When I was still a player, people asked me if I had considered becoming a coach. I told them to forget about it.
I couldn’t imagine playing the role of a coach, and I really wasn’t interested in it.
First, I didn’t want to wear a suit; secondly, I couldn’t just take off the suit and play if things went wrong.
When I retired in 1991, I said the same thing, but teams still called me, asking me to consider working for them.
At that time, I hadn’t yet undergone spinal fusion surgery, and even if I wanted to work, my body couldn’t handle it.
I was still in a lot of pain, couldn’t even walk, let alone stand by the sidelines to coach, and flying was a torment for me.
Besides, I just wanted to take a break and be with my family.
For the past decade or so, I had been flying all over the All-America.
When I retired, I promised my wife that I would take a break and spend time watching our son Conner grow up.
I enjoyed spending time with him, teaching him how to swim, fish, and, of course, play ball.
Our family quickly welcomed a new member, our daughter Maria.
Later, I came back for the 1992 Olympics, becoming a member of the Dream Team, which was something I couldn’t resist.
As for coaching, I still wasn’t interested.
I can’t tell you exactly when I changed my mind.
Maybe it was the tragedy in Portland in 1993 that moved me, or perhaps the 1994 Simpson case changed some of my thoughts.
Or it might have been the movie "The Story of Ah Gan" that made me want to reintegrate into the rolling tides of history.
But the more direct reason might be—I was living in Naples, Florida.
It was one of the best places to live in the world, yet there was very little to do there.
While the world was experiencing dramatic changes, I became idle.
At first, I really enjoyed being there, where people recognized me but wouldn’t ask for my autograph.
They were content just waving to greet me; it was a peaceful and tranquil time.
In Naples, I wandered around without worrying about a large crowd following me, and that felt great.
I was never used to people recognizing me and making a fuss, which could turn you into a prisoner confined by your fame.
In Boston, no matter where I went, I was recognized. The Celtics fans were very passionate, but because of that, I couldn’t go to a movie or shopping at 7 o’clock.
I didn’t mind people asking for autographs or photos, but being surrounded by a crowd felt uncomfortable, making me anxious and eager to leave.
After retiring in Naples, I spent my time quite freely, able to play golf as I wished.
After awhile, I got tired of golf and started fishing.
Then, I got tired of fishing and began to feel very bored.
So I spent more time with my kids and wife, taking them out, making up for what I had missed in the past.
But I felt something was missing in my life. As an athlete, I was getting older, but as a person, I was still young.
I couldn’t and shouldn’t stop working. One thing I became more certain of was that I couldn’t spend the next twenty or thirty years doing nothing.
I wasn’t short of money; what I needed was some sort of challenge, which was something lacking during my retired years.
Diana knew me very well, and she could tell I was a bit restless.
The best thing about Diana is that she doesn’t care what I do; she will support me.
She’s willing to try new things and go anywhere.
If I told her tonight that we needed to pack up and go to Los Angeles, she would say, "Really? Great!"
Although we settled in Naples, we also have houses in Indiana and Boston, where we’ve lived.
None of these places felt like our real home. For me, perhaps only a residence, the real home is where you feel a sense of belonging with certain people and your career.
I have the people now; I need a career, especially as my son Conner and daughter Maria grow up. They’re starting to hear things about me, knowing I was a professional basketball player in the past.
Conner is very curious about this and would ask me, "Were you really good?" or "Did you train and play often in the past?"
(Both questions received affirmative answers.)
One day, Conner came home and asked if I knew Ah Gan.
If I did, could I have him come over to our house; Conner wanted to meet him.
I told Conner that he had already met Ah Gan when he was younger in Barcelona.
At that time, Ah Gan and the Dream Team members were staying in the same hotel, right next to Barkley’s room.
He even played with Ah Gan’s son, Stockton’s son, and other kids there.
Conner was satisfied with this answer and didn’t mention Ah Gan much again for a while.
Another day, after school, Conner came home and asked me, "Dad, what do you do for a living?"
I didn’t know how to answer him; it was 1996, and I was supposed to be doing some consulting work for the Celtics.
But I hadn’t done much for them, and I knew I wanted to leave there.
It was then that I realized it might be time to go back to work.
I didn’t want my kids to grow up thinking their dad only played golf all day.
By the time that happened, at least three different teams had offered me head coaching positions.
Two of these teams asked me to keep our conversations confidential, and since I agreed, I can’t reveal their names.
What I can tell you is that the Trail Blazers began talks with me in 1993, the year they suffered a terrible tragedy.