Life Is Not an Accident

by Jay Williams

  I had never been to Hillsong Church before, but something about the place felt special. Everyone was around my age, and the energy in the building was palpable. The music wasn’t typical church music; it looked and sounded as if there were a rock band on stage. Drummers were playing beats that had me swaying from side to side like I was in a club. And the voices and lyrics had such an effect on me, they nearly brought me to tears.

  It felt to me as though everyone in attendance had gone through something traumatic in their lives that had compelled them to be here. We were all looking for a community of people we could rely on to hold us up rather than knock us down. Hands were in the air, eyes were closed; these people believed in something bigger than themselves. This felt like a new team. This felt like a family.

  As I started to give in and become vulnerable enough to let my arms and hands extend toward the ceiling, the music began to slow down and the lights dimmed. I heard the same voice from the day before on the court.

  Carl’s ability to dance verbally with the crowd and keep every single listener engaged in the conversation was extraordinary. His words were so dynamic that they kept me on the edge of my seat. His sermon that day was called “That Girl Is Poison.” Yes, the song by Bell Biv DeVoe. Carl used it as a metaphor for how one wrong move can poison your potential and how it usually happens when you least expect it.

  Although the song was about a bunch of guys trying to tell a friend that his girl was bad news, Carl talked about how there are all kinds of poison in life. “That mentality is poison,” he said. “That attitude is poison. That seed that someone planted that still affects the way you see yourself is poison.”

  I stood there, staring at Carl in awe. I felt like he was speaking directly to me. My life up until that point had been filled with poison. The Oxy, the alcohol, the people trying to tear me down, my insecurity, my anger, my spitefulness—all poison.

  He said, “I am so tired of people circling around the same mountain, falling into the same traps.” I couldn’t help but reflect on the years I had spent feeling lost and sorry for myself. I was disgusted with myself for twice wanting to throw away this special gift of life.

  I clung to every word Carl uttered that day. The man truly moved me. His words were pushing me to places I had never been before, and after the sermon was over, he looked directly at me as he asked the congregation, “Are you ready for a change in your life?”

  And Carl Lentz has been by my side ever since.

  He and the church helped me realize that part of being a better, stronger man meant giving to others what I hoped to receive in return: understanding, acceptance, love, and encouragement. It was okay to be vulnerable—emotionally, spiritually, open to real change. But no one has all the answers. In the early stages of my rehabilitation, I was so focused on the things I couldn’t do that I often forgot to give myself credit for the milestones I reached. If I wasn’t going to acknowledge my own personal growth, how could I possibly appreciate the sacrifices other people had made for me?

  My relationship with my dad had always been complicated. When I was growing up, he was often absent, either working long hours or traveling for business. And when he was home, he brought his tension and stress with him. And every now and again, for both of them, it boiled over into something dark.

  As difficult as it has been for my mom and me to get past what we endured, I think it’s been even more of a struggle for my dad to come to terms with it. For as long as I can remember, he emphasized the importance of taking responsibility for one’s actions. When I was four or five years old, I was in the yard playing baseball with my dad when I hit a ball that broke our neighbor’s window. The Rengas were like family, but I was still terrified of their reaction. I wanted to run up to my room and hide, but my dad told me that real men accept the consequences of their actions, so we walked next door together. When Mr. Renga, the patriarch, came to the door, I glanced at my dad as he held my hand, then confessed and apologized for what I had done.

  My dad had to scrape and fight for everything in his life, and he wanted me to know what it was like to have to work for the things I wanted. He taught me that life is full of obstacles, and it would always be up to me to figure out a way to overcome them. In the aftermath of the accident, I relied on those early lessons to get me through my recovery. To walk again. To run again. To dare to play again. And, most painful of all, to find the strength to build a life when playing ball could no longer be a part of it.

  My dad took pride in teaching me the difference between right and wrong, and having to admit that he was the source of so much pain for his family has been no easy task. I know that the man he is today would never lay a hand on anyone. My parents remain legally married and speak daily, but they continue to live separately and have done so for years. And while my mother doesn’t like to dwell on the past, I know she certainly hasn’t forgotten it, either. But there are things about my dad that my mom will always value. It would be impossible not to. When I was in the hospital, he was her rock, offering her comfort and reassurance when the doctors weren’t sure if I would ever walk again.

  In order to have a relationship with him, I had to let go of the animosity and the bitterness. He had taught me how to be a good person, even if he was still figuring out how to be one himself.

  I love my father and I accept him for who he was then and who he is now. Of course, his health struggles have brought us even closer. Several years ago, he had a series of epileptic seizures. They have caused neurological disruptions that affect his short-term memory; for a man who values order and control as much as he does, the unpredictability of the seizures has been unbearable for him. Seeing him this way has made it easier for me to empathize with him, and, as his son, I feel a responsibility to take care of him the same way he took care of me when I needed him the most. It was time to forgive my dad and move forward.

  What was next would be the most challenging of all: forgiving myself.

  For much of my life, I carried an immeasurable amount of guilt that I couldn’t protect my mom when I was a child. That guilt was further complicated by my accident. When I signed with the Bulls, I promised myself that I would see to it that my family and friends, especially my mom, were taken care of financially. I was determined to give them a new life. My parents had worked so hard all their lives, and all I wanted to do was reward them. When it became clear that I would never play ball again, I blamed myself for putting my family’s stability at risk.

  Knowing that the only person I had to blame for the accident was myself left me angry. Lying in the hospital bed, I thought of all the people I had let down. I was mad at myself for not listening to voices of reason. I was mad at myself for not letting go of the bike when I felt it slip into gear. Mostly, I was furious with myself for throwing away a dream I had spent so many years trying to reach.

  The psychological battle was the most arduous one, because it never stopped. Even close to ten years after I was discharged from the hospital, I would sit alone in my room and think about how unworthy I was of the love and care my inner circle gave me. I had cheated on Noelle, and yet she came to North Carolina and cared for me without hesitation. My mom had dropped everything and jeopardized her marriage, all for my benefit. My dad had been robbed of his dream to run a family business. I couldn’t take it anymore. For a time, the only way I could shut out the pain and anger was by self-medicating. I hated myself, and eventually I reached a point where I didn’t think life was worth living. I was consumed by depression and bitterness and felt like the only option was to take my own life.

  My psychotherapist encouraged me to embrace every emotion—sadness, fear, anger—as they bubbled up to the surface. Until I could acknowledge the validity of each reaction, I wouldn’t be able to truly face down my demons. We all make mistakes, apologize to those we’ve wronged, ask for forgiveness. There’s a lot of power in that approach; forgiveness not only frees the perpetrator, but the victim as well. In my case, I was both transgresso
r and victim. For so long, holding on to pain and disappointment had been as natural as breathing.

  Many people make bad decisions and walk away unscathed. Some of us aren’t as fortunate, forced to pay the price for a life-altering mistake. But if we’re lucky, we’re able to eventually learn from our mistakes and move on with our lives. To this day I am judged regularly for an accident that occurred a lifetime ago, but I know that I have a choice every day to either feel sorry for myself and continue to let the accident define me or to forgive myself and appreciate the second chance I have been given.

  I choose the latter.

  I understand that it’s an important part of my story, but it’s a turning point, not an ending. I won’t let it be my whole story.

  When I first played at Duke, the game was so much faster than I’d ever realized. It seemed like it was being played at 8,000 miles per hour. By my sophomore year, as I found my way, things slowed down. I had more clarity, and I made decisions with ease. I didn’t force the action but instead let the play reveal itself.

  Finally, more than ten years later, the same holds true for my life off the court. When you move at warp speed, you don’t really take the time to think about all of the small things that have accumulated to make your life what it is. There’s a tendency not to reflect on the past, because you’re so caught up in the frustration and anger of the present.

  My life has always had a purpose. I had just been too obsessed with trying to recover what I’d lost instead of focusing on what I’d found. That’s when I realized there are no accidents in this life. The choices I made were ones that reflected who I was at that time—a decision made by a 21-year-old kid whom my 34-year-old self would barely recognize.

  I’ve been asked many times what I would say to my younger self. I never answered the question, because I honestly didn’t know. Of course, it’s easy to say I should have grabbed the keys to the Corvette, but would I truly be the man I am today had it not been for the journey?

  Up until that fateful day, I needed recognition and affirmation from everyone. I was so insecure that I needed to fight the ones I loved the most in order to feel in control. I was just a scared kid pretending to have it all figured out. The truth is that, at 21 years young, nobody really has anything figured out. You have to live life and experience things to gain perspective. And you make mistakes along the way, while hopefully learning from them in order to grow.

  Because of all that I have been through, I never lose faith regardless of any challenge that lingers just around the corner. I’ve discovered how to love, how to truly work for something I want, and how to accept others and look past their faults. I know where I am and I know how I got here; this was my path, and my hope for others is that they accept theirs as well.

  The fact is that I have been “playing small” for a very long time by not telling my story. I have spent too much time afraid of opening myself up to the outside world and sharing my inner thoughts because of people’s inclination to judge. It’s easy to draw conclusions about my family, my love life, my job, and the choices I’ve made. It’s up to me whether I choose to let those outside voices dictate how I live my life.

  It’s time to stop pushing the pain away and to start accepting and embracing it. I accept the decision I made that ruined my future in professional basketball. I embrace that decision because I know that my road forward requires a road traveled.

  I spent so much of my life following a specific set of plans, from graduating college to playing in the NBA to enduring physical therapy to getting back in the league. I’m done conforming to a blueprint.

  Sure, I have plans for the future, but I know things aren’t always going to work out the way I intend them to, and I’ll be ready for it this time.

  Photo Section

  With Mom, back when I had hair.

  Even at two years old, I was the life of the party.

  I still look up to my father to this day.

  With the “United Nations” on prom night (left to right): Dresden Baluyot, Brian “Darkness” Wilson, Felson Sajonas, and Peter Stein.

  I was proud to be named the first All-American at St. Joseph’s High School.

  With Mom, Dad, and Assistant Coach Mike Thompson on Senior Night.

  Proof that I did pass the ball in college. (Photo courtesy of Duke University Athletics)

  There’s nothing better than dominating the school that I once wanted to attend. (Photo courtesy of Duke University Athletics)

  Getting emotional before my last game against North Carolina on Senior Night. Oh yeah, I dropped 37 on the Heels.

  Coach K and I embracing the 2001 National Championship trophy together.

  (Photo courtesy of Duke University Athletics)

  Sharing a moment with the great John Wooden after he presented me with the 2002 Naismith College Player of the Year Award.

  Proud to take my place among the Duke legends on the night my jersey was retired. (Photo courtesy of Duke University Athletics)

  Being introduced to the Chicago Bulls media for the first time after being drafted number two overall. Left to right: General Manager Jerry Krause and fellow draftees Roger Mason and Lonny Baxter. (Photo courtesy of Bill Smith/Chicago Bulls)

  Above, right, and overleaf: The moments that made me think I had a bright future in the NBA. (Photos courtesy of Bill Smith/Chicago Bulls)

  (Photo courtesy of Bill Smith/Chicago Bulls)

  (© 2003 Chicago Tribune. All rights reserved. Distributed by Tribune Content Agency, LLC)

  The motorcycle—or what’s left of it—that changed everything.

  I celebrated my twenty-second birthday by not being able to move.

  Trying to find some happiness with my mom’s friend Laurie Adams. Nine months after my accident, my leg was still encased in a brace I called the Titanic.

  Being wheeled out of the hospital by my former Duke teammate Chris Duhon during my first public appearance after being laid up in the hospital for two months. (AP Photo/Bob Jordan)

  Trying to find my way outside of Duke’s Cameron Indoor Stadium. (AP Photo/Bob Jordan)

  On the ESPN set with (left to right) Rece Davis and Seth Greenberg. It’s not quite the same as being on the court, but I’m still connected to the game I love. (Photo courtesy of Duke University Athletics)

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, giving thanks to my source is my priority. Without my faith in God, I would’ve never been strong enough to battle through all the years of pain and share my story with you today.

  When I first decided to try to write this book three years ago, a lot of people turned me down, stating that it made no sense for me to write a memoir at the age of 31. They all said, “You should wait until you are a lot older,” to which I adamantly disagreed. If there was anything my journey had taught me, it was that nothing in this life is guaranteed. Every day is a gift and a blessing. Thank you to HarperCollins and David Hirshey for believing in me on this project and having the patience to stick with me through this three-year process.

  Everyone in this life has experienced some kind of emotional pain. We all have had an “accident” in some form or fashion. Whether that be a motorcycle crash, the loss of a loved one, a divorce, family issues, losing your job, physical abuse, emotional abuse, and so on. It’s how you deal with that adversity that will determine who you will become.

  God grant me the serenity to accept

  the things I cannot change, the courage

  to change the things I can and the wisdom

  to know the difference.

  I have made a lot of mistakes in my life, and I owe a huge thank-you to the people who have forced me to confront my wrongs. Thank you to Coach K, who taught me how to be a fighter and live my life with principle each and every day. You still serve as a moral compass in my life, and for that I will be forever grateful. Thank you to Charles Grantham, who still inspires me each day to be smarter and better myself intellectually. Much gratitude to Noelle, whose journey was a
tumultuous experience, but we still remain friends to this day. Thank you to Carl Liebert, who served a significant role in my life during my time of being lost and in pain. You, Amy, Seth, Jacob, and Samuel mean the world to me. A momentous thank you to my agent, Evan Dick, who pushed me to make this book exactly what it should have been in the first place. Your relentless ambition and commitment to our work has bonded us as brothers for life my friend. Thank you to RR and JN, for all of their thoughtful help in the process of selection and editing. Thanks to Charissa, who has read over the book multiple times and has always been patient with me as I exposed my true self to her step-by-step. And most important, to my mother and my father, who have always been the light in my life and continue to be. Each day they fought for me and sacrificed in order to help me achieve my dreams. Thank you for believing in me when no one else did, and always keeping me focused on the prize that is living this life openly and honestly while being happy.

  And last but not least, I beg forgiveness to all of those who have been with me over the course of the years and whose names I have failed to mention. I owe the biggest gratitude to those relationships, both good and bad, because they have all led me to become the person I am today.

  I leave you with this: