Later in his life, he became a star in Europe, dominating Italian leagues and ushering in the era known as “Sugarmania.” But it was in between those times when things went south for the stalwart player. Famously, Richardson became the first player ever banned for life by the NBA and then-commissioner David Stern. But he is also the first player ever to be reinstated after such a punishment. For years, Richardson jeopardized his career due to a severe drug addiction. And all of that can be read in his new memoir, BANNED, which is out November 26.
Here below, check out an excerpt from that book.
CHAPTER 8: “SUGAR”
Ever since college, people have called me Sugar. It started at the University of Montana and the nickname just stuck. When I first got to school, in one of our early games, I played really well. And since it was common for guys with the middle name Ray to be called “Sugar Ray,” thanks to boxer Sugar Ray Robinson and later Sugar Ray Leonard, people started calling me Sugar, too. In Missoula, everybody thought I was a special athlete—sweet on and off the court —so the nickname became part of me. Today, friends call me Sugar without thinking twice. And I’ve lived up to it, even putting it on car license plates and gear shifts.
In later years, the name stuck because of my connection to drugs. The moniker was something of an ironic one, a commentary on my failures as much as my talent. It’s strange how the two can intertwine at the top. The peak is so close to the fall. People think if you get to the top, it’s easy to stay there. Hell, that’s what I thought! But the hard part is not so much getting there as it is staying. I’d made the league. I was an All-Star. So when I started to do drugs, I thought I could stop it at any time. If I wanted to do something, I simply did it. It would be the same with my recreational habit, right? But I’d finally run up against something that was stronger than even me.
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Human beings consume around 180 million metric tons of sugar a year. The US is the biggest consumer of sugar on the planet, as we take in 11 million metric tons per year. That’s ten times what we should. America is a country of addicts and people looking to get high. As kids, we’re taught candy is our friend. As young adults, we sneak into our parents’ liquor cabinets. Caffeine is another one—the US consumes 146 billion cups of coffee per year! Later in life, we get high on other white powders or consume drugs that make us hungry and want, yes, more sugar. It’s an epidemic. The stuff is everywhere.
Sugar comes from plants. Sugar cane needs warm climates to grow. So, a lot of it comes from places in South America. Historically, that’s also where a lot of the United States’ cocaine comes from, too. Even the world’s most popular soda, Coca-Cola, used to have cocaine in it. Today, an average American consumes around 450 servings of Coca-Cola products per year.
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Everything bad began when I decided to move from New Jersey to the Chelsea neighborhood of New York City during the middle of my third season. When I say things like, Our stories are already written for us, it’s because of things like what happened next. The mover who took my stuff from Jersey into the city was cousins with one of the biggest dope dealers on the East Coast, a guy named Muhammad. And where exactly did Muhammad live? While he came from the West Indies, he now lived on the fourth floor of the building in Chelsea that I was about to move into. I would be a floor below him.
I’d decided to move into Manhattan because I’d gotten sick of the commuting and the city traffic. I wanted to be closer to where I worked, to MSG. Today, I shake my head. What the heck did I do that for! Muhammad’s cousin introduced us. At the time, I didn’t think much of it. I met new people everyday thanks to my profession, and Muhammad was a nice guy, someone who I thought was a friend. “Stop by anytime,” he told me. Some nights, once I got settled in, I’d go up there and play cards or dominos and shoot the breeze. Just passing the time. But the devil had a plan for me.
Then, instead of just playing games, Muhammad started passing cocaine around. That’s when I sniffed it for the very first time. I’d just gotten back from a team road trip and decided to give coke a try just to be social with him and his friends. Like I said, when I first snorted the white powder, it didn’t work on me. I didn’t get high. So I tried it again, not thinking much of it. At Muhammad’s place, he’d have other people over, even other NBA players sometimes. Coke was social, like alcohol. Shit, it was like coffee. But when I tried the stuff for a second and third time a few days later, I got hooked. My brain exploded. Then, a few weeks later, Muhammad brought out the pipe.
In a matter of about a month, I went from sniffing coke to smoking it, which is so much worse. When you smoke cocaine, it’s called freebasing, and it’s more potent. It’s like cocaine on steroids, if you can believe that. But to do it was a process. You had to go out and buy this kit with the right pipe, a lighter, and other accouterments. When he brought it out, Muhammad said, “I want you guys to try something.” In Mike Carey‘s book “Bad News” about former pro basketball player Marvin “Bad News” Barnes, there are a lot of seedy characters mentioned. Well, Muhammad was one of those in my life. He loved to be around NBA players, and he got us hooked on him.
Muhammad was a big Knicks fan, too. So he knew who I was, and he liked me hanging around. But unlike Bad News, who was a hell of a player in his years in the ABA, I was never involved in any of the criminal activity, other than sniffing and smoking. I never hosted parties, sold drugs, or drove it anywhere. My problem was just using it—which is enough of a problem to have! While I wish Muhammad had never passed me the stuff and that his cousin had never introduced us, and while I wish I didn’t move into that building in Chelsea or hire that specific moving company, at the end of the day I take full responsibility for my all of my actions. They were mine, and mine alone.
Since those days, I haven’t seen Muhammad. I don’t even know what I’d say to him if I did today. I’d probably let out a worn-down sigh—if he’s even still alive. I still remember his voice, the look on his face, warm and generous, but flickering. “Just try it,” he said. “It’s not bad. Just try it.” Me, being curious, I did. I liked it. I wanted more and I was naive. But even in those days, in my third year and into my fourth season, I wasn’t yet dependent on the stuff. It wasn’t the most important thing in my life… yet. It was just something fun to do, dipping and dabbing, first on off-days then at home in Denver. Next thing I knew, though, I was in it. Bad.
Deep down, I know that I have a good heart. Even though I got into some rough spots, I’m not a bad guy. You get blinders when you’re an addict. You’re there, looking through your eyes… but at the same time, you’re not all there. Because of that, when I would get high, I wouldn’t want to go out in public. I didn’t want to be in Studio 54, the Cotton Club on 125th, or anywhere in the city when I was using. I already knew I’d be paranoid, so I didn’t need to be around people. On top of that, I didn’t want anyone seeing me all fucked up. Addicts mostly want to be alone.
Later in my career, when I used drugs, I would either go to a hotel by myself, with a girlfriend or with maybe one more person who was using with me. If it wasn’t a hotel, I would just do it in my apartment. In New York, I wasn’t yet a full-blown drug addict. But soon, I would go off a cliff. When you get like that, you lose all sense of yourself. You become a zombie. Your only thoughts are when you’ll be getting high next and for how long. It’s a parasite and you don’t care about anything but pacifying it. That’s what happens when the devil has you.
