Chapter 12 The Hug

The most affluent families in the city of Nashville sent their children to my private high school. My classmates lived in the homes of country music stars, politicians, and prominent lawyers and doctors. I once spent the night at a friend’s house and discovered I could fit my entire living room in his second bedroom. That is not a typo. His second bedroom! I stopped hanging out with him after I learned his family’s net worth was over a billion dollars. I couldn't wrap my mind around that kind of wealth.

I say all that to say—the schools that made up our district for athletic competition also boasted students from affluent families. You can guess what I am getting at: rich Caucasian athletes. It drove my dad crazy trying to assess my athletic prowess because he felt the competition didn’t truly test me. Football beckoned my destiny. Some people scrapbook as a hobby, but basketball was just something I did between football seasons. My dad, however, trained me intently in both.

I easily dominated my district and region in basketball, earning MVP honors in my junior and senior seasons. Getting to the state tournament through these teams did not present much difficulty.

During my junior year, the top basketball player in the nation lived in Memphis, TN: Anfernee “Penny” Hardaway. Penny would go on to play with Shaquille Oneal and become a household name. Recruiters hailed him as the next Michael Jordan and Magic Johnson combined. Considered the best three-point shooter in the country, he could also touch the top of the backboard. As a 6'7" point guard, his ball-handling skills and court vision made him the number one pick in the draft just a couple years later. Some type of issue prevented him from playing during the regular season, but his team—considered by many to be the best in the nation—easily made the state tournament without him.

I played on the top team in the state that year. If our teams met in the finals, I imagine we would have played in front of a couple of ESPN cameras. However, the tournament seeded us to play in the quarterfinals.

I played basketball in front of thousands of fans throughout my career. I played in a sold-out game at Vanderbilt University once. However, I have never played in front of more people in my life than in this basketball game. Standing room only—spectators filled the aisles, the back, and even behind the bleachers. They all came to see the future Hall of Famer.

The buzz of the crowd seemed to electrify the atmosphere. The fans were split evenly between black and white, but everyone, except those who represented my school, rooted for Penny’s team. I believe my dad even rooted for Penny’s team. He wanted me to do well, but we might as well have been Duke, and I, the African American Christian Laettner. Everyone wanted to see this all-Black team dunk on and embarrass the affluent white high school with triple threat attack positions and help side defense that celebrates taking charges like hitting game winning shots.

Once the ball tipped—well—I recently talked to my dad about this game. I will retell the story in his words.

I went to the concession stand five minutes before the game started, but I got caught in the crowd. I heard the whistle blow to start the game. I thought I wouldn’t miss anything, so I stayed in line. Then, I heard the crowd go absolutely crazy. I thought,” Hardaway must have done something.” So, I ran back to my seat. As I was fighting to get back to my seat, everyone kept saying, "Your son just dunked on everyone! Your son just dunked on the entire team!" I cursed myself. I couldn’t believe I missed it. When I will I ever see that again. My son dunking on a NBA player. As I was trying to get over being upset with myself and focus on the game—you did it again. Dunked on everyone. And then I could see—their whole team was shook. They lost their discipline. The centers were driving the ball up the floor. The guards were shooting from half court. Your dunks completely rattled them, threw them off their game.

We won the game. I scored close to thirty points. Obviously, no one thought we would win, and jubilation filled our locker room. Even our usually stone-faced coach couldn’t contain his excitement.

As I high fived my teammates, I turned and saw my dad come through the locker room. This had never happened before. Usually, he would wait outside to tell me ways I needed to improve. I don’t think I ever heard him tell me I played a good game before this.

I could see the exhilaration exuding from his eyes. I went to shake his hand, but he slapped it away and hugged me—almost picked me up—and held me for what seemed like ten minutes. I don’t even remember what he said. That shocked me more than playing a future lottery pick, more than playing in front of ten thousand people, more than beating—ostensibly—the best team in the country.

My dad came into the locker room and hugged me.

Since the very day I remember calling him “Dad,” I can only recall him hugging me one other time in my eighteen years of living.

It may seem odd to younger generations, but every generation, since the time of Adam and Eve, fought in some type of military conflict. I participated in the war of my generation—the first Iraq War—by watching it on CNN. Nothing had ever happened like that in the thousands of years of human civilization. Now, nations can use drones to remove soldiers from direct combat, operating from military rooms hundreds of miles away. But in my father’s world, and every father before him, the values of courage, toughness, and strength weren’t just about success in athletic competition. These traits could mean salvation, honor, or freedom on a blood-stained battlefield.

Some of my high school coaches saw friends die in Vietnam, Korea, and World War II. My dad stood in line to hear his classification when the military drafted men before the Nixon administration. These men didn’t show much sympathy for two-a-day practices in 100-degree weather. In my day, when you passed out, you weren’t treated for heat stroke—they just rolled you off the field. On my last day of football, I collapsed, paralyzed, and lay limp for about fifteen seconds. The entire team and coaches stopped and looked at me. No one helped me up. Once the feeling returned, I got up, checked my chin strap, and finished practice. No one thought twice about it until the next day, when the coach sent me to see the team physician for X-rays.

But beyond that, my dad grew up in segregated Alabama. He could not have foreseen the racial tolerance that would evolve over the last two decades. He raised me to survive in the world he lived in and saw every day. He needed his patriarchal mentorship to ensure the genuineness of my manhood because life and death could hinge on the values he instilled in me. He didn’t hug me growing up—because he loved me. I know this.

But on this day, in front of ten thousand people, twice—I dunked on Anfernee Hardaway.

And in a game where the number-one-ranked player in the country drew all the attention of the nation, his son was the best player on the court for that one afternoon.

Looking back, I don’t think he expected me to do what I did. He never really saw it in my previous games. Dunking on future dentists and insurance salesman didn’t impress my dad. He had only seen me dominate against other affluent private schools. Furthermore, I played basketball as a hobby because it increased my athleticism for what I seemed destined to do. He thought I could play in the NFL from the moment I got into a three-point stance at the age of five. He still believes that, if not for my genetic spinal condition, Canton would display a bust of me as a defensive end. He drilled the goal of being the best into me—not necessarily because he believed I had the talent, but because he demanded I give my best. And the only way to know if you are doing your best is to shoot for the moon. If you miss, you will still land among the stars.

But on this day, in front of ten thousand people, twice—I dunked on Anfernee Hardaway.

And suddenly, my dad saw all the ingredients he had poured into me like a mad scientist. All the thousands of hours of coaching, cajoling, inspiring, motivating, encouraging, instructing, and exemplifying. He saw it all come together and, by alchemy, transform into magic in front of his eyes. The manifestation of his blood, his name, his vision, and his plan; suddenly became the biggest star on the biggest stage for everyone to see.

It touched a reservoir of joy and emotion that he had always held back because he needed to. But, on this day, it broke through those walls and cascaded out of him in a way that, in that moment, he didn’t know what to do. It overwhelmed him. So, he hugged me.

I never knew that I owned his heart like that. But after that day, believe me, I never forgot it. Since that game, I received that same celebration and that same hug from him more times than I can count. Promotions. Books written. The births of my sons. When I learned to walk again without a walker, after three months of hospital care. When I told him God regenerated my liver and I would not need a transplant. Every time, I post one of these Dad Gospels on his Facebook page.

I know I own his heart.

And the LORD was sorry that He had made man on the earth, and He was grieved in His heart.

Genesis 6:6

My brain combusts every time I hear someone say that God doesn’t care about us or that we cannot make Him happy because our insignificance cannot impact God’s soul. But from this verse, we see that we can affect God in a profound way that extends beyond our comprehension. The false perspective that we are powerless to move God emotionally implodes upon reading Genesis 6:6. Humanity hurt God. So, God wiped out humanity—not just the men, but the women, the children, the birds, the lions, and the eagles. Everything.

I love this verse.

While it may seem nightmarish to believe that pettiness, anger, and vengeance can rule God like that, it speaks to me of something much deeper—that God, who knows everything, who can do anything, who exists everywhere, possesses a heart. And it can break.

But the glory of this verse far outweighs the suffering. If we can fill God’s heart with pain, we can fill it with pleasure. And if the manifestation of God’s sorrow resulted in the destruction of His entire creation, then what will be the manifestation for those who bring Him unbridled joy?

Moses, who wrote that scripture, discovered this. After God freed the children of Israel from Egypt—destroying their enemies and delivering them from four hundred years of slavery—the Israelites, within weeks, crafted a golden calf and started worshipping it. Incensed, God told Moses of His plan to destroy them all and take Moses alone into Canaan, making him into a great nation.

Moses essentially looked at God and said, “You do this, and you can blot me out of Your book of life.” Moses told God that if He abandoned His people, He would lose Moses forever.

God did not strike Moses dead. He didn’t rebuke him. He didn’t throw a tantrum that Moses dared to challenge Him. God…relented.

Then Moses asked to see God’s glory. And God showed Moses as much as He could handle. When Moses descended, his radiance blinded the million people who had worshipped the golden calf.

What gave Moses the audacity, the temerity, the unmitigated gall; to approach the Creator of all living things and emotionally manipulate Him like that? And why did God allow it?

It seems God played a character in this scene, knowing that those with eyes to see and ears to hear would understand. God wanted us to know that one person, truly seeking His face, was worth more than a million idolaters spitting in it.

Moses knew this. He understood what God wanted more than anything else—something no power could purchase. God wanted him.

Moses knew he owned God’s heart.

This ownership did not just belong to Moses. Abraham knew he owned God’s heart when he climbed the mountain to sacrifice his son. He knew God loved him too much not to raise Isaac from the dead. Noah knew he owned God’s heart. That’s why he spent a hundred years building a boat for a flood before rain ever existed. David knew he owned God’s heart. That’s why he placed the freedom of his entire country on his shoulders when confronting the greatest warrior Israel ever faced with the stones in his knapsack. Elijah knew he owned God’s heart. That’s why he challenged his entire country to a contest to see whose God actually ruled the universe. Joshua knew he owned God’s heart. That’s why he knew that he could pray to stop the sun in the sky and God submitted to that prayer by stopping the universe. Peter knew he owned God’s heart. That’s why he viewed regular crucifixion as too easy for him. He demanded they turn him upside down. The sinners around Jesus knew they owned God’s heart. That’s why they grabbed at His clothes and ripped roofs off homes to beg for the touch of the hands that shaped the heavens. That’s why the unclean screamed His name even though their shouts and cries disturbed the masses. That’s why the sinful woman broke into the home of those who could punish her for her adultery and fell at the feet of God, cleaning His feet with perfume and tears.

And because they knew they owned God’s heart, they did unbelievable things. Supernatural things. Out-of-this-world things. Things that normal people would not even imagine contemplating much less doing. And because they did these things, God sings over them (Zephaniah 3:17). God is proud of them (Hebrews 2:11) . God delights in them. (Psalm 149:4) God praises them (Romans 2:29).

In Luke 10, some of the disciples went through Judea, healing and casting out demons, and they returned to report to Jesus what happened. The Bible says that Jesus was filled with joy through the Spirit. But the Greek word for joy in this passage is “agalliaō.” It means uncontainable happiness—to rejoice exceedingly, to leap for joy—an intense, an all-consuming ecstasy. When I imagine what Jesus did, I picture my dad walking into that locker room after that basketball game.

It is an emotion that breaks through walls, cascading in such a way that, in that moment, the body cannot fully express what it feels inside. It implies that God jumped up and down, that He danced.

In over four decades of striving to walk this Christian life, no one ever told me this was possible—that God could delight in me, that He could dance over me, that His emotions for me could overwhelm Him to the point that He would embrace me and never let go.

Thousands of scriptures. Hundreds of books.  Countless sermons. Yet not once did I hear it or read it.

Yet the gospel lived in the fact I have an earthly father who could love me so deeply that his love would overwhelm him. I just needed to apply that same love from a heavenly Father. 

If I did that at the beginning of my story, no one would ever need to tell me to go to church, to read my Bible, or to stop sinning. I would have pursued only one thing: God’s heart. And I would not have stopped until it was mine.

I am glad my story is not over yet.

And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love,

may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy

 people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ,

and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.” - Ephesians 3:17–19