Character Driven by Derek Fisher, Gary Brozek Read Free Book Online Page B

aunts and uncles and my cousins would gather at my Grandma and Grandpa Johnson’s house. He insisted we call him Papa, and my mother got her pleasant disposition from the two of them. That was also where she got her grounding in religion.
    My mom’s home away from home was the Eighth Street Baptist Church. She still sings in the choir there, just as she did all the years I was at home. Sunday meant three things in the Fisher household: church services, Sunday school, and that family dinner. Sunday wasn’t the only day devoted to the Lord, however; when I was young, we were at the Eighth Street Baptist Church four or five days a week. Today, the minister there is Jamal Wesley, who was two years behind me in school and also played on the basketball team. Back in the day, though, the Reverend Mr. Sawyer was the congregation’s spiritual leader. As a kid, I thought of him as a black version of Colonel Sanders. Instead of having silver hair though, his was salt-and-pepper, and he had a full beard. As a kid, I thought the man must have been positively ancient to have hair of such a color, but he couldn’t have been as old as I imagined since he remained the minister there for years after I left Little Rock.
    The great thing about my hometown and that neighborhood is that not a whole lot has changed. Many of the deacons and associate pastors and ushers are still there, according to my mom. I like knowing that they are still there, just as I like knowing that my sister, DeAndra, who is two and a half years younger than me, now lives with her husband and two kids in the house I grew up in. There’s something reassuring in my boyhood home still being home to some members of my family, in my mother still attending the church where I spent so many hours of my youth, in some of those men who served as examples to me of the proper way to live still being there. As an NBA player, my life feels as if it is constantly in motion. I like knowing that I am still anchored to some places, that one of the fundamentals of my life, my root system, the places I frequented as a youngster, still remain, reminding me of the lessons I learned.
    I enjoyed Sundays, but I wasn’t a deeply spiritual kid. I went to church because that was what you did. I grew up doing it, and it was part of the routine, part of the almost ritualized life we all led. Before I started playing on school teams, Saturday was youth-league basketball games, Sunday was churchgoing and family dinner, Monday was laundry day, etc. In my family, every day seemed to have a purpose, a center around which the other activities revolved. Growing up with that sense of orderliness had a profound effect on me, I realize now. That’s probably why I adapted so easily to the structured life of an athlete. As much as people might like to imagine that my life mainly involves sitting around at home in anticipation of playing a game and is a far cry from the nine-to-five routine that most people experience in the corporate world, the truth is far from that. Having a place to be, having obligations to be met, and adhering to a somewhat strict schedule took hold as a necessity when I was young.
    I don’t mean to suggest that churchgoing was strictly an obligation, something to be checked off on an invariable and rigid to-do list. What I mean is that I found some comfort in knowing what to expect. It’s funny to think of it now, but one of the most vivid memories I have of my brother Duane was when he jumped out from behind a door and screamed at me. I can still recall that bladder-burning sensation of fright that electrified my system. That current must have flipped the switch at the waterworks, because I burst into tears. I think I was only three or four at the time, still at an age when a chest-heaving, I-want-my-mom spasm of crying could go on for minutes. I still don’t like surprises, still don’t like being caught off guard, but at least I’ve developed better resources to deal with the