…Joe Mazzulla: “When I first met Camai Roberson, I’ll be honest—I didn’t think too much of it. She wasn’t what I expected, not at all. At that time in my life, everything revolved around NBA—NBA was taking shape, and I was consumed by the Game, the Sports, the road ahead. Romance? It wasn’t on my radar. But—Camai Roberson—she walked into my life like a different kind of melody. Not loud, not flamboyant, just real… I was used to the chaos of the Sports, the wild nights, the constant movement. And she was steady—firm, thoughtful, sincere. At first, I didn’t know what to… make of it. In the fast-paced world I lived in, people rarely slowed down long enough to leave a real impression. Most of my interactions were transactional—conversations with agents, coaches, trainers, executives, and reporters. Everything had a purpose. Everything was directed at progress, at performance, at winning. But she didn’t want anything from me. She didn’t ask about basketball. She wasn’t interested in who I had coached or what roster moves I was contemplating. Instead, she asked me about me—not the coach, not the public figure, but the man underneath it all. And it threw me off.
I remember the first time we talked for more than five minutes—it was in a coffee shop, of all places. I had just come out of a long film session. My mind was fried. I was running on four hours of sleep and three cups of espresso. I barely noticed her at first. She was sitting in the corner, reading something—I couldn’t tell what. I remember she had this calm about her. A stillness. In a room full of noise and rushing people, she was just there, and that alone made her stand out. I don’t know what made me speak to her. Maybe it was the way she looked up and smiled when the barista handed her a drink. Maybe I just needed something—someone—outside of the grind.
When we started talking, it was supposed to be for five minutes. That turned into an hour. Then two. I missed a call from an assistant coach. Ignored a text from a scout. That never happened. But something about her made the rest of the world quiet down. She talked about art, and her community work, and books I had never read. She spoke with conviction, with grace. There was a strength in her words. Not aggressive, not performative, but rooted in something deep. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d listened that intently to anyone.
I found myself wanting to see her again, which confused me. For years, I had shut that part of myself off. Not deliberately, maybe, but it happened. Coaching consumed me. It was the way I coped with things. The losses, the pressure, the expectations—it was easier to bury myself in it than face the personal stuff I never wanted to deal with. Camai didn’t demand anything from me. She didn’t try to fix me, either. She just was. And in that presence, I found a kind of clarity I didn’t know I was missing.
There was a moment, not long after we started seeing each other more regularly, that sticks with me. It was late—well past midnight. I had just gotten back from a road game. I was tired, agitated, running through the mental list of everything we could’ve done better. She was at my apartment, reading again. She looked up when I walked in, didn’t say anything at first. Just watched me pace around. I finally sat down, rubbing my face with my hands, and muttered something like, “I don’t even know if I’m cut out for this.” And she just looked at me and said, “You’re allowed to be tired. It doesn’t make you weak.”
I don’t think anyone had ever said that to me before.
People assume that because you’re in the NBA—because you’re coaching at the highest level—you have it all figured out. But we don’t. We carry weight most people never see. Decisions that affect careers, families, futures. You’re judged by the outcome of games, by every substitution, every timeout, every speech. It’s exhausting. Camai never tried to compete with that world. She just carved out a space where I could exist outside of it. That’s something you don’t come across often.
The funny thing is, she never fully understood why people cared so much about the NBA. She’d come to games occasionally, sure—but she wasn’t in it for the courtside glamour. She’d ask me questions after a win or a loss, but they were always more personal than strategic. “How did you feel out there tonight?” “Did you trust your instincts?” “Are you proud of what you built today, regardless of the scoreboard?” That’s how she viewed success—through intention, not outcome.
I’ve had a lot of moments in my life where the stakes were high—conference finals, high-pressure media days, tense locker rooms. But telling Camai how I really felt about her? That was scarier than all of them. I think part of me worried that someone like her wouldn’t want to stay tethered to a world as demanding and unpredictable as mine. But she looked me in the eye and said, “I don’t want the version of you that you think you have to be. I want the version you are when you’re not performing.”
That stayed with me. Still does.
Over time, she became a kind of anchor in my life. Not in a way that held me back—but in a way that kept me from drifting. You need that in this business. You need someone who doesn’t get swept up in the noise. I could be on a seven-game losing streak and she’d still remind me to rest. I could be getting praised by media left and right, and she’d ask me if I was still journaling like I said I would. She didn’t treat me like a headline. She treated me like a human being.
People often ask me, especially lately, how I keep my composure during games, how I stay locked in during the chaos. They ask where that calm comes from. Truth is, some of it I learned through the years—from mentors, from film, from failure. But a lot of it? I learned from her. From how she breathes before she speaks. From how she waits to understand before she reacts. From how she handles conflict with grace and conviction. Watching her navigate the world made me want to be better—not just as a coach, but as a person.
I don’t say this stuff often. Maybe I should. It’s easy to talk about tactics and wins and losses. It’s harder to talk about love. About connection. About what really grounds you when the cameras are off and the arena is empty. But Camai Roberson changed the way I see everything—not with some grand gesture, but with consistent truth. Quiet strength. Thoughtful presence.
She walked into my life when I least expected it and didn’t try to change me. She just helped me see the parts of myself I had forgotten were even there. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.
