Oh boy this never gets easy. Um, you know, before I start I just want to say, I
dedicate this fifteen minutes to a little boy who I met in Chicago. You know over the last
five years I've presented in front of almost a half a million high school kids,
and I try really hard to prevent. And eight weeks ago there was a little girl
in the front row, with a hooded sweatshirt on crying while I was
speaking. After my presentation, I introduced myself to the girl with the
hood and she told me her name was Phoebe. Little Phoebe mentioned to me that she's
never, she hasn't met her dad. So I took little Phoebe in the hallway and
she explained that her father had alcoholism. I gave Phoebe my email and my
cell phone, and I said, "If you ever need me, you contact me". Little Phoebe's fourteen
years old. She came back for the night presentation and she introduced me to
her best friend Ryan. Ryan was a hundred and fifty two days sober at the time and she was so proud
of him. I have up my arm around Ryan on a
picture on Instagram. He posted that I was his recovery hero. I never heard from
Phoebe again, until Mother's Day. On Mother's Day I was sitting in TF Green
Airport, waiting to fly out on a late flight. And Phoebe sent me a text, the
text that Ryan posted on Instagram, but the iPhone was moving still. So I knew
something else was coming. And right underneath it she said, "Mr. Herren, thank
you for all you do. But we found Ryan hanging from a tree in our local park
today". At 15 years old, Ryan lost his battle to mental illness. I feel
personally connected to Ryan, because I wish I could have done more.
Over the last five years, I've shared my story two hundred and fifty times a year. I've spoke in
front of groups like the Patriots, the Bears, the Packers, Harvard, West Point, Yale.
But sometimes the story isn't enough. On June 4th, 2008, you could find me on a
street corner in Fall River, on a day just like this. On June 4th, 2008, I was 32
years old. I was in the fight of my life. I was battling my addiction. At 32 years
old, I was a father of two beautiful children and had a wife who was eight months
pregnant. And on June 4th, 2008, I got a phone call from a kid I went to high
school with, who said, "Chris, if you come down to Fall River, I'm gonna throw you
four bags of heroin for free". So, I jumped in my car, I drove, I parked on a side street, he
threw them through my window. At 32 years old, I shot my heroin. And at 32 years old, I
felt the overdose coming. This will be my fourth, and I said, "There's no way I'm
gonna die on this side street from four bags of heroin".
So I started driving. I don't remember. I was found two miles away crashed into a
cemetery fence—the cemetery that Lizzie Borden was buried in, the cemetery that I
grew up two blocks away from. Twenty minutes later, I woke up in the hospital in
handcuffs, and I was told that I was just brought
back to life. Twenty minutes later I was being discharged by the doctor, the
medical staff, and handed back to law enforcement. As I'm walking out of that
hospital in handcuffs, the police officer said, "Christopher, you've had a tough
enough day. I'm gonna uncuff you and I'm gonna summons you. Promise me you'll
check into a treatment center". I said, "Absolutely".
He took my handcuffs off, he handed me my summons, and at 32 years old in Fall River, of
Massachusetts on a day just like this,
I was walking out of the hospital and I said to myself, "If I'm gonna do one thing
right with my life, I'm gonna walk to my friends house, I'm gonna grab his gun, I'm
gonna stick in my mouth, and I'm gonna blow my head off. Today I will kill
myself. Today I will finally end this nightmare, not for me - for my poor family".
And as I'm walking out of the hospital thinking about suicide,
I hear this nurse yelling my name, asking me to come back. When I turn around, she
was in her 50s, I waved her off, I kept walking, and she
said, "Christopher, please don't wave me off. I went to high school with your
mother".
My mom died at a young age. I said, "Ma'am, no disrespect to you, but please don't
bring up my mom". She said, "No disrespect to you, but your mom is talking to me
right now. She's begging me not to let her little baby leave this hospital. And
please try and get her little boy some help. You were born in this hospital,
Chris. Let me do your mom, my dear friend, a favor".
I turned around, I walked out again. I sat with this nurse and cried my eyes
out at 32 years old, listening to her be rejected by treatment centers all over
New England.
So that nurse made me a bed and kept me for as long as they could. And on day
eight, I was being discharged. And as I'm ready to walk out of treatment, still
going through withdrawal, my phone started ringing. And when I answered it,
it was a woman, a woman by the name of Liz Mullen. Liz Mullen was married to
Chris Mullin, an NBA legend. She said, "I know this story, Chris, and I want to give
you a gift. I just paid for you to go away to a
treatment center in New York. Will you please take it?" At 32 years old, I was out
of gifts. So at 32 years old, I took it. I jumped in a car and I drove to this place
I never heard of in Rhinebeck, New York. When I checked, in they told me for the
first thirty days I could have no contact with my family. On day thirty, nervous and
anxious to make the phone call, I walked into that office to call my kids. As soon
as I walked in they handed me the phone. On the
other line it was my wife. My wife was broken up, she was crying. She said, "I
don't want to get into this right now, Chris, but I'm going into labor today. I'm
all by myself in the hospital. Do you think you can come home for the birth?
I'm scared". When I was pronounced dead on the side of the road, my wife was eight
months pregnant, expecting our third child. I looked at my counselor and I
said, "Can I go home?" He said, "Bad idea". I said, "Sir, not for me. For my wife". That
counselor called me a taxi and four hours later I was in Women's and Infants
Hospital to witness my third child, little Drew come into this world as
a sober dad, my first birth has a sober father. I was so proud of that moment. I
ran into our room, I rocked him, and stared at him for eight hours. Eight
hours into it, a nurse comes in and she said, "There's two little ones coming up
in the elevator. They can't wait to meet their little brother". Little Chris is
nine, Sam seven. They come flying in. Little Chris sits down on the side
of me, he looks up at me and he says, "Dad, do you think I can hold him?" I wrapped
little Drew up tightly and I placed him in his arms. I walked up to my wife, I
gave her a kiss, and I said, "I've been in this room for eight hours. I'm going for
a walk, I'll be right back". I never came back. The moment was too big for me. I
walked out Women's and Infants. I walked up to a liquor store. I bought just a
little vodka. By the time I got back to the hospital, I finished the bottle of
vodka. I called my drug dealer, he picked me up, and I was gone. Just thirty days
earlier, I was pronounced dead on the side of the road. Thirty days later, I'm back
on the streets. The next morning when I walked into Women's and Infants Hospital,
my wife was sitting up in bed crying with the kids. She said, "Chris, I can't
tell you how many times you've broke my heart. But this is the last time I let
you break theirs. I called the police. They're on their way.
If you stay, you're gonna get arrested. I don't want our kids to see you in
handcuffs. Say your goodbye cause you're never coming back". At 32 years old, I got
down on my knee, I looked into my children's eyes, and I said I was sorry.
That was the first sorry that I knew meant nothing to them. At 32 years old, I
turned my back on my family and I walked out of Women's and
Infants Hospital knowing I had failed at everything in life. But at 32 years old, I
own I knew there was only one place that would take me. So I jumped back in the
car and I drove to that treatment center in New York. When I checked in the
counselor who told me it was a bad idea to go home, he said, "Mr. basketball, I just
got off the phone with your wife. I heard about your home visit. Come in my office".
I said, "If you heard about my home visit, I lost my family". He laughed in my face.
He said, 'Lost your family, of course you did, Chris. That's what alcoholism and
addiction does to families. Be in my office at ten o'clock tonight. We're gonna
turn this thing around. At ten o'clock sharp I knocked on his door. He called me
in. As soon as he saw me, he flipped me a cell phone. I caught it. He said, "Now, Mr.
Basketball, you're gonna do the most courageous thing you've ever done in
your life. You're gonna flip that phone open, you're gonna call your wife, and
you're gonna promise her you'll disappear. Tell your wife you'll never
contact her again, Chris, and then tell your wife to tell your three beautiful
children that when their daddy said goodbye in the hospital this morning
that their daddy died in a car accident. From this day forward, we're gonna play
dead for your children, and we're gonna let them live. Because Chris, you know it
and I know it, you're 32 years old. You're a no-good scumbag, junkie who has no
business being a father. That broke me and I started crying.
I said, "Sir, I've been calling myself that for ten years. I know who I am, and I
I know I have no business being a dad. But it's too late to call the hospital.
I'll be back in your office at 7:00 a.m. I will play that for my kids".
I walked out of his office on what seemed to be the worst night of my life.
I walked back to my room in that treatment center and amongst twelve men I
walked up to the edge of my bed, I dropped to my knees, and I started
praying. That day was August 1st, 2008. By the grace of God and one day at a time in
my life, August 1st, 2008 is my sobriety date. I thank God every day for that man's
words. I thank God every day for the bad days. The bad days are just part of the
journey. And I wouldn't be who I am today if I didn't experience them. Over the last
five years doing this, I wanted to be unique and different. I wanted to tell my story,
but I didn't want to preach to kids. And I thank God every day early on that I
learned the lesson. When I walked into a high school in Rhode Island and in the
front row with these four little beautiful kids and purple t-shirts.
During my presentation, I wondered who these four little kids were in purple
t-shirts. At the end of the presentation I got an answer. Because at the end of
the presentation, this little girl in a purple t-shirt, she raised her hand. When
I called on her, she stood up. When she stood up, she said, "Mr. Herren, I want to thank
you from the bottom I heart, coming to my high school and validating what me and
my four friends have done here". I said, "What have you done?" She said, "Believe it
or not, Mr. Herren, but we're the sober students in this high school. We made a
decision, four years ago when we walked in together, that we'd protect each other,
and we would never, ever let each other do drugs or alcohol, and we've kept it
and we're proud of it". When that little girl said sober student I
was so proud, I was walking up to high-five and hug her. As I'm about to
hug her, her whole school started laughing. I looked at the kids laughing
and I said, "Shame on you". I looked back at the little girl, who was now sitting in
her seat crying, her shining moment had crumbled. And at 35 years old, my whole
approach changed to this. At 35 years old, a little light went off, because at 35
years old the only words that could come out of my mouth, that day for that little
girl
was, "I wish". I wish I never had to change myself. I wish some Fridays and Saturday
nights I liked who I was. I wish when I was a teenager, being me was enough. I
wish I could hang out in my friends basement, and just be happy with who I
was. I wasn't, and I knew it. I looked at that little girl and I said, "I remember
like it was yesterday". I remember drinking in those basements
as a kid where parents told us we were safe. And I remember at the end of the
night, as I was worried about curfew, at the end the night I would always look
across the room and see my friends in high school that never drank and that
never smoked. They got made fun of, laughed at, and peer
pressured. But at the end of the night, as I was throwing Visine in my eyes, gum in
my mouth, washing my hands, so I could get past my mom, I would look across the room
and I would say to myself, "We can laugh at and make fun of them, and peer pressure them,
but the reality is - those kids have something we're missing. There's
something special inside those kids, that I don't have. They're happy with who they
are. I'm not. They can go out every Friday and
Saturday night and not change. I can't". And because of that one little girls
courage, we started Project Purple. Project Purple is our educational arm
to the Herren Project. This year, we had a half a million kids involved. We want to
be different, unique, and talk about the first day instead of the last day. You
know, it's not easy doing what I do. Two hundred and fifty times a year, I have this thing ripped
like I'm gonna drop it, because I know how much it matters. I know the power of
sharing a story; I know the difference it can make.
I had no idea, five years ago when I began,
that I would find my greatest strength in my struggle. That I could make a
difference in people's lives, and the pain and suffering that I endured was
gonna be okay. One woman, Liz Mullen, one nurse, Diane Reid, and one
little girl in a purple t-shirt has changed my life forever. It's an honor to
to do this. It's a responsibility I don't take lightly. I walked in here today and
I said, "What am I gonna do?" And then I met seven beautiful kids, who were living
just like I'm living - one day at a time. Thank you all for coming. It was an honor.
God bless.