Life Is Not an Accident by Jay Williams Page B

would go, my parents did a great job making sure there was a system in place for talking to coaches. My dad treated the process very much like a business. He would say, “Hey, you have Roy Williams calling at four thirty; Tubby Smith calling at four forty-five; Mike Krzyzewski at five o’clock; Dean Smith at five twenty . . .”
    It was surreal.
    A coach at a very prestigious university was on a conference call with us, and as usual, my dad was asking all the right questions. What are most of your student-athletes majoring in? What is the political science program like? What kind of relationships do you have with your former players? Tell us about the alumni base. Can you recommend a list of players that we can speak with about their experiences? The call was going really well. Every answer impressed us all. The school was shooting to the top of my list, and I couldn’t believe it. Then, right before we hung up, my dad had one more question.
    â€œWhat is your graduation rate, Coach?”
    Pause.
    â€œYou know, David, I need to get back to you with that.”
    I watched my dad’s face change from excitement to resignation.
    Down goes Kentucky!
    I often wonder, if the man on the other end of the phone had been John Calipari, would my life have turned out differently?
    I’d heard about some of the things that come with recruiting and campus visits. I saw He Got Game —I wanted to be Jesus Shuttlesworth. I definitely had people approach me from time to timeasking if I needed anything. And what 16-year-old kid doesn’t want to have his pockets stuffed with money?
    One time during the summer before my senior year, after a long day of playing ball at Spring Lake Park, in the next town over, a bunch of us were going for beverages at 7-Eleven. A guy named Eddie was hanging with us. He had started to come around regularly, even though he must’ve been at least ten years older. I thought nothing of it until that day.
    He had given us a ride to the store in his gray Lexus ES sedan, and while everyone else was getting out, he grabbed my arm and said, “Let me holla at you for a sec.” I was in the passenger seat opposite him.
    â€œYo, you know you are blowing up right now?” I just looked at him, nodding my head, waiting for him to get to the point.
    He then discussed how he could help with anything I needed. Money, women, flights, etc.
    â€œWhatever it is, we got you.”
    He then reached behind me and grabbed a small duffel from under my seat. I knew I should’ve bolted right then and there, but my curiosity got the better of me. He placed the bag on my lap and unzipped it, and my eyes almost popped out of my head. Money. A shitload of money. Countless wads of hundreds held together by rubber bands. He reached, grabbed a stack, and held it up.
    â€œAll this is yours. We are going to rep you when the time comes, and we are about to change the game.”
    He then handed me the stack. I sat there wondering how much money that one wad was. I had never seen a hundred-dollar bill before. Now I had at least 40 or 50 of them in my hand. I remember thinking how wrong it was to accept it, but I sure as hellwanted to take it. My mind started racing. I could buy a whole lot of FUBU and a two-way pager.
    It was 1998.
    I remember thinking how soft I was being for not taking the cash.
    Eddie was a “runner,” which meant he did his best to recruit kids like me to be represented by an agency. And if he was successful, like so many of them are, he would get a slice of the 4 percent commission the agent received from negotiating the NBA player contract.
    The truth is, it was a lot easier for me to walk away than it would’ve been for another kid whose parents weren’t working to make ends meet. My parents were really clear with me that we were okay and that we didn’t need any kind of help. They were always adamant about not letting money influence our