A lot is written and said in the days following any celebrity’s death. People seem to come out of the woodwork to claim noticing eerie signs of the person’s impending demise while they were still alive or some remote genetic link to the famous person. The death of football legend Junior Seau will be no different. So, I’m going to come out of the woodwork now. There are two differences: 1.) My account will be the truth as I remember it. 2.) I regret not having written this post while he was still alive.

It was January of 2000 and Atlanta was hosting Super Bowl XXXIV between the St. Louis Rams and the Tennessee Titans. I didn’t have tickets nor did I care about the game. I had played some college hoops so college basketball was my primary sports interest.  Besides, I had moved from Georgia to Cincinnati. The game was off my radar until I received a phone call that one of my all time favorite basketball stars was throwing a private party for NBA and NFL players at the Hard Rock cafe. He was looking for models to attend the event and I could have an invitation, if I was interested. Even a free stay at the “model’s apartment” was offered. Now, those of you who know me personally, know this was a favor of the highest order. I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, a model. Yes, I’m tall. Yes, I own velcro rollers. That is where the similarities end. Nonetheless, I said yes and the next few days were a blur of scheduling time off, buying a suitable outfit (no, I didn’t wear jeans and a t-shirt) and spending a huge chunk of savings on a last minute airline ticket.

It never dawned on me that I may be the only non-model female at the party. Even when I arrived at the apartment where 5 gorgeous teenagers were staying, I was oblivious. In my mind, I imagined meeting “the guys” (see basketball greats) and they would be just like the guys I hung out with back home…..after all, some of them are professional athletes. We’d have some beers, laugh and bullshit about anything and everything. I pitied the models. In my mind, if they didn’t know about sports, they would be no more useful at this party than a potted plant. Looking back, I realize I was an idiot. And people wonder why I didn’t get married until later in life.

There I was, a misguided 39-year-old former basketball player who had grown up with only brothers and had mostly guy friends at a party that was fun and anything but what I had pictured.  As you might imagine, the party was incredible. No cameras, autographs and any cell phones were checked at the door. Open bar. Unlimited food. Women so beautiful, even I stared at them. And it was ON. The dancing was a fevered, sweaty mosh pit of egos and fake tits. Needless to say, I stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. Leaving wasn’t an option after the huge favor I’d been granted and the trouble I’d gone to to get here. I wandered aimlessly and self-consciously, looking for a place to fade into and not be seen.

Soon I was standing near Charles Barkley, who was kind enough to expand his circle to ask if he could get me something to drink on his trip to the bar. Although Sir Charles, the Master of Rebounds, just asked me for a drink order I was determined to be cool. “Bud Light,” I said, as if he were a waiter. Now, looking back, I should’ve noticed that I may have literally been the only girl drinking beer. But, for good or bad, that was me. When he came back, Charles (we’re now on a first name basis….LOL) asked me for details: name, what brought you here, blah, blah, blah. The man wasn’t hitting on me (he’d have to be an idiot in a room full of women who were un-me) but rather he seemed legitimately interested in starting a conversation. “Dude,” I started, “People say you’re an asshole but I have to say, I’ve been here for a while and you’re the only one that bothered to ask my name and offered to get me a drink on your way to the bar. What’s up?” Charles kind of grimaced and said (I won’t try to quote him) that a lot of people believe only the hype and treat him negatively without giving him a chance. And when someone comes at you with negativity, they’re going to get negativity in return. He made a great point, was very down to earth, and absolutely the southern gentleman he was raised to be…..regardless of what I’d heard.

Evander Holyfield was another absolute gentleman in a room full of opportunistic whores. As I passed him I couldn’t help but notice the tight mounds of flesh that separated him from everyone else. By now I had a little buzz and as I walked by the World Boxing Association Heavyweight Champion of the f’ing WORLD, I had to ask. “What’s the deal with the body guards…..you’re Evander Holyfield!” He looked at me, laughed kindly and told me (again, I won’t try to quote him) the men here are just regular guys. They will get drunk and think it will be a great idea to hit me. They’d love to tell their friends that they knocked me down or even got a lick in. These men (his body guards) are here to stop me from hitting them back. Great answer!! And guess what? Another well-raised Alabama man bothered to take the time to ask my name and offer to get me a drink even when there was no benefit to him.

I appreciated the courtesy of both men but I felt awkward among my own gender and moved on pretty quickly to an open spot, a tier above the dance floor. I watched with amazement as beautiful but highly intoxicated women were carried from the bar like sacks of flour. What stood out on the dance floor were women who had beautiful faces and perfect bodies maneuvering for an athlete….any athlete. As a matter of fact, that night, I saw the most beautiful woman I have ever seen (still to this day). She was dressed in a large gauge fish net top that only came to her waist and a thong. I felt bad for her. She seemed to be oblivious of her beauty and relied on garments she didn’t need to draw attention to herself.  But her looks and dress drew the attention she clearly sought.

From my spot above the dance floor, I participated in the best people watching I’d ever seen. Absently, I leaned over to the quiet guy standing nearby and said “I wish some of these women’s mothers were here.” He responded, “I wish some of these guy’s mothers were here.”  I laughed and we started the easy conversation I had imagined before I knew I was out of place. Current events, places we’d visited. He even pointed out my naivete when I mentioned my surprise at a superstar basketball player arriving with a woman other than his well known wife. I like to think we had an easy, good time. We laughed and, without my asking, he made me feel like the best sore thumb in the place. After a while, I felt it wouldn’t be too rude to ask, “So, what’s your name?” “Junior,” he answered. “Well, clearly, you play football (my clue was he had no neck compared the other guys). Where do you play?” “San Diego,” he stated, matter of factly. Which started a whole conversation about how much I love San Diego and all the bars and restaurants we’ve both visited. “So, Junior, do you get to play much?” I asked. Yes, now I know. Although I was an ignoramus, he gave no indication he was aware of my lack of knowledge. “Yeah, I get enough minutes,” he said. We left it at that. We hung out together for several hours, just bullshitting about whatever came up, with no expectations. Only after I got back and spoke to my own pro athlete friends did I learn of my own ignorance and Junior Seau’s modesty and overall class.

I learned a lot on that trip. A model isn’t necessarily a model. An athlete is only a guy or girl who has some game skills. Better yet, like any person, I’m due the respect I give to myself and others.  And best yet, Junior Seau is a class act who needed nothing and nobody to prove the quality of man he was.