Living Out Loud

by Craig Sager

  Stacy was, of course, by my side every step of the way. That is, until she was prohibited. After we arrived in Houston, she had broken out in small rash splotches on her legs and arms. Stacy had suffered from a bad case of shingles when I was first diagnosed in 2014, and she was concerned that it had returned. (Later, it was determined that it was not shingles but rather phytophotodermatitis, a skin condition caused by sensitivity to plants or fruits.) With my immune system wiped out, Dr. Pemmaraju sent Stacy back to the hotel and, eventually, back to Atlanta. When I demanded that I at least be able to walk downstairs to say goodbye, my heart was truly breaking and I shed tears as she gingerly gave me a hug. As she walked away, it was one of the saddest moments of my life. I was going to have to get through this alone.

  The next forty-eight hours, I felt more physically ill than I had ever felt during my battle. The chemo was killing all of my healthy blood cells along with the bad ones, and it was ripping my insides apart. I gained sixteen pounds over forty-eight hours because of all of the chemo and fluids, then lost thirteen pounds in a matter of hours after the chemo stopped and I was able to take Lasix to clear my organs and arteries of the excess fluid. I could barely speak, couldn’t focus, and hit a wall. It was the worst that I had experienced. But I knew it was only for a few days, so I declined pain medication, believing that my mental toughness could overcome the physical.

  Sure enough, within hours of ending the cycle, I started to feel better. When nurses finally detached me from my IV, I walked around the hospital floors and took laps outside in the hot Houston sun.

  It would take a few weeks for the chemo to “simmer,” so we would not know its level of effectiveness for days, but that didn’t stop me from peppering Dr. Pemmaraju with questions about the upcoming transplant.

  “Do we have the donor lined up?” Well, there was a fourteen-for-fourteen match, but no confirmation that he or she is willing to do the transplant.

  “Well, why don’t we find out if the donor is willing now?” Relax, we are on it.

  “How many third allogeneic stem cell transplants for AML have you done this year?” Zero.

  I was absolutely convinced that the chemo had worked and that my blasts were down to near zero. I was also convinced that I would be getting that transplant in a few weeks and that I would be back on the NBA sidelines come fall.

  *

  As you probably know about me by now, I couldn’t—and wouldn’t—just lie around my hospital room on the twelfth floor of MD Anderson, waiting two weeks to see if the toxic chemicals inside me were working. After the initial days of chemo, I felt remarkably fine, and there was only so much SportsCenter and Gunsmoke I could watch. So, just thirty-six hours after the last chemo treatment, I turned on my side in my bed and looked out the four-by-six-foot window with a view of the Houston skyline, the crystal blue sky, and the occasional airplane taking off or landing at nearby Hobby Airport. It was too nice a day to be a leukemia patient in dire straits.

  I planned my escape. I called my good buddy and golfing partner in Houston, Steve Henry, and asked him to pull up in his pickup truck downstairs at precisely high noon. By then, I would be done receiving my platelet infusion and could get the nurses to unhook the various tubes from the port in my right arm by letting them know that I was going for a walk. I couldn’t wait to enjoy the freedom of the outdoors without being tethered to IVs. My plans were dampened when a nurse informed me that I also needed a blood transfusion, but with my charm and, honestly, my resolve, we agreed that I could get the blood when “I returned from my walk.”

  The platelet bag finished, I jumped out of bed in my T-shirt and underwear and gingerly strode over to the closet, pulled out a vintage purple golf shirt with purple-and-pink Bermuda shorts, threw on my Nikes, and headed out the door. Yes, it was not the most inconspicuous escape wardrobe, but I figured if anyone asked, I would just tell them I wanted to feel “bright” for my walk.

  On my way toward the elevators, I bumped into a few of my nurses and one of my doctors, who simply asked how I was doing. When I reached the elevator doors, I knew I was home free. (Let me be clear: I was violating hospital policies by leaving the hospital grounds.)

  It was a hot day in Houston, and by hot I mean upper nineties, with a heat index well above 100. I didn’t care. Didn’t care that doctors did not want me in the sun; didn’t care that the three intensive days of chemo were still burning inside me; didn’t care that leukemia was overtaking my body. For this moment, right now, I was free. I jumped into the pickup truck and we drove the six miles to a nearby course.

  As I bent over and stuck my tee in the ground in the tee box at the first hole, my biggest concern for the day was trying to avoid ripping the port that had been inserted and stitched into my arm five days earlier. It was dangling off my right arm above the elbow, but a few light practice swings convinced me I would be fine. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a brief second, and then whacked the ball. Not my best shot. As the holes progressed, my shots got progressively worse and I got progressively sick inside. The heat was overwhelming. Around the fifth hole, I knew I wouldn’t make it past the front nine, but I was determined to finish. On the seventh tee, I missed my first swing, shanked the second into the marsh, and drilled another (my mulligan) into the brush. For someone who takes great pride in his golf game, this was an embarrassing disaster. My balance was off, I was nauseated, and it was hard for me to keep my eyes focused on the ball.

  As I drove the golf cart toward the eighth tee, I’d had it. My stubbornness had gotten the best of me. I stopped the cart and began to vomit profusely.

  “Get me inside!” I barely whispered, and, with that, we drove directly to the clubhouse as I vomited along the cart path. Once inside, cold water, a towel, and some air conditioning helped. My friends helped me to the truck and we headed back to the hospital. Even though I played horribly, got sick all over the course, and only made it through seven holes, it was well worth it.

  Amazingly, I felt better within a few hours and was already thinking about my next stop that day: the Toyota Center.

  The USA basketball team was preparing to leave for Brazil for the Olympics and was in Houston for one last exhibition game against the national team from Nigeria. I couldn’t make it to Rio, but I was going to try my best to send them off. Of course, after the golf debacle that afternoon, and knowing that I had to receive a blood transfusion, I didn’t know if the game was even a possibility. At 8:15 p.m., well after the game had started, the last drop of blood made it into my body and I was off without telling the nurses where I was headed or when I would return.

  By the time I arrived at the arena, it was between the third and fourth quarters, with the Americans up by more than thirty points over a valiant but less talented Nigerian team. As I made my way to a seat near the floor, a few fans gave me a hearty cheer, and I was moved when the entire arena gave me a standing ovation after I was shown on the video board. I knew they were cheering for my battle, not for me.

  After the game, to my surprise, the head of USA Basketball, Jerry Colangelo, invited me back to the team locker room. Though I’d covered the men’s team at the Olympics all the way back to 1992, oddly enough I had never been in the locker room, since at the Olympics, members of the press are kept outside in a pool area and players and coaches are brought to them. After a few greetings with players and a visit with head coach Mike Krzyzewski in the coaches’ locker room, Mike asked me to come with him as he addressed the team. I was honored to be allowed into the inner sanctum of sport.

  After he summed up their pre-Olympics preparation and reminded them that they would be representing their country at all times, Coach Krzyzewski turned to me.

  “Well, you all know Craig Sager. Craig?”

  It took me a second to realize that Coach K wasn’t just introducing me, but inviting me to speak to the national team. I was never a guy who gave speeches, though; I was the guy who listened to them. I was the guy who marveled at other people’s tal
ents, moments, and stories. I was the guy blessed to even witness their amazing feats. But there I stood, in front of some of the greatest basketball players and coaches in the world, their eyes looking straight into mine.

  Well, thanks, guys, it is great to be here. When I first learned that you were in town, I did my best to get here, even though I didn’t arrive until late in the game.

  I wish you all well in Rio. I have covered every USA basketball Olympics since the Dream Team in 1992, and I had every intention to go to Rio. But with my bone marrow and leukemia blasts rising, doctors felt the timing was right for me to have a third transplant, and they found a donor match and the time is now.

  I will be watching every game, and I am very proud of you. The games won’t be as easy as they were tonight. You will face hurdles. A hostile environment. Questionable officiating. Every team will try to foul you, especially in the backcourt, to try and stop your running game. But I know you will be prepared, and with mental focus you will adjust.

  My goal is to be ready for opening night in October. When I see you, I want to greet every one of you as gold medal winners. Good luck.

  As soon as I finished my words, the team rose in unison and, one by one, led by Carmelo Anthony, came over and gave me a hug, many offering their prayers and support. It was one of the proudest moments of my life and capped a day in Houston that I will never forget.

  The next day was even better, as doctors informed me that the anonymous donor had agreed to the procedure and the third transplant was on for August 31. One last chance.

  30

  Lessons from My Father

  What I learned from my father, and what my father taught me growing up, most people would assume to be one and the same. What I learned from him continues to evolve, years after our nostalgic escapades. What I was taught by my father was simple: (1) how to make the most of the one life we are given, and (2) to always find the fun. Don’t get me wrong: my father is not naive with this twofold advice. He is well aware that making the most out of life while still managing to find the fun cannot be achieved by simply wishing it to be so. My father’s unparalleled work ethic, in combination with his unwillingness to accept no for an answer, is the most valuable quality I’ve learned, and one that I have strived to embody my entire life.

  Even things my dad didn’t teach me how to do, I still picked up, as a result of our special Sager bond. Any time I’d get discouraged after losing, he would rub it in my face a little more and then remind me that I would be able to beat him at everything one day and to keep practicing. This father-son rivalry shaped me.

  He was my teacher, and I wanted to make sure I made the most out of what I had. I could learn from his successes and find the things that he wasn’t doing that I could do. I began to search for any possible advantage I could use to become better than him when I was older. I developed the mind-set that if he was this good without doing these particular things, then how good could I be if I did do them?

  He is a good athlete, but they didn’t really lift weights when he was growing up, I’d think to myself. That motivated me to start lifting weights. When he was growing up, they didn’t have nutrition plans. I started studying nutrition and used my diet to gain another possible edge.

  My entire family was always challenging one another to be better. My dad just happened to be my toughest challenge and biggest motivation wrapped into one. I felt the pressure to follow in his footsteps every day of my life. That stress was suffocating until a challenge came my way. Then it became my fuel and my biggest source of strength.

  These lessons and beliefs changed the moment my dad got sick. I thought I had to become my own teacher, even though I hadn’t yet found the version of myself I’d be teaching. Unlike my dad, who was always a Pollyanna and unapologetically himself, I was an unintentional pessimist with a full assortment of emotions. I had worn every emotion over the years and let them all guide me at some point.

  I started to look back at all the things I had learned from my dad that could help me get through the frightening road ahead. I began to realize that what I learned from him and what he taught me were one and the same. All those years, he was unwittingly teaching me how to teach myself. The unpredictable lifestyle, the work ethic, and his unshakable outlook on life weren’t just the fundamental skills I thought they were when I was growing up. These were the invaluable qualities that he passed on to me that could prepare me for the curve balls life would throw. The ability to adapt and to embrace change was already a part of me.

  Two years into his battle with AML, his influence continues to structure my attitude toward life. When a difficult situation comes about, I no longer ask myself, How will this change my life? He taught me that it will change my life however I choose to let it. The goals that I used to let control me can now guide me. By placing more meaning in the “little things” and the present moment, rather than the goal itself, it has been more rewarding and effective in improving me as a person.

  I doubt I will ever be able to be as positive as my father, but I have never met anyone else able to replicate his positivity, so I can’t really blame myself. What I can do and what anyone can do is bring the same passion into each day that he does. I no longer fear my emotions or let them hold me back, because he showed me that being positive is always possible. No matter how hard life may seem to me at times, I know that my dad would still be able to find the fun somewhere. And that promise of hope that he gave me will always be my strongest suit.

  31

  NEVER, EVER GIVE UP

  I first met Jim Valvano in the 1980s, when he was a frequent guest on our CNN College Coaches Corner show based in Atlanta, as he was always in the area recruiting the next North Carolina State basketball phenom. Jim was gregarious, compassionate, and hysterical on the air and off. Born in Queens and raised on Long Island, he had that “it” gene, turning a roomful of strangers into friends within minutes. Most of America knew Jim as the crazy coach who led N.C. State to the 1983 national championship and then ran around the court after the game-winning shot, searching for someone to hug. When he stepped away from coaching in 1990, he transitioned into the world of television, and Turner hired him to be a color analyst at the 1991 Pan Am Games in Cuba. He was spectacular on the air. When we weren’t courtside for a game, we would go out as a group in Havana, and Jim was just as kind with the Cuban youth as he was with his colleagues, often stopping and shooting hoops with them on makeshift baskets on the sidewalks of the city.

  In June 1992, Jim was diagnosed with adenocarcinoma, a deadly form of bone cancer. When I first heard the news, I got a pit in my stomach. But he attacked life like I did, living every moment, cherishing every breath, looking for the positives in people and in events.

  Jim’s cancer progressed rapidly, but he never lost his iconic jet-black hair from the chemo, nor were there many visible signs of his pain and disease. In February 1993, he took the stage at the ESPY Awards to receive the Arthur Ashe Courage Award. Many of us then, and since, have watched his remarkable speech in awe. Some excerpts:

  When people say to me, “How do you get through life or each day?” it’s the same thing. To me, there are three things we all should do every day. We should do this every day of our lives. Number one is laugh. You should laugh every day. Number two is think. You should spend some time in thought. Number three is you should have your emotions moved to tears—could be happiness or joy. But think about it. If you laugh, you think, and you cry, that’s a full day. That’s a heck of a day. You do that seven days a week, you’re going to have something special.…

  I just got one last thing. I urge all of you—all of you—to enjoy your life, the precious moments you have. To spend each day with some laughter and some thought, to get your emotions going. To be enthusiastic every day. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “Nothing great could be accomplished without enthusiasm”—to keep your dreams alive in spite of problems, whatever you have. The ability to be able to work hard for your dreams to come tr
ue, to become a reality.…

  I know, I gotta go, I gotta go, and I got one last thing: I said it before, and I want to say it again. Cancer can take away all my physical abilities. It cannot touch my mind, it cannot touch my heart, and it cannot touch my soul. And those three things are going to carry on forever. I thank you, and God bless you all.

  Twenty years later, I think of my friend and his words almost every day. Don’t give up, don’t ever give up. I can’t give up; I won’t. I downloaded Jim’s ESPY speech onto my phone and pull it out when I need a pick-me-up. And I would need it, many times over.

  *

  Back in May, when I was in Houston, my cell phone rang while I was hooked up to a chemo IV, and Stacy’s number appeared on my caller ID.

  “Hello, Luv.”

  “Craig, my name is Maura Mandt, and I am on the line with your wife, Stacy,” said an unfamiliar voice. “I am the executive producer of the ESPY Awards, and we would like to honor you this year with the Jimmy V Perseverance Award.”

  I can’t recall my first response exactly, but I am sure it was silence followed by something like “No way.” The thought that I would be honored in the same manner that Jim Valvano and so many other courageous and brave men and women have been recognized was almost too preposterous to believe.

  After accepting the reality of the invitation, I immediately began thinking of two things: What would I wear and what would I say? This would be a night above all other nights. A chance to stand onstage in Los Angeles, with millions watching at home, and encourage others to never give up and to fight, and to also raise awareness for cancer research. It was a platform that I could not let go to waste.