by Jay Williams
Before we all left the island to head our separate ways, I asked Selita where she lived, telling her I’d love to see her again. I thought it was meant to be when she said Edgewater, New Jersey. I was renting a place just ten miles away in Jersey City.
We continued to see each other when we got home. But things were different. It was my first relationship with someone in the “industry.” Publicists, nonstop appearances, car and driver everywhere. This wasn’t my life anymore, and frankly, I hadn’t missed it.
It didn’t take long to uncover the other side of her personality, which was that she was used to being in charge. Selita was driven and determined. She got what she wanted when she wanted it, and if she didn’t, then it wasn’t a pretty sight.
Especially when alcohol was involved.
One night, she had a friend in town and asked me if my boy Martin would like to join us. Martin jumped at the chance, since he liked his odds, considering what Selita did for a living. So we all got together at a restaurant in the Meatpacking District. His date ended up being none other than the greatest female athlete of all time: Serena Williams.
After making the introductions, Selita sat by my side while Serena sat next to Martin. Let’s just say a lot of tequila was consumed at the table before we made our next move.
After dinner, we were driven to a club called Avenue. When we arrived, we were all escorted in by security and made our way to the table. Selita’s publicist and some other friends of hers met us there as the night was about to kick into high gear. While I was making sure everyone was situated, the host got my attention and signaled for my credit card and ID. I walked over to him and was greeted by our waitress, who just so happened to be a former longtime girlfriend of a good friend of mine. She put her arm around me and I gave her a big hug. She handed me the menu and we caught up for a few minutes.
We ordered five or six bottles for our group, I handed her my credit card and turned around to head back to our table. Just as I looked up, I saw Selita gathering her things. Dumbfounded, I made my way over to her, and before I could even get a word in, she started cursing me out. I’m still not sure what I did to offend her. Maybe she didn’t like me leaving her side to chat with the waitress. All I know is this beautiful woman who had been so sweet when she took my breath away just weeks earlier ended up being the female version of Gary Payton.
When Selita was done with her tirade, she bolted for the door, and her whole crew followed in her wake. The last person to leave was Serena who apologized to us for the abrupt change in plans. This lioness on the tennis court was the sweetest, most demure person off of it. I just told Serena that it was “all good” and that it was great getting to meet her. Then I looked over at Martin, whose expression said it all. Thanks, Jay, for fucking up what should’ve been a legendary night for me. Within a matter of seconds, five bottles with sparklers were delivered to our table.
No women and four grand later, the night was officially a bust.
Selita became distant after that night, saying how she needed time. I wasn’t exactly shocked to hear, almost three years later, that she got sued for allegedly breaking another model’s nose in a club down in South Beach.
I was an immature and spiteful 27-year-old kid at this time. So about a month later, when Martin introduced me to a really pretty girl whom I knew Selita detested, I couldn’t help but pursue the opportunity. As much as I wanted to get under Selita’s skin by going out with her, the joke was on me. When I first started dating this girl, Selita would text and call me out of sheer jealousy. I definitely got a kick out of it in the beginning, but it didn’t take long for me to realize that the benefits were going to be significantly outweighed by the costs. The only thing worse than being with someone who ran the scene was being with someone who desperately wanted to be part of that scene.
The relationship hit rock bottom when I invited the girl to the wedding of one of my closest friends, in North Carolina. A night or two before the ceremony, I was out with the groom when he pulled me aside.
“Yo, man, I don’t know how to say this, and I know it may sound crazy, but . . . I slept with your girlfriend back in the day.”
“Uh . . . come again?”
She denied it, which I thought was very odd. He was one of my best friends and an ex-teammate of mine and he had no reason to lie. I couldn’t help but think about all the times I had been unfaithful and dishonest with Noelle.
Well, now you know how it feels, Williams.
MY SECOND STINT with ESPN was going much better than my first. I was improving in the studio, learning to get in and out with my points, talking more clearly and ssslllowly. I watched as many games as I could to try to familiarize myself with every relevant team among the 350 or so in Division I—a much bigger task than knowing the 30 in the NBA.
I found ways to practice the skills I’d need to advance in the TV world. The host of a show should be able to have a conversation with anybody about anything, right? So I’d set tasks for myself on a day when I was otherwise just hanging out with friends. I’d say to one of them, “Give me a topic.” He’d say, “Dinosaurs.” And I’d make it my mission to get into a conversation with a stranger—at a bar, in a shop, on the street—for five minutes, drawing out everything that person knew about dinosaurs. They may have thought I was crazy, but if I wanted to be a great interviewer, I had to learn how to engage someone who might not be in the mood to reciprocate. Besides, in New York City, everybody’s used to people who are a little crazy.
I also became a lot better at having on-air arguments without taking it personally. I still don’t like confrontation, but I understand now that it’s just part of the job description. Everybody’s got opinions, and it’s not my job to be right all the time. It’s my job to be analytical, engaging, and entertaining.
It’s funny how things change with the passage of time. Now many of my old teammates are at the tail ends of their careers. Mike Dunleavy has played 14 seasons in the league, and it’s been 13 for Booz—they’re both going to be transitioning out of the game, and here I am with a 12-year head start. My boys are now the veterans.
In 2012, I flew into Hartford to do a pilot with my colleague Andy Katz at ESPN. We were doing a spin-off version of First Take for college basketball. Over the years, Andy and I have become great friends, and while I don’t know as much about the history of the game as Andy—I don’t think anyone does—I can usually keep up my end of the discussion. I was running late, so I sprinted from my rental car to the ESPN building and then darted into the makeup room. That was when I saw Charissa Thompson being made up in another chair. I had caught her on TV before and always thought she was beautiful, but in person she was absolutely stunning. To tell you the truth, I felt like I was in high school again. My palms were sweaty and I was fidgety, barely able to focus when someone spoke to me.
I tried to ease my anxiety by striking up a conversation with the makeup artist like I usually did, but it wasn’t natural, because my mind was totally on Charissa. Who was paying zero attention to me. She wasn’t being rude—she did say hi—but she was busy looking over her notes and talking to everyone else. Charissa was quick. Her intellect and sense of humor were off the charts. I was looking for ways to break the ice, but I kept coming up empty. As she was leaving the room, I noticed the soles of her shoes were red. I felt like it was my last chance before she was gone.
“I see you have your good shoes on, Thompson.”
She turned around, smiled, and said, “You know what Deion Sanders says, right, Jay? ‘If you look good, you feel good. And if you feel good, you play good.’” And she turned and walked out the door. I sat down in the makeup chair, hoping that I’d left a good impression and wondering how I could bump into her again without looking obvious.
They say ESPN is located in Bristol, but really Bristol is located at ESPN. The campus is like a small college expanding in size each year. It feels like a new building is erected there every other month. Then there’s all the star powe
r that makes it feel even bigger. You can walk into any room at any given time and run into two or three Hall of Famers just sitting there, chilling. There are also a lot of studios, so it’s easy to get lost. Fortunately, the studio where I was meeting Andy was the same one where they shoot First Take, which I’d done a few times before, so I knew where I was going. When I finally got there, I saw Andy at the desk. And next to him was the host—Charissa.
We chitchatted as the crew set up the studio, and I hung on her every word. She told me she was from Seattle and was angry with Howard Schultz for selling the Sonics. She loved Ken Griffey Jr. and was a huge Jordan fan. The more she shared about herself, the more I wanted to know.
Reading the teleprompter, she introduced me as “one of the greatest college basketball players of all time,” then stopped short and looked at me. “Really? Is that true?” she said in a way that only she could get away with on live television. She then turned to ask Andy a question, and in an attempt to show her that I, too, could be playful, I interjected: “Charissa, don’t you think that since it’s Black History Month, that I should get to go first?” She started laughing, and I remember thinking to myself that I might have a chance.
Because it was a taped pilot, we stopped and started a lot so the crew could readjust lighting and other stuff. During the breaks, Andy always jumped on his phone to do his college-basketball insider work. Charissa used the time to look over her notes for Numbers Never Lie, a program she had to host right after we wrapped. I used the time to look at her. I spent as much of my free time as possible trying to get to know her better. We laughed a lot, and conversation came easily. We just clicked.
After a couple of weeks of texting and calling, she mentioned that she was flying to Chicago for St. Patrick’s Day to visit friends. I told her that my cousin Jared and I were planning on being in the city that same weekend to see a Bulls game—it wasn’t true, but I figured I could talk Jared into coming along with me, particularly once he heard the reason. Still, I was playing it cool; I said if we could get together, great, but if not, it was all good. She was open to hanging out, and said she’d love to go to the game, too.
When I got to Chicago, Booz, then playing with the Bulls, called to let me know he had left a pair of courtside tickets for me. I then bought three more tickets a few rows back for Charissa and her friends. It wasn’t until I was walking up to the United Center that I realized it was my first time back there since the accident. I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me before then—maybe because I was so focused on Charissa that I wasn’t thinking about anything else.
Fans didn’t recognize me. I blended right in with everyone else, and it hurt. Not that it should have. After all, I only played there one year, the team lost a lot, then the accident happened that off-season and the team moved on. The night I got drafted, I had hoped to bring another championship to the franchise. Now I was a forgotten man from a forgotten team.
My cousin and I sat courtside for the first half, then Jared decided to switch seats with Charissa so we could have some time together. Although she and I had gone out to dinner before the game, we’d been around people the whole time. Jared went up to her seat and she appeared by my side just as the weight of the whole experience of being back, so close and yet so far from the Bulls court, began crashing on me. I didn’t break down in tears or anything, but I was more messed up than I thought I would be.
As I was sitting there, staring out into space, she asked, “Where are you?”
I don’t know if it was the genuine concern I saw in her eyes or my need to release my pent-up emotions, but I began to share with her what I was feeling. How sitting there played into all of my old insecurities, how odd it was that the last time I was in this building I was signing autographs and kissing babies, and now no one knew who I was, nor would they have cared anyway. I used to feel a certain amount of electricity when I walked through these doors; now it was just another place, and being there left me empty inside. My stint as a Bull was a lifetime ago.
I didn’t go to the locker room after the game. There was no need to. Everyone I had played with was long gone. I sent Booz a text thanking him again for the tickets and we left. On Sunday, Charissa and I got together for brunch, but I had to head back to Bristol for work later that night. As we parted, she reached into her purse and pulled out a set of keys. “When you go back, you don’t have to check into a hotel. Stay at my place.”
Here was this gorgeous woman, someone who could make me break a sweat with a simple smile, and she had just handed me the keys to her place.
Who does that?
Charissa Thompson.
And that was the beginning of us.
In many ways, this was my first “adult” relationship. Charissa, too, had been through a difficult time, having endured a very difficult divorce. We were helping each other move forward, and we continue to do so today. Charissa came into my life just as I was finally discovering who I wanted to be. The angry, easily frustrated, spiteful, impatient person I was in my early twenties had given way to a thirty-something-year-old man finding his way in broadcasting and in life.
The uncertainty I’d felt for so long about my future prospects slowly gave way to a newfound confidence. I was starting to worry less about what others thought, and I began trusting my own instincts. I loved being on air and traveling for work—while exhausting, it was also exhilarating. I no longer feared people approaching me about my accident with comments like “Oh, man, you had it all,” because the truth was that I was finally starting to believe that I did have it all. Working in a field I was passionate about; in love with an amazing woman who protected my ego like no other while challenging me to be better each day; drug free; happy.
For the first time, I took steps to surround myself with people who not only had good intentions but also were honest with me. Someone once told me that people are like trees. Every tree has leaves, branches, and roots. Some people are leaves—hanging there for a minute, but a gust of wind can come along and they’re gone. Some people are branches—holding firm for a while until something more powerful occurs and they snap and break away. Then, if you are extremely lucky, you meet a root. A root is a person who holds firm regardless of the elements. I now have roots in my life. And those roots have anchored me to a very special place that I call home, no matter where I live in the world.
In the weeks and months after my accident, I began to notice how some of the people I had always considered friends slowly distanced themselves. The visits became less frequent; the time between phone calls to check in seemed to grow longer. When I was going through particularly dark times, I felt abandoned by people I once trusted and valued. I had been too naive to realize that some of the people I’d considered confidants were interested in me only because of what I could potentially do for them—a tough pill to swallow. The accident helped me cut through the clutter and see who my true friends really were.
For me, friends are acquaintances; teammates are the people, both on and off the court, who always have your best interests at heart, who stand by you through whatever life is throwing your way. Before my accident, I had a lot of friends, but few teammates. Now, I am fortunate enough to know who my teammates are.
My eyes are wide open.
15
Forgiven
In 2011, right after my 30th birthday, I had a meeting with an acquaintance named John Termini, whom I often ran into in New York City. We got together at 7:30 A.M. at Dean & DeLuca in the New York Times Building to discuss some business. J.T. was involved in global brokerage at CB Richard Ellis, and I was very interested in commercial real estate and wanted to discuss potential deals down the road. J.T. looked dapper as usual, like he’d walked directly out of GQ fashion shoot. I admired how he always seemed to have it all figured out.
Toward the end of the meeting, he asked me if I knew a guy named Carl Lentz. He was a pastor. I said I didn’t, but I remember thinking to myself, That’s weird. Does he think I need help?
“I tell you, Jay,” J.T. said. “You have to meet him. He is going to change your life, man.”
Because of Termini’s overwhelming passion, I couldn’t get a word in edgewise, and all I could think was Bro, I am not into all that stuff. Please stop. J.T. told me that Carl had played basketball at NC State while I played at Duke, and he suggested we all get together to hoop sometime.
“Sure,” I said. “Why not? We hoop every Saturday morning at 8 A.M at Baruch College. Bring him and let’s do it.”
Every weekend for the past year, I had been playing with a group of guys that included my old friend Graham, and the games were always heated and competitive. Perfect for a pastor, right?
That Saturday morning, as I was stretching on the sidelines, getting ready for my Game 7 (which is what I called my weekly Saturday game), J.T. walked in the door. Right behind him was a guy dressed in black from head to toe, with sleeves of tattoos on both arms. I thought, This can’t be the pastor, can it? As they approached, J.T. looked more like the pastor and Carl like the one searching for his soul.
Just as people stereotyped me while I was growing up, I had done the same to him. My first reaction was to put him in a box, as we all are prone to do.
“What’s up, J-Will? I’m Carl. You ready to do this?”
“Damn right,” I replied. Then I thought, Oh, man, I just cursed at a pastor. Probably not the best way to start.
We were on the same team, and we dominated that day. Carl was a good player and extremely competitive, which shocked me. Then it happened—the biggest curveball of all.
Throughout the game, the player guarding me said some things that I took very personally. So my reaction, like always, was to become lost in the battle. As I was running down the court without the basketball, my man decided to check me with his elbow right in my chest. My first reaction was to swing right back at him. But before I even had a chance, Carl—a man I had met less than an hour ago—put himself in harm’s way to defend me. I was stunned. A pastor was on the verge of getting into a fight to protect a man he barely knew. Carl intrigued me enough that I decided to attend his sermon the next morning.