Caron Butler RumorsAll NBA Players
Height: 6-7 / 2.01
Weight:216 lbs. / 98.4 kg.
Height: 6-7 / 2.01
Weight:216 lbs. / 98.4 kg.
On Thursday evening, Arenas differed with Butler’s story in an Instagram post which he later deleted. Here’s the caption to what he posted: i respect@caronbutler book and got my copy but the #Gunsinthelocker story is FALSE in his book…..butler and i were sleep#javale #crit #boykins [JaVale McGee, Javaris Crittenton, Earl Boykins] were playing cards by time i woke up #crit was ballsdeep in losing so i decided to join the game…so#crit got #Booed which means he didnt get one book #spades so he had to match the pot which was 1100 but 800$ was his so he just lost 800$ and the pot now is at 1400$ and 1100$ of it is his….#javale won the first 1100$ pot so he scooped the money….#boykin asked javale “can i get my 200$ now since u have money”javale said after we land i dont wanna jinx myself….#crit spazz(give that nigga his money,u just won my money pay that nigga)so i jumped in, damn dog thats between them two niggas” he turned too me and said fuck u nigga”i said shit u owe me 200$ i think u owe #caron 300$ but we aint says shit…he pops off again”oh fuck nigga u would try to money talk somebody”so now its my deal…so earl said im out..javale said i dont need no cards……
Had you and Jamison talked about how to handle Arenas before the gun incident? Caron Butler: “It was just kind of something we knew. It was like, ‘Go talk to him.’ [Or] ‘I didn’t talk to him, you talk to him.’ It was just one of those things. But I will say this: whenever you talked to a guy like Gilbert, he always listened. He respected our voices, Antawn and myself. He always listened. And the other guys always listened to us, as well. And just on that particular incident that day, it went too far.”
On the flight home the next night after we lost at Phoenix, Gilbert, teammate Javaris Crittenton, and several other players were in a card game that got real heated. While Gilbert was a dominating presence on the team, Javaris didn’t roll with some of his ways. The players were in seats facing each other with a pull-out table between them. I was in the seat next to them half asleep as we began our descent into DC. My eyes popped open when I heard Javaris say, “Put the money back. Put the [expletive] money back.” “I ain’t putting [expletive] back,” Gilbert replied. “Get it the way Tyson got the title. Might or fight or whatever you got to do to get your money back. Otherwise, you ain’t gettin’ it.” When Gilbert put the money in his pocket, Javaris lunged over the table to grab him. Antawn Jamison, seated across the aisle, leaped up, shoved Javaris’s shoulder down on the table, and held it there with the full weight of his body while telling him to calm down. I got up and yelled “Hey, everybody shut the [expletive] up. How much was in the pot?” It was $1,100. “It shouldn’t be that hard to pay what you owe him,” I told Gilbert. “We all make a great living, so just pay the money.” A man who has a $111 million contract shouldn’t be fighting over $1,100.
When I entered the locker room, I thought I had somehow been transported back to my days on the streets of Racine. Gilbert was standing in front of his two locker stalls, the ones previously used by Michael Jordan, with four guns on display. Javaris was standing in front of his own stall, his back to Gilbert. “Hey, MF, come pick one,” Gilbert told Javaris while pointing to the weapons. “I’m going to shoot your [expletive] with one of these.” “Oh no, you don’t need to shoot me with one of those,” said Javaris, turning around slowly like a gunslinger in the Old West. “I’ve got one right here.” He pulled out his own gun, already loaded, cocked it, and pointed it at Gilbert. Other players who had been casually arriving, laughing and joking with each other, came to a sudden halt, their eyes bugging out. It took them only a few seconds to realize this was for real, a shootaround of a whole different nature. They all looked at each other and then they ran, the last man out locking the door behind him. I didn’t panic because I’d been through far worse, heard gunshots more times than I could count, and seen it all before. This would have been just another day on the south side.
The story of Racine native Caron Butler’s extraordinary life is vividly captured in his new book “Tuff Juice: My Journey from the Streets to the NBA.’’ Butler describes in detail how he rerouted his life from being a gun-toting, drug-dealing 12-year-old to becoming a highly respected, contributing citizen. While Butler touches on some of his most memorable moments as a star basketball player in his autobiography, like when he was the 10th pick in the 2002 NBA draft, and reflects on some of the sports icons he has encountered over the years, such as former Los Angeles Lakers teammate Kobe Bryant, it’s his compelling stories about growing up on the streets of Racine that make “Tuff Juice: My Journey from the Streets to the NBA,” written with Steve Springer, hard to put down. Butler’s book, which goes on sale to the public Oct. 7, is laced with poignant stories, some that make you shudder in disbelief, some that clearly illustrate the stark contrasts in our society between the haves and have-nots.
Needless to say, it was a big change going from selling drugs to flipping Whoppers. The day I was arrested at school, I had $1,200 cash on me. Suddenly I was making minimum wage and wouldn’t come close to seeing that kind of money after a month’s worth of mopping floors and working the grill. Caron Butler: It took time to adjust to this new lifestyle. I saw guys rolling around in new cars, having new clothes, new Jordans — reminders of all the things I couldn’t afford. Old “friends” would come in and make fun of me because of my uniform. But I knew I couldn’t go back to jail — no matter how tempting the lure of quick money was. At Bray Community Center in Racine, where I first started playing organized basketball, there’s a photo of 21 black men, many of whom I used to run with. All were under the age of 25, and now they are all dead. I knew I had to turn my life around.
It’s been 20 years since I spent two weeks alone in that 10-by-12-foot cell, but I remember it like it was yesterday. My mother and I reflect on our times of adversity all the time. To recognize the delta between where we are now and where we once were — it’s surreal and it’s a blessing. Now I speak about my journey to younger generations who are at-risk because I was them. I didn’t have an easy, structured upbringing and then suddenly became an NBA All-Star and champion. I’ve spent time in jail. I lived in a neighborhood infested with drugs and gang culture. I grew up seeing people get stabbed and shot. Despite all of that, by the grace of God, hard work and the devotion of my mother, I’m in the position that I’m in today. Younger generations need to see a real, tangible example of making it.