In Africa we had
to be creative to get high. A lot of people there could barely speak our
language. But we got to know a guy on another team who told us, "I can get
you the ganja you want. Whatever you want, okay?"
I traded this guy
an Izod jacket for a pound of marijuana. I've never really been one to run
around with alligators on my clothes, but this jacket had been an exception. It
was the red pullover windbreaker—acceptable Izod wear. Especially since I could
get so much pot for it.
And so there I
was in Africa, promoting international relations, scheming for a pound of
marijuana, once again not thinking of the danger. That never went through my
I brought the pot
back to my room, where some of us got high. We wanted to get rid of it before
we had to go back to the States, so we would sit in the room and have giant
smokeouts. One day, when we had about half our stash left, we heard a knock at
the door. The pot was on a big plate, so I covered it before the door opened.
In came Carmine Calzonetti, the trip administrator and then an assistant to the
director of athletics at St. John's.
He saw a little
bit of pot that had spilled on the floor and soon found the rest of it.
"What are you doing with this?" he said. "I don't believe you
guys." We were snagged.
I was thinking,
"I'm busted. He's going to tell Coach Carnesecca." But I don't think he
told him. Once again, off the hook. "I just want to see this stuff out of
here," Carmine said. "You better get rid of it."
We didn't get rid
of it. We found a new hiding place. The big joke was, "Yeah, we'll get rid
of it. We'll smoke it up."
A few of us were
high before a couple of games, but it didn't seem to matter. We went undefeated
down there. We couldn't finish all the pot. We didn't want to waste good weed,
so we decided to conceal what we had and carry it on the plane back. Two of us
hid pot in our underwear and shoved it down our pants. Another hid some in a
As we approached
customs I was getting scared. There were guys with machine guns at the door. I
turned away, reached in my pants and threw the pot away. As soon as the other
guys got to the door, the guy at customs said, "These are the U.S.
all-stars. Let them pass. No check."
I had thrown away
perfectly good weed. The others who hid it had theirs, and we made it home
safely. I stayed in the city with one of the all-stars for a few days, and we
got coked up all the time.