CHAPTER 1

GO GET YOU A GAME

FRIDAY EVENINGMARCH 11, 2011AT HOME IN MIAMI

Yes, it's true—I love the roar of the crowd.

When the fans are with you, their voices come together in a big boomingrush of sound that you can actually feel in your body - almost like a wavethat lifts you and carries you past your own limits.

I love the chants, the stomping of feet, the eruptions of cheers, hoots,and hollers. Besides the fact that I'm lucky to do what I love for my living,I'm blessed every day on the job with the joy of hearing fans and announcerscall my name. Not to mention various nicknames—from "D-Wade" to"Flash" to just "#3."

But as much as I love the music of the crowd when they're with me, noneof that comes close to the thrill of hearing my sons call out my most favoritename of all: "Daddy!" Any time, anywhere, any day.

So, needless to say, on the evening of Friday, March 11, when I open thedoor to greet Tragil and the boys, hearing their chorus of "Daddy! Daddy!"it's enough to bring on another batch of tears.

Zaire bounds in first. No surprise there. But Zion somehow edges hisbrother out and takes a running leap up into my arms for the first hug.Swinging him up on one side of me, I lift up Zaire in my other arm. (Yeah,I'm strong.) Then, spotting Dahveon—nicknamed Dada—shyly standingoff to the side, I gesture for him to come on over to get in on the action.

Group hug!

This is crazy. This is pure happiness.

Tragil, fighting her tears, joins in, along with Gabrielle and some of ourfriends who have been helping out for most of the afternoon, arrangingappointments at schools, shopping for extra clothes and school supplies,measuring for the bunk beds, and making sure the kitchen's stocked with morethan a weekend's worth of kid-friendly food. My mantra all day to everyonehas been that we need to establish a set routine that gives them a sense ofnormalcy and security. Routine, I've learned, is key.

Meanwhile, we're all also trying to be restrained, not wanting the boysto suspect something dramatic is up. That conversation needs to happen.

But not yet.

"Let me look at you three. C'mon now."

We break out of our hug so I can admire each one of the boys, rubbingon their heads, giving each a compliment, and then more hugs. Can't helpmyself. In the parenting school I come from, love and praise arefundamentals. As basic as the air we breathe. Love comes first, second, andlast.

Always.

I start with my nephew Dahveon—whose father hasn't been on thescene regularly in his life. Same age as Zaire, Dada's an old soul, sensitivebut also fun loving. After his mom, my sister Deanna, gave her okay forhim to start traveling with his cousins to visit me, Dada quickly became asteadying force for them. And for me. During the worst challenges of thecustody battle, when my visitations with the boys were so infrequent andmy relationship with Zaire was strained as a result, I'd invite Dada to comefor a visit, too, and he always made Zaire feel more comfortable and able toenjoy the fun.

Dada and I high-five and low-five as I tell him how much I appreciatehis help. So proud of himself, he struts off, then stops to show me one of thelatest dance moves from Chicago.

Zaire, never one to stand still, waits excitedly to confirm that everybody'sgoing to the Heat game the next day. When I assure him that the gameis early enough for the three boys to attend, he does a couple of dancemoves he's learned from Dada to show his pride. Everyone cracks up. Nota shy kid whatsoever, Zaire has that ability to let his spirit lift the spirit ofothers. In fact, before I can say much more, he starts making small talk withthe other adults in the room - like a seasoned conversationalist. He throwsin comments on everything from the latest YouTube music video he's seento traffic on Biscayne Boulevard. And he's hip, too, coming up with his coollittle catchphrases to respond to the adults, saying, "Yeah, yeah, that's whatI'm talkin' 'bout."

"Zaire," I start to laugh, "you don't know nuthin' 'bout that. You just makin'comments like you know." I hug him again, amused. He shrugs,enjoying my admiration, full of his nine-year-old swagger.

I swear, if I could live my childhood over, I wouldn't mind being ZaireWade at his age. He's an all-around cool kid, with a lot of personality,excellent athletic skills, and a real gift of gab, all on top of being veryhandsome. Not that I take the credit. Yeah, I see some Wade in his expressionsand features but he has his mom's eyes and lips. And that outgoing, talkativeside of him is much more like her than me.

Zion got his mom's smarts big-time. But as far as looks go, he's a mini-me.Pictures of me at his age look so much like him we have to check closelyto tell who is who. He scans the room, making sure nobody is standingclose by, and motions me closer to say something. When I lean down tohear, he jumps up again, hugging on my neck, laughing.

"Zion, you are awesome, ya know that?" I say and watch his facelight up.

"I know," he nods.

Like his brother, Zion has major confidence. For someone not even fouryears old, he is smart beyond his years. Sometimes too smart. It's crazyhow well he can converse with adults. Being a Gemini, though, he can be asstandoffish as he can be friendly.

Unlike Zaire, who is Mr. Mayor, holding court wherever he goes, Zionlooks at everyone with a crooked eye. Takes him a while to warm up. Whenhe does, though, he loves you unconditionally. But he's very careful ingeneral, which to me, someone who now most likely has some trust issuesof my own, might be a good thing. In some ways, because the boys wereprevented from seeing me for long periods, Zion and I are just getting toknow each other. We're definitely going to be making up for lost time.One of the many special traits that I admire about Zion is how he is justhis own little person. He doesn't feel the need to be as passionate aboutbasketball—say, like Zaire and Dada, who are both getting into it as players.Especially Zaire. Zion likes getting into the mix but apparently he hashis own dreams. I'm not sure what they are yet, but whatever he throwshimself into in the coming years, I mean—watch out world!When our arriving travelers hear snacks being offered, the three boysdash off together to the kitchen to see what Rich has cooking.

This is when Tragil and I have a chance to talk and hug again in reliefand joy. A few people close to us understand the hell of these last severalyears but she is perhaps the only person who has been there at almostevery step of my journey. Right now, Tragil knows that I have my ownprocess for making decisions and that I'm intensely thinking through howto talk to the boys about the custody news. She also knows that part ofthat process, painful as it is, involves reflecting on the past and our ownchildhood.

My sister has always said that one of her jobs in the family has been toremember everything that's happened along the way. "So I can remind youin case you forget" is what she says.

Not that I've forgotten anything. It's just that up until now, I've had toblock a lot of it out.

But no more. If I want to be the Daddy I promised myself as a child thatI was going to be, it's time to go back there and do the remembering myself.

Whenever I go hunt for memories from childhood, themost vivid recollections that come to mind are of my grandma andme sitting out on the stoop of our...