Volprofch05
Educating and celebrating the Vols
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Long story about Zakai in the athletic; life, recruitment, the fire, the house, etc.
When 'the DNA' of Tennessee's program lost his NYC home, a community rallied
Some excerpts:
When 'the DNA' of Tennessee's program lost his NYC home, a community rallied
Some excerpts:
Not long after, Zakai was on the familiar A train when his phone rang. Rick Barnes introduced himself and said Tennessee was very interested in bringing Zakai to campus. Barnes told him about his program, his own history, some of the great point guards he coached. “I’m gonna be honest, I had no idea who he was,” Zakai laughs. A few phone calls and he learned more about Barnes – his ears especially pricked up when he learned he coached Kevin Durant – and agreed to a visit. By the time he left, he decided to commit to Tennessee.
The fit made sense. Barnes likes defense, and Zakai likes to play it. Still, the coach figured he’d redshirt Zakai, banking him for the Vols’ starting point guard after five-star Kennedy Chandler invariably went pro. “After the first week of practice, we were talking about redshirting Kennedy,” Barnes laughs. He is sitting off to the side of Tennessee’s pre-game walkthrough prior to the Maryland game, watching Zakai, the tiniest guy on the court, muscle his way through the big bodies to find an open player or fearlessly defend players in the post who have 6 inches on him. “I just love him,” he says.
By late February, Zakai was a pivotal piece in the Vol machine, a sixth-man spark who was averaging 8.9 points per game. When his mother wept while their house burned, none of that mattered. All Zakai could think was, “This is my fault. If I was there, I could have done something.” He relives that night now, standing in front of the vacant building, explaining how helpless he felt; how guilty. He carried it around like an anvil in his chest for days, going through the motions at practice, and playing horribly in Tennessee’s next game, at Georgia. In the locker room afterward, the player taught by his mother to never let them see you sweat, fell apart. He sobbed, not for what he had lost. “The stuff didn’t matter,’’ he says. “I just couldn’t stop thinking that I should have been there.”
Zakai was then and is now, months later, speechless. He has run into some of the 5,600 people who contributed, and told them all the same thing. “Don’t tell me what you donated,’’ he says. “I don’t care if it was $1 or $1,000, you helped me. That’s all that matters.” He is not so much motivated to play for them – though the 11.1 points, 3.4 assists and 2.4 steals for the No. 8 Vols is well received – but to behave for them. “I don’t want anyone to ever say, ‘Why did I help that kid?” he says. “I want to make them proud.” He says yes to any birthday party appearances requested of him, and stops to grin for one selfie after the next postgame. One of Barnes’ fellow church-goers recently stopped the coach after services, saying how she just so happened to be in Chick-Fil-A when Zakai came in. “She said he made every single person he met feel important,” Barnes says. “That’s just who he is. He’s kind, he’s gentle, tenacious, tough. He’s all of it. And he doesn’t have a selfish bone in his body.”
When the GoFundMe funds kept pouring in, far exceeding the money necessary to get Nori what he needed, Charmane started to think bigger. “I think,’’ she told her son, “we can get a house.’’ They talked about where they’d live. Zakai is still attached to New York, but Charmane wanted out. She had enough of the cold and the crime in their neighborhood, and wanted a fresh start. They talked about Atlanta, where she has family. She tossed out Florida, which he quickly vetoed. Finally, they agreed that the best place would be with the people who restored them. In August, the Zeiglers moved into their home in Knoxville. Standing in the Barclay Center watching her son score 12 in a win against Maryland, Charmane waves to the Tennessee crowd around her. “These people,” she says, dragging her fingertips across her eyes to wipe away the tears, “they saved my life. They saved my family. It feels like a movie. I watch this stuff on TV.”