ZingDash

DETROIT — The constant rumbling of my cellphone bumping up against my nightstand lamp woke me up earlier than I wanted to be. It was Friday morning — OK, it was more like 11:35 a.m. — when I rolled over and saw that one of my college friends was calling. Initially, my first groggy thought was to put him on silent and go back to enjoying the final days of my vacation. Then, as I came to a little bit more, I realized that it was odd that he was calling me at this time of day, so I answered the phone to put my mind at rest.

Advertisement

“How are you feeling right now?” my friend asked after I made some faint noise indicating that I was on the line.

I was feeling tired, a little hungover. I had gone out for drinks the night before. But he wouldn’t know that. His question left me even more confused as to why he was calling.

“I’m fine. Why?” I responded.

“You didn’t see the news?” he said back to me.

“What news?” I asked.

“Go to Twitter and call me back,” he said with an evil chuckle.

As a sportswriter, my first thought upon hanging up was that someone from the Pistons, the team I cover most, had been traded and that I’d be spending my last vacation day working in sweatpants and a Sade T-shirt. The Twitter app wasn’t on my phone at this time. I had deleted it to momentarily escape from the virtual world that consumes me for 10 months of the year.

After we hung up, and I was about to re-download the app to see my fate, I noticed that I had received two notification just minutes earlier. One was a text from a childhood friend, and it read, “Are you crying?” There was a laughing emoji attached to it. The other was an Instagram direct message from a high school acquaintance, one that I had maybe talked to a handful of times since graduating in 2010. It read, “Damn, I know you’re upset lol.”

All right, I needed to know what was going on.

Once Twitter came back on my phone, I first checked the local media competition to see what Pistons news had broke. I saw nothing. I went back to my timeline, scrolled for about 30 seconds, and then it all clicked. When I saw the tweet, I knew what they were talking about. I knew why they had reached out.

Around 11:30 a.m. Friday, Golden State Warriors point guard Shaun Livingston announced on Twitter that he was retiring from the NBA after 15 seasons. It wasn’t a shock. It was rumored to happen. It was, however, now a reality.

After 15 years in the NBA, I’m excited, sad, fortunate and grateful all in one breath. Hard to put into a caption all of the emotions it takes to try and accomplish your dreams. I wasn’t supposed to be here. Anybody… https://t.co/Qj8f3M72B1

— Shaun Livingston (@ShaunLivingston) September 13, 2019

At this point, you’re probably asking why does a writer covering the Pistons care that Livingston is hanging them up? Fair question. Just like you, and you, and you too, I was once a fan. And as much as us sportswriters try to act like heartless beings who are just doing a job to make ends meet, we were all fans at one time. And I was the biggest Livingston supporter in the world. No one can tell me otherwise. Every friend I made from age 12 through my college days was made aware of my obscure fandom.

Advertisement

I wish I could tell you some elaborate, heartwrenching story to help you better understand why Livingston became my favorite player, when he entered the NBA in 2004. He didn’t save me from a car crash. He wasn’t my cousin’s best friend. There is no linear connection between us. What I can tell you, though, is that at around 2004 I became a free-thinker, I started deciding what I liked.

Before, I was a sports fan because my dad was one. I would sit next to him on Saturdays and Sundays as he watched football on the couch with his Meijer-bought gummy bears. I’d be right there at night when he watched NBA and Michigan State basketball. His favorite players were my favorite players, his favorite teams were my favorite teams. That tends to be how sports fandom goes.

The 2004 NBA Draft was the first time I recall becoming a diehard, obnoxious NBA fan. Why? I couldn’t tell you. I watched that draft in its entirety. The only thing I remember to this day about that draft is when the Los Angeles Clippers took Livingston with the No. 4 pick. I remember not knowing anything about him and asking my dad who he was. My dad explained that he was the first-ever point guard making the leap from high school straight to the NBA.

If my memory serves me correct, his high school highlights played on the television shortly after it was announced that he was selected. I remember watching and being intrigued by his combination of height and ball-handling. Point guards, even in 2004, weren’t usually that tall. My dad told me that people were comparing him to Magic Johnson. We were Michigan State fans in our household. I graduated from there in 2014. That was all I needed to hear.

The last thing I remember about that day is turning to my dad and saying, “Shaun Livingston is my new favorite player.”

Advertisement

Thinking back, it was so innocent. I had never seen him play live. I knew nothing about him. My dad, laughingly, pointed that out. I didn’t care, though. For some reason, I wanted to hitch my horse to that wagon. There was something about those clips; his effortless no-look passes, his handle, his height, that retro afro, those new-school braids, that made him look like a culmination of all my favorite players before him. I was all in. I was a Clippers fan.

A month went by and my family took our first or second out-of-state vacation to Universal in Orlando. The main thing I remember about the trip is the NBA store. I had never seen a store dedicated solely to the sport I love. We don’t have those in Michigan. When we walked in, the first thing I noticed is that every franchise was represented. There were jerseys to buy from every team. I believe each team had three players’ jerseys you could buy. I found the Clippers section, which was on the top row, and veered my head up. The jersey out front was Elton Brand’s. That made sense because he was the face of the franchise.

I was too short to reach my arms up to see who was behind his. My dad, who is 6-foot-3, was too short too, so he got one of the workers to grab one of those silver poles to move things around. The jersey behind Brand’s was Chris Kaman’s, a Michigan native whom I got to see a lot in person as a kid because he played at Central Michigan when we lived in Ypsilanti, Mich., the home of conference rival Eastern Michigan University. I still can’t recall a right-handed big man who has had a better left hand around the rim since Kaman.

The last jersey was Livingston’s, the rookie and franchise point guard. My new favorite player. These jerseys were the real deal. As official as you could get. The NBA logo was in the corner of the jersey, and that was it. No Nike. No Adidas. No Reebok. An NBA official jersey.

I remember the price to this day: $140. Why? Because I thought there was no way in hell that my dad would buy it for me. That’s a lot of money, especially for a jersey. But he did buy it. He also bought me a Clippers hat and hoodie. He knew what it was like to be a fan, and he could tell and appreciate that I was becoming one on my own. I’m confident that was the moment he felt like he raised me right.

The summer came and went, and I was beginning my sixth grade school year. My third hour was computer science, and one of our first projects was to create our own T-shirts. The teacher, whose name escapes me right now, handed us a plain, white T-shirt. He told us to go on Google and load a photo to put on the vacant surface. Of course, I chose a photo of Livingston, one from his rookie photo shoot. However, I decided to put two photos on the T-shirt. The other was of Sebastian Telfair, who went 13th in the 2004 NBA Draft and was the favorite player of my best friend, still to this day, Sam.

Livingston nor Telfair had played an NBA game at this point, but Sam locked onto Telfair, who was the second point guard ever to be drafted out of high school, after I told him all summer about my newfound love for Livingston. The shirt was created that day in class, and by fourth hour, I was wearing it. Again, Livingston had never played an NBA game.

Advertisement

The first time I remember watching Livingston play live was early in his rookie season, as the Clippers traveled to Detroit to face the Pistons within the first two weeks of the season. My dad was a massive Pistons fan, so, of course, that game was on the television. I sat in the basement with my Livingston jersey, and he sat with a Pistons T-shirt. Detroit won that game in double overtime, 99-96. My dad talked shit the entire night. The foundation of his shit-talking was toward Livingston, who went 0-of-6 from the field and scored one point in the fourth game of his NBA career. I remember being irritated at my dad because I knew Livingston would one day be great — or so I hoped and prayed. I still had no proof that he was even good.

On my 13th birthday, about four months after Detroit beat the Clippers, my dad and mom gave me the greatest gift that I had received to that point: Clippers vs. Pistons tickets in Auburn Hills, Mich. The game was set for April 1, and I remember my dad telling me that we would hang out afterward to see if I could meet Livingston.

Livingston is from Peoria, Ill., which isn’t that far from Auburn Hills. It’s about a six-hour drive. My dad figured that Livingston would have family at the game because it’s somewhat close to his hometown. There are two things I remember about that game: 1. The Pistons, again, beat the Clippers, and I was annoyed that my dad was making fun of me. 2. My dad finally gave Livingston his props. He had 10 points and six assists in that game. There was a Livingston pass that made my dad whip his head back. I think my dad said that he liked his game.

After the game, my dad and I posted up against the railing closest to the court, hoping Livingston would emerge at some point before the team bus took off. When I looked over to my right, I saw a handful of people sporting Clippers gear, and about three of them had a Livingston jersey. I remember my dad saying, “That must be his family.” We waited for about 20 to 30 minutes before I saw Livingston come out of the tunnel. My stomach dropped. Remember, I had just turned 13.

He was walking toward us, and I looked at my dad in disbelief. Moments later, Livingston was in front of us. I’m sure he saw my jersey. I couldn’t speak, so my dad said, as I vividly recall, “Hey, Shaun, my son really likes you. Can we get an autograph?” Shaun obliged and signed a rookie card of his, as well as his picture on the T-shirt that I made in class. He shook my hand and asked me my name. I told him, I think. My dad said, “Is there anything you want to say to him?” And I said, “You’re my favorite player.” Shaun responded: “Thanks for letting me be your favorite player.”

To this day, even as a 27-year-old, my dad makes fun of me for that moment. When I see him, very few minutes pass without him saying, in his best 12-year-old, high-pitch impression, “You’re my favorite player.” He even makes fun of Livingston for his response. Today, I can imagine it being comical. Back then, I had never met any of my heroes. Livingston, for some reason, was one of my heroes.

The season came and went, and the Clippers, for the eighth straight season, missed the playoffs. The next year, though, I was confident they would be interesting. Livingston, I believed, would take the next step. I loved Kaman. Brand was still a beast. Cuttino Mobley and Sam Cassell were good players. In the 2005-06 NBA season, the Clippers won 47 games, marking the first time since 1992-93 that the franchise eclipsed 40 wins in a regular season.

Advertisement

As I recall, the Clippers were on national television more than usual that season. My mom let me stay up past 11 p.m. only one night during the school week, and that was for “Monday Night Raw.” I convinced her to let me stay up late whenever the Clippers played on national television, which wasn’t often, so that I could fulfill my fandom. She obliged. I believe I saw the Clippers play close to 10 times that season, including the playoffs. Livingston came off the bench for most of his second season, but I still glued my eyes to the television whenever Los Angeles played nationally, hoping to get a glimpse of my favorite player.

Anytime that I have ever told someone that Livingston was my favorite player, they’d immediately ask why. I didn’t have a good explanation. The story I would have given them wouldn’t have made any sense, so I would tell my friends that he played the position the right way and looked cool doing it. In all actuality, though, Livingston was never more than a solid rotation piece.

In my opinion, which might be skewed, that’s not his fault. That stomach-turning knee injury in 2007 derailed everything that I thought Livingston would become. I think most would agree. The day after it happened, I remember waking up to my dad telling me that Livingston got seriously hurt. The internet wasn’t as popular as it is now. “SportsCenter” still reigned supreme in regards to news. I remember going downstairs to the kitchen before school, watching the seven-inch television as I ate my eggs with ketchup and toast, awaiting a clip of the injury. I still can hear Livingston’s piercing scream as he hit the hardwood. I still remember the close-up of his knee, which looked like a broken tree branch.

I haven’t watched the clip again to this day. Part of the reason is that I’m squeamish and body parts bending in ways that they’re not supposed to make me sick. Part of it is because I knew that my favorite player would never reach the expectations I set for him. Still, I followed Livingston’s career closely as he went from a journeyman to a multiple-time NBA champion with the Warriors. He never stopped becoming my favorite player. I watched him every time I could while he played for eight teams between leaving the Clippers and joining Golden State because, well, that’s what fans do.

Once I entered the NBA as a writer, I had multiple opportunities to tell Livingston about my childhood admiration for him. I never did, out of fear that it would make me look unprofessional. Furthermore, I was certain that he wouldn’t remember the baby-faced kid he met in Detroit, especially since he now has a patchy beard and deeper voice.

Livingston won’t be voted to the Hall of Fame. He’ll probably be forgotten as time passes. But his 15-year career should be applauded. That injury he suffered in 2007 was as grim as I’ve ever seen. Yet he never gave up. That’s what sports are about, and that’s why his jersey has hung in my office all of these years. I’m not one to look to sports for inspiration, but Livingston provided it.

Livingston deserves this moment. He’s earned it. I, as a fan, earned it, too. I never gave up on him. I probably shouldn’t admit this, but I have rooted for the Warriors in the NBA Finals since they took the league by storm because I wanted Livingston to get his just due. Injuries held him back, not talent.

Advertisement

And even though he’s gone, I’ll never forget him. I wrote this column while wearing that Clippers jersey I got at 12 years old.

(Photo: Ric Francis / Associated Press)

ncG1vNJzZmismJqutbTLnquim16YvK57kGtncnBnZXxzfJByZmlxX2aBcMPOq6OdZZKetKix0q1krKCRqrtuuMivoKefo6m8r3nFmqVmppKWerOx06KpnqWVo8Fw