Don't Let The Lipstick Fool You:. Lisa Leslie
good with fundamentals and very good for me. My knowledge of the game and my work ethic improved rapidly.
After practice, he would drive several players home. I actually lived the closest to school, but he always dropped me off last. I begged him to so I would not have to spend too much time at my grandmother’s house.
I enjoyed hanging out with him. I still do to this day. Coach Scott would tell corny jokes, and I might have been the only person who laughed, but I thought he was so funny and cool. In a lot of ways, he was the father that I never had. He was a very mellow, soft-spoken man who knew the game and knew how to communicate it to me, but he cared about me as more than just a basketball player. Coach Scott was the only one who knew that my mom was not home and that my sister and I were living with my grandmother under intense conditions. He would check my grades and make sure that I was eating lunch, and he would talk with Mom all the time to assure her that I was doing well. He was interested in me. I was flattered, and I did not want to let him down in any way.
Coach worked with me constantly. He would make me take five hundred shots a day and work on my dribbling. He taught me how to use my height to my best advantage. He would lob the ball up high to me and have me practice my turnaround jump shot. It was catch, turn, and shoot without my ever bringing the ball down below my head, where a smaller defender might grab it. I would do that left-handed, then right-handed. I would do the George Mikan drill over and over: left-side layup with the left hand, rebound, right-hand layup on the right side. Up and down, side to side, and back and forth time after time after time. It was difficult, but that drill helped with my footwork and rebounding, and I was able to get shots off more quickly.
Coach Scott never stopped challenging me to improve. He would bring a broom out on the court, hold it straight up over his head, and try to block my shots with it. That forced me to put more arc on my shots, which really helped when I competed against other tall players. He would line up my teammates and have them dribble and drive at me, one after the other. My job was to block every one of their shots. It was hard work, a real test, but it all paid off. Whatever Coach Scott told me to do, I did. I was not about to cheat myself. I did not cut corners. I worked hard and I got better. Some of the other girls on our team would talk back to Coach Scott or chatter during practice. I did not give him any attitude. I listened and I learned.
I did not talk much with my teammates. I had first lunch period, and most of the other girls had second. I rarely saw them during the day, but then, after school, I had to compete against them in order to win a spot on the team. Everyone was talking about who the starters might be, and more than a few times, I heard someone whisper, “That new girl is not going to come in and take my spot.”
It was an awkward situation, but as much as I wanted to be accepted, basketball mattered to me more than going out of my way to be anybody’s friend. I had very little competitive basketball experience under my belt, and I had never seen any of my new teammates play. I had no idea what level they were on. My gut told me to just go out and work hard. I definitely knew that I was tall. That was a big plus. I also knew I could shoot and play defense, but I had to learn in a hurry to be competitive. There was no cockiness to my game, because I knew that I had arrived so late to the sport. I knew there were other girls on the team who had played a lot more than me, and I knew that someone out there might be better than me.
As it turned out, I was pretty good. Much better than I thought I would be, at least. I understood the drills and the three-man weave, and I was gaining more confidence day by day. I worked on dribbling, on blocking shots, and I kept improving. I was a freshman, but I was challenging Shaunda Green, a junior, who was the best player on our team. She was coming off an All-California Interscholastic Federation (CIF) season. There was jealousy and some tension in the gym. My teammates were not very discreet when they would say, “She ain’t better than Shaunda. She’s not going to come in here and start.”
My mind-set was, I am here and I can play basketball. I am not going to back down from any player, no matter her talent level. If Shaunda Green was the best on the team, then that is who I wanted to play against every day.
So I was very goal oriented early on. This was just the ninth grade, and I was already writing my goals down, knowing it would help me achieve them. I wanted to get better in math and earn a 3.5 grade point average, and in basketball, I wanted to be “Freshman of the Year” in California. My thinking was simple: This is what I want to do. This is what I want to accomplish. And I was so serious about it. On the basketball court, I planned to be the very best that I could be, and it was not just a dream or a wish. It was something for me to work toward, and my efforts paid off. I was the only ninth grader to make the varsity team. Shaunda and I were teammates. We were both very good, and we played well together for Morningside.
My high school basketball career was off to a great start, but six-year-old Tiffany was still my responsibility. I still had to pick her up when she got out of school. Then both of us would go to my practice or game. When the Lady Monarchs traveled, Tiffany would be on the team bus with us, even though that was strictly forbidden. Tiffany would write and keep busy while I did my homework, and I always made sure she got something to eat.
When I had games, Tiffany would sit by herself in the stands. While I was on the court playing, I would glance over from time to time to make sure that she was all right and to make certain that nobody had kidnapped my little sister from the gym. Tiffany was at Morningside High more than some of the students, and she was with me for almost every one of our road games, too.
It was a lot of responsibility for a fourteen-year-old, but somehow Tiffany and I both made it work. She was a healthy, happy, resilient kid, and she thrived in spite of our very unusual circumstances. So did I. I averaged twelve points, nine rebounds, and five blocked shots, and the Monarchs finished with a 27–3 record during my freshman season. And my grades were good, too—mostly As and a few Bs. I was named “Freshman of the Year” in the state of California. The sense of accomplishment I felt tasted so sweet! But it was just the tip of the iceberg.
Chapter 3
Making a Name for Myself
That first year at Morningside was extremely busy for me. Besides playing basketball and taking care of Tiffany, I somehow also found time to play on the Lady Monarchs’ volleyball team and compete in track and field, too. I was hoping that those activities would help improve my speed and jumping ability for basketball, but I still cannot believe that I went out for track after the terrible experience I had with that sport back in seventh grade. What was I thinking?
My track coach at Whaley Junior High decided that my long legs were best suited for the 400-meter run, which I believe is the hardest race in the world. In one particular meet, I was running really well. I had the lead with one hundred meters to go, so I kept driving with my legs, pumping my arms, and pushing hard. But I started to tire. My heart was pounding, and my lungs were on fire. I looked straight ahead for the finish line, but I did not see one. I could not find it. The people in the crowd were cheering and yelling, “Come on! Come on! Come on!” As usual, no one from my family was there, but I gave it everything I had just the same. Just for pride. Just for me.
I ran as fast and hard as I could, and then, all of a sudden, I fell down on the track. I just collapsed. I could not believe it. There I was, sprawled in the dirt, all sore and sweaty. I could see my lead disappearing as I lay on the ground. And I could also see a strand of red yarn up ahead of me. It was stretched low across the track. The finish line. It was right in front of me. It was so close, but I could not reach it! I had to get up. I had to finish. I could hear and feel runners breezing by me as I struggled to get to that yarn. My muscles ached, my tracksuit was filthy, and my ego was more than a little bit bruised. But I finished the race. What an ordeal! I knew right then and there that I was finished with running track forever. At least I thought I was.
The track coach at Morningside already knew about me. Coach Ron Tatum had seen me run during basketball season. Coach Tatum kept telling me that running track would improve my physical skills for basketball and also give me more stamina. I knew all that, but I told him, “I do not want to run track.”
Coach Tatum was persistent, though, and, just my luck, he wanted me to run the dreaded 400 meters.