Chantelle Anderson’s night with Ganja, Guns, and God

What do athletes do when they are injured?  How do they spend their nights?  How do they handle not being able to compete for a few days, weeks, or possibly months?  The WNBA's Chantelle Anderson copes with marijuana, guns and empty promises to God.

In her latest blog post, "Injuries, Weed, and God",  Chantelle promotes a book that she is writing by giving us an except of a particularly trying time in her young career.  She may not be exaggerating when she says it may be "possibly the realest, most straight-forward picture of life and sports you've ever read."

“Hey Royce. It’s Chantelle. I need some weed.” It was the first non-business related call I had made since arriving in San Antonio two days before. Royce was one of those guys that I had kind of liked when I first got to San An, until I figured out he was just trying to hit. These days we were cool, and I knew I could call him for info. on the club scene or, as in this case, to get high. And that’s exactly what I needed: something to take me somewhere else for a moment, away from this enigma that was my life. A Harry Potter movie just wasn’t gonna cut it this time.

Harry Potter...Weed...Harry Potter...Weed.  It's a decision we've all struggled with at times.  A movie suitable for children based off of a best selling book series, or a substance that could help throw away a career in professional sports where I make crazy awesome WNBA money.  It's probably safe to assume that Chantelle knows that weed helps her "escape" and this wouldn't be her first time, which she confirms a bit later.

The last time I had smoked was at a party in Sac almost three years before. Shortly afterwards, on our next road trip to Phoenix, the league had surprised us with a drug test as soon as we got to the gym for practice. I immediately began to visualize the meeting with my coach telling me I was off the team for violating the league’s anti-drug policy, and the subsequent phone call to my Dad as I informed him I no longer had a job. I had been so scared I was going to fail that I offered up a prayer in which I traded a clean test for a promise to God that I would never smoke again. Well, I passed, and I hadn’t smoked since. In my current situation however, I figured God would understand.

Oh yeah.  God understands that because you have a bummed achilles you can break a promise you made.  That was assumed when you made the original begging prayer.  Most every time you make a promise to God there is a clause to get out of it.  In this case Chantelle used the traditional "injury clause".  Other implied clauses include the "sadness clause",  the "tough times" clause and everyone's favorite, "I had my fingers crossed" clause.

Almost immediately I noticed a gun sitting on the opposite corner of the coffee table in such an obvious location it made me wonder how I hadn’t seen it there before. Sherman saw me looking at it and asked if I had ever seen a gun in real life before. I said “No”. He picked it up and held it out to me, and I took it.

I examined it, tenderly caressing the matte black steel that was kind of pretty in a macabre sort of way. Then I pressed it against my temple; it was cold. Cold and unfeeling. I pressed harder.

Great!!  We have a high, depressed, WNBA player with a gun (which she has never seen before) pressed hard to her temple.  Does this girl know how to party or what?!?!

How can you end such a great night of guns, pot, and broken promises?  With half a bottle of vodka, crying, and begging for help from God (with your fingers crossed) of course!

I went to the freezer and stood in the middle of the kitchen as I downed half a bottles worth of vodka shots. Then, like that cold gust of wind when you first step out of the front door in January, it hit me, and I started to cry; that agonizingly silent cry purging itself from so deep down in my soul that the sound got lost on the way up. In fact the only evidence I was actually crying were the tears that found themselves dripping off the edge of my jaw, and the somewhat irregular breathing as I embraced myself and curled up on the living room floor. I don’t know how long I laid there, but the last thing I remember before passing out was pleading with God, “Lord, please help me.”

I can't wait for this book to come out!!

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