A Father First: How My Life Became Bigger Than Basketball (32 page)

Well, since I was just making a name for myself after the rookie year I had turned in, my focus was not to be changed by whatever people were or were not saying about me. My approach was to close the lane on the doubt and the doubters. I was just going to keep playing my game and, being my father’s son in the end, just keep working at getting better.

None of this is to say that I didn’t make rookie year mistakes or that all of life was ready to be lived happily ever after. One of the worst mistakes would come back to haunt me: when I had come into the NBA, wrongheaded thinking of my own convinced me not to allow anybody to handle my money.

There were a few reasons for this. First, I had some trust issues after growing up without any money or examples of how to handle money. So when Hank brought up the names of top financial planners, I didn’t even consider the possibility that they could have shown me how to save or to invest wisely. Second, as for a financial adviser who would handle banking and bills, well, Siohvaughn kind of had that department covered.

As time went on, Hank would bring this up with increasing concern, asking whether I had access to those accounts. Usually I’d laugh and say, “She handles the money, I shoot baskets.”

That was naïve. In hindsight, I know that. In theory, I believed that we were partners and that we both worked to contribute to our family’s well-being. Why take a job away from her, especially one of control that she cared about? At the same time, why would she discourage me from getting financial advice?

The reality was that the marriage wasn’t on solid ground. Obviously, during our struggles in college, we’d been through changes, and those were multiplied when I got drafted and we entered a whole different stage of newfound everything—not just the money but the fame, the status, the attention that goes along with that, and options for riches and rewards that grew over time.

Everything was different. We might as well have gone from Robbins to Milwaukee to the moon. On one level, this was amazing and we could enjoy pinching ourselves that all the work had paid off. But on another level, because our relationship wasn’t tight from the get-go, other, bigger compatibility issues set in—such that we became even less close the more success there was.

Starting in 2003 with getting into the draft, we’d spend the summers apart with different schedules, basically going our separate ways. We never discussed breaking up. Summertime just came and we had other plans and chose not to be around each other, besides the shared time we had as parents.

That said, I saw these issues as things that I could fix. Just like me saying I could find a way to take care of the family. So the idea that we weren’t going to make it work as a team, well, I couldn’t think about that.

Besides, money was supposed to make things better, right? All those years of not having any and now we had the freedom and peace of mind to let go of the worry. As a father, I could finally feed my son—who was growing like a weed and continuing to amaze me as the little person that he was becoming. As a couple, we could soon afford a nice home and do things for friends and family that we never could before.

Did it bother me that Siohvaughn didn’t seem to always think to involve my family and friends in some of those fringe benefits? Yes and no. Yes, it bothered me; and no, I chose not to look at the negatives.

Being stubborn, I was going to make it work. That’s all I knew. There was trouble brewing, unfortunately. But I kept trying to get to that middle ground.

O
CTOBER
27, 2011

T
HURSDAY
EVENING

A
T
HOME
IN
M
IAMI

ZION AND I ARE BARELY THROUGH THE DOOR AFTER OUR afternoon’s adventures when Zaire and Dada appear as if out of nowhere with greetings and salutations.

There’s so much to do and discuss. Both have excellent schoolwork to show off.

Dada has made progress and we all congratulate him. What’s the secret? Just working hard and not giving up, he tells the other two.

The key to Zaire’s recent good grades seems to be his ability to focus better at test time and, when he isn’t sure what the teacher has explained, his willingness to ask questions.

Underneath my serious expression, I’m trying to keep my face from showing a big happy grin. So many of the conversations that we’ve had at length are now coming back from out of the boys’ mouths—like they’ve discovered them on their own. And that, as a father, is as good as winning a jackpot.

Because, in the end, the old saying that you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink is true. Nor should you want to make him drink.

That leads me to one of the biggest fatherhood or parenthood discoveries that I’ve made—you don’t empower your children by taking credit for their successes. Even when you deserve some credit. Let them own their victories.

How do you do that? Praise helps. Always. Although, it’s not always so simple when you’re also trying to set boundaries and offer guidance and motivate kids to reach high. But in the end I think the best way to help your children seek out opportunities and make the best of them is by modeling the behavior.

If you as a parent live your life and pursue your goals, always remembering to put it on the line, even if you haven’t had the greatest first half, that rubs off. If you put your heart into whatever you do, playing with the will to win of a rookie who wants to do well, kids will cut you some slack for caring.

These are fatherhood lessons I’m still learning. In those weeks, when from all appearances we were in real danger of not having an NBA season, I had to think about the example I was setting and come up with some Plan Bs and Cs.

For parents and kids, families and individuals, the importance of planning, whether short or long range, can’t be overemphasized. Should there be any doubt, this is where Daddy gets to have a say—in the next chapter.

Chapter
Nine

Mount Everest

M
ID
-N
OVEMBER
2011

I
N
THE
BLEACHERS

M
IAMI

W
ALKING INTO THE COMMUNITY GYM WHERE THE LOCAL BOYS basketball league holds their games, I have to stop and inhale the memories: the smell of sweaty jerseys, the echoing rat-a-tat-tat of who knows how many basketballs being dribbled out of unison, the sounds of coaches blowing whistles and calling drills, and the squeak of sneakers on the old wood floor.

I’m thinking of all those games played as a nine-year-old myself when Dad used to pile as many of us as he could into the car and take our Robbins team to compete against the Southside kids much older than some of us. Thinking back, I guess there was a method to the madness.

“How’s my son?” Dad’s unmistakable voice surprises me as I turn and spot my father, looking very GQ in his shades and Jordan brand warm-up suit. For a guy in his early to mid-fifties, Pop’s not doing too bad keeping in step with trends. I have to give him credit for that—as well as for some other tough accomplishments. Ever since he moved to Miami, six or so years earlier, after his divorce, he’s mellowed out considerably. Dad’s sober these days and I’m proud of him.

Of course, it’s weird to have a kinder, gentler Dwyane Wade Sr. sitting up in the stands with me at Zaire’s games. The boys actually have a lot of respect for his basketball knowledge. Even if, whenever Zaire asks Pop to show him stuff, he ends up fuming to me afterward, “Grandpa’s mean!” But then my son will do something impressive on the court and I’ll ask, “Where’d you learn that?” and he’ll admit, “Grandpa.”

With the NBA lockout dragging on, I’m still making the most of the extra time and maxing out my hours as Daddy. With options running out, some fellow players (L.B., Melo, and Chris Paul, a.k.a. C.P.) and I are planning a series of exhibition games as charity benefits for our foundations in our hometowns. So travel is on the horizon. Before leaving for the first of these, however, I’m getting a chance to go watch almost all of Zaire’s games.

Zaire loves having me there. He genuinely wants to please me and see me proud. The fact is, he is good. It’s not for me to say that he’s the best kid on the floor, but let’s put it this way: even though he is one of the youngest players, when he’s playing well, his team wins. I mean, Zaire’s really talented and tenacious. And he likes when I praise those traits.

At first, I started with the mentality that I wasn’t going to say anything or be demonstrative in any way. I was going to sit there with my hat on, with the brim low, and just watch the game from up in the back. It didn’t turn out that way. For one thing, when he plays, he looks for me and then he looks at me. It got to the point that I said, “Zaire, stop looking at me, look at the game.”

He’d be dribbling and glancing over to see if I approved. And I’d have to mouth the words, “Look at the game.”

That said, I couldn’t help but be entertained whenever he did something, something good or unexpected, or pull one of his antics. He is so animated. A showman who has all the antics in the world, and funny visual takes to the crowd, he’ll turn around after making a basket and do his special cool move and everyone will cheer and then he’ll look at me.

Pretty soon, I realized there was no way I could be that polite version of a dad sitting with the brim low and up in the back. I mean, if I could sometimes be the player to kick up the excitement on the court, why wouldn’t I share in Zaire’s excitement? What I would not do was be like those other overly involved parents who stand up and try to coach their kids from the bleachers. Instead, I go for positive reinforcement—a thumbs-up for a great play, a nod and a smile for any kind of effort, and big applause before a break, when he can see me on his way to have a seat. The bottom line is that I’m a huge Zaire Wade fan. Of course, I’m going to be engaged as a spectator. I’m
that
dad.

We had made a plan at the start of his fall season that as long as his grades were in good shape, he could play basketball on a real team. We were also clear on other considerations for the plan. We had already discussed the fact that the pressure of being my son was going to make it hard for him no matter what. So the deal was, “Listen, if you gonna play basketball, the only way I can say yes is if you play and have fun. Don’t worry about what anyone says. Don’t worry about being better than this person or that person. Right now, you’re in the fourth grade, and the terms are that you’re only playing to have fun, to enjoy yourself and the game. You play hard, you be respectful to the coaches, to your teammates and the refs. But that’s it. Don’t worry about nuthin’ else.”

Before my dad and I take our seats in the bleachers before the game, just to make sure, I go check with Zaire to see if he’s in pain from his groin. The day before, Zion had kicked him accidentally, or so I was told, and so I have to remind Zaire, “Listen, if you’re hurt, I don’t want you to play.”

“No, Dad, I’m fine.”

“Cool. But if I see you run up and down funny I’m gonna stop you.”

As soon as the game gets under way, Dad and I both notice that Zaire appears to be having an emotional game. Not sure what’s going on, I’m concerned that he is hurting from the injury. Oh, and then I remember there’s a girl his age he really likes who is one of the cheerleaders at this game.

Whatever it is, I’m watching a nine-year-old playing under a lot of pressure, very emotional, and evidently not enjoying himself. Worse, every time the ref makes a call, Zaire goes running to him, asking, “What’d I do? What’d I do?” and even arguing with a call, saying, “No!”

After the coach says something and Zaire reacts by becoming sensitive, I can see that he’s getting ready to cry. Pretty soon, even though he’s on the court, he’s not playing. Rather, he’s just out there, barely into the game.

I keep seeing this behavior that we’d planned to avoid, but I hold back from saying or doing anything. Finally, during a timeout I turn to my dad and say, “Go talk to him.” Then I suggest maybe he can stretch him out, too—in case his groin is bothering him after all.