In My Skin (23 page)

“Where are you going?” he asked, clearly agitated.

“Phoenix,” I said. “Home to my apartment.” He called on his radio for another patrol car, for a second officer to come watch the traffic, because we were in a dangerous spot. He also kept calling me “buddy” and “pal,” and it was obvious he thought I was a guy. When I was in high school and started dressing the way I wanted, wearing baggy jeans and hoodies, I would often get called “sir” or “buddy” or “dude.” It happened a lot in the drive-through line at fast-food restaurants. The person working the window would see me on the low-res monitor, with my hoodie pulled up, and then I'd hear a voice coming through the speaker: “What can I get for you today, sir?” Back then, I ignored it. I wouldn't correct the person and say, “I'm not a sir.” I would just roll with whatever was happening and place my order. I guess in those days, I didn't think I could have it both ways. I figured if I wanted to dress the way I did, I'd have to put up with people confusing me for a guy. But as I've gotten older, I've learned that some people are just lazy with their assumptions; they glance at your clothes and size you up without paying close enough attention to the person in the clothes. So now I correct people more often—unless I've just been pulled over for going almost twice the speed limit.

The second officer who showed up was much nicer. When he walked up to us, he mentioned right away how tall I am and asked if I was an athlete. I'm not in the habit of volunteering that information unless someone asks, but since he did, I said, “Yes, I play basketball.” At the same time, I was handing over my license to the first officer. He took it, read my name, looked up at me, and said, “Thanks, ma'am,” tapping the card against his wrist as he walked back to his patrol car with the other officer.

When he finally came back, he asked, “Why are you in such a rush?” I obviously wasn't going to explain exactly what was happening.
Well, see, my girlfriend and I went to pick up a mini schnauzer puppy from a breeder, but it turns out my girl is upset we got the dog, so I was just trying to get us home as quickly as possible before she starts crying again.
That didn't seem like a great idea. Meanwhile, Dylan is in the car with Cherelle, and I'm hoping they're bonding.

“Honestly, sir, I just spaced out,” I said. “I wasn't paying attention like I should have been. I made a mistake.”

The second officer had obviously helped him cool down. Eventually, the first guy issued me a ticket, while making sure to add, “I could have taken you to jail for this.” I thanked him and said I would watch my speed. At this point, we had been pulled over for a long time, maybe half an hour. When I climbed back into the truck, I noticed the floor was wet. Turns out, Relle had tried to give Dylan some water by pouring it into the empty orange Tic Tac container that was in the cup holder.

Yep, this whole dog plan was going great so far.

I thought things would be better once we got back to my apartment, but I was wrong again. It wasn't just about Dylan. I had made big plans for Cherelle's birthday and booked a horse-and-carriage event that looked fun. I was even going to ride a horse for the first time in my life, an idea that had always scared me. But after we picked up Dylan, and I picked up a hefty speeding ticket, I still had to get an MRI on my knee, so the doctor could see how my recovery was coming along. Obviously when I had scheduled the MRI, I didn't know everything else would get in the way. I thought Relle would be excited about Dylan. Instead, she couldn't even look at me, and she ended up canceling the carriage ride. So much of our summer already revolved around my WNBA schedule; this was supposed to be her special day, for once, and it managed to become about me again.

A few times over the summer, when Relle was particularly frustrated with me—like she was the day we got Dylan—she threatened to go back to Texas. That was her trump card. And on two occasions, I even booked a flight home for her, not so much to call her bluff, but because I'm not the type of person to try and change someone's mind if she's saying she'd be happier somewhere else. (In the end, Relle told me to cancel both tickets.) Another thing about me: I don't like going to bed knowing my girlfriend is angry at me. The night we got Dylan, Cherelle tried to sleep in the living room, but I couldn't sleep in the bed alone when I knew she was out there stewing on the couch. So I followed her into the living room and curled myself into a ball on the other end of the couch, because at least that way we could still be together. At first she wanted to get up and go back to the bedroom, leaving me there alone, but she knew I would just follow her again. And after a little while, when she saw how uncomfortable I was willing to make myself on that couch, trying to be near her and make things right, she finally gave up being mad at me and we went back to bed together.

It is also quite possible that Relle just wanted a good night's rest, because I was back in the doghouse the next morning when she realized I would be out of town for a week, traveling with the Mercury, and she would have to take care of Dylan, who wasn't potty trained yet. He was just a tiny little thing, and he had no clue about where he should pee and poop. I had intended for Dylan to go to doggy day care when we brought him home, because I wanted people who actually knew what they were doing to start training him. But when I tried to take him to the facility that morning, they asked me if he'd been given all his shots, and of course he hadn't, which meant he couldn't join day care yet. So I put on my own puppy face (I'm told I have a good one), apologized up and down, and asked Relle if she would take care of Dylan while I was gone. She wasn't happy, obviously, but by this point I think she just wanted me out of her sight for a while, because she kept shaking her head and rolling her eyes. And it's not like I had given her any choice in the matter. We said our goodbyes and I was out the door, on my way to meet the team bus at the arena, headed for the airport.

Dylan wasn't my first attempt at adopting a dog. My senior year at Baylor, I went to the local shelter with my roommate, Shanay, and we brought home a pit bull-dachshund mix. He seemed chill, well behaved—for a few days. Then one evening we went out, thinking everything would be fine, but when we got back later the apartment was a disaster area. The dog had chewed through a door, torn up furniture, and peed all over the place. I remember walking through the front door with Shanay, and we were both, like, “Oh, hell no!” So we returned the dog and got a snake instead. We realized we needed something that was contained, because we had so many obligations that took us away from the apartment for long stretches. (And yes, I might be a bit too spontaneous for my own good sometimes.)

Cherelle tried her best to train Dylan, but she had never worked with a puppy before, so she spent most of her time cleaning up after him. She actually taught him to poop in one corner of the patio, but he refused to pee outside. He would only pee inside the apartment. Relle was telling me these stories on the phone, and I just imagined the worst—Dylan peeing everywhere and Relle cursing my name the whole time. I pictured them in that apartment, miserable together. I also pictured having to go through the same thing myself when I got home, because Relle had her own trip planned. She was going to see her family for a few days.

A day after I got back to Phoenix, Cherelle left for Texas, and I quickly realized how hard it was taking care of Dylan. It doesn't help matters when it's 110 degrees outside. I was used to having dogs who stayed outdoors, dogs who had been potty trained by someone else. Working with Dylan was a big surprise, a serious challenge. And I was overwhelmed by it. That week, I had an appointment with the two women who do my hair. They're sisters, and I had met them during the photo shoot I did for
ESPN The Magazine
a couple of months earlier. We were on set for several hours that day, and they did an awesome job with my hair, making it look good in a bunch of different ways, so I started going to them on a regular basis. Now they were working on my hair, and I'm telling them about Dylan, and they're showing me pictures of their dogs. One thing led to another, and we made a plan for their family to adopt Dylan. It seemed like a great way out of a bad situation—definitely better for the dog. Cherelle had been upset when we got him, and I was worried about training him over the next few months. I didn't want us to keep fighting about him.

Before Relle returned from Texas, I gave Dylan to his new family. I thought everyone would be happier this way: Dylan, Relle, and me. And once again, I was wrong. I had made the decision on my own, without talking to Cherelle about it, partly because I figured she would be happy to come home and not have to deal with his mess again, but also because I felt like getting him had been a mistake, and I wanted to fix that mistake as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, I had also miscalculated Relle's attachment to Dylan.

“BG, where's Dylan?” Cherelle had just walked into the apartment, and she was looking around for the puppy.

“I found a new home for him,” I said. “I gave him to a good family.”

Her face fell. “You did what?”

I started to explain, but she put her hand up and said, “That's a house decision, BG. You can't just make a decision that affects the house without consulting me. I was looking forward to seeing him.” She stared at me, then said it again: “That should have been a house decision.”

The next day, Cherelle drove me to practice. When we pulled into the parking garage attached to the US Airways Center, I hopped out and went inside to get ready, while Relle sat in the car for a few minutes to make some calls. When Diana pulled into the garage, she spotted Relle and went over to say hello.

“How's it going?” Dee asked. “How's my baby Dylan?”

“Well,” Relle told her, “Brittney gave him away while I was gone and didn't tell me.”

“What?” Dee said. “I'm going to kick her ass.”

“Can you slap her for me, too?” (Relle made sure to tell me about that part of the conversation.)

Dee smiled and said, “Yeah, I'm going right now,” then jogged inside.

A few minutes later, Dee found me in the locker room and asked, “Where's Dylan?”

“Uh . . .” I wasn't sure what else to say, but it didn't matter.

“Your girl told me you gave him away!” If you've ever seen Dee jawing at a ref, then you know exactly what expression she had on her face: a wide-eyed, half-smiling look that says,
How could you be so stupid?!

“He just wasn't working!” I said.

“I'm going to kick your ass,” Dee said, shaking her head. “So Messi doesn't have a cousin anymore? They hardly knew each other!”

Needless to say, she didn't let me forget about that boneheaded play any time soon.

I really do want a dog of my own, but now I realize I want to adopt one who's at least a year old, and I'll have his shots done and send him straight to school for training. That's what we did when I was young; the dogs went to Man's Best Friend in Houston. My decision to get Dylan was just too impulsive. I obviously didn't think it through all the way. It felt right in the moment, but I didn't consider how a dog would affect my day-to-day life, and if I was ready for that kind of responsibility.

Technically, I'm an adult. But I'm still learning what that means exactly.

W
hen Russ Pennell took over as interim head coach of the Mercury, my teammates started cracking jokes with one another, saying things like “Hope y'all are ready to go back to college!” Everyone had gotten used to Corey's laid-back style, and now we would be playing for a guy who had spent his career in the college game, coaching men. But while most of my teammates had been in the league for several years, I had played my final college game only five months earlier. I was the baby on the team. So the idea of playing for a college coach—someone who would focus more on drills, on defense, on breaking down every little thing—didn't faze me one bit, even if the rest of them were saying, “Get ready to do defensive slides!”

Turns out, their jokes weren't that far off from reality. And that was a good thing. There was a definite college feel to the way Coach Pennell ran practices. During his very first practice with us (I was injured, so I couldn't play), he stressed that we were going to be playing more defense, better defense. I was happy to hear that. Defense was a huge part of our success at Baylor, so I was eager to see how we would get after it in Phoenix, now that someone was making it a priority for us to shut down other teams, not just outscore them. All jokes aside, we responded well to Coach Pennell. I think part of the reason was because we needed someone who could get the best out of us on both sides of the ball. But the other key was that he came into the situation with an open mind; he was ready to play anyone who showed him something. We had players on the roster who weren't seeing much court time, and they knew if they did the things he was asking, they would get on the floor. All of us wanted to prove ourselves. Nobody took anything for granted. It also helps when your best player is Diana Taurasi. She's the biggest competitor you'll ever meet, and she loves rising to the challenge, so if Dee is out there proving herself, the rest of us are going to fall in line. And if we didn't execute the way Coach Pennell wanted, he refused to look the other way. He would stop the drill, point out the problem, and tell you to fix it, even if he had to keep stopping the drill until everybody got it right. We all quickly realized we couldn't get away with anything sloppy. It was time for more accountability.

About two weeks after Coach Pennell took over, he called me out in the media. We lost to the Seattle Storm, and the two of us had a little chat after the game—and then he told the press exactly what he had told me. “Brittney has got to play better,” he said. “We talked about greatness. We talked about what separates good from great. I think a lot of her adjustments are really what we go through from college to adulthood. All of a sudden, you have a job and you are expected to do your job well.” I think some people assumed I would be annoyed by his words. It was the opposite, actually. He spoke the truth. I spent much of my WNBA rookie season letting somebody else take charge. We'd be on offense, and I would tell myself,
Dee will get that shot,
or I'd assume that Candice Dupree would make something happen, because she usually does. (“Pree” is so steady and smooth. She doesn't get the big spotlight, but she's automatic for 15 points a game.) I was settling way too much. And Coach Pennell called me out on it, which is what Coach Mulkey would do if I wasn't executing the way I should. I needed someone to say it out loud, and even to the media, so I could stop denying the reality of how I was playing.