Becoming Kareem: Chapter 32–Epilogue

In fact, initially he was concerned the NCAA actually was going to take more extreme steps to curtail UCLA’s dominance of the game.

So we worked on my hook. His persistence in the face of my petulance built a closer relationship between us.

Coach taught me the techniques to hone the hook into my iconic shot that carried me through championships in college and the pros.

Coach had earned my respect long ago, not just for his coaching ability in leading us to win, but for his poise when we lost.

It’s easy to be gracious and magnanimous when you’re winning, but he taught us that it takes character to be those things when you lose.

After the game, Elvin Hayes, the Cougars’ best player, had challenged me in the press by saying I hadn’t played tough defense, hadn’t been aggressive rebounding, and wasn’t as good a player as I was hyped to be.

After beating us, Elvin Hayes had continued to berate me in the press.

My joy that night was more powerful than my reticence.

Coach Wooden, who had been talking with a reporter, turned at the sound of my dashiki swishing and saw me in all my brightly colored finery.

He had already built a reputation as something of a maverick in the martial arts community, with his own unorthodox ideas of combat, but his skills were widely acclaimed to be remarkable.

Most martial arts instructors I had met before were very stiff and formal, constantly demanding overt demonstrations of respect.

The winning athlete prepared for competition by training the body and the mind to anticipate all contingencies.

In the 1960s, white people could get away with discriminating against black citizens in jobs, housing, and education without much fear of government intervention.

Because the government wasn’t doing that much to prevent it, racists felt emboldened to act out their hostilities by committing violent acts against black people.

This was as laid-back as a protest rally could get: a bunch of students ambling around Bruin Walk carrying signs for an hour.

That summer ended with the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, three days in August that were so violent, so contentious, and so chaotic that books, movies, and even songs have been written about it.

Watching Smith and Carlos on TV with their fists raised defiantly, I realized that even though I was only twenty-one, I still had to speak up.

I read extensively about Buddhism, Taoism, existentialism, and various Protestant beliefs.

I wasn’t looking for just a set of heavenly ordained rules, I was looking for a religion that I identified with culturally as well as spiritually.

I knew there were a billion or more Muslims divided mostly among the two largest sects: Sunni Islam and the far smaller Shia Islam.

But the more I studied history, especially of the church, the more disillusioned I became with the role of Christianity in subjugating my people.

But the more I studied history, especially of the church, the more disillusioned I became with the role of Christianity in subjugating my people.

I learned that memorizing a couple of the 114 suras (chapters) of the Quran is a goal of many adherents, and that millions have done so.

I was still too naive and too new to the religion to argue about my name, but I knew that my journey of growing up was still not quite over.

Which is why I was relieved to find a new coach, Hamaas Abdul-Khaalis, who would shepherd me through the intricacies of becoming a more devout Muslim.

“Why purgatory? She’s just a child. She didn’t do anything wrong.”

As our voices rose, other teammates turned to listen. Maybe they were hoping for a fistfight to break up the monotony of the bus ride, or maybe they were just interested in the discussion.

I braced myself for the onslaught. Now that I’d opened Pandora’s box, I should expect the usual venom to follow. But it didn’t.

I glanced over at him a few times to see if I could gauge any reaction to my announcement, but all I saw was a wide smile of joy, not at me but at the team.

I again tried to keep my face impassive, but I was definitely not happy.

If this was how they treated me when they were trying to woo me, how would they treat me once I signed a five-year contract?

“This isn’t a negotiating ploy to goose the Nets into offering more?”
“Nope,” Sam said. “We’re ready to sign and learn how to spell Milwaukee.”

I wanted to be as pious as possible, but loneliness ate away at my resolve.

A big difference between college and pro basketball is the grueling schedule.

That’s why I wrote this book. To be that coach who takes by the hand anyone who ever feels picked on or put upon, outraged but out of range, vilified yet voiceless.