Living Out Loud

by Craig Sager

  After a few minutes of conversation, she pulled out multiple copies of the Sports Illustrated cover story about my fight and asked me to sign each one for her grandchildren, a photo tour of whom followed. After spending about twenty minutes together, we embraced as she offered to make a donation to help in my fight. She then headed right back to the airport to fly home.

  I was stunned.

  I made my way to the arena to interview Kevin Durant and then was on the sidelines for an incredible Game Five. I grabbed a few hours of sleep, and the next morning I took the first flight out to Houston for a full slate of consultations, tests, and chemo. I met with Dr. Qazilbash and although it was still a remote possibility, they were going to start the process of combing the donor registries worldwide to see if there was a match. After chemo at nine the next morning, I was in the air flying to Oklahoma City for Game Six. The very next morning, I flew back to Houston to continue the treatment. The travel was wearing on me, but the work kept me upbeat.

  Though some may view my continuing to work during such a critical time in my leukemia fight as reckless or dangerous, I counter that my work is what has saved me. My work is who I am; it is the air that I breathe. I understand that some folks may question why I am not spending every day at home in Atlanta with my family when we don’t know how much time I have left. I understand the question, but my answer may not be what they want to hear. My entire life has been devoted to playing and covering sports. I have never taken a job—nor do I continue to do my job—in search of wealth or fame. I have never had an agent in thirty-five years, and I have taken pay cuts at times in pursuit of the next challenge or opportunity. My work is who I am, for good or for bad.

  There was no way that I was going to stop doing my job, unless Dr. Pemmaraju told me it could kill me—because not doing my job is what I knew would kill me.

  28

  DAY TO DAY

  One afternoon during my May treatments, I felt strong enough for the half-mile walk back to the Marriott and I took my usual path, winding among the buildings of the Texas Medical Center. On this day I noticed a woman wearing a red volunteer’s vest sitting on a bench outside the entrance.

  “Can I talk with you for a second?” I asked as I approached her.

  “Colleen Scamardi,” she responded, and gestured for me to sit down next to her.

  “I walk by the Children’s Hospital all of the time, day and night,” I said. “I see the backup of cars coming in at all hours. Just so many sick children. How do you handle it?”

  She told me about the really sick children who are never allowed to leave the building and the pain and anguish she sees daily on the faces of parents. But she also shared how inspired she is by the “little faces” who battle a disease they know little about. The fight, she said, is almost passive.

  “They don’t think too much,” she said. “They just do what they have to do … to have fun.”

  As she spoke, I could feel the tears forming in the corners of my eyes. We exchanged phone numbers and e-mails, and I gave her a hug and continued on my way.

  I thought about who has inspired me throughout my battle. Stacy and the kids, of course, but there are others.

  It was on a golf course some ten years ago that I met Major Ed Pulido. Ed was funny, compassionate, and positive in his approach to the game of golf and in his interactions with those he had never met. But it was a few years after that initial meeting, at a 2009 golf tournament at Reunion in Orlando, that I truly came to understand the power of Ed’s positivity.

  His father had served in the military for more than thirty years, and Ed followed in his footsteps, climbing the Army ranks to become a trusted assistant to General David Petraeus as the American military trained a new Iraqi army. On August 17, 2004, the Jeep that Ed and another soldier were riding in struck an improvised explosive device (IED) en route to a new base outside Baghdad, setting the Jeep on fire. Ed bore the brunt of the explosion, and a combat medic saved his life by pulling him from the burning vehicle. He was transported to a Baghdad hospital, then to Balad, Iraq, then on to Germany, Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, and finally to a rehabilitation center in San Antonio. In late September of 2004, after doctors had done all they could to stave off a lethal infection in his left leg, they amputated it to save his life. He was hospitalized for a year and a half at one point.

  The Bronze Star with Valor, the Purple Heart, and other recognitions came his way as he fought through dark times of depression and hopelessness. But soon Ed realized he had an opportunity to help others, and he has since become a leading spokesman on behalf of wounded soldiers and families who have lost a loved one. His positive energy radiates around him, which is what I felt when I first met him at a Wounded Warriors golf tournament.

  “I would go back in a second,” Ed shared with me before we all teed off, wanting nothing more than to have returned to Iraq to continue to serve, despite the severe costs.

  When I lay in my hospital bed after my diagnosis, lamenting my lengthy hospital stay of a few months, I thought of Ed, and how he struggled for almost eighteen months in hospitals. His bravery, his relentless approach to helping others, and his true belief that every day is a gift have inspired me throughout my battle. I also thought about a little girl named Lacey.

  *

  When Lacey Holsworth was just five years old, she was diagnosed with neuroblastoma, a fatal nerve cancer, and her prognosis was grim. But doctors were discounting the power of positive thinking. In February 2012, Lacey was being treated at Sparrow Hospital in Lansing, Michigan, near the campus of Michigan State University. One day, the men’s basketball team from Michigan State, led by Hall of Fame coach Tom Izzo, paid a visit to bring smiles to the children stuck in the prison of a hospital. Lacey, whose disease had left her paralyzed from the waist down, was lying on her back in the physical therapy room when the players walked in. The young basketball fan’s smile grew as wide as the room as each player came in to say hello. The nurses told her that she could pick one player to stay with her as she did her painful therapy, and she selected Adreian Payne, one of the stars of the team, with a gregarious smile. Adreian stayed with her through the end of the session, and after exchanging a long hug with Lacey, he asked the nurse if he could stay in touch with his new little friend. Lacey’s father, Matt, who was there for the visit, gladly passed on his information.

  Over the ensuing months, Adreian and Lacey stayed in touch and became quite close. The following season, when Lacey was in remission, she went to games at the Breslin Center and cheered on the Spartans and her favorite player. I happened to be watching one of those games, and that was how I first learned of her courageous battle and her unyielding optimism, as more and more sportscasters and journalists were sharing her story and her unlikely friendship with Adreian. I soon made it a point to attend a game at Michigan State, just to be able to meet this remarkable young girl. There was something so powerful about her spirit and her smile that it truly moved me.

  In November of 2013, as Lacey’s disease returned with a vengeance, I did a story on her and Adreian that aired between games of the Coaches vs. Cancer doubleheader on Turner, and I saw, up close, her strength and positive attitude. When her father had the difficult conversation with his daughter about death, her response was that she was glad that she had the disease and not her younger brother, Luke, because he wouldn’t understand. I stayed in touch with Matt, and by early 2014 Lacey had become a national phenomenon. She played an almost magical role as Michigan State went on a remarkable NCAA Tournament run in March, with Lacey in attendance despite her condition. On April 8, she lost her battle. She had fought like hell against her enemy and had her whole life ahead of her. Lacey was so little, with so much still to experience.

  I think of Lacey often in my battle. I have had an amazing life so far and have been able to experience some wonderful memories, so whenever my time comes, I have painted my canvas. But Lacey? She was just dipping her brush in the paint. I fight be
cause she fought. I will live life for both of us.

  Ed and Lacey hold a special place in my heart, but I have also been touched by the kindness of strangers who give me strength and encouragement—like Grandma Carla. People from around the world, some young, some old, some sports fans, some not, some fighting their own battles, others supporting their loved ones. Day after day, our home mailbox is filled with letters like these:

  My name is Spencer Bruno and I’m an aspiring sports broadcaster. To say you’re an inspiration to not only myself, but every person fighting some battle every day, is an understatement. I was so happy that you got to be a part of this year’s NBA Finals. I really hope you get better soon and continue your amazing career. It has been a privilege to watch you and your unique style throughout my life.

  Spencer Bruno

  He included a $5 donation.

  Now as I am starting my own family, working my job, and doing all the rest of the day to day chores that we all have to do, at times I may think I need a rest. But then I think of what you must be going through and have already went through, and you inspire me to be better, to do more. You have your lovely family, still working on all the playoff NBA games, and all while fighting the fight of your life. It truly inspires me to try to do more, and just love life, and my family more and more each day. I really hope that I am watching you in your “crazy” patterned/colored suits for many more years to come. You are a very strong man, inspiring many, and please stay strong … STAY SAGER STRONG …

  Andrew Cure

  *

  The last day of my eight-day May cycle happened to coincide with the opening game of the Western Conference finals between Golden State and Oklahoma City. I arrived at MDA well before my appointment time of 7:00 a.m., received my chemo, and raced to the airport to catch my 10:30 a.m. flight to San Francisco. Upon landing, I changed clothes and went to Oracle Arena for my pregame work and then Game One. I was so exhausted after the game that I actually shut off the ringer on my phone so I could sleep in on Tuesday morning, something I never do. After some work and some golf on Tuesday, I was back courtside for Game Two on Wednesday night, then took a red-eye flight back to Atlanta on May 18. I went right from the airport to Northside Hospital for a checkin, and, not surprisingly, I was low on blood cells and platelets. But I was home.

  For two nights, I would be able to sleep in my own bed and, more important, spend time with the kids and Stacy. I also had an opportunity to replenish my wardrobe before heading to Oklahoma City for Game Three. The two games in OKC were exhilarating, but I did have a bad off day and spent much of it in an Oklahoma hospital. I figured the two bags of blood and two bags of platelets would keep me going.

  The constant back-and-forth continued until the Warriors closed it out in Game Seven, a dramatic series win after trailing 3–1. The end of the series also meant the end of my NBA season. Admittedly, though, I was worn out. The travel, the transfusions, the lack of sleep had finally gotten the best of me. And besides, I expected to be back on the sidelines in October. But then I received a call from Turner. ESPN/ABC had asked if I would like to be a part of one of the NBA Finals games as a sideline reporter. Unreal. In all my years as a broadcaster, I had never covered the Finals as a reporter. I was humbled and flattered but concerned that I not step on any toes. Of course, there was one issue: chemo.

  I was scheduled to return to Houston for another eight-day cycle in June, and the only games that I could make it to would be a Game Six or Seven, if they were even played. I watched the series intently, taking notes, watching the ABC production, and otherwise preparing for an opportunity that may not happen. But it did. LeBron James carried the Cleveland Cavaliers back from a 3–1 deficit to 3–2, and I was headed to Cleveland for Game Six.

  There were very few nerves on edge as I flew out to Cleveland. After all, I knew what I was doing, knew the teams and coaches, and saw this game simply as a bonus gift from both ESPN and Turner. I had worked games before with play-by-play man Mike Breen and analysts Jeff Van Gundy and Mark Jackson, so I had familiarity with the flow. The most gracious of all was sideline reporter Doris Burke, who allowed me to be a part of the broadcast and take over some of her duties during the game. I was assigned the Warriors to cover, with Doris on the Cavaliers, but Doris did tell me she wanted me to do all of the in-game coach interviews.

  When it looked like Cleveland was going to win and tie the series up, I asked the ESPN producer where I should go and whom I should interview, assuming they wanted me to do a short interview with Steph Curry or Steve Kerr outside the losers’ locker room.

  “No, you interview LeBron on the court,” Doris jumped in, insisting, and the producer agreed.

  So as soon as the final horn sounded, I made my way to LeBron and began what was more a conversation than an interview. At the end, I had time for one more question, and I decided in that moment to just share what a fan at home was thinking.

  “Congrats, a great performance. I was very pleased to be here to witness it.”

  “First of all, let me ask you a question,” LeBron said as he put his arm around me. “How in the hell do you go thirty-plus years without getting a Finals game? That don’t make no sense. I am happy to see you, man, much love and respect. I’m happy you were able to witness this in front of these fans. We really appreciate you.”

  Luckily, the director cut away to Mike Breen as my eyes began to drop tears. It was an amazing moment, yet in some ways a sad one. The NBA season was over for me. Basketball had kept me going through a rough spring as my leukemia grew in its aggressiveness, but now it was over.

  *

  For my sixty-fifth birthday in late June, Stacy, the kids, and I flew to Atlantis in the Bahamas, a family birthday tradition. We swam in the pools, fished off the islands, and soaked in the sun (although doctors warned me about too much sunlight exposure). One evening, while the kids played, Stacy sat down next to me and pulled out her cell phone. She showed me a picture of a mint condition 1968 Pontiac GTO.

  “It’s yours,” she said excitedly. “I bought it for you from a dealer in Chicago.”

  It was gorgeous. A brilliant, bright red convertible, a remarkable vision of an earlier, carefree time in my life, one of the most beautifully designed and powerfully constructed muscle cars of its generation.

  “I can’t,” I said to her, tears in my eyes. “I won’t use it. The garage is filled. Let’s wait until Christmas and we can buy it then.”

  I knew that the next several months I would be lying in hospital beds fighting for my life, and despite the extremely generous and good-hearted gift, I simply did not want the expensive present to go to waste. Besides, it would give me something to look forward to.

  The prognosis from Dr. P was not good. The cycles of Lirilumab and Vidaza were not working. My blasts were up to 54 percent and growing fast. The doctors at MDA huddled and decided my best chance—perhaps my only chance—at survival was an intensive and toxic three-day cycle of three chemos. It would require a twenty-one-day hospital stay to monitor their effectiveness. If the new mixture worked and my blasts could be pushed down below 8 percent, doctors would immediately move to a rare third stem-cell transplant. So the prognosis was not good, but I had something that I could not miss the following week, so Dr. P and I agreed to start the cycle on July 27.

  The diagnosis and plan meant that I was not going to Brazil in August to cover the Olympic Games for NBC, for what would have been my seventh straight Olympiad. I was slated to report on the USA men’s basketball team and had been looking forward to it. But, to be honest, I knew deep down that with my condition worsening, Rio de Janeiro was becoming more remote, so the news that I couldn’t go was not that surprising.

  I had received bad news before, worse prognoses than this. Stacy and I were determined to fight through it, and I was confident that the chemo would work, that I would receive a third transplant, and that I would be around for many more years. We decided not to share the news with the family just yet.


  29

  ANOTHER CHANCE

  I kept focus on the days that were mine—the twelve days before I would return to Houston for one last effort to save my life. I traveled to Batavia to play in a golf fundraiser to support the Batavia High School basketball team, and reminisced with my teammates about Coach Van. Although the town has grown since I was growing up, it still has a “Mayberry” feel even today, with the same mayor, Jeff Schielke, holding office for the past thirty-six years.

  I went to Maine with Stacy, Riley, and Ryan and caught squid and lobster (and added some butter) for dinner. I returned to Batavia for a few hours to attend John Clark’s daughter’s wedding, as I had promised him I would back in February. By the time I made it back to Atlanta and visited Northside Hospital for blood tests, my platelet count was down to 2,000, or 2 in shorthand medical parlance. I knew that the leukemia was pushing forward.

  There was one stop that I was determined to make before going to Houston, despite my condition. Stacy and I booked a room at the Ritz-Carlton resort in the Cayman Islands and we left for three nights. In the Caymans, Stacy and I went sailing on a Hobie Cat. It had been almost thirty years since I last sailed, but it came back to me quickly, and since Stacy and I were the only ones on the boat, it was a good thing that I remembered.

  Being on the water with Stacy was exhilarating and refreshing and freeing. The sun beating down on my face, the spray of water misting my body, the wind moving my hair with force—I felt alive. When I turned the boat directly into the wind, I released the rudder, the sail became limp, and there was silence as the boat came to a stop. I planted a kiss on her lips and we just held hands, floating on the crystal blue water. I was living life as it was supposed to be lived, not in a hospital room. But, sadly, I knew I could not stay away forever, and we returned to Atlanta for a quick stop before flying to Houston.

  Our meeting with Dr. Pemmaraju and his associates was difficult in many ways. Though he was brimming with his usual optimism and confidence, he did tell me that I had a long road ahead. Early results from my blood tests revealed my white blood count to be at very concerning levels. The leukemia was aggressive, and the cycle of three highly toxic chemos over three days was my only shot at getting into remission and then to a third transplant. Dr. P warned me that the three days would be difficult, but I paid little mind: I had been through this before. I should have listened.