by Glenn Stout
Chris Ballard
“You Can’t Give In”: Monty Williams on Life After Tragedy
from SI.com
The low point came last March. Or maybe it was April. Monty Williams isn’t sure. Time blurs.
For two weeks Micah and Elijah passed the stomach flu back and forth, as five- and eight-year-olds do. They threw up on the carpet, in the bed, on the bathroom floor. Everywhere but in the toilet and the trash can. Finally one night, well after midnight, they combined for a particularly messy episode. As his three teenage daughters slept in nearby rooms, Monty—who’d spent a lifetime in basketball, first as a player and then as a coach, most recently as an assistant for the Thunder—stumbled out of bed and herded the boys into the shower, then into clean pajamas and back to sleep. Next he cleaned the rug, scrubbed the tile floor, and disinfected the toilet. He longed to go back to bed but knew Ingrid never would have left the sheets to sit overnight in the laundry room, clumped with all that sickness. Which meant he couldn’t either. He’d promised the kids nothing in their day-to-day lives would change. If anyone’s life was going to change, he’d said, it would be his.
So at 2:30 a.m., Monty trudged downstairs and out the back door into the cold Oklahoma night, where he hung the sheets over the fence. As he hosed them down he shivered and stared up at the sky, feeling lost. He was supposed to be sleeping next to his wife, or watching film, or on the road with his team.
Instead he was here, alone and overwhelmed. How in the world is this my life? he wondered.
The morning of February 9, 2016, began like so many others. Monty awoke at 7, still groggy from the previous night’s flight back from Phoenix, where the Thunder had beaten the Suns. Ingrid was already downstairs, conquering the morning. They’d been together 26 years, through five kids and eight cities, and he remained in awe of her. While many NBA wives contracted out the more mundane duties of parenting, Ingrid would not consider hiring a cook, a cleaner, or a nanny. On game nights she bundled up the kids and brought them to the arena, but only after their homework was done. Then, at the end of the first quarter—sharp—they’d file out, because Dad may be an NBA coach, but nothing overrules bedtime.
On this morning Ingrid was out the door by 7:15, trailing five clean, neatly attired Williams children between the ages of five and 18, all of whom unfailingly addressed adults as Sir and Ma’am. She spent the rest of the day driving from this day care to that high school to this basketball practice to that doctor’s appointment, in addition to making her regular stops at the church and the center for inner-city kids, where she volunteered.
So when Monty didn’t hear from her that evening, as she returned from Faith’s basketball game, it didn’t strike him as strange. He was preoccupied anyway, at home preparing for the next Thunder opponent as Lael, his eldest, watched TV on the couch with Elijah.
Then, around 8:30, Lael’s cell phone rang. It was Faith, calling her sister. Monty saw Lael’s face fall.
This is what the police know: a little after 8 p.m., Ingrid was driving north on a four-lane road in downtown Oklahoma City in the family’s SUV with Faith, then 15; Janna, 13; and Micah.
A sedan driven by a 52-year-old woman named Susannah Donaldson approached from the opposite direction. During the preceding hours, toxicology reports would show, Donaldson had taken a substantial amount of methamphetamine. Police also believe she may have been cradling a dog on her lap. By the time she approached the 1400 block of South Western Avenue, she was in the left lane, going more than twice the posted limit of 40. She swerved to avoid the car in front of her, sending her vehicle across the center line. Impact with Ingrid’s SUV was head-on. Donaldson and the dog died at the scene. The Williams family was rushed to a hospital.
In the days that followed, local TV reporters stood by the road, grim-faced, noting the dark burn marks staining the asphalt, the spray of glass, debris lying on the side of the road. The newscasts showed photos of Ingrid and Monty together, her face frozen in that familiar smile, and her at a Thunder game. Interviews rolled with NBA coaches and players. They are difficult to watch, warned a reporter.
Monty clung to the fact that the children all survived, and without life-threatening injuries. For a while it seemed Ingrid might too, but the following afternoon she slipped away, at the age of 44.
Friends and family descended. Ingrid’s parents drove through the night from their home in San Antonio. Clippers coach Doc Rivers, who’d played with and later coached Monty, canceled his vacation to fly in. Monty’s pastors from Portland and New Orleans arrived. Gregg Popovich, his longtime mentor, reached out immediately. Charlie Ward, Billy Donovan, Sam Presti, Avery Johnson, Tim Duncan: they visited, called, texted. Anthony Davis and Ryan Anderson, players he was close to on the Pelicans, in town to play the Thunder, came to the house to sit with him. So many people sent flowers that Ayana Lawson, the Thunder’s director of player services and appearances, finally contacted local florists and requested they send the gifts to one of Ingrid’s charitable causes. Even so, Shaquille O’Neal managed to have a white orchid the size of a small tree delivered.
Monty couldn’t process all of it. He knew people meant well, but he just wanted everyone to leave. Either that or to flee himself. Frustration and anger consumed him. The Lord could do anything. So why hadn’t he moved that car? Why couldn’t he have made Ingrid leave 10 minutes later, or a second earlier or a second later? Why did three of his kids have to suffer through that?
As a player, he used to hear Rivers tell him the same thing, over and over: “Get past mad.” But that was basketball; this was different. Now a lot of people were mad. Rivers certainly was. He wanted to prosecute someone. Seek justice. The other woman was the one who stole a life. How could you not be mad?
Monty focused on just making it through the memorial service, on February 18. Then maybe he’d take the kids and bolt to some state where no one knew him. Wyoming. South Dakota. Just hunker down and disappear.
First, though, he had to survive the week. He wished Ingrid were there. She’d know what to do. She always had.
They met in 1989, at a freshman mixer at Notre Dame. Monty was tall and skinny, with short hair and sleepy eyes. She was tiny, with dark hair, an electric smile, and catlike brown eyes. Different, that’s the word Monty comes back to. The girl drinking water instead of beer. The one not afraid to talk about her faith, right off the bat, but who never proselytized. To be on the outside who she was on the inside.
So what did Monty do? Like an idiot, he acted too cool, trying to play the role of the big-time hoops recruit. He even tried to set her up with a buddy instead. “Can you believe it?” he says now. “Dumb old Mont.”
But he knows that’s who he was then: dumb in so many ways. He’d grown up in Oxon Hill, Maryland, outside D.C., a neighborhood where, as Monty says, “you could either hustle and sell drugs or just not have.” Often, the Williams family didn’t have. His parents split when he was seven—Monty says he has “no real relationship” with his father. He was raised by his mom, Joyce, a strict, devout woman who worked as a data entry clerk. Sometimes she wondered about her only child; give the boy lunch money and, to her consternation, he’d often give it away to another kid who had none, then come home hungry. Still, he was well-liked and grew into a formidable small forward, fluid and athletic, averaging 30 points and 16 rebounds as a senior and leading Potomac High to the Class AAA state championship. He also graduated with a 4.0. “Never saw that boy take a bite of food without blessing it first,” says his coach, Taft Hickman. “Even at McDonald’s.”
And yet Monty says he was putting on an act. Inside he was prideful, self-critical, and prone to bouts of darkness. He spoke of faith but his was, he says, “nominal at best.” When adults weren’t around, he cussed up a storm. And when he prayed, what did he pray for? An NBA contract and fast cars.
For a young man who could go days without seeing a white face, who barely read a book a month, Notre Dame was a shock. Plato, genetics, philosophy, calculu
s? He just wanted to play ball. He failed his first test, then the next, then the one after that, after which he called his mom to say that maybe Notre Dame wasn’t for him. Joyce wasn’t having any of it. She hung up.
And if it weren’t for Ingrid, he might not have lasted in South Bend. But a few weeks later he saw her on campus and did the smart thing: apologized. The next time they saw each other, at a party, they spent the whole night talking.
Next came joint study sessions. Though really, it was more like Ingrid teaching Monty how to study. Lay your books and notes in a semicircle, left to right. Prioritize. On breaks they took long walks around campus. She told him about her brother and her parents, blue-collar folks who worked in the automotive industry back in Michigan. She became his anchor in an unfamiliar world. Slowly, his test scores rose. It would be the first of many times she would save him.
His new teammates couldn’t believe it. Who gets to college and immediately falls for a girl? What a rookie move. Monty didn’t care. He knew this was someone worth holding on to. Ingrid wanted to take it slow. One afternoon he asked for a good-bye kiss after she walked him to practice and she pecked his cheek. A few days later she tippy-toed up to do it again and Monty pivoted.
The ensuing months were some of the best of Monty’s life. Neither of them had much money, so date nights were at the dorm. Pizza from the basement snack bar, Corn Nuts and soda from the vending machines, then sit and talk. That summer he stayed on campus, while Ingrid went back home to Michigan. They wrote letters, hers arriving in envelopes covered in colorful drawings.
At the time he was just a smitten 18-year-old. It wasn’t until later that Monty would realize that he hadn’t just met the love of his life at Notre Dame, but he had discovered all the things he would become, through her. He’d joke about how his players got sick of him talking about Ingrid all the time, using her as an example, over and over. How when he met new players for the first time, he introduced her even if she wasn’t there: “Hi, I’m Monty and you’ll meet my wife, Ingrid.” But who else was he going to talk about?
The day of the memorial happened also to be the NBA trade deadline. So Sam Presti, the Thunder general manager, told the rest of the league that he had his own deadline, at 1 p.m., an hour before the service. He ended up dealing two players that day, D. J. Augustin and Steve Novak. Both still showed up with their wives at Crossings Community Church, along with nearly a thousand others. Ingrid’s life—their life—was there in the pews. Family and friends, of course, but also women from the ministry where she volunteered. Local police. A contingent from the Spurs, including Popovich, Duncan, and David West, who flew in on the team plane even though they played later that night in L.A. Their opponents, the Clippers, were also represented, led by Rivers, his son Austin, and Chris Paul. And on it went: Jeff Van Gundy and Brett Brown and P. J. Carlesimo and Kevin Durant, along with the whole Thunder organization. Members of the Pelicans—the team that fired Monty as coach less than a year earlier—folded themselves into a row. “Tallest funeral I’ve ever seen,” says pastor Bil Gebhardt.
A little after 2:30, Monty walked to the dais, wearing a black suit and tie, his shaved head gleaming. At 6-foot-8, and still fit at 44, he looked young enough to be a player. He placed a folded coach’s card, containing some notes and scriptures, on the lectern. Then he took a deep breath and looked up.
Van Gundy wondered if it was a good idea for Monty to be speaking publicly. Monty had long been a pessimist, given to despair at times, and this could be too much. Others wondered if—even hoped that—he would condemn the other driver, as a coach calls out a player.
Monty had promised himself he wouldn’t cry, the way he had the night before during the run-through with his family. “I’m thankful for all the people that showed up today,” he began, his voice deep and more powerful than he expected. “It’s a pretty tough time, not just for me but for all of you as well. I’m mindful of that.”
He looked around the room but his only audience was his five children. He needed to show the way. “This is hard for my family, but this will work out,” he continued. “And my wife would punch me if I were to sit up here and whine about what’s going on. That doesn’t take away the pain. But it will work out because God causes all things to work out. You just can’t quit.” He paused, looked around. “You can’t give in.”
You can’t give in. How many times had she told him that? Like on that day in the doctor’s office during his sophomore year, only a few weeks after Hickman had called to tell Monty that he was hearing he might be a first-round pick—not eventually, but next year. Now, Monty listened to a doctor tell him he had hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. A thickening of his left ventricle. Irregular heartbeat. Potentially fatal. All Monty heard was No more basketball. Not now, not next year, not ever.
Anger and depression consumed him. He pulled away from his teammates, his coaches, even Joyce. He got in fights. Punched through walls. He thought about transferring or dropping out, and at one point he even entertained the thought of taking his own life. For the next two years he became, as his mom says now, “not the nicest person” and “a different child.”
Throughout, Ingrid was the one person who calmed him, “the one person I didn’t want to hurt, no matter what.” To leave school, or worse, would mean leaving her, and he couldn’t bear that. If anything, they spent more time together: walking the campus, past the lake, stopping to pray at the Notre Dame Grotto. “The Lord will heal your heart,” she told him, and something about the way she said it—so confident—made him believe her. So he poured himself into prayer, if for desperate, selfish reasons.
Ingrid’s faith was different, though. Never convenient, never for show. Every week she disappeared for hours at a time in the afternoon. Finally, he asked where. So she brought him along and Monty watched, confused, as Ingrid spent two hours at a nursing home with a woman named Helen, one he was pretty sure was suffering from Alzheimer’s. Ingrid brushed Helen’s hair, talked with her, bathed her. As an athlete, Monty had been taught to perform charitable acts for the camera. But here was Ingrid, a young black woman, caring for an old white one, not for the cameras or a pat on the back. When he asked Ingrid why she did it, she looked at him funny. Wasn’t this what Christ taught us to do? Monty was floored. “It was so real, and raw,” he says.
For a while he accompanied her. Began to find his faith becoming more authentic. And then, in 1992, a Notre Dame trainer told him about an experimental test to determine if he could play with HCM. So he flew to the National Institutes of Health in Bethesda, Maryland. Five days of poking and prodding led to a final, frightening test. We’re going to stop your heart on purpose, the doctors told him. Trigger an arrhythmic episode. If it doesn’t go well, it could kill you. You and your mom need to sign this waiver.
What choice did Monty have? In his mind, there was no Plan B. For two years he’d gone against doctor’s orders, working out furiously and playing in pickup games. In his mind it was basketball or nothing. Besides, he wasn’t afraid of death. Or maybe, he’d later realize, he just didn’t understand it yet.
Five doctors stood around the bed, just in case. Hours passed. Monty drifted in and out of consciousness. When he awoke, a doctor warned him not to sit up, or a vein could burst. Then he said there was something Monty should know. He was okay. Not just okay, but great. He could play ball again.
Monty sobbed. He had his life back. And can you blame him if his pride returned with it? He averaged 22.4 points and 8.2 boards for the Irish in 1993–1994. After the Knicks picked him 24th, he spent his money on cars and lived like the big star he always thought he’d be.
But Ingrid? She never changed, not really. She told him the cars were a waste of money; “you can only drive one at a time,” she’d say. They’d gotten married after his rookie season then moved city to city—five teams in nine years as a player. When he got the head job in New Orleans, she was eight months pregnant with Micah and yet she seamlessly integrated into another community. Player
s like Anthony Davis later described her as a “second mother.” Along with Monty, she spoke to inmates, distributing copies of “Look Again 52,” the Bible study book they’d written together. They worked at a shelter for abused kids, donated shoes and equipment to the poor. In the off-season they went to South Africa with Basketball Without Borders.
Monty stresses that Ingrid was by no means perfect. She could be stubborn and headstrong. She could cut you down with one look. She was a loud talker, Monty always reminding her that “Hey honey, I’m sitting right next to you,” to which she’d fume, because he was supposed to be listening to the message, not the delivery. And good luck changing her mind once she was set on an opinion. But all Monty knows is that when people have praised him for things in his life, it’s usually Ingrid who was his ballast. Like in 2013, when Gia Allemand, the girlfriend of Ryan Anderson, committed suicide, and Ryan was the first one to find her, at her apartment. Hysterical, he called Gia’s mom, then the police, and then, as Ryan says, “the one person I knew in New Orleans that would be there for me no matter what.” Monty arrived to find Ryan on the floor, a mixture of sweat and tears. The coach dropped to his knees, unsure what to do, and began hugging Ryan, rocking slightly.
When Monty finally got him into his truck, he thought about how he couldn’t mess this up—how these are the tests that really matter. Back home, Ingrid had already taken control. She’d moved the kids upstairs and put them to bed, with instructions not to come downstairs for anything. After her own brother’s unexpected suicide in 2003, she knew that the only thing to do was just be there for Ryan. So she and Monty sat with him in the family room, praying. When it got late and Monty tried to come to bed, she redirected him: No, you’re sleeping downstairs, right next to Ryan. And so he did, on a mattress next to the couch. When Ryan wanted to talk, they talked. When it was quiet, it was quiet. Monty followed Ingrid’s advice: just listen.