What does the inner sanctum of the NBA–the real locker room — really hold? As a coach’s daughter, I always wondered. But the moments that mattered most didn’t happen behind that closed door. They opened on the car ride home.

I wasn’t allowed in the locker room, of course. I was sent to the Wives’ Lounge — a room that despite it’s name wasn’t much of a lounge and certainly wasn’t where the action was. The real stories were being told just a few doors down.

I remember asking my mom, “Why can’t I go in there?”

She gave me a shrug and said, “You don’t want to see a bunch of sweaty old men.“

But I did want to see. Not them–but the reporters, the interviews, the spotlight. I wanted to witness what my dad saw, what they all thought was worth writing about. No one was quoting the Wives’ Lounge — except us kids.

Eventually, when Mom saw that I was bored, she’d say, “You can go out and wait for him to take you home if you’d like.“

So I’d head out and stand across from the locker room with my leg up against the wall, next to the security guards and a few others. I often wondered if they had an urge to know what was going on, too. Even when the door was wide open, you couldn’t really see past the swarm of microphones, cameras, and questions. Dad was at the hub of it all, like the captain of the ship. 

The reporters hammered him with questions. No one could stump him. He never flubbed or stuttered. He always knew just what to say.

When Dad had enough, he’d spot me and say, “My daughter’s here. I have to go.” Then, when they begged for one more question, he’d laugh and shut it down with, “Haven’t you had enough?“

“Come on, Billy,” someone would plead. “We’re just doing our job.“

And then the flip switched, “No comment.“

I’d walk down the tunnel with Dad’s arm around me. Those tunnels swallowed us up — cavernous and cool — and every now and then, we’d catch a glimpse of the now-empty seats.

If we’d won, the workers were animated, cleaning up with a kind of leftover buzz from the game. If we’d lost, they were quieter, paying their respects as they went about their tasks.

We passed the food crews, the smell of popcorn still thick in the air. Sometimes they’d hand dad a clear bag — Santa’s sack style — brimming with popcorn for us to take home. Sometimes, the cart crews driving around in their forklifts were already pulling up the floor to get ready for the ice.

From floorboard to ice.

Security guards along the way would call out, “Good night, Billy.“

It became my own version of Goodnight Moon, saying goodnight to all the hidden corners of the Spectrum.

Outside the wind would wallop us. Even at that late hour, a handful of kids and grownups would still be waiting, asking dad for autographs–until he’d had enough.

“That’s enough,” he’d say. “It’s time to go home.“

We’d both shut our doors. And finally, I had Dad all to myself.

Dad would hand me the final stat sheet, replay the night’s events, and ask what I thought. He’d talk about stats if the story warranted it, sometimes asking me to confirm one (though he always knew it by heart). 

If the game didn’t end well, I’d offer more insight. He’d grow quiet, piecing together the past with this game’s story.

We recreated the game in those car rides home, whether win or lose.

Then Dad quit coaching. The reporters switched topics, writing about him starting a new NBA franchise—in Miami, of all places — while I headed off to UNC-Chapel Hill.

The new franchise would have much to live up to. No one could come close to the Sixers–not in my story.

Years later, at the opening night party for the Miami Heat, I finally had my moment. Not with the Sixers. Not even with the players. I stood in a real NBA locker room, surrounded by tall countertops and state-of-the-art showers. And for once, no one noticed when I lingered.

All I needed was a moment to stand there. And then I came out by the area that was designated for their lockers. It finally made sense why they called it a locker room — there are actual lockers in there. I asked who was supposed to be the up-and-coming star. It was supposedly a guy named Rony Seikaly, so I had my picture taken in front of his locker.

So it really is a place for a bunch of sweaty old men to shower, to dress, but I couldn’t help but imagine all the reporters standing in here. Maybe huddled in the middle of the room.

I could feel the daughter standing outside, waiting for her Dad to come out after the game. She’d wonder what it was like to be here, and I’d come out and say, “Just a bunch of sweaty old men and one heck of a story.“

But when you grow up, and all these moments are behind you, whether you write a letter of complaint or a blog post of musings, the glitz, glamour, entertainment, the reporters, and even basketball itself will take a backseat to those locker room moments you and your Dad created in the car ride home. And one day, far into your future, you’ll cherish them always — in the inner sanctum of your heart.

PS: Want to hear what I wrote to the GM of the Miami Heat after only three games? Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to share it. Love and hugs.