Baker Vin - God and Starbucks: an NBA superstars journey through addiction and recovery

This book is dedicated to my wonderful mother, Jean Baker; my wife and partner, Shawnee; my father (and pastor), James, who never gave up on me; and God, who always sees the best in me!

You never know God is all you need until God is all you have.

Rick Warren

I can see it on their faces sometimes. They walk into the store, heavy lidded, distracted by thoughts of the upcoming workday, looking for nothing more than a jolt of caffeine to shake off the morning cobwebs. They peck away at their smartphones or fumble with their wallets, oblivious to their surroundings, until suddenly, there they are, at the front of the line, looking upway upat the worlds tallest barista.

Some feign cool indifference, but most cant help themselves. I grew up in Connecticut, played college ball at the University of Hartford, and spent part of my careera rather notorious partwith the Boston Celtics. So here, at a Starbucks in North Kingstown, Rhode Island, theres no place to hide. First of all, I dont look like an ordinary guy. Im a giant in the back there. I mean that literallyIm six foot eleven, 275 pounds. You see me frothing up your cappuccino, and at the very least you cant help but wonder, Whats going on here? He must be... somebody. Others know exactly who I am: a guy who made, and lost, more than $100 million in his NBA career, a career wrecked by alcoholism and depression and spectacularly bad business decisions. These are the people who stare hard, then suddenly avert their eyes, the sadness nevertheless evident on their faces.

I know what theyre thinking: How the hell does a four-time NBA all-star, and an Olympian, end up shouting Tall decaf cappuccino! from behind the counter at Starbucks? Given half the chance, Ill disarm the customer with a smile and a few friendly words. I dont want anyone to feel uncomfortable when they walk into our store, and I sure dont want anyones pity. Trust me when I say this: Ive been through worse. Much, much worse. Theres no shame in work. The indignity comes from not working, from losing your way through ego and weakness and addiction, and finding yourself tumbling into a bottomless pit of despair and helplessness.

Want to know what that looks like? Okay, here it is.

I was a first-round NBA draft pick (the eighth choice overall in 1993) smoking weed every day to alleviate my anxiety, until repeated trips to the emergency room, with my heart racing uncontrollably, prompted me to find another way to self-medicate.

I was an NBA all-star, drinking after games, and then before games, and eventually at all points in betweendraining anywhere between a pint and a fifth of liquor a dayusing alcohol to end my career and nearly my life. Make no mistake, thats what alcoholism is: slow and deliberate suicide.

I was a man running from responsibility, fathering five children with two different women, and selfishly bouncing back and forth between families and relationships, because money gave me leeway and freedom that others were not afforded. Money, after all, is like a get out of jail free carduntil its gone, and with it the patience and tolerance of those youve hurt, and the enabling of those who never really cared about you in the first place.

I was a former millionaire driving my mothers Mercedes (the one I bought her with my rookie contract) to a pawnshop, with four old tires stuffed into the backseat and trunk. I sold the tires for eighty bucks, bought a few bottles of liquor, and drank myself into oblivion, until all the pain was gonethe ache in my lower back that signaled a failing liver, and the ceaseless cloud of loneliness that hung over every day.

Thats how bad it got for me.

By comparison, working at Starbucks is a walk in the park.

Would you prefer to say that I got my ass kicked? That Ive been humbled? Fine, go ahead and say it. You would not be incorrect. But Im not bitter. Ive been sober for six years now, and in that time, with spirituality as the foundation, Ive rebuilt my life one brick at a time. I married a longtime girlfriend, and together we are raising our four beautiful children. I am a licensed minister and assistant pastor at the same church in Old Saybrook, Connecticut, where my father is the head pastor, and where, as a boy, I knew nothing but peace. Ill probably never be a millionaire again, but thats fine. Life is good and full of possibilities.

Thats the point Id like to get across: that life is worth living, no matter how bad it might get at times. Obstacles can be overcome, demons can be conquered. Ive been speaking to youth groups both in and out of church, and Ive done some work with the NBA, helping provide a cautionary tale to young athletes who likely arent even remotely prepared for the ways in which their lives will change when staggering wealth is heaped on them. This book is part of my mission. Maybe, by telling my story, I can provide inspiration and hope to those who are facing all manner of hardships, and who are trying to figure out how to pick themselves up and start over again.

As I tell the parishioners at my church: God doesnt measure how far youve fallen, but he will be there when youre ready to rise.

April 16, 2011

This day begins like all the others, like every gray and godforsaken morning for the previous seven months: with a feeling of utter astonishment that I am still alive. There is no relief attached to this sentiment, no gratitude, just a sense of wonder at how much the human body can withstand before it finally surrenders or gives out. I roll over on the couch, which is where I usually sleep, and squint out at the bleakness of another day rising up to taunt me. As I sit up, the pounding in my head starts almost immediately, followed by heart palpitations and epic, rumbling waves of nausea. I begin to tremble and sweat. I am dizzy and disoriented.

If this sounds like a hangoverwell, that doesnt even begin to do it justice. Hangovers are for rookies. I am a veteran, a world-class drinker and drug addict who spends his every waking moment trying to dull the pain of a hopelessly wrecked life. What I feel right now is not a mere hangover; it is a body in the throes of withdrawal. The alcoholic drinks all day, passes out at night, and wakes to a craving that can scarcely be describedan immediate awareness that agony lies ahead, and the only way to stop it is to take the first drink. There is nothing surprising about any of this to me, not anymore. I know the routine and have planned accordingly. On the coffee table in front of me is a small portion of an orange, peeled and ready to be eaten, along with a jug of Hennessy and an empty glass. Although I dont remember doing so, at some point the previous night I laid these items out on the table, knowing they would be needed the moment I woke up. And there they are, ready to be applied like some alcoholics balm.

I reach first for the Hennessy, of course. Pour a small amount in the glass, maybe three or four ounces, take a deep breath, and toss it back. There is a familiar burning sensation, at once soothing and aggravating. Then I put the glass down and reach for the orange. Sometimes I try to eat the entire piece; on this day I am just too sick, so I squeeze some of the juice into my mouth, try to swallow, and then wait for the inevitable. I reach out, grab a small waste can (also kept nearby at all times), and vomit the meager contents of my stomacha mix of blood and bile, mostlyinto the bottom. The spasms go on for a minute or two, dry heaving so powerfully that my ribs feel as though they are compressed against my spine. Whimpering softly, I fall back into the couch and curl up into a ball. In a few minutes I will begin to feel better. The sweat will dissipate, the headache will subside, and the fog will begin to lift.