My Life, My Fight Read online

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2018 Steven Adams

  Jacket design by Amanda Kain

  Front-of-jacket photograph © Layne Murdoch/Getty Images

  Back-of-jacket photograph © Mark J. Terrill/Associated Press

  Cover copyright © 2018 by Hachette Book Group, Inc

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  First published by Penguin Random House New Zealand in 2018

  First U.S. Edition: October 2018

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  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018954174

  ISBN: 978-0-316-49146-4 (hardcover); 978-0-316-49145-7 (ebook)

  E3-20180906-JV-PC

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  PROLOGUE: Draft Night

  1. Everything Stinks

  2. Dad Gets Sick

  3. The Funeral

  4. A Second Chance

  5. New Kid in Town

  6. National Champions

  7. Make or Break

  8. Born to Run in the USA

  9. Ready for the Big Leagues

  10. Pre-draft Workout Diary

  11. A New Home in Middle America

  12. Small Fish in a Big Pond

  13. Small Fish in a Bigger Pond

  14. Injuries Are a Bitch

  15. Say a Prayer for my Testicles

  16. Mr. Triple-Double

  17. The Complete Thoughts of Russell Westbrook on his Good Friend and Teammate Steven Adams

  18. The New Big Three

  19. What Now?

  PHOTOS

  GLOSSARY

  CO-AUTHOR’S NOTE

  NEWSLETTERS

  PROLOGUE:

  DRAFT NIGHT

  Whatever you do, don’t trip up the stairs.

  I didn’t care which organization drafted me. I didn’t care who my future teammates would be. All I cared about was not falling over in front of the world. I repeated this to myself as the NBA commissioner, David Stern, walked on stage to loud boos from a Brooklyn crowd.

  My brothers Mohi and Sid had flown over from New Zealand to be with me for the 2013 draft, and I looked across to see if they knew what was going on. They shrugged their shoulders and seemed as confused as I was. What did we know? We were just three farming brothers from Rotorua, and yet here we were on one of the biggest nights of the American sporting calendar, waiting to see which NBA team I’d be playing for next season and acting like we wore fancy suits all the time.

  David Stern kept talking and the crowd kept booing. When he congratulated the Miami Heat on winning another championship, the booing got louder. What I didn’t realize was this was Stern’s last draft and the crowd was using the occasion to make its feelings known about the polarizing commissioner. I scanned the crowd at the Barclays Center, which was packed with diehard NBA fans who probably cared about basketball more than I did. I’d never been an NBA fan, I didn’t even have a favorite player, and I had certainly never watched the draft before.

  Above the boos, Stern could be heard announcing the first draft pick. “The first pick of the 2013 NBA draft will be made by the Cleveland Cavaliers, who have five minutes to make their selection.”

  Then silence. When you watch the draft at home you get to hear the ESPN analysts predicting who they think will be picked, and although they’re almost always wrong at least it’s something. In the arena it was completely silent while we waited for the Cavaliers to make their decision.

  My brothers and I spent those five minutes staring at one of the other draft hopefuls, who was sitting with his entourage just a few tables away from us. This guy was a big star in the lead-up to the draft and was one of the favorites to be picked first. I didn’t really know him. All I knew was that we were complete opposites. He seemed to have been a superstar all his life. He was a standout in high school and then played for one of the top college teams. Even though I had no real interest in college basketball outside of my own team, I knew his college was a sporting powerhouse.

  Meanwhile I was a player who, as the analysts would later say, was an unknown until I declared for the draft and went to the NBA Draft Combine testing in Chicago, where draftees are put through a series of physical tests, interviews, and scrimmages. This guy only appeared at the combine for the physical measurements, and he was still a solid bet at the number-one pick. He wasn’t at any of the 12 workouts I did for 11 different teams either. He was already famous, while I was desperately working to impress anyone who had the power to hire me. But on that night, I knew exactly what was stitched on the inside of his suit jacket.

  Basketball players are tall. Even the shortest are above average height. So when a bunch of basketball players are preparing for one of the biggest nights of their lives, they need a custom-tailored suit. I was sent to an agency that tailored for tall guys like me and asked what I wanted in a suit. To be honest, I just wanted it to fit. They asked what colors represented New Zealand. Damn, how should I know? They suggested green lining to represent the farmland. Sure, why not? For the tie they suggested white stripes to represent milk and dairy farming. It all seemed a bit bougie to me, but I knew nothing about fashion so I just nodded and said that sounded great. The one request I did have was for the New Zealand flag to be stitched into the lining. It wasn’t an unusual request. Some players get their college logo, but I wanted to represent New Zealand through and through.

  I was told to collect my suit from the agency the day before the draft. When I walked into the room, the first thing I noticed was a Cleveland Cavaliers singlet laid out with the logo cut out. One of the women told me a player had asked for the Cavaliers’ logo to be sewn into the lining of his jacket. I thought that was bloody brave. No player knows for sure where they’re going to end up and no organization knows for sure which player they’ll pick until they do it on the night. I had an inkling that I was going to go to Oklahoma City because of the way my visits there had gone, but I would never have dared tell anyone, let alone stitch the Oklahoma City Thunder logo into the lining of my suit.

  I needed to know who the man was with the biggest balls in the draft. So while I was looking through the rack for my suit, I had a peek at all the other players’ outfits. All of them were pretty standard until I saw one that had a college team’s singlet number on one side of the lining and on the other was the logo of the Cleveland Cavaliers. I couldn’t believe this guy was that confident, and somehow I knew right then that the Cavaliers wouldn’t pick him first. The universe wouldn’t let anything work out that smoothly. I regretted not putting the logo of the Manawatu Jets basketball team on the other side of my jacket just for shits and giggles. It seemed as appropriate as a Cavaliers logo. When I told my brothers, we all agreed it was a b
ots move, then went back to worrying about my own future.

  David Stern came back on stage to announce the first pick.

  “With the first pick in the 2013 NBA Draft, the Cleveland Cavaliers select Anthony Bennett.”

  The whole room gasped. The ESPN guys yelled in surprise. This guy’s table stared at the floor like someone had just died. I’ve never seen a group of people look so disappointed at such a joyous occasion. If the camera had cut to our table, it would have shown all of us with our mouths wide open, trying not to laugh. It was an amazing moment.

  People seemed to feel sorry for him, but not me. We were all about to be recruited by an NBA team and live our dream. Not one of us deserved anyone’s sympathy. We were the luckiest guys in the world that night.

  When this guy was finally selected, I watched as he flashed one side of his jacket and then held the other side shut while he shook David Stern’s hand on stage. There was an audible sigh of relief throughout the room when his name was read out, as if being selected in an NBA draft was some kind of torture.

  The Phoenix Suns were on the clock for the fifth pick of the draft. I’d been to Phoenix for a workout and really liked it there. It was bloody hot, but I didn’t mind it because it reminded me of Tonga. The Suns had seemed quite interested in me, and it was a thrill when my agent, Darren “Mats” Matsubara, got a call from them on the night.

  When you watch the draft on TV, it looks like the floor of the arena is filled with the players and their support teams. But what you don’t see is that the other half is packed with media and agents frantically calling organizations and sorting deals for their players. It’s one of the busiest nights for them. I was glad all I had to do was sit there and not pick my nose on camera.

  All players go into the draft not knowing where they’ll end up, but the announcement of their name isn’t a complete surprise because the managers of each team will call the player’s agent five minutes before they announce their pick. Not every call to an agent ends in a contract, though. The Suns called Mats and they talked for a bit, and then they picked Alex Len, a 7 1 center from Ukraine. I have no idea what was said in that phone call and I’ve never asked. For all I know, they dialed the wrong number.

  It was slowly dawning on me that my life was about to change. I was predicted to go somewhere between 10 and 20 in the draft, and it was getting close. But I was starving. It was a huge event and we got all dressed up and sat at tables, so I assumed they would at least feed us. But there was no food. Like, at all. The only thing on the table was a bottle of Gatorade because it’s a major sponsor of the NBA. By the eighth pick I was thirsty and clammy and wanted a drink, so I grabbed the bottle and went to open it, but it was glued shut. They actually put Gatorade bottles in front of a bunch of nervous athletes and then glued them shut so we couldn’t drink it.

  I was starting to expect free stuff from any NBA-related events. I mean, who doesn’t love free stuff? The day before I’d gone room to room at the hotel and picked up free swag bags from a bunch of big companies. They all wanted their stuff worn and used by the next batch of NBA players, but they weren’t too keen on me, probably because I was dressed scruffy as. I didn’t look like I was about to be recruited by anyone.

  As the picks kept going—Detroit, Utah, Portland, Philadelphia—I started to lean heavily in my mind on Oklahoma City. They were my best shot with the twelfth pick. I was supposed to go in the top 15 because I was in the green room, the floor of the arena, where players get their own tables and the NBA pays for their families to be there. I wasn’t exactly getting nervous, but I thought it would be mean to go to the Thunder at 12. As Michael Carter-Williams walked off stage after being selected by the Philadelphia 76ers, Mats got a phone call from the Thunder management. He talked for a minute and I fidgeted, hoping it wasn’t a prank call. David Stern walked back out to announce the twelfth pick. For the first time that night I wished the crowd would stop booing so I could hear his voice crystal clear. All I could think was—if he calls your name, don’t trip or stumble when you go up the stairs.

  “With the twelfth pick in the 2013 NBA draft…”

  Don’t fall over.

  “the Oklahoma City Thunder select…”

  Don’t stumble.

  “Steven Adams.”

  That was it. I didn’t hear the rest. I barely noticed Stern absolutely butchering the pronunciation of my hometown, Rotorua. I stood up on cue, hugged Sid, hugged Mohi, hugged my mentor and coach Kenny McFadden, hugged Mats, and high-fived his daughter. That was my team. The only other person I wish could have been there was my sister Viv, but that’s another story.

  Before I could move, a woman hurried over with an OKC Thunder hat and I suddenly had a whole new problem—my massive head. My dome had been measured before the event, but I still had a feeling the hat wouldn’t fit, because my head is huge. When I put it on I could tell it was going to be a tight fit, so I just sat it on top of my head and left it there. I think I pulled off the look quite nicely.

  Thanks to the mantra I’d been chanting in my head all night, I made it up the stairs smoothly and shook Stern’s hand. Some of the earlier players had gone for a brother handshake with a hug as well, but I wasn’t ready to take that risk so we shook hands like two businessmen meeting for the first time. In my mind at that point the only thing worse than tripping up the stairs would have been doing a weird, crumbly handshake-hug combo with Stern that people would mock forever.

  Still not entirely sure that everything was real, I left the stage and was told I would be interviewed by Shane Battier, who had just won a championship with the Miami Heat. Everyone had said Shane was a cool guy so I tried to chat with him before our broadcast interview, but he just ignored me. I was thinking, “Man, what a dick,” but then I saw he was wearing an earpiece and was probably being told all my bio information at the same time. Our interview was sweet. I got to show off the New Zealand flag in my suit and give a shout-out to everyone at home watching and cheering me on. And then it was over, and I was ushered through to the back where there was a massive press room and I had to do interviews for two hours. I remember barely any of it except that one channel had sent a little kid along to interview us. He was cute and pretty funny, but it’s quite hard to hold a conversation about basketball with a five-year-old.

  Some reporters wanted me to read random shout-outs, which I happily did. My dopamine levels were through the roof, and I probably would have said and done anything that anyone asked. I’m too scared to watch any interviews from that night because I swear my voice went up a full octave I was so happy. I made a video for Facebook saying thank you to everyone in New Zealand who had supported me, and for some reason I was sweating all through it, even though I hadn’t done anything strenuous all day.

  By the time all the interviews had wrapped up I was still on a massive high and had forgotten I hadn’t eaten in hours. My agency put on a dinner for me and a couple of the other drafted players they represented. By the time we ate it was 2 a.m. and I was knocked out. I heard that some other agencies had thrown parties for their players, and I was secretly glad mine hadn’t because I just wanted to eat and then pass out for 12 hours.

  The next morning I woke up and didn’t know what to do. After years of working towards one goal—to get to the NBA—I’d made it. Now what? I obviously knew that I’d have to move to Oklahoma and work hard in the off-season to make the roster, but what was I supposed to do the day after being drafted into the NBA?

  Turns out, nothing. Everything started being done for me. The owner of the Thunder sent his private plane to New York to fly me, my family, Andre Roberson (who OKC also drafted), and his family out to Oklahoma City immediately. I posted a photo on Facebook of us in front of the plane and some people thought I’d splashed out and bought a plane already. I hadn’t even been paid yet. Besides, NBA rookies get paid SUV money, not private plane money.

  My brothers and I were buzzing out, trying to imagine having so much money you could afford yo
ur own plane. Once we got up in the air, it was a relief to be away from all the hype and media that had surrounded us the whole week. Some of the guys dozed off or ordered food, but all I could do was sit and try to make sense of everything. I was just a scruffy kid from Rotorua, known around town as “one of those Adams kids.”

  Being an NBA player hadn’t been a lifelong dream of mine, it had been a six-year goal. Up to that point I was just Sid Adams’s youngest boy, destined for the farm life. But here I was, being flown in a private plane to begin a dream I’d barely had time to register as being possible.

  As Oklahoma City came into view and we began our descent into my new life, I wondered what my dad would have thought of all this.

  1.

  EVERYTHING STINKS

  My hometown stinks. Literally. It stinks of rotten eggs, caused by the sulfur dioxide that rises out of the geysers, mud pools, and hot pools in the geothermally active city. When you live there you don’t even notice it, but it’s one of the things it’s famous for. Tourists love the hot pools and the Māori culture and attractions.

  Even though Rotorua is a tourist town, there’s not much to do there if you are poor, which we were, especially since Dad’s pension was the only income. The kindergarten that all of the Adams kids went to was just around the corner from where we lived. The primary school was just around the opposite corner. The intermediate school was next door to the primary school. And the college was one street over. Basically, I spent my childhood within walking distance of my house at all times.

  Dad had lived in our house for 30 years. One day, while his two eldest were still young, Dad walked by a house that he liked the look of. It wasn’t a big house or a flash one, but it was built from bricks and looked like it could handle a storm or two. The perfect house for Sid Adams. Instead of offering to buy it, he bought some land and drew up a plan to build one exactly like it for himself. I’m told that Dad was at the construction site constantly, helping the builders and making sure nobody was doing a crappy job. If Dad had one motto he lived by, it was “Whatever you do, do it well.”