Catch a Star

by Tamika Catchings

  7

  Chosen

  Picture a kid with a smile as pure and unaffected as early morning sun, and that was Tamika . . . Picture too, a young woman who hid behind her openness. Who, despite the sociable veneer, would often sit withdrawn and alone on her high school bus, writing in a notebook.

  Pat Summitt, head coach, Tennessee Lady Vols

  I vividly remember watching TV one evening back in eighth grade. I was flipping the channels—and then stopped, becoming suddenly mesmerized by one person. I thought, Oh, wow. Who is this?

  Blue eyes filled the whole screen. Steely blue eyes—not cold, not icy blue, but the blue you see in a fire. So intense you could feel the heat six hundred miles away, through the screen, the crowd, and the cameras. Those eyes arrested me, stopped me from changing the channel, and as the camera pulled back and showed the whole face, I sat up and leaned toward the TV.

  Everybody always talks about Pat Summitt’s glare, but nothing prepares you for it. Seeing it for the first time, on TV, and not even directed at me, I thought, Man, I never want that kind of stare-down, because the way she can look at you will leave a hole. In a way, as I sat there on the couch, her stare already had gone through me. She wasn’t giving me the eye, but those eyes on that screen? I could feel them. I was completely mesmerized and even a little afraid.

  And drawn in.

  She speaks my language, I thought. Pat could say volumes without speaking a single word like no one else I’d ever seen. She didn’t have to voice her thoughts. Those eyes, that jaw, the set of her mouth, the hallmark stance, standing so tall, arms folded across her torso as if to hold in this extraordinary energy that would surely erupt otherwise—man, that said everything. She was zeroed-in, concerned, absolutely extraordinary.

  I was completely smitten with that kind of passion. I recognized it. It was inside me too. I wanted more of it. Seeing that kind of intensity from a woman coach in action, I was blown away.

  I dropped the remote control and stayed fixed on the rest of the game. The camera pulled back and panned a crowd going crazy over some call. The players huddled, then slipped back to their places on the court as the screen zoomed out even more and went completely orange. Playing on their home court, the Lady Volunteers of the University of Tennessee were swathed in orange: orange sweatshirts, T-shirts, hats, hair, jackets, face paint, posters, pompoms, banners. The school doesn’t use the tagline “Big Orange. Big Ideas” for nothing. Fans bear the color proudly. It was impressive and bright and seared itself into my dreams.

  Pat stalked the sidelines like a lion. I began to watch her almost more than the game itself. She’s not this giant woman, just five foot eleven, I would learn later. But she has this huge presence. Big. Inescapable. She could do that stare-down one moment, then stand graceful and serene the next. Minutes later she was hugging a player tight, warmly, so . . . motherly. I’d never seen anyone coach like she did. She breathed life into that game, those players. There was a respect from her and toward her from everyone in the crowd, even the opposing team. She was a tidal wave, altogether so very human and a force of nature.

  That was my introduction, at the age of thirteen, to the legendary Pat Summitt, head coach of the University of Tennessee Lady Volunteers and women’s basketball icon.

  Coach Summitt’s piercing eyes swept across the court, and the TV camera happened to catch her steely gaze. For a half second, it was as if she was looking through the camera, into our TV, and right at me.

  Yes, ma’am, I thought to myself. I want to play for you.

  Three years later, at the end of my junior year at Duncanville, my future was more complicated.

  I was very much on the radar of college recruiters. After my sophomore year at Stevenson with Tauja, the national championship, the Ms. Illinois Basketball award, and the opportunities growing every day my junior year at Duncanville, I was being watched by college coaches all over the country.

  There were rules governing how college coaches could approach prospective players. They couldn’t make personal, in-person contact until the player’s senior year. But in one’s junior year, schools could issue letters of interest.

  And as a junior, I found letters of interest started piling into our mailbox. Mom set up blue plastic Rubbermaid containers to hold them all.

  Every day, schools I’d never even thought about offered scholarships to play for their teams. I was amazed . . . and proud. All my work I believed would add up to something finally had. If my game on the court hadn’t been enough to convince others of my worth, the stack of recruitment letters spoke volumes.

  Mom and I would sit at the table to open and read the letters together till it became overwhelming. How to respond?

  “The first thing you do is be grateful,” Mom said. “Thank everyone who extends you such generosity.”

  I was grateful and humbled to be thought of, invited, and welcomed to every one of those schools. I began to write my thanks by hand. All the while, I wondered, What do I want?

  Tauj and I hadn’t forgotten the pact we’d made to play together again in college. It wasn’t about a reunion of the “Catchings Sisters.” It was about family. Getting the family together again. Tauj and me.

  A year ahead of me, she was close to making her choice. Though we’d made that pact, we’d hadn’t talked specifically about what school she was thinking about. The talks we did have were more about my own struggle to choose. The decision seemed so weighty for me. Ultimately, I had my eyes on the fact that where I went to college could enhance or hinder my chances of becoming an NBA pro someday.

  The year after I left Stevenson, Tauja led the school to its second straight championship and won the Ms. Illinois Basketball award. We kept it in the family. I didn’t know for sure where she might go to college, but Illinois had become her home.

  Meanwhile, Tauj knew I leaned toward Tennessee. I’d made that known since eighth grade—I often talked about Pat Summitt and the Tennessee Lady Vols. Kenyon even gave me a University of Tennessee sweatshirt one Christmas. I wore it everywhere.

  But was it more important for Tauj and me to play somewhere together? And wouldn’t it be so fun to be in college together?

  Tauja was close to deciding.

  Something inside me told me I should work at making my decision too. So I thought hard about all the options. I leaned heavily toward the University of Tennessee from the start, but I also held onto letters from the University of Southern California and the University of Arkansas.

  And then I learned Tauja had made her choice: the University of Illinois.

  I was shocked. She signed without even a conversation with me. What about our pact?

  I felt pressured to look at the University of Illinois. I flipped through the stack of recruiting offers in the blue bin. I knew there was one there from the University of Illinois. I pulled it from the stack and read it again.

  Looks like I’ll be visiting Champaign too, I said to myself. I took the letter to my room and added it to the three others. But I never told Tauj.

  The day I made my recruitment visit, Tauja had no idea I was in Illinois. Another player was there as well, and we were given a tour of the school and then invited to meet the team. The players walked into the room and the coach started introducing us.

  Tauja squealed my name and ran to me. “What are you doing here?” she asked, hugging me tight.

  I laughed. “I’m one of the recruits.”

  “I knew we were going to meet some recruits this weekend,” she said, “but no one told me one would be you.” She gave me a look with raised eyebrows.

  So much had happened so quickly. Tauja had started college and I was ending high school, and we both were just trying to keep up with the schoolwork, our sports, the new demands and plans and expectations. The split two years before and the distance by four states had put some challenges between us, but never a wall. It felt so good to be side by side again, talking basketball and school.

  But I also thought how d
ifferent we were now than in our high school days as the Catchings Sisters. I was stronger and more confident, and Tauj was different too. But our bond would never be broken. I felt the same closeness as ever to Tauj. We’d just each moved toward our separate goals in life, and we wanted different things. I realized we’d chosen them with that first split.

  So we chatted with everyone and laughed and talked about basketball, and it was a good time. But I knew right away the University of Illinois wasn’t the place I wanted to be. A piece of my heart was with Tennessee the first day I saw Pat Summitt’s intensity and the Lady Vols orange light up the television screen. And since my moment back in eighth grade, Coach Summitt had only become more legendary.

  Toward the end of our day, away from everyone, Tauj and I got a chance to talk. I studied her face. She knew. She always does. She made it easy.

  She looked me straight in the eye. “Don’t come here for me. You know if you come here, you’ll have to play another year after I’m gone. Come here only if you want to be here.” She paused a moment and smiled. “If this isn’t the place you want to be, I’m okay with you going where you want to go.”

  I nodded.

  “’Cause I know,” she said, “that’s the University of Tennessee.”

  Shortly after our volleyball championship win my junior year, Coach Pat Summitt and her assistant coach and recruiter, Mickie DeMoss, came for what was called an in-home visit. We planned to meet at the local mall before heading home to complete the rest of the visit.

  I walked through the mall pinching myself and trying to figure out if this was real. The woman who had mesmerized me on TV years ago was now in Duncanville to see . . . me? Dreams really do come true. I think all the anxiety and waiting is what made me start to feel sick. Out of nowhere I got a migraine headache, and I felt my brain shutting down. Then I saw her. In my head I was chanting, Oh my, oh my, oh my, but I managed to squeak out a “Hi, Coach” as we approached each other. This had to be the best moment in my life and a step closer to my dreams and goals.

  When we arrived back at the house, while Mom and Pat sat in the dining room talking, I invited Coach DeMoss to my bedroom to show her some of my stuff. My wall was covered with items and photos of people that inspired me—inspirational quotes along with my purple and turquoise Charlotte Hornets paraphernalia were all over the place. There was also my USA Junior National team jersey and right there in the corner was my first letter from the University of Tennessee, signed by Mickie DeMoss. We talked for a long time.

  The thing I remember most about Pat on her visit to my house was her sincerity and honesty. She sat me down and looked into my eyes with an intense but easy stare.

  She said, “Tamika, now, you could want me to promise you playing time and promise you a starting position, but the reality is—I can’t. Just like every other player who has played for me, you will have to earn your minutes and your position. You will have to fight every day to be the best you can be. But one thing I can promise you is that I will help make you the best player you can be.”

  I don’t think I had any doubt I wanted to go to Tennessee, but I didn’t know for sure that they would want me. Only later would we learn they wanted me badly but they were resigned to the idea that I would likely go to Illinois to be reunited with Tauja.

  Mickie DeMoss tells how she and Coach Summitt took a side trip to Chicago to talk with my dad. They didn’t want to get to the end of the process of winning me over and then face a dad who was opposed to the choice. Mickie and Pat walked away feeling that Dad wouldn’t oppose Tennessee if it were truly my choice.

  And it was my choice: Tennessee. I know Dad might have preferred me going to Illinois, but he didn’t get in the way of my decision.

  What did get in the way was a snafu at Tennessee regarding my acceptance letter. I waited and waited for a confirmation that they were admitting me. They had my letter declaring they were my choice. But nothing came in reply.

  Turns out there was a clerical error, and my letter had been overlooked. Once that was sorted out, I heard back from them. From Coach Summitt herself.

  I read and reread her letter. Could this be real? I looked again at the letterhead, black with orange; the signature, bold and slanted slightly left; the large loop for the P and at the bottom of the S; the full name, formal and clear with her official title printed underneath. I shook my head. Her full title . . . as if I wouldn’t know who she was.

  This was what I had dreamed about three years earlier when I first saw Pat Summitt on TV. I reread that letter one more time, looked again at her signature, and pinned it next to my seventh-grade goal, which I’d moved to a special corner wall of my bedroom.

  8

  Tennessee

  The result of all this need and emotion was a team of swift, rippling electricity. The “Three Meeks,” Semeka, Tamika, and Chamique, floated across the floor creating one unbelievable play after another; the ball would go flying up the court from Meek to Meek and never hit the ground. It was like watching volleyball.

  Pat Summitt, Sum It Up

  For me, the road to college basketball was . . . Interstate 40.

  Mom and I drove from Duncanville to the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, and it took us just shy of thirteen hours. I don’t know if the drive seemed longer to her or to me. I was on the brink of realizing a huge dream: Tennessee. Mom was losing her daughter.

  I was maybe a little nervous stepping into this new location, new level, and new life, but I had no regrets. There was no looking back. This is what I had hoped for and planned for. I could hardly wait to get there.

  The year before, the Tennessee Lady Vols, under Coach Pat Summitt, went 29–10 and ran the table in the NCAA Tournament, defeating Old Dominion in the championship game. It was Coach Summitt’s fifth national championship and the second year in a row that she’d won it. Women’s basketball at Tennessee was the best in the country. Pat Summitt had already become a legend in the college ranks, and she was gaining national recognition even from those who didn’t follow women’s collegiate basketball.

  This was the program I was stepping into. As Mom and I watched the dry dust of Texas through the rearview mirror and the green hills of Arkansas whiz past our car windows, I knew I was riding into a great opportunity, the dream of a lifetime. And also a challenging future.

  But it was the dream I had pursued. I wanted this. I wanted to shoot for the best. I wanted to play for the best coach, with the best players, and against the best players.

  Tennessee represented all of that to me.

  I think sometimes we settle for less than we should. We’re scared of challenges, afraid we might fail. Sometimes we settle in at a level where we’re confident we’ll compete well—maybe at a level beneath the talents God has given us. But it’s comfortable for us, and we know at that level we might just avoid the pain of failure.

  But then how will we know what we could have been?

  Mom turned off Interstate 40 onto Henley Street, which led directly into the campus of the University of Tennessee. She had tears in her eyes. I had stars in mine.

  So I’d be playing with the best, against the best. What would that make me?

  Better.

  I had been to the campus before, but now it seemed all the more beautiful and impressive—dotted with green lawns, lined with trees, and bounded by the Tennessee River to the east. A number of the buildings were older, with a kind of southern gothic look to them, but the dorm I’d be living in—Humes Hall—was modern, with a tall glass-and-steel face and clean, contemporary design inside.

  I don’t remember the exact sequence of events that first day on campus, except for locating the dorm, finding my room, and Mom and me unpacking the car.

  I remember connecting with my roommates—who would also be my teammates—some of whom I’d known from USA Basketball and the Nike High School All-American team we’d played on.

  I remember feeling a little overwhelmed. I was prepared to work really hard, but I
didn’t know what I was walking into. This was the big time. The campus was big. The buildings were big. The basketball arena was big. I would be living in one of a bazillion dorms.

  I remember also feeling content, in a way, that after a long process of dreaming about this, it was actually happening. I was finally here.

  The next day Mom helped me get settled in my dorm room. We did some shopping and we talked. She would later say that, for her, it was like “mission accomplished.” She had endured a lot, gone through the ups and downs of life with me. We had survived, in a way, the split of the family. Now she would be alone.

  I remember her saying good-bye to me. Kisses. Tears. I walked back to the dorm, realizing I’d come a long way from being a short, skinny girl with big box hearing aids. I had overcome much, accomplished a lot, and now would achieve more. I was on my own.

  I remember turning my head one last time. Mom was gone.

  One of my teammates, Chamique Holdsclaw, was the veteran of the team. She was a junior and had led the Lady Vols to two previous championships. She was what I would call an “outgoing introvert.” A lot like me. She was reserved, cherishing times by herself, but was also a leader by example. Over the two years we played together at Tennessee, I would learn a lot from her.

  Chamique was the best player in college basketball. Period. She had been called the “Michael Jordan of college basketball.” She was that good. Most of us coming in thought playing with her—or against her—was the Holy Grail of our young basketball careers.

  Semeka Randall was, like me, a freshman recruit. She was an All-American, and had played ball in high school in Ohio. I’d played with her the previous two summers on the Junior National teams (now called U18 and U19), so we already knew each other. A defensive stopper, she would become known as “The Glove.” Semeka was the most outgoing of our group, always the center of attention, the one most likely to “get the party started” in many ways, and on the court as well.