain losing $100 million? Dr. Butts could see that I was neither lazy nor unintelligent. Addiction notwithstanding, how on earth could anyone burn through that kind of money?

  I shifted my weight nervously from one foot to the other. A flush of embarrassment came over me.

  “Well, not everything,” I said. “I’ve still got my car. Got the house, too.”

  Dr. Butts smiled. He seemed relieved. He did not know that the house belonged to my parents, or that the car, a somewhat ridiculous, gas-hogging burgundy Lincoln Navigator, had been paid for in cash some time ago, when there was still cash to spare. Right now, at this moment? Standing on these steps? I had nothing. But I was too embarrassed to admit it.