by Jay Williams
Soon the floodgates open as eight girls arrive at your booth. Ten bottles of Dom follow with sparklers as people stare in awe. If you aren’t satisfied with the talent at the table, you tap the security guard on the shoulder and point to someone else you want him to bring over.
The guard walks over to the lady, points you out while telling her that you would like to chat with her and buy her a glass of champagne. She then gathers her friends and everyone comes over to your section. As the music continues and the champagne flows, either a number is going to be exchanged or a move to leave is going to be made. By the time the end of the night rolls around, enough headway has been made that the conversation usually ends up continuing back in your hotel room.
Depending on city ordinances, I would get back to the hotel anywhere from 2 A.M. to 6 A.M., usually tipsy or drunk. The night would lead to casual sex. Sometimes the girls would stay over until the morning, sometimes they wouldn’t. I never made any promises to anyone and always justified my actions thinking that I wasn’t married yet and was just having fun.
Guys would even arrange nights like this during the actual games. A ball boy would write a note, pass it to a woman and her friends in section such and such, and that night we’d party. Some players had regular hookups and just stayed at the hotel, ordered room service, and called it a night, while other guys loved to go out and “hunt.”
Times when I would see players pull up to the team charter before a road trip and kiss their wife and kids goodbye would break me. They’d jump on the plane, spend the next ten days with two or three women, come back home, and greet their family as if nothing ever happened.
And who’s to say I wouldn’t be doing the same once I had a wife and kids of my own?
With the exception of some brief breakups here and there, Noelle and I were seeing each other pretty much throughout my entire first year in the NBA. She would find text messages on my phone from other girls, hear from random friends that I was messing around with this one or that one, and use other various means to expose my philandering ways. She was no fool. Noelle and I were close to calling it a day at the time of the accident, but I asked Kevin to reach out to her anyway. I didn’t even give it a second thought. And within 24 hours of taking his call, she was there. I always wanted her around, but now I needed her more than ever. So when she arrived, her presence brought this tremendous warmth, which helped lift my spirits. Once again, we reunited, and that gave me a piece of happiness to hold on to at a time when I felt like I had lost it all.
One of my favorite days before my accident came late in December of my junior year. I had just dropped 38 on Kentucky at the Meadowlands, but that wasn’t why I was on cloud nine that night. After the game, we were officially on Christmas break, so I left from there with Noelle and her parents to go back to their hometown. It was an hour’s drive to Freehold, and Noelle and I sat in the back of her dad’s car, trying our best to catch up after not seeing each other for the past few months. The long distance was taking its toll on both of us. She had this whole other life playing for the women’s basketball team at Wagner University and traveling all the time. And I was completely consumed with my career at Duke and all that was to follow. She knew how much buzz I was getting at the time, but all she cared about was how I was doing—off the court.
Later that night, at a house party thrown by someone she knew, I pulled her outside to the backyard for a conversation. I told her that I loved her and that I wouldn’t let anything get between us. I saw myself marrying her one day and I didn’t want us to give up. I then said I would do anything she wanted to make this work. She looked at me for a brief moment without saying anything and then told me to:
“Take a hit of my blunt and do 15 jumping jacks.”
I did as instructed.
“Now scream as loud as you can how much you love me.”
And I did that, too. We just laughed the night away and thought this was the beginning of the rest of our lives together.
IT IS STILL safe to say that the tenth of September 2003 marked the most difficult birthday of my life. While I was done associating myself with the number 22 on the court—perhaps forever—it was time to come to grips with what my life had come to at . . . 22 years old. I had envisioned what this year of my life was going to be like on the court, having just started to figure things out, but instead here I was lying in a hospital bed in a rented home in North Carolina, wallowing in my sorrow, wishing to be alone.
Noelle had come down from New York City to be there with my parents, Laurie, and Kevin as we “celebrated my special day.” They bought a cake with rich vanilla frosting and 22 candles. Everyone was so cheerful as they walked into my room singing Happy Birthday with the candles lit. I was so high on Oxy that I must’ve thought it was the Fourth of July. I knew my family was so happy that I was alive to see 22, but at the moment, with 22 individually lit candles staring back at me, all I wanted was to not have survived the crash.
I was so weak that it took me three tries to blow out all the candles. I’d always had such a strong upper body, but now I had the frame of a ten-year-old child. The scene was sobering: my face was emaciated, and my skin was dry and tight against my cheekbones.
My dad had always been a strong man. After kissing me on the head, he grabbed my hand while I stared at him, crying with shame and guilt. “God has a purpose for you, son,” he said. “I’ve thanked Him for keeping you here every day since that day.”
His words moved me that night. I hadn’t been thankful. It was the first time since my recovery began in Durham that I recognized how much of a martyr I was being. I was truly blessed to have such great people willing to do whatever it took to help me through this dark and twisted journey. Later that night, while sitting in my wheelchair on the porch with everyone, I just couldn’t stop staring at Noelle. One minute she was a bartender in midtown Manhattan, and the next she was spending her days and nights with me five states away. Only a special kind of love could explain why someone would drop everything to come to the aid of her helpless 22-year-old boyfriend who couldn’t find the strength to do anything except feel sorry for himself.
What am I waiting for? I asked myself.
Later that month, I made the decision that marrying Noelle was what I wanted to do. Not being able to do much on my own, I turned to Laurie for her help and swore her to secrecy. I knew my parents would be livid if I told them I wanted to get married at such a young age, not to mention only three months after my horrific accident.
So Laurie drove me to the Southpoint mall, about 20 minutes away from where I lived. I was on a mission to buy a ring, but just as with the Yamaha R6, I opted out of doing any research in advance of making a purchase. I would know what to get as soon as I saw it. This process was the only thing that kept me upbeat during the hardest of days.
We ended up spotting Fink’s Jewelers while Laurie was pushing me about in my wheelchair. And just trying to get into the store should have been a sign to roll the other way. The doorway had a lip that neither Laurie nor I could get the wheelchair over. Multiple employees rushed over, picked up my wheelchair with me in it, and placed me right in front of a display case. Not embarrassing at all.
I quickly became overwhelmed with how many options I saw and was also very ignorant about the details of what I was even looking for. An older saleswoman approached me and seemed to take great joy in the process of helping me figure it out while pulling out ring after ring. Of course, she started with the most expensive ring after a couple of people had recognized me making such an inconspicuous entrance. Although I wasn’t sure what I wanted, I quickly declined the ones I didn’t want. After I said no to nearly every ring in the store, the woman told us she had one more option in the back. When she returned, I saw her holding a red box with gold trim, and I knew exactly what was inside. It was going to be a Cartier ring, and I hoped I’d really like it. As she opened the box, my eyes grew wide at how beautiful a ring it was.
“Perfect,” I whisp
ered to myself while she talked about the craftsmanship, the number of carats, all of those details that meant nothing to me. I could see that ring on Noelle’s finger as we grew old together. Without even asking the price, I just said, “I’ll take it,” and handed the clerk my credit card. I had already prepared myself for a big price tag, telling myself, This is your soulmate, and who cares if you spend $10,000 on a ring? You have the money. Do it.
It wasn’t until Laurie handed me the receipt to sign that I learned the price was five times what I had thought it would be. I signed the receipt in a matter of seconds and the purchase was made.
Riding back to my house, I started to panic thinking about how I would explain this extravagance to my parents. They received copies of all my bills and had been questioning my spending from the day I got into the league. Not consulting them on a decision as momentous as this one would most definitely leave them homicidal. So I decided not to say a word. I remember convincing myself that it was my call and my call alone to make. I was spending my own money, and this was something I wanted to do for my future wife.
The next time Noelle came down to visit was in early October. In an effort to try and get some fresh air, I suggested that she and I have a picnic at Duke Gardens. Because I hadn’t really thought the process through—seems to be a common theme here—Noelle had to literally navigate my wheelchair up hills and through dirt to get to a shady location that was suitable for our feast. I didn’t have a perfect scenario in mind, and as she unpacked the bags of food, I impulsively pulled out the ring. I called her name and she turned.
Noelle, I know I haven’t been the perfect man, and for that I am sorry, but I want us to start a new chapter. I want us to be real. I need you by my side for the rest of my life. Will you marry me?
I had never seen her smile as brightly as she did then, and I had never felt as good as I did the moment after she said, “Yes.”
When we got back to the house, we announced our engagement to my mom and dad. They stayed silent while we talked, then expressed their thoughts. They were baffled about the timing more than anything else. They were certain that now wasn’t the time for such a colossal life decision, that I couldn’t know what I truly wanted, especially considering that only a month before I had tried to take my own life. I was not in any place to make sound decisions.
My mom pulled me aside about twenty minutes after we entered the house, in tears that were clearly not from joy. “Just stop with all this movement for a while and be still,” she begged.
But I couldn’t stop.
I’ve always been a restless person, and I just couldn’t let another day pass where all I did was sulk. The next step was moving my fiancée to Durham to live with us under the same roof. When I announced this to my parents a couple of days after we got engaged, things went from bad to worse. Up till then, they were able to refrain from lashing out, but this update caused a ripple effect. The tides grew stronger and all hell broke loose.
There are two sides to every story. There were things that my parents had seen from Noelle that raised red flags for them. Years later, my mom told me stories of when she would be cleaning the house while Noelle just lay in bed watching movies. Or when she was cooking dinner and Noelle never even offered to help, sitting at the table waiting to be served.
I wasn’t hearing any of it at the time. I was convinced that my parents had it out for Noelle. They didn’t want our relationship to work and would try anything to sabotage us if given the opportunity. My mind—though it was overtaken by painkillers—was made up, so I decided to hold my ground. Noelle was by my side, and she could do no wrong in my book.
The inevitable domino effect began, and things started to splinter. My dad announced that if Noelle was moving in, he would be moving out.
“When a man brings a woman into his home, it should just be him and her and no one else.” It was one thing for him to take care of his son, but he wasn’t about to watch over his son’s 22-year-old fiancée.
His position infuriated me. How could we not all live together? The house was massive. Everyone would have plenty of personal space. It was bigger than most bed-and-breakfasts.
The power struggle with my dad took a nasty turn. I told him that if he felt he needed to leave, then he had to do what he had to do. Noelle was coming down to live with us, and that was final. However rash I was being with all these sudden changes, I felt justified in my behavior when I realized that it was me who was paying my dad’s salary, so I was in control, not him.
My mom knew that Noelle was in no position to take care of me by herself. She even went to the length of speaking to Noelle’s parents, begging them to try to change their daughter’s mind about moving down south. She pleaded with them, explaining how her husband was going to walk out on us if Noelle moved in. Unfortunately, they weren’t going to tell their daughter how to live her life, so their decision—and mine—caused my family to rip at the seams.
My dad choosing to leave was one of the more hurtful things he had ever done. I understood why he was upset, but I thought it was low of him to bail on us instead of working things through. Things already hadn’t been perfect between my mom and dad since I was little. And I think once I was able to give my mom some financial freedom, she used it to distance herself from him. During my rookie year, she often stayed at my place in Northbrook, Illinois, while he stayed back in their home in Jersey. My accident almost forced them to come together in my desperate time of need, but now he’d had enough. He felt that, just as he’d forewarned, I had let a woman cause a major distraction.
My mom, too, was forced to choose between her husband and these two immature, star-crossed lovers. She made her decision based on what was in the best interests of her child, but she didn’t have to like it. I still had endless hospital visits, more surgeries to follow, pain management, physical and occupational therapy, media obligations, caring for the dogs, the finances, the maintenance of the house . . .
With her marriage now completely up in the air, my mom moved into the guesthouse. She wanted to give Noelle and me a chance to see if we’d step up to the plate and become real adults. I never once thought about how incredible she was during that time to not only put her own life on hold but also allow it to go up in flames as a result of my actions. I can’t help but shake my head in disgust today when thinking about how foolish and disrespectful I was being to the two people who cared for me the most.
Noelle tried her best, but as my mom predicted, her best was far from good enough. She was overwhelmed, not just with the list of duties but also with the culture shock that came with moving from the big city to a rural setting. She had been rooming with another friend in a cramped, converted two-bedroom apartment in the heart of Times Square; now she had just moved into a huge house in the middle of the woods. She was used to a nonstop pace, working as a bartender until late at night. Now Noelle was in a completely different world, one that was tailor-made for my mom but alien to her.
Noelle was happy to assume the responsibility of administering my medication, but on some occasions when she didn’t do exactly as the doctors had prescribed, my mom got really upset with her. Due to the severe nerve damage to my pelvis, it was mandatory that I take a Viagra once a day for my erectile dysfunction. The purpose here was for the drug to stimulate the nerve by bringing blood flow to the area. It took close to five months before I saw any results.
I was given the blue pill once a day, first thing in the morning. One time, however, Noelle inadvertently gave me a second Viagra along with my afternoon meds. I normally would’ve known not to take it, but on that day, and most others during this time, I was in a complete fog. I was oblivious to the double dosage, and had it not given me hives, I wouldn’t have even noticed. Infuriated by the mishap, my mom gave Noelle a sturdy talking to.
Tensions increased between the two of them with each passing mistake or misjudgment, but my mom refused to move out until I was able to walk on crutches, drive myself to town, and manage
my pain better. I knew how lonely my mom was, living by herself in the guesthouse with her dog, Duke, and having to walk on eggshells around us, fearing that she was going to explode at any moment. It was as if I could hear the sound of her teeth biting her tongue. She had no one to turn to, and deep down, I felt so damn guilty.
It wasn’t until early June 2004, almost a year later, that my mom finally returned to New Jersey to be with my dad. In many ways, her going back to him was a positive sign that my overall health was progressing; however, the tension among the three of us was still very much palpable. My mom and I still spoke every day to put her mind at ease, but our relationship morphed into something very different. It became stiff and regimented for a while. Gone was the playful banter and lighthearted dialogue, until years later.
To add to all the complications, my relationship with Noelle started to be put to the test. All of those uncomfortable conversations about infidelity that were tabled while I was fighting for my life had begun to surface.
And they were not good.
Noelle and I would go back and forth about life in the NBA, and that only resurrected her deepest insecurities from that year. We’d had a tumultuous relationship at times during my rookie season, deciding to call it quits more times than I’d like to remember. She could trust me when I was lying in my bed, unable to move without her assistance, but could she trust me on the road in a hotel room if I was ever fortunate enough to get back in the league? Given our history, I could understand her uncertainty, but I was a changed man. Instead of just hearing her vent, I listened to her and was able to understand where she was coming from. The love between us was as strong as ever, but the trust was fractured.
NOELLE AND I bought our first—and only—home together on September 22, 2004. It was a really beautiful three-bedroom traditional with white brick, tucked away at the end of a cul-de-sac in Croasdaile Farm, Durham. We both fell in love with the place the moment we walked in the door. I remember us being so happy and excited about our future, picturing all the great memories we would make living there.
