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.
