Don't Let the Lipstick Fool You

by Lisa Leslie

  I was playing defense at a crucial time in the second half when I knocked the ball out of bounds off of their center, a big, older-looking lady. I was clapping because we had the ball back, and while all the players were going to the other end of the court, Canada’s center walked by and hit me in the side of my head. I was stunned, but I reacted and socked her. I broke the woman’s nose.

  I quickly backed away and told the referee, “Get her! Get her, and I won’t hit her!” I did not want to fight the woman, but I was not going to let her beat me up. I kept shouting, “Get her,” but nobody did anything. This big woman kept fussing with her nose and coming after me. I had no choice. I socked her again, in the same spot! Her nose was really broken now! There was blood coming down her face.

  Finally, the referee came over and broke things up. I started crying. I knew that this woman was really hurt. My heart was pounding, and I was full of emotion. The referee ejected me from the game, and the Canadian woman went off to get her nose put back together.

  I was still crying when I sat down on our bench. I know now that Canada used that skirmish to get me out of the game. But at the time, I was young and naive, and the only thing I could think was this woman hit me; I reacted. I defended myself. But in doing so, I played right into the Canadian team’s trap. They knew they could not stop me on the court, so they were willing to try anything. And I’m the one who got thrown out of the game.

  It was a tough way to learn a lesson, but I had to understand that fighting was not the answer, especially when it kept me from playing. I had to have the discipline to walk away in situations like that. And I had to remember that I was wearing my country’s uniform.

  The score on the court was close, and I could not help my team. I knew that I had messed up, and I knew that I could not allow myself to get suckered into fighting again. It was not enough for me to play smart basketball; I had to be a smart basketball player as well.

  The game continued as I sat on the bench in tears. That is when Dawn Staley scooted over, put her arm around me, and said, “It’s all right, Big Girl. But damnnn, you socked her good!”

  Chapter 4

  Decisions, Decisions

  I was playing on the grand stage. Everything I did during that 1989–90 season took place in the heat of a global spotlight and in front of hundreds of college recruiters. They seemed to be at every practice, at every game, around every corner, and at the other end of every phone call. They were pulling out the stops and coming hard after me, but I was pretty much used to it by then. College recruiters had been a major part of my life since the summer after eighth grade, when I played for the OGDL. That summer I had also competed in the Basketball Congress International (BCI) Tournament in Phoenix, Arizona. BCI hosts local and national tournaments to give boys and girls the opportunity to improve their basketball skills. The players also get to showcase those skills in front of a lot of the nation’s college coaches, with the hopes of earning scholarships.

  Back in 1986, college coaches could talk more with recruits than they can today. NCAA rules are much more rigid now as far as regulating the number of visits, phone calls, and contacts that a coach can have with a potential recruit. In that summer before I started high school, coaches would come up and introduce themselves to me all the time. I remember meeting Glenn McDonald and Michael Abraham from Long Beach State University. They were the first two college coaches that showed interest in me (years later both men worked with me as L.A. Sparks assistant coaches), and since Long Beach was just down the 405 freeway from Los Angeles, they would come and watch a lot of my local tournaments. Then they’d send me letters with little messages like, “Hey, Lisa! We saw you. You played really well.” Both coaches would sign the note. It was very cool and very flattering. They would also call me on the phone two or three times a week, so we got to know each other pretty well.

  All this was taking place before I ever got to Morningside. Once I started my freshman year, college coaches from across the country pulled out all the stops to catch my interest. They called my house, and I got tons of recruiting letters. Without exaggeration, I got at least three letters from different college coaches every day. I had so many recruiting letters that I started putting them into photo albums. There were letters from Washington, Alabama, Tennessee, Florida, Florida A&M, Texas, and Texas Tech, and there were some from schools that I had never heard of, like Rice, Xavier, and Bowling Green. You name a school, I got a letter from them. It seemed like I got at least one letter from every Division I, Division II, and Division III college in the country.

  I received so much recruiting mail that it got to the point where I would tear open an envelope and look inside. If the letter was not handwritten, I would not read it. I did not like receiving typed letters, so at the age of fourteen, that was how I started sifting through my college suitors. Tiffany became my assistant—screening all calls and organizing my mail.

  Coaches would also send postcards, especially when their teams were playing in tournaments in Hawaii. I guess they wanted me to think that I would be going to Hawaii if I chose to attend their university. I cannot tell you how many postcards I got from Hawaii or how many “Happy Holiday” cards I received. Every holiday, my mailbox would be stuffed with cards from colleges. Each card was signed by the entire basketball team and coaching staff.

  I have two or three photo albums just full of college letters. Some coaches would write, “We know you are not going to consider us, but we wanted to extend an offer just in case your family is ever out this way and would like to visit our university.” It was pretty cool, but it was just mail to me. To this day, I hate mail. Even though my mom once worked for the post office, I HATE MAIL! I cannot stand opening mail, and it is because of all those college letters.

  I did develop relationships with many of the coaches who wrote me, though. They would call and ask me about recent games or about how school was going. It was a fun process until it came down to my senior year, when I had to pick the five schools that I would visit. It was an awfully hard decision, but I chose Tennessee, Notre Dame, USC, Long Beach State, and Stanford.

  My first visit was to Long Beach State. When I walked into their darkened gym, a spotlight flashed on. It shined directly on a life-sized poster of me, and then a voice boomed through the P.A. system, “ANNNNNNND NOW, STARTING FOR THE LONG BEACH STATE 49ERS, WEARING NUMBER THIRTY-THREE…LEEEEEEEESSSSAAAA LESSSSSLIEEEEEEEEE!”

  They did this whole production for me, and it was very impressive and flattering. I got to meet, and hang out with, a lot of the players on the women’s team, but the fit just did not feel right for me at Long Beach State.

  Notre Dame was my next recruiting visit. Coach Scott went with me to South Bend, Indiana, that fall, and it was FREEZING! I knew right away that it was too cold for me in the land of the Fighting Irish, but I loved the gold dome and Touchdown Jesus. Notre Dame was so beautiful, but it was also very intimidating. The campus was really large, there were thousands of students, and South Bend was such a long way from home.

  I sure enjoyed my visit, though. It was football season, and at the start of the game, I got to walk through the historic tunnel that the Fighting Irish football players pass through before every home game. I went out into Notre Dame Stadium and stood on the sidelines during the game. I was still really cold, but the experience was great, and I just loved the tradition there.

  That evening was also opening night for the men’s basketball team, so we went from the football game to Joyce Center Arena and into the men’s locker room. I got to meet head coach Digger Phelps. He was extremely nice to me. I listened in as he talked with his team, and then, all of a sudden, this guy walked into the room. He was so fine and so cute! I found out later that he was LaPhonso Ellis.

  LaPhonso was ineligible to play because of his grades, so he was in street clothes while the team was in uniform. He was about six foot nine and really, really handsome. I kept looking at him, but I made sure that he did not know that I was looking. I
was thinking, Oh! I want to come here! At that moment, LaPhonso Ellis was the only reason that I was considering Notre Dame.

  Coquese Washington, whom I later played against in the WNBA, was my host for the Notre Dame weekend. We watched the men’s basketball game and then got to hang out with the women’s team for a while. Their coach was Muffet McGraw. I liked her, but when my Notre Dame visit ended, I had two thoughts in my head:

  COLD weather

  LaPhonso (La Fine so) Ellis Hmmmmm! What a tough decision!

  I did not have to go far for my next recruiting visit. I went to USC in Los Angeles. The Trojan coaches had already been to my home for what turned out to be one of the most memorable and humiliating nights of my life. Head coach Marianne Stanley had come to our door, and I gave her a hug as she entered. Her assistant, Barbara Thaxton, walked in right behind her, and our little shih tzu dog, Semi, jumped on her leg and started humping it.

  I could not believe what was happening. It was like something out of a very bad movie. Semi just kept humping away at Coach Thaxton’s leg, and I was paralyzed with embarrassment. I could have just died. I yelled for help. “Mommmm! Ohmigod, look at Semi!”

  I probably could have helped move Semi myself, but I was mortified and humiliated and could not imagine touching Semi while he was…in motion. So I did what I usually do: I ran to my room, closed the door behind me, and just sat in there. I had been hoping to make such a good impression because I really liked the USC coaches. Instead, I was hiding out, mortified because of my horny little dog.

  Coach Stanley tried to make things easier for me. She called out, “Lisa, come on out, girl. It’s okay.”

  I kept saying, “No! No!” I did not want to come out and face them.

  I could hear the coaches laughing and saying, “Nobody is worrying about this dog of yours. Come on out here and visit with us.”

  I finally slithered meekly out of my room and met with them. Both coaches had big smiles on their faces. They each gave me a hug. They were sweet, but I was so embarrassed. That was, without a doubt, the most humiliating moment of the entire recruiting process for me. I could have killed that dog.

  The Women of Troy did not pull out any whistles and bells for my campus visit, but I enjoyed talking with the coaches again, and I had fun hanging out with the team. I really liked how much the coaches talked about winning and turning the program around. I was really interested in the prospect of resurrecting the Trojan legacy that Cheryl Miller, Cynthia Cooper, Rhonda Windham, and the McGee sisters, Pam and Paula, had built. I knew USC had recently signed some of the nation’s top high school seniors, and the team already had some quality veteran players in-house. Tammy Story and Joni Easterly were two of the Trojans’ top players. Tammy was a shooting guard who could knock down the 3-ball. Unfortunately, she never really got the chance to excel completely, because she had to play the point guard position. Joni also had a great jump shot, and she worked really hard on both ends of the floor. When I watched them during my visit, I knew that both players would make terrific teammates. I also liked the coaching staff. I knew Coach Stanley had a good personality, and I knew she could be pretty funny, but I was also aware of her reputation for being stern with her teams. Coach Thaxton was very motherly and very nice.

  The visit went well. There was not anything earth-shattering about it. There were no fireworks, and I did not need any. I just felt comfortable there. My mom wanted me to go to USC, and I thought the university was excellent. I also figured that a degree from there would be valuable whether or not I continued with basketball after college. I was already thinking about life after basketball, and I knew that at USC, I would get a good education and have some fun, too.

  I started to narrow my list of college choices. I told Notre Dame that I was not going to be joining the Fighting Irish. Farewell LaPhonso Darnell Ellis. (He went on to be a first-round draft pick in the NBA.)

  I was supposed to visit Stanford next, but their assistant coach, Renee Brown, called and told me, “Lisa. We looked at your classes for your senior year. You have outstanding grades, but we feel that instead of typing, you should take another science class, an AP course, which will automatically give you college credits.”

  I had already taken my required science courses, and the class Stanford wanted me to take started at 6:30 in the morning and did not end until 9:00 AM If I added that course to the rest of my class load, plus basketball, I would be looking at some awfully long days. I gave it some thought, but finally told Renee that I did not want to change classes.

  She said, “Okay. Then I am sorry to say that we cannot offer you a scholarship.”

  I told her, “Okay. That’s fine.”

  Renee seemed surprised. “Really?” she asked. “You are not going to change your mind?”

  I answered, “No, that’s fine. Thank you.”

  The last words I heard from Renee were, “Okay, Lisa. I wish you the best of luck.” That was it. I never talked with anyone from Stanford again, and I had seriously considered going to school in Palo Alto, but now the Cardinal was off my list.

  The University of Tennessee was my last school to visit. Head coach Pat Summitt and her assistant, Mickey DeMoss, visited my house during the fall of my senior year, and I really enjoyed them. My mom cooked chicken and waffles and all kinds of breakfast things. They ate, and we all had a good time. Pat was really nice. She had a strong Southern accent and the bluest eyes ever. She was very pretty and very serious. I could tell that she was superintelligent and definitely knew the game of basketball. Her name spoke volumes in women’s basketball, and I was awed just to have her in my home.

  I had also done my homework regarding Pat. I knew she had worked with USA Basketball. One of my goals was to play for USA Basketball, so I wanted my college coach to have those kinds of connections. Everything was very positive with Pat. The University of Tennessee was already a powerhouse in women’s basketball, and I was thinking seriously about going to Knoxville to continue that tradition.

  My visit with the Vols was not scheduled until after the first of the year, but Morningside High had a Christmas tournament in Shelbyville, Tennessee, so that turned out to be my first introduction to the Volunteer State and its people.

  The Shelbyville Breakfast Rotary Club put on the event and called it the Best of the U.S. Tournament. They picked us up at the airport and gave us silk jackets that said SHELBYVILLE. A fancy coach-style bus took us to a nice hotel, and we got free breakfasts and newspapers while we were in town. It started out as a great experience.

  Eight high school teams participated in the tournament. My team had traveled the greatest distance to get there, but teams had come from as far away as New Hampshire and as near as Kentucky, Alabama, and Mississippi. Tennessee had two teams in the tournament, Shelbyville High School and Cannon County High.

  We went into the event ranked as the number one high school team in the nation by USA Today. Shelbyville was ranked number two. We saw it as a chance to square off against a very good basketball team, to decide which high school really was the best in the country. The competition was designed so that Morningside and Shelbyville would meet in the championship round. All both teams had to do was win their games, and the showdown would be on.

  Well, we put an end to those plans in a hurry. Two days after Christmas, Vigor High School, from Prichard, Alabama, knocked off Morningside in our very first game of the tournament. I had twenty-eight points, eleven rebounds, and five blocked shots, but afterwards, Coach Scott called it “the worst basketball game we have played all year.”

  Our second game was against the Cannon County Lionettes, and it was a real eye-opener in a lot of ways. When we got to the arena, there was already a game in progress. The facility was very nice. It seated about three thousand people, and the place was packed, mostly with Shelbyville fans. As our team milled around, we started to hear comments from the crowd. One man said, “She looks like a monkey.”

  We all looked at each other like, “Did he
say what I thought he said?” The crowd was almost totally white. Our Morningside team was completely black. We acted like we did not hear the remark, but the crudeness did not stop.

  When our game tipped off, Morningside scored the first few baskets, and the officials disallowed every one of them because of a foul or a violation. Something was not right. The arena had a “different” feel to it, and I felt completely out of place. Cannon County jumped out to a 19–6 lead. The referees were cheating. They were taking away points, taking away baskets. They would not let me play my game. Cannon County’s players were all over me.

  When Coach Scott got up off the bench to question a referee, the fans started yelling racist remarks again, and the official moved away. He would not acknowledge our coach, so Coach Scott walked all the way across the court to get to the ref and let him know exactly how he felt. That cost him a technical foul.

  Cannon County High pulled out to a 40–15 lead. The game was obviously rigged. We were set up to go in there and lose our number one ranking. It was a terrible experience, and I was devastated. The game was completely out of our control. That was probably the hardest part. It did not matter what we did; we were going to lose. These people took away my joy of playing the game, and I felt like we had taken a bad trip back into the 1960s. I was angry and powerless.

  As the game progressed, the racist remarks became louder and even more crystal clear. “Get that monkey off the court.” We could not believe what we were hearing. The fans would mix in, “Get those niggers off the court!” I remember them calling us niggers a lot.

  Nobody was controlling what the people were saying, because it obviously was not offensive to the other folks in the stands. None of them seemed to care, but it was just too overwhelming for me. I had never experienced anything like that. I had read about prejudice and I had heard of the Watts riots and I knew about Martin Luther King, Jr. and his march. A lot of people, like me, think that we are educated about racism, but I had no understanding of the hate and the hurt that went with it until I actually experienced racist people firsthand.