Jesus said you tell a tree by what it produces, and what came out of my life wasn’t the fruit of godliness. I was a good kid from a good family, but still lost as lost could be.
Yet the seeds had been planted for that tree of eternal fruit. Someday the seeds would sink into the soil, and the real transformation would come. Just like magic.
For now, all I could see was the illusion.
Chapter 4
Biz Whiz
On college campuses, the weekend begins on Thursday. Even in Southern Mississippi. Even at a Baptist college. I may have played in a Christian band in 1995, but I was partying like it was 1999.
I had a red Porsche, a tendency to drink, a crowd-pleasing magic act, and a love of fun and excitement. In retrospect, my college basketball career never stood a chance.
In high school, I was used to being the big guy at six-foot-six. In college ball, even at an NAIA school, there were taller towers. Some of our guys were six-ten and six-eleven, so I couldn’t just park under the basket, wait for a pass, and take my shot. I actually had to learn to move the ball in traffic, including dribbling.
Don’t laugh—dribbling may sound pretty basic, but at a higher level of ball, against gifted athletes, it’s not a given, even with my work ethic.
The coach expected a big return on a Division I scholarship guy like me. He was in my face, pushing me harder than I’d ever been pushed as an athlete. After a while, as I struggled, my longtime love for basketball began to cool off.
Still, I had a campus jock image to maintain. My roommate played baseball, and I knew he dipped snuff. But on my birthday, September 20, he said, “Hey, I think I’ll pick up a pack of cigs.”
“I didn’t know you smoked,” I said.
“Just on special occasions. And tonight is a special night.”
I had never smoked before, but college is all about figuring out how adulthood should look. I well knew that my grandfather, Mom’s dad, died from smoking. He was so addicted at the end of his life, he tried getting workers to smuggle cigarettes into the nursing home while he was on oxygen. I told myself I was only going to smoke on special occasions, such as a birthday.
And a little later, weekends. For me, they were special occasions, right?
And a little after that, I threw in Thursdays. Like I said, they’re part of the weekend on campus.
Then, what the heck, Monday needed to be a smoking day, too, because that’s when Monday night football happens.
After that, I was a full-blown smoker. Why not consider life a special occasion? I brought my several-pack-a-day habit home for the summer, when I sold cars to pick up some extra cash. When you’re in college, summertime is a special—well, you get the idea.
When I came back to Hattiesburg in September, I was a chain-smoking, coffee-guzzling, six foot-six inches of out-of-shape. I came off the court wheezing after cross-court fast breaks, with the coaches glaring at me. What should have been a productive off-season turned out to be a nightmare when school started back.
One day I was late to practice (again). I caught the usual verbal abuse and was told to start running. With every huffing, puffing step, I came closer to the boiling point. I hadn’t come to South Mississippi to run up and down the steps of the gym. An assistant coach, who wasn’t my biggest fan in the first place, made a choice remark to me as I loped by. I tossed an even choicer remark right back—not cool for scholarship players who are underperforming. Earn a starter spot, or at least make the squad, and maybe you attain a few sarcasm privileges. Me, not so much. None of this stopped me from firing back, and smoke started coming out of the assistant coach’s ears. He snapped, “Go upstairs and change! You’re out of here.”
Everybody on the team turned my way.
I responded with another smart-alecky comment, went upstairs to grab my gear, hung my Nike team shoes around my neck, and headed for the door.
“Leave those shoes, Gallaty!” the coach shouted. They were team property.
I whirled around. “Come and get ’em!”
As he walked toward me, I reached back as far as I could and launched them over his head toward the back wall. “They’re all yours, Coach.”
I knew now I’d burned this bridge to the ground. I crossed the point of no return. This wasn’t one of those little storms that would blow over in a couple of days. I was dispensable to William Carey basketball. There would be no coming back now, no cooling-off period followed by a “let’s put this behind us” handshake.
Oddly enough, my college basketball career lasted a season and a half; smoking lasted nine years.
I wasn’t one to look back. I still had a lot going on, and maybe now, an extra edge—a touch of attitude. I was invited to every party. They’d be waiting for me when I made an entrance with my briefcase of card tricks, scarves, and illusions. Most drinks were purchased by others as compensation for the tricks. I was the man of the hour, and all of it was a recipe for disaster.
Sure enough, I was pulled over in traffic by the police one night, coming from a party. I had taken advantage of more than a few free drinks. Swerving red sports cars aren’t overlooked by the state police.
I parked my Porsche on the shoulder close by my school, stood beside it, and went through field sobriety tests. (Little did I know, my wheels would be taken away from me after this semester for finishing with a 1.9 GPA.)
Meanwhile, my buddies were driving by in their own cars,
