A Father First: How My Life Became Bigger Than Basketball Read Online Free Page A

and your own possibilities. If my story and the stories of my loved ones have taught me anything, it’s the simple truth that you have to play your heart out until the buzzer sounds no matter how disastrous the score may seem at times, because giving up is not an option.
    I can’t promise that will always win you an NBA championship. But as my mother used to say when encouraging me to strive to do great things, to lift others as well as myself, “Your life is bigger than basketball.”
    And that saying brings me back to Friday night, waiting for my boys to arrive. I had to gather my thoughts and feelings so I could give my sons the news that inspired this book in the first place. After all the uncertainty, I could assure them that after everything, they were now home.
    And, finally, so was I.

Part One

    The way to redeem your past is not to run from it, but to try to understand it, and use it as a foundation to grow.
    —J ay -Z, Decoded

Chapter One

    Go Get You a Game
    F RIDAY EVENING
    M ARCH 11, 2011
    A T HOME IN M IAMI
    Y ES, IT’S TRUE—I LOVE THE ROAR OF THE CROWD.
    When the fans are with you, their voices come together in a big booming rush of sound that you can actually feel in your body—almost like a wave that lifts you and carries you past your own limits.
    I love the chants, the stomping of feet, the eruptions of cheers, hoots, and hollers. Besides the fact that I’m lucky to do what I love for my living, I’m blessed every day on the job with the joy of hearing fans and announcers call my name. Not to mention various nicknames—from “D-Wade” to “Flash” to just “#3.”
    But as much as I love the music of the crowd when they’re with me, none of that comes close to the thrill of hearing my sons call out my most favorite name of all: “Daddy!” Any time, anywhere, any day.
    So, needless to say, on the evening of Friday, March 11, when I open the door to greet Tragil and the boys, hearing their chorus of “Daddy! Daddy!” it’s enough to bring on another batch of tears.
    Zaire bounds in first. No surprise there. But Zion somehow edges his brother out and takes a running leap up into my arms for the first hug. Swinging him up on one side of me, I lift up Zaire in my other arm. (Yeah, I’m strong.) Then, spotting Dahveon—nicknamed Dada—shyly standing off to the side, I gesture for him to come on over to get in on the action.
    Group hug!
    This is crazy. This is pure happiness.
    Tragil, fighting her tears, joins in, along with Gabrielle and some of our friends who have been helping out for most of the afternoon, arranging appointments at schools, shopping for extra clothes and school supplies, measuring for the bunk beds, and making sure the kitchen’s stocked with more than a weekend’s worth of kid-friendly food. My mantra all day to everyone has been that we need to establish a set routine that gives them a sense of normalcy and security. Routine, I’ve learned, is key.
    Meanwhile, we’re all also trying to be restrained, not wanting the boys to suspect something dramatic is up. That conversation needs to happen. But not yet.
    “Let me look at you three. C’mon now.”
    We break out of our hug so I can admire each one of the boys, rubbing on their heads, giving each a compliment, and then more hugs. Can’t help myself. In the parenting school I come from, love and praise are fundamentals. As basic as the air we breathe. Love comes first, second, and last. Always.
    I start with my nephew Dahveon—whose father hasn’t been on the scene regularly in his life. Same age as Zaire, Dada’s an old soul, sensitive but also fun-loving. After his mom, my sister Deanna, gave her okay for him to start traveling with his cousins to visit me, Dada quickly became a steadying force for them. And for me. During the worst challenges of the custody battle, when my visitations with the boys were so infrequent and my relationship with Zaire was strained as a result, I’d invite Dada to come for a