Also, he gives details about the infamous situation with the driver, which is turns out was a pure money grab. Totally crazy.
This dude got thrust into the limelight with no support, got chewed up and spit out by everyone from the League to his own family - except for his wife.
People got jokes.
Everyone, it seems like.
Jokes for days.
When the topic is Eddy Curry, the jokes just come easy. It’s been that way for more than a decade. And even after all these years that I’ve been out of the league, when my name comes up online or on social media or whatever, somehow a bunch of people … still got jokes.
It’s like … Eddy Curry?
Do you remember how fat that guy was? OMG OMG LOLOLOL.
How do you play in the NBA and get your house foreclosed on, bro? Like, wow. Come on, son. Hahaha.
I heard that dude actually tried to have sex with the guy who was his personal driver. LOLOLOL. WTF, bro? Dude had issues.
And then basically everyone just LOLs together online and has a good time at my expense.
Hahahaha. LOL, bro. HAHAHA. Fat-ass, broke-ass Eddy Curry. HAHAHAHAHAHA. What a joke!
I’m 37 now, a grown-ass man. So I can take it. People can say whatever they want. I’ll live.
But at the same time … you know what? People really do need to know something.
People need to realize that….
Not everything is a joke, bro.
The crying-laughing emoji doesn’t apply to literally everything in the universe. Not everything is hilarious.
I mean, you know what isn’t funny? Here you go … here’s something that isn’t funny.
January 24, 2009. I’m with the Knicks. On the road in Philly, middle of the game. I’m sitting on the bench in street clothes when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Yo, Eddy! They need you in the back. You gotta go to the trainer’s room.”
I figure it’s something to do with why I wasn’t playing, but when I get back there one of my friends with the Knicks comes up to me legit crying — like his eyes are all red and there are tears on his face. I have no idea what’s up. He just tells me to call my assistant but won’t say anything more.
So I grab my phone and dial.
When my guy picks up, I ask what’s going on, and there’s about a one- or two-second pause. Then it’s….
“Bro, Nova is dead, bro. They killed her.”
You hear words like that and … I’m telling you … it’s the furthest thing from funny.
“I’m here on the scene now. There’s blood everywhere, bro. I think the baby may be dead, too.”
That sh*t right there, yeah … that sh*t is not funny.
A lot of people don’t know about Nova.
I saw her on and off for a few years while I was with the Knicks. We had two kids together.
On the day Nova was murdered — shot down in cold blood back home in Chicago — one of the many people who didn’t know about her was my wife, Patrice.
Patrice also didn’t know about the children I’d had with Nova — my 10-month-old daughter, Ava, and her three-year-old brother, Noah.
I kept it a secret. All of it. For years.
So as I’m on the phone learning that my infant daughter and her mother had just been murdered … I’m also coming to grips with the fact that my marriage of nearly four years would almost certainly be over.
There would be no more covering anything up.
All I really felt like I could do at that point was cry.
I just stood there bawling my eyes out about … everything.
Then, in about 10 or 15 seconds, stuff started happening a mile a minute — phone ringing off the hook, information overload, funeral plans, and on and on.
Before I knew it, I was on a plane flying back to New York, and even just within those few hours more and more details became clear. I found out that my son Noah was right there when his mother and sister were shot. But he was so little that he didn’t really understand what had happened. He’d tried to wake up his mom after the shooting, so when the officers went in and found him there, he had blood all over him. He actually laid down next to her and had fallen asleep.
Noah hadn’t been able to wake up his mom or his sister, and probably thought they were sleeping, so he went to sleep, too.