by Jay Williams
All we had to do now was make the purchase.
I made the down payment for the home and the vacant lot next door for added privacy. Our realtor happened to be one of Noelle’s friends, and my accountant set us up with a mortgage through SunTrust Bank. When it came time to issue the deed to the property, Noelle insisted on having her name included with mine. As much as I loved her, I was very apprehensive about acquiescing. First, our relationship was often pretty volatile, and as much as I wanted things to work out for the long haul, I had my concerns. Second, I still had my parents in the back of my mind telling me to be careful. Were her intentions genuine?
In keeping with the theme of our relationship, I believed I was ready to give in and make peace with the decision. That is, until her mom suddenly inserted herself into the process. This was the same person who, a year earlier, had refused to get involved when my mom begged her to speak with her daughter about postponing the move down south. My guard was officially up.
And so the day came when I asked Noelle to sign a prenuptial agreement before we tied the knot. She was adamantly against the idea. She spoke of how her parents had worked together to fight injustices that befell them during hard times, and how far they’d come as a couple because of it. She didn’t want to dishonor them by entering into a marriage with a precursor for potential failure. Her reasoning was sound, but my accountant was unmoved. The more I pushed for her signature, the more I pushed her away.
And so began a song and dance that would last for close to two years.
She gave me the ring back and left for New Jersey. I refused to ship her stuff to her unless she agreed to come back and talk. When she arrived, I put the ring back on her finger and told her I didn’t care anymore about a prenup as long we stayed together. She agreed to stay and we were happy . . . again. But at some point, we both got cold feet and took some space from each other.
After all I had been through, all that I’d put my parents through, and now what I had put Noelle through by asking her to marry me in the first place, I had to make our relationship work. I had no more room in my life for failure and disappointment. I would talk to my mom regularly, asking her for guidance, as I knew it would be from the purest of places.
“Marriage is hard, Jay . . . Be sure you marry the right one.”
Considering her own marriage, this sounded more like a dire warning than motherly advice.
11
Trials
In April of 2005, I moved back to the city I had betrayed. Ashamed of my past transgressions, I was petrified to show my face in a town that had once embraced me as its future. I was still tainted by the embarrassment I had caused the Bulls franchise and had no clue how I would ever answer questions from hostile fans about my idiotic actions, especially still being in such a fragile state. But I wasn’t left with much of a choice if I was ever going to play professional basketball again.
Eventually I would work out with some great trainers, such as John Lucas and Joe Abunnasar. But the trainer was Tim Grover, who was considered the best in the game because of his intimate work with Michael Jordan throughout his career. Tim’s résumé was impeccable—he’d worked with countless NBA superstars, from Charles Barkley to Hakeem Olajuwon to Scottie Pippen, and rising stars like Dwayne Wade, who was just finishing his second year in the league.
Tim and Michael Jordan owned a training center together called Hoops the Gym, a legendary facility that was known for training the best athletes in the world. Two years earlier, I was a 21-year-old kid who had arrogantly taken over M.J.’s former locker at the United Center, and now here I was in his workout complex with his trainer, trying to make a comeback as if I was some veteran looking to find one last hurrah. I was mourning my former 42-inch vertical as if I’d lost it decades ago. But I had to look at things with a glass-half-full attitude. After all I had gone through, it was a miracle I was even in a position to attempt a comeback.
Tim had once sustained a dangerous injury of his own, which made him even more invested in my quest. I have never met anyone more passionate about their craft than Tim. He brought a level of intensity, on a daily basis, that was infectious. We spent all of April and May strengthening my quads and hamstrings while adding bulk to my upper body.
Tim was inherently optimistic, but even he questioned whether I’d ever be able to recapture my explosiveness on the court. And if that was going to be the case, then adding strength would allow me to bulldoze my way through people. My hamstring had been torn off the bone, which meant I would have to rebuild as much muscle as possible through weight-based exercises—squats, leg presses, hamstring curls, single-leg squats. All of the original post-op physical therapy was still a part of my everyday routine
It was my own personal Groundhog Day. I had been doing this regimen six days a week for the past 136 weeks . . . two times a day. And Tim’s regimen was no less structured.
6:30 A.M.: Physical therapy—mobilization and manipulation
9:00 A.M.: Gym—lifting with Tim and on-court skill work
12:00 P.M.: Lunch—while icing or in cold tub
1:00 P.M.: Physical therapy—flexibility and core
3:00 P.M.: Conditioning—riding bike or treadmill work
4:00 P.M.: Gym—scrimmaging or on-court skill work
5:30 P.M.: Cooldown—icing or cold tub then stretching
There was an ebb and flow of passion for the work I was putting in, and whenever I was really questioning myself, Tim and I would watch an NBA game, and that was all I needed to get “back on the horse.” I had nothing left in my life if I didn’t have the game. I felt backed into a corner with no option but to claw my way out. I convinced myself that everyone doubted my ability to make it back, which was exactly the kind of challenge I needed in order to get there.
As much progress as we made together, I still had a noticeable limp in my stride due to the drop foot. Cutting was difficult because of the amount of force I had to impose on my knee and ankle. I accepted the fact that if I were ever to play again, it would be done in pain.
Mind over body . . . and Oxy.
Tim was also training some of the guys who were entering the 2004 NBA draft, such as Raymond Felton from UNC and Dee Brown from Illinois. He also worked with Chris Duhon, who’d decided to stay all four years at Duke. Chris and I hadn’t been nearly as close since the accident, and I was entirely to blame for that. He was yet another friend whom I pushed away during that time as I shut myself off from the world. I was so happy to see him begin his next chapter, but very conflicted about it once he ended up getting drafted by the Bulls. He played for nine years in the league and is now an assistant coach at Marshall University, under Mike D’Antoni’s brother Dan. I’m so happy to say that today he and I are as close as ever.
One time, Tim put together a one-on-one, full-court session between me and Raymond. He and Sean May had led the Tar Heels to a national championship over Illinois just a month earlier. He was by far the most explosive guard of the group and would eventually be taken fifth overall, behind only Deron Williams and Chris Paul. We first met when I was still playing and he was just a youngster on his way to college. Still a teenager, Raymond was determined to be the best and willing to work for it. He’d come to Durham every now and again to pick my brain as we watched hours of tape, breaking down play after play. His motivation was a welcome reminder of when I was once in his shoes, which only helped to fuel my desire to return.
So our matchup would go to seven points, and checking the ball was not allowed, which meant getting your ass back on defense without any stoppages. It was a drill done primarily for conditioning.
Working on individual skill work with Tim had provided me with a false sense of confidence. I was able to stop and pivot much less abrasively than at game speed. Even when I picked up the tempo for Tim, I was only competing against myself. My body was still limited by the soreness in my left hip, knee, and ankle. I was overly attentive every time I placed my foot down, scared of spraining it due to m
y lack of stability. “Gingerly” would be the best term to describe my training up to that point.
The truth is that everyone had been taking it easy on me. People were afraid of breaking my confidence. So Kevin, who was now my agent, working under Bill Duffy, asked Raymond not to take one possession off, insisting he give it his all.
We closed the doors to the gym and the real test began.
With the first possession, I was positive Raymond could see the limp in my step. While I brought the ball down the floor, he couldn’t stop staring at my foot, which was supported by knee and ankle braces. He could see my entire hip hike up with each step in order to keep my left foot from scraping the floor. I settled for a jump shot that missed badly. As I tried to backpedal on defense, Raymond, with the ball in his right hand, attacked my left hip relentlessly. I was a stop sign, and he was a car running it. It wasn’t the leg that did me in. It was the damn drop foot.
7–0.
In the blink of an eye it was over. On the last bucket, I grabbed the ball as it fell through the net and punted it as hard as I could into the ceiling while yelling every curse word in existence.
I knew it was my first time competing, but for some reason I thought—I hoped—I was a lot further along. I had to accept the fact that I was nowhere close to where I needed to be in order to stand a chance.
So walk away now and not risk the letdown to come? No one would blame you. I mean, you’ve made it further than just about anybody else would have in your position. Or keep going, Williams. See where this takes you. Worse comes to worst, there’s always ball overseas.
Sometime in May, things started to click. My left thigh had drastically increased in size, while my calf started to gain definition. Real progress was under way, and that incentivized me to train harder. The real proof came toward the end of the month when I started to beat these younger guys on the court.
Drop foot and all.
One time, I blew by Dee Brown for a layup during some drill and looked over to Tim, seeking his approval. Arms crossed, he leaned over to Kevin.
“I think it’s time we give them a look.”
Tim had organized a semi-closed-door workout on June 6 at his facility for general managers, scouts, and select media to observe Ray, Dee, and me. Tim wanted to be in total control so he could dictate the pace and specific drills. Essentially, the workout was staged, since I had already mastered the “choreography” well in advance. I remember overthinking things while shooting around beforehand as everyone was looking to find a seat.
Don’t limp. Don’t get tired. Don’t show them if you get tired. Look confident. No weakness.
It was the Nike All-American camp all over again.
While Raymond, Dee, and I were stretching, Tim walked over and pulled me aside.
“You have nothing to worry about. This is the same thing we have done every day. Just do your thing, Jay. Kick ass.”
His words immediately calmed my nerves and helped to get me out of my own head. I attacked each drill with a sense of urgency. I forgot about anyone being there and lost myself in the battle. And once that happened, my instincts kicked in. Like riding a bike—just not the R6! I felt like I’d rediscovered my true identity in that moment.
When it was over, Kevin and Tim were smiling with pride. Kevin brought it to my attention that he hadn’t seen me shoot so well since my junior year in college. The next step would now be Kevin accepting private workout invites by NBA teams on my behalf.
I was in the gym earlier than usual the next day, thrilled and motivated from the day before. While I was lacing up my sneakers, my cell phone rang. It was Kevin.
“Tell me some good news, big boy!” I said, in great spirits.
Always playful, Kevin began in a somber tone.
“Uh . . .”—deep sigh—“umm . . . We got Miami and Houston with interest, beeyatch!”
I dropped my head and clenched my fist with excitement. I had two teams believing in me enough to take a real look, when I barely believed in myself only three weeks earlier. Was it all really starting to pay off?
Kevin went on to explain that the workouts wouldn’t be until September, so I had another three months to prepare. More good news.
“I’m going to do this, Kev. I am starting to believe again!”
For those next three months, Tim and I took things to another level. Guys like Dwayne Wade, Quentin Richardson, Bobby Simmons, and Corey Maggette started to show up at our workouts. I was on my way, and it felt so damn good to be with the boys again. It was like old times sitting in the training room, getting iced up while talking about girls they were dating, things they were spending money on, trips they had taken, and all the other stuff I had missed during my years away from the game. For the first time, my bitterness about this life being taken away from me receded.
I hit a snag about a week before my workout with the Miami Heat. I was playing pickup with all the guys when I mistakenly stepped on a player’s foot and rolled my left ankle pretty badly. At first it felt like I had torn something in my knee, but after X-rays and an MRI, we found out it was just a sprained ankle. Tim thought we needed to play it by ear to see how my body responded. Therapy and ice consumed my days leading up to the workout, but I felt decent enough to go.
In retrospect, I should have waited, but I was anxious that they’d pull the invite if it got out that I was nursing my left ankle. I simply felt that I had no other option but to play through the pain. I don’t know if it was the travel, my nerves getting the better of me, or just pressing too hard, but everything about that day felt wrong.
The first drill, I tweaked the same ankle, and it was all downhill from there. I turned the ball over like I was a third grader playing against high school kids. My shot was completely off, and I couldn’t get around anyone. There wasn’t even a need for me to stick around afterwards to hear the bad news. Nick Arison, a former manager on our Duke team and currently the CEO of the Heat, tried to talk to me afterwards and give me words of encouragement, but predictably, my self-esteem took a serious nosedive.
Maybe I’m not ready.
If Miami was a stumbling block, Houston was a dead end.
To this day, I still cringe whenever I see or hear the number 17. That was the name of the Rockets workout that would prove to be the most difficult drill I have ever done in my life. Usually, I was able to gauge very well how my body responded during warm-ups. And I remember feeling really good that day. The swelling around my ankle had subsided and I took an Oxy before the workout.
I was ready to go.
After warming up, one of the assistant coaches started to break down the first drill of the day.
“Jay, this is how the 17 works. You’re going to see 17 minutes on the clock. The objective of this drill is to get as many shots up as you can at game speed each minute. You’re going to start in the left-hand corner of the court. These seven managers will constantly feed you the ball and grab the rebounds. I want you to focus on catching and shooting as many shots as you can. Also be aware that after each shot, you need to have your hands ready, because the manager’s job is to get another ball in your hands as soon as possible.” I was comfortable with that.
Doesn’t sound too hard. Just catch and shoot. Okay!
He continued to explain the drill as he walked me over to the right-hand corner of the college three-point line.
“The first 14 minutes, you will spend one minute at each spot.”
He walked me through the first seven spots, which were all located somewhere on the college three-point line. He then explained that once I made it to the corner opposite from where I’d started, I’d move back to the NBA three-point line and do the same thing at each of the previous seven spots until I made my way back around to where I’d started.
He said the fun would begin after those 14 minutes of continuous, stationary shooting.
“Now, here’s where it gets interesting. For the last three minutes, you’re going to do the ‘windshield wiper.’
”
This meant that after each NBA three-point attempt from the corner, I would have to turn and sprint up to the elbow behind the NBA three-point line and shoot, then immediately sprint back to the same corner and shoot again—continuously—for one minute. When the clock hit the two-minute mark, I would have to sprint from elbow to elbow, also outside the NBA three-point line, and shoot for another minute straight.
Done, right? Nope.
For the last minute of the drill, I would work the opposite corner from elbow to baseline, baseline to elbow, until the clock showed zeroes.
Once we got back to the starting position, I was already exhausted from hearing him explain the whole rundown. He looked at me and asked if I understood how the drill worked. I nodded and told him I was ready. Right before we were about to start, he chimed in one last time.
“Now, remember, we’re looking to see how many shots you make at each position, how many shots you get up at each position, and how high you will elevate for each shot.”
I stood in the corner, knees bent, with hands ready to catch the ball, taking one last exhale. The clock started, and one manager delivered a crisp pass right to my hands. I tried to jump through the roof with each shot at first position, to prove that I still had my old elevation.
Bucket. Bucket. Bucket. . . . I hit the first eight shots.
This ain’t that bad. Let’s go, Jay!
Usually when a player does shooting drills, he wants to hold his follow-through until the ball goes through the rim. But this was rapid-fire. Before my feet even hit the ground, the next ball was already flying toward me with crazy speed. I had no time to gather myself, but had to go up for another shot instantly. This went against every fundamental rule of shooting. By the time we got through the first spot and moved to the second, I was panting, already in a dead sweat.
When I reached the top of the key, halfway through the first of the drill’s three stages, my legs were gone. The ball felt like a shot put.