Cassandra Williams, a University of Toronto student union member, poses in front of a sign at the Jordan Peterson protest/rally (Vince Talotta/Toronto Star via Getty Images)
Cassandra Williams, a University of Toronto student union member, poses in front of a sign at the Jordan Peterson protest/rally (Vince Talotta/Toronto Star via Getty Images)

BooksJanuary 5, 2019

Review: Jordan Peterson’s ’12 Rules for Life’

Cassandra Williams, a University of Toronto student union member, poses in front of a sign at the Jordan Peterson protest/rally (Vince Talotta/Toronto Star via Getty Images)
Cassandra Williams, a University of Toronto student union member, poses in front of a sign at the Jordan Peterson protest/rally (Vince Talotta/Toronto Star via Getty Images)

‘The world is divided into two principles: order and chaos. Order is male and chaos is female.’ Danyl Mclauchlan investigates the strange philosophy of number one best-selling author and thinker Jordan B Peterson, author of 12 Rules for Life.

This article was originally published on February 8, 2018

Professor Jordan B Peterson is having a moment. I’d never heard of him – such is the nature of my left-wing social media filter – until his triumphant interview on UK’s Channel Four went viral a few weeks ago. At about the same time reviews – mostly cruel – of his new book penetrated my online bubble. As I write, 12 Rules for Life is a number one bestseller on Amazon; Tyler Cowen rates him as one of the most influential public intellectuals in the world; left-wing groups are protesting his appearances on campuses across North America, and he earns $50,000 a month in donations from his online supporters.

Peterson is a psychoanalyst, a popular but controversial lecturer in psychology at the University of Toronto and a right-wing Youtube celebrity with millions of mostly young men flocking to view his lectures which have titles like Identity Politics and the Marxist Lie of White Privilege or Biblical Series IV: Adam and Eve, Self-consciousness, Evil and Death. He first rose to prominence when he publicly defied a Canadian law about using preferred gender pronouns for transgender people, earning him the admiration of the right and the undying enmity of student activist groups the world over. In much the same way progressives circulate video clips of Rachel Maddow or Ta-Nehisi Coates destroying sexism or racism, people on the right share footage of Peterson annihilating political correctness or postmodernism.

Peterson looks like Billy Bob Thornton playing his character in the film adaptation of his life: he’s tall and slender and elegantly graying; his voice has an odd cadence that is both theatrical and calm. He self-identifies as a classical liberal and a sort-of Christian. His house is filled with Soviet propaganda posters which he’s collected for years and placed on almost every wall to constantly remind him of the evils of Marxism. His beliefs are a complicated syncretism of Christianity, Taoism, Nietzsche, psychoanalysis and hand-picked components of evolutionary biology.

How does it all work? You know, I’m still not totally sure, but here’s the basics: the world is divided into two principles: order and chaos. Order is male and chaos is female. This has been the case since evolution divided life into male and female categories two billion years ago. Order is safety and light and consciousness; chaos is frightening and unconscious and dark. Chaos is the black cave, if you get his drift. Peterson isn’t saying women are bad. Not at all. No, chaos is a part of life: order and chaos complement each other. Chaos is bad though, and women symbolise it, and have since the beginning of time. That’s just a fact.

Also a fact: life is an endless series of ruthless dominance contests in which the strong triumph and obtain access to fertile, desirable females and the weak submit, and don’t. You can prevail in these evolutionary struggles, keep chaos at bay and bring order to your life by following the insights found in great literature – Solzhenitsyn, Dostoevsky, Milton – and The Bible. Especially The Bible, which is the foundation of western civilisation  containing the encoded wisdom of countless generations. Its stories are cryptic though, and must be carefully unravelled: happily Peterson’s biblical deconstructions always align perfectly with his unique Nietzsche-Taoist-Darwin tinged view of the world, almost as if a trove of redacted, repeatedly mistranslated bronze-age folk-tales could be interpreted to mean literally anything.

I was willing to go either way with Jordan Peterson. We don’t have enough right-wing intellectuals around, for my money, and one of my favourite works of political philosophy is Francis Fukuyama’s End of History and the Last Man. Even though I don’t agree with much of it, it still blew my mind and I was hoping Peterson could deliver something similar. But if he turned out to be a crackpot then I could write a cruel, mocking review, and that’d be fun too.

Spoiler: I think Peterson is mostly a crackpot. If the serial killer from Se7en wrote a self-improvement book for wayward teens and new parents it’d be pretty close to 12 Rules for Life. Not all of the book is like that: Peterson is a psychoanalyst and lecturer: he’s got some valid points, some interesting research; he’s got patient cases and anecdotes, some good-if-vague advice, and I’m always there for takedowns of the Marxist left. But most of the text consists of his life-is-pain-and-dominance-because-evolutionary-biology-proves-Jungian-archetypes-in-the-Book-of-Genesis routine, wedded unevenly to his admonitions to straighten up and fly right.

Let me give you an example of how it all mixes together. Some people who are prescribed medication by their doctors don’t take it, Peterson explains in Chapter Two. Even those who have had organ transplants and who need to take immunosuppressants to prevent their body from rejecting the donor organ sometimes fail to take their pills, and this failure can be fatal. In fact, studies show that people are more likely to give prescription medication to their sick pets than they are to themselves. Why? What does it say about humanity that some people are more likely to save their pets’ lives than their own?

If, like me, you’ve been brainwashed by the Luciferian hubris of rationalism you might look for answers in the research literature on medication noncompliance. This suggests that discontinuing medication correlates to age, income, educational level and the severity of a  drugs’ adverse effects, and you might wonder if people who can afford to medicate their pets are members of a demography more likely to continue any form of prescribed medication, while pets don’t have the agency to discontinue a drug if they don’t like the side-effects. But thinking like that won’t get you millions of hits on Youtube so Peterson looks for answers in the Old Testament.

You see, we learn in the Book of Genesis that God created a bounded space known as Eden, which means “well-watered place” in Aramaic, the language of Jesus. He created Adam and Eve, who were naked and not ashamed of it, thus not self-conscious. A serpent appeared. So paradise symbolises order and the serpent chaos, and this represents the dichotomy of Taoist totality. The snake also symbolises the eternal human proclivity for evil, and not even God can create a bounded space that precludes this. The serpent is able to trick Eve, and perhaps this is the reason women are more protective, self-conscious, fearful and nervous than men. She eats the apple of the tree of life and becomes self-aware. She then gets Adam to eat the apple, symbolising the way women have been making men self-conscious “since the beginning of time”, mostly by rejecting them. Also, the creature in the story is a serpent because human vision evolved to detect snakes, so they gave us the vision of God, and this is why Mary, the eternal archetypal mother is depicted in Renaissance art holding the Christ Child in the air, far away from serpents. Adam and Eve became aware of their nudity to protect their egos, because they felt unworthy to stand before God because “Beauty shames the ugly. Strength shames the weak. Death shames the living – and the ideal shames us all.”

God then curses Adam and Eve, telling Eve that women are now cursed with the pain of childbirth, symbolising the expansion of the human cranium that gave us self-consciousness and its evolutionary arms race with the size of the female pelvis. Thus God expels humanity out of the infancy of the unconscious animal world and into the horrors of history itself. So that’s why people are more likely to medicate their pets more than themselves, and leads to Peterson’s second Rule for Life: that you should consider the future and think “What might my life look like if I was caring for myself properly?” and that you should treat yourself as if you were someone you were responsible for helping.

If you’re thinking “That last bit is . . . not bad advice, but what the fuck?” then I’ve successfully conveyed the Jordan Peterson experience.

The advice isn’t the point, of course: the aim of the book is to communicate Peterson’s grand, unified theory-of-everything, and the advice is a listicle to hang it all on. There’s a lot I could say about Peterson’s system, especially its dubious, often wrong “just-so” stories about evolutionary biology. But the book is a target-rich environment so I’m going to limit myself to one of Peterson’s pet subjects: the evil, insane, anti-human, world-threatening, neo-Marxist, gender-bending left-wing curse of postmodernism.

Jordan Peterson sits on a chair (Carlos Osorio/Toronto Star via Getty Images)

As Peterson has previously established, the Book of Genesis proves that there is evil in every human: Christianity restrained the human tendency towards evil but with Nietzsche’s announcement of the death of God in the 19th Century the stable, virtuous moral societies of the Christian world collapsed, leading to the death camps and the gulags. Now, he explains, we live in a world with no values, in which academics brainwash their students with postmodernism and teach everyone that there is no meaning and that gender is just a social construct, and this explains the chaos of the world around us.

Okay: what even is postmodernism? Peterson doesn’t really define it, except as a nefarious Marxist plot which is causing feminism to destroy the economy. And, although he doesn’t make this distinction himself, Peterson is talking about philosophical postmodernism: literary postmodernism with the self-referential novels and unreliable narrators and so on is probably okay, and not destroying the world. Philosophical postmodernists don’t like to define the term either (or anything else) but the story goes something like this:

Prior to 1500 AD you have the pre-modern world in which almost everyone believed that the way you found out about reality and morality and the way we should behave and live our lives was through divine revelation, holy books or the wisdom of the ancients, which was generally received through divine revelation. Then you got people like Bacon, Galileo, Copernicus and Descartes who argued that the way we find out about reality is to use reason and mathematics and figure things out for ourselves. This was an amazingly powerful idea and it kicked off the scientific revolution and the enlightenment and led to the development of rationalism, capitalism, nation-states, liberal democracy, industrialism and “historical progress”: ie the modern world. Modernity!

But by the mid-twentieth century you’ve had centuries of imperialism, two World Wars, the Holocaust, Hiroshima, totalitarianism in the Soviet Union and the dawn of the Cold War, and some intellectuals felt that modernity wasn’t working out super-well, and that the philosophical assumptions behind it – rationalism, individuality, capitalism, historical progress etc – should all be re-examined. Thus, postmodernity, which one thinker defined as “scepticism towards metanarratives”, the metanarratives being rationalism, capitalism and so on.

The first postmodernists drew on a number of philosophical sources, primarily Marx, who was a critic of modernity but still operated in the modern tradition in the sense that he made claims about the truth of allegedly scientific laws governing human history, society, economics, and psychology; Nietzsche, who questioned the very validity of truth or scientific concepts, arguing that these were merely artefacts of language; and Freud’s theories of repression, unconsciousness and desire, and his practise of psychoanalytic literary criticism, in which “moral truths” about society and the human psyche can be gleaned from literary sources (eg, famously: we all want to kill our fathers and sleep with our mothers because Sophocles’ Oedipus). Now, Jordan Peterson hates Marx, but Nietzsche and Freud are his favourite philosophers: keep that in mind because it’s going to be important later on.

Postmodernism has come under attack from two very different directions. The first is the right wing critique which Peterson advances, and for which he’s become a cause celebre: that postmodernism is a Cultural Marxist plot to take over our universities and destroy western culture. But the second critique, articulated by philosophers outside the postmodern tradition, academics in the physical and social sciences, liberal intellectuals and some thinkers on the radical left – most notably Noam Chomsky – is that far from being either a global threat or a “ruthless criticism of everything that exists”, postmodernism, while occasionally interesting and useful, is mostly incomprehensible, masturbatory bullshit, and that the bulk of what postmodernists say can be decoded into either simple truisms or meaningless gibberish.

People much smarter than me insist that philosophical postmodernism is a real and vital field, and that, as with advanced physics, the language is difficult because the concepts are very complex. But whatever its merits, postmodern texts are famously inaccessible, and because of this, the controversy outlined in the second critique, and the wisdom in the old saying that universities are separate schools and departments united by a common central heating system, relatively few students who pass through universities, and few academics who teach at them actually encounter much postmodern theory. Academics as a class are predominantly left-wing, but this isn’t because of postmodernism or cultural marxism. They’re left-wing for the same reasons teachers and nurses are generally left-wing and farmers and small-business owners skew to the right; a combination of social forces, self-sorting and self-interest.

Are the social justice groups that Peterson and his followers war with online and at campus protests products of postmodernism? Let’s think about that. Are feminist movements like MeToo motivated by Judith Butler’s gender performativity theory, or the fact that the criminal justice system is broken when it comes to preventing or punishing sexual assault? Are Black Lives Matter inspired by the Frankfurt School, or the fact that police in the US routinely assault and murder young black people? Do Bernie Sanders’ supporters, who advocate for socialism understand a single damn sentence of Capitalism and Schizophrenia, or are they reacting to the conspicuous failures of the form of capitalism ascendent in the west for the last thirty years?

Some of the intellectuals affiliated with these groups try to articulate their views using postmodern jargon, but if you “purge” the social sciences and humanities departments of postmodernists, as Peterson urges (he describes himself as a classical liberal, which seems to mean ‘someone who opposes all modern manifestations of liberalism’) all you’ll accomplish is a more comprehensible, coherent activist left.

But, Peterson might argue, aren’t left-wing political parties and western society in general dominated by relativism and nihilism, the pernicious postmodern doctrines that there’s no such thing as reality or truth, and that all beliefs – no matter how monstrous – are just as valid as each other? Are they? Really? There are postmodern thinkers who – somewhat problematically – claim it is true that there is no such thing as truth, and that all value systems are relative. But are these views prevalent on the political left? It seems to me that, what with climate change, Piketty, implicit bias tests and gender pay gaps, the contemporary left is very vigorously Team Rationalism, Team Science, Team Reality-is-Real, and Team Aghast at the Alternative Facts and Fake News Ascendent on the Right.

If anything, much of the contemporary left veers too far in the wrong direction away from moral relativism. One of the central tenets of liberal democracy is pluralism: the hard-won idea that not all moral values are equal, but that individuals have the right to determine their own values, within certain parameters, because if the state tries to act as the total arbitrator of all moral value, things quickly degenerate into centuries of genocide and civil war. I agree with Peterson that there’s an ominous drift away from pluralism and the related commitment to free speech among factions of the left. But that’s like, the opposite of relativism.

And the rejection of pluralism is also a problem on the right. Specifically it’s a key characteristic of Jordan Peterson. Despite his advice in Rule 8 (“Assume that the person you are listening to might know something you don’t”) Peterson literally demonises his ideological opponents as anti-human Luciferian totalitarians. But when he warns about postmodernism or Marxism what he’s usually complaining about are the tenets of liberalism which is less a plot to destroy western civilisation and more one of its defining qualities. And the real irony is that Peterson’s critique of liberalism, rich with Freudian psychoanalysis, his insistence that social interactions are mediated by power and Nietzschean elevation of narrative or moral truth over rationalism, is incredibly postmodern.

Which makes sense, when you think about it. Postmodernity is there to criticise the status quo, and plenty of left-wing values are now the status quo, especially in academic and cultural circles. People who champion those values still think of themselves as outsiders: rebels; revolutionaries speaking truth to power. In much the same way some Labour and Green MPs keep jumping onto social media to attack the government because they haven’t adjusted to the fact that they are the government, much of the academic and cultural left still see themselves as free-thinking radicals despite enjoying full-spectrum dominance of their institutions and its values for decades.

I think that’s why Jordan Peterson is so popular: why he’s touched such a nerve. He is, bizarrely, a counter-cultural figure, vaguely analogous to Timothy Leary. Leary told kids to drop out and take LSD, Peterson is telling them to read The Bible, tidy their rooms, and that men-are-men and women-are-women, because that is now a radical, subversive, counter-cultural message.

And he’s far from the worst thinker the alt-right and its millions of angry young men could embrace. His advice is somewhat sensible, mostly, eventually; he celebrates (some) literature; he insists that he hates totalitarianism and Nazis; he tells millennials to improve their posture. And he seems like a fitting adversary for the campus left, who are protesting and no-platforming him with vigour because his unrepentant stand on gender pronouns, rambling pontifications about Adam and Eve and suggestions that communist revolutions might have their downsides are triggering them and making their learning environments unsafe. Jordan Peterson is not for me, fallen and polluted anti-human non-Being that I am. But maybe he is the public intellectual that both the alt-right and the radical left simultaneously need and deserve.


12 Rules of Life: An Antidote to Chaos by Jordan B Peterson (Allen Lane, $40) is available at Unity Books.

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Steven Adams and Madeleine Chapman in 2010 (Image: Madeleine Chapman)
Steven Adams and Madeleine Chapman in 2010 (Image: Madeleine Chapman)

BooksJanuary 1, 2019

Summer reissue: Madeleine Chapman on co-writing Steven Adams’ autobiography

Steven Adams and Madeleine Chapman in 2010 (Image: Madeleine Chapman)
Steven Adams and Madeleine Chapman in 2010 (Image: Madeleine Chapman)

Spinoff writer Madeleine Chapman co-wrote basketball star Steven Adams’ autobiography. She tells how she wrote the book alongside an athlete she’s known since they were both teenagers. Warning: contains a lot of food.

This post was originally published 24 July 2018.

I knew of Steven Adams before I met him. A common situation now but not so much in 2007 when we were both 13 years old. I’d been representing Wellington Basketball at tournaments for a few years and after a while it’s hard not to notice the tall players. Megan Craig from Whangārei was very tall and a guy with long hair from Rotorua was very tall. I didn’t know his name because only the names of the best players were known by everyone. Steven wasn’t that good back then, he was just tall.

When he moved to Wellington near the end of 2008, Steven kept to himself. And though we occasionally trained alongside each other at Newtown Show Buildings at 6am, we never spoke. At the 2010 Chinese Easter Sports Tournament in Porirua, Steven came along to watch all his Chinese-Samoan basketball friends play. Afterwards, we went to H2O Xtream and, while waiting on the stairs to go on the slide, I put my hand down next to his foot and saw that his second toe was the exact same length as my index finger. This doesn’t really mean anything but feels noteworthy.

Although we probably felt like we had very different lives, Steven and I had a lot in common. We both had brown mums (his Tongan and mine Samoan), and white dads (his British, mine American); we came from large families (he has 13 siblings, I have nine); and at the time we were both on scholarship to private schools, he at Scots College and me at Samuel Marsden Collegiate.

Despite all that, we really only interacted by eating together. After morning training on my 17th birthday, I had some time to kill before I needed to go to school. Steven also had time to kill, essentially because he didn’t plan on going to school on time. So we walked up to the Mr Bun Bakery in Newtown and he bought me a pie for my birthday. We stood outside at 8:45am and ate our pies in silence, then he went back inside for two more. For Steven, eating two pies meant giving his body some much-needed fuel for a busy day of school and training ahead. For me, eating two pies meant I’d just eaten two pies for breakfast.

A scroll back to 2011 on Messenger shows our friendship consisting almost entirely of are you going out? Come out! Did you end up going out? Followed by the classic first year uni religion debate. Never scroll back to 2011 on Messenger.

Over the next five years we kept in touch sporadically but we were both busy. He was on scholarship in America and becoming the first New Zealander to be picked in the first round of an NBA draft. And I was on scholarship at the University of Auckland, wondering if anyone would pay to read my long Facebook statuses.

In 2016 the messages really picked up again because 2016 was when I got my first and only job as a journalist at The Spinoff. And as any rookie journalist does, I looked to everyone I knew for content. After a few false starts, Steven agreed to an interview at his annual basketball camp in Auckland. My plan was to write the quintessential profile of Kiwi hero Steven Adams. Instead he cancelled without explanation.

Three months later I received a message: “How good are you at reporting?”

And so began an agonisingly slow back and forth about potentially working together on a book that finally ended with Debra Millar, then director of publishing at Penguin Random House, asking to meet. When we sat down in the first days of 2017, she told me that they’d been trying to get a Steven Adams autobiography going since 2014. “He said he had a writer in mind back then and only just told us your name last month.” I nodded sagely, knowing full well that in 2014 I wasn’t writing anything worth reading, I was cleaning rich people’s homes and getting C’s on my uni essays. Nothing on paper suggested that I should or could complete the task she was outlining. But Steven said he wanted me to write it, so by the end of the month I’d signed a contract to co-write Steven Adams’ autobiography.

Literally standing in Steven’s shoes at the 2010 Chinese Easter tournament. A sign, surely…

He made me scull a pint of Guinness at 12pm on a Monday.

I’d never drunk a Guinness nor did I have any desire to on an empty stomach, but Steven said we were downing a pint and what Steven says, goes.

It was June 2017. Steven was home for the off-season after the Oklahoma City Thunder finished a disappointing, yet somehow impressive, season with a loss to the Houston Rockets in the first round of the playoffs. It was the Thunder’s first season without Kevin Durant, and Steven was suddenly the second most valuable player on the Thunder roster behind Russell Westbrook, though if you told him that he’d say something along the lines of just doing my job, mate.

As I learned over the next year, Steven has always liked routine. Growing up, his least productive years were those spent without someone guiding him or giving him something to do. In Wellington as a teen, he had his weeks planned out in half hour increments, with time split between school, training, gym, and games. Routine works for Steven, and in the 2017 offseason, his routine included sculling a pint of Guinness before lunch.

I had flown to Wellington to spend a week shadowing Steven and learning about his early years growing up in Rotorua. The day I arrived we had dinner at his favourite Wellington joint, R & S Satay Noodle House, with a few of his school friends. I barely ate all day, having learned over the years that eating with Steven would require preparation. He ordered for the whole table, joking with the owner like old friends, and returned with giant bowls of chicken noodle soup. I assessed the size and figured I could manage the whole thing. I wasn’t about to bring shame upon my family name by not finishing a meal. We sat and talked about the book and what he wanted from it. “I don’t want any of that Disney inspirational shit,” he said. “I just think maybe my story could be useful for some other kids out there.” I nodded. No inspirational shit. Got it.

We finished our noodle soup and I felt my stomach expand beyond what’s healthy. “Alright,” he said, scraping his chair back, “let’s go get dinner.”

I trudged after him up Cuba St to Cin Cin. He wore a camo jacket, camo hat, sweatpants, socks, and slides. It was pouring with rain. Everyone stared and a few men stopped Steven to say hello before he politely but deliberately moved them along. Once in Cin Cin, he ordered a bottle of red wine and scanned the menu. “What are you getting?” he asked. I hesitated, wondering if it would be rude to order nothing and just watch him eat. “What are you getting?” he asked again. I ordered a barrel of pasta.

As we ate, I imagined my stomach as a bottomless pit, able to hold vast quantities of food despite never having done it before that night. Steven inhaled his second dinner and jokingly assessed his glass of wine. He talked about how Spurs coach Gregg Popovich loves his wine and how one day they were going to bond over a full-bodied red. I listened and wondered why my pile of pasta didn’t seem to be getting any smaller.

An hour later, the bottle of red was empty and my soul was full of the pasta that had nowhere else to go after my stomach said no more. Steven went up to pay and I didn’t dare suggest we go dutch because it was the night before payday and who knows what that bottle of wine cost. On our way out, a family of diners asked Steven for a photo. While he obliged, I stood in the rain, taking deep breaths and wondering if my stomach muscles would ever be the same.

“Let’s go to Floridita’s.”

I turned to meet my maker.

“They do good desserts.”

Floridita’s was packed out and Steven decided against waiting for a table. I offered up a prayer of thanks to whoever was listening as we walked to the car. On the way home I asked him about his voice, how much of his humour he wanted included. “After all,” I concluded, “it’s your name on the cover.”

“What about your name?”

“It’ll be inside somewhere.”

“That’s bullshit.”

I argued that it wasn’t and he relented. That was Sunday night. On Monday morning we went to the gym.

2011 Under 19 National Champions (Image: supplied)

Steven went to the gym every day at 10am because 10am on a weekday is a gym’s quietest period. His trainer, Gavin Cross, looked up from a massage he was giving a client to greet us affectionately. They chatted for a while, seemingly in their own language, before heading out to the gym floor for a workout. I took a notebook with me intending to take notes and quickly remembered how boring it is to watch someone train. But I hadn’t worn workout gear, much to Steven’s disapproval, and so spent 45 minutes watching other gym goers watch Steven. One fairly prominent wellness influencer took a sneaky Snapchat video of Steven, thinking nobody would notice. But I noticed, and I remembered.

At the end of his session, Steven asked Gav if he was ready for his Guinness. Guinness? I asked. “Oh yeah, it’s a great source of iron,” Gav explained. “You having one?” Iron shmiron, sitting down for a Guinness would be perfect for asking about Steven’s childhood, I figured. “Maybe,” I said, wanting to be on my A game for the drunken interview. When we parked up outside Four Kings at 12pm, I opened the car door. “You having a Guinness?” Steven asked again. I said it was probably too early for me. “Well you can’t come in unless you’re having a Guinness.” I went in.

Turns out “having a Guinness” meant literally standing at the bar, ordering a pint, sculling the pint, and leaving. Gav, Steven and I clinked glasses and before I could blink, they’d plonked their empty pints on the bar. Thankfully I hadn’t eaten or drunken anything all day and was simply thirsty so was only a couple seconds behind them. Gav nodded approvingly and we walked back out to the car. I hadn’t asked a single question.

The next stop was Prefab for lunch. It was fine. Steven couldn’t believe the cost of parking on the street. After lunch, we went straight to ASB Arena for training number two. The Wellington Saints were on their way to yet another National Championship and Steven scrimmaged with them for an hour. I asked him if it was almost equivalent to scrimmaging with the Thunder and he shook his head. “Not even close.”

While the Saints worked through their set pieces, Steven moved to a different court and began his shooting workout with Kenny McFadden, longtime coach and mentor. Kenny had brought along a young kid who looked about 15, and trained the two together. An NBA star centre and a skinny 15 year old worked to outscore each other on every shooting drill, as if it were any other training. I sat on the sideline watching Steven drop deep three after deep three and wondered when I’d see him chuck one up in a game.

A three in four acts

Finally, after two trainings, lunch, and a pint, I sat down with Steven and Gav to talk about their relationship. We discussed their early training schedules and how to prevent injuries in elite athletes. Throughout the two hours, kids came up at regular intervals to ask for an autograph and Steven either complimented their manners or reminded them to use some. Only one person was turned away: a woman our age who didn’t say please.

This routine continued for the rest of the week. I learned to take workout gear and got in some free sessions of my own. I opted out of the Guinness after two days when I remembered I probably had enough iron in my diet and definitely already had too much alcohol. For Steven, a pint of Guinness was a rare treat he allowed himself in a regimen shaped by intense physical activity and an increasingly healthy diet.

When he didn’t have time to talk after training, he would call. After missing a few calls in a row from me, he finally called back that night. “I’m just on the bike,” he said, “but I can talk.” So we talked about his dad and his upbringing while he did a leg workout. We moved on to his transition from Rotorua to Wellington while he walked home, the wind making it hard to make out some of his answers. And we covered his first year at Scots College while he fixed himself a snack and got ready to go out to dinner. Our call ended almost three hours after it began, when he arrived at a restaurant, presumably for his first dinner of the night. With Steven, if he wasn’t in the gym or playing basketball, he was doing three things at once.

When speaking about his childhood, Steven would often answer with “ask Viv” or “ask Mohi”, referring to his older sister and brother. So when he flew back to Oklahoma for the new season, I drove to Rotorua to meet some of his siblings. Over the next six months I met a lot of people close to Steven, from his old rep team mates and school teachers, to his current Thunder team mates. Incredibly, all of them, from Ms Milne the English teacher to Russell Westbrook the NBA MVP, described the same Steven Adams. Fifteen year old Steven Adams with no money and no fame was the same as 24 year old Steven Adams with a $100 million contract. With consistency like that, it wasn’t hard to nail down a narrative for his story.

When people hear that I worked on this book, they often assume that Steven chose me to write it because he liked the work I’d done. I know for a fact that Steven did not spend his free time in Oklahoma reading thespinoff.co.nz, and he certainly wasn’t reading my articles. But he knew me, and when I answered his question “how good are you at reporting?” with “I think I’m pretty good”, he believed me.

In November 2017 I travelled to Oklahoma City to watch the Thunder play, talk to coaches and team mates, and have one last sit-down interview with Steven. I asked him why he had chosen to give back by putting on basketball camps for kids around the country every offseason instead of just giving money to a charity. “Because I don’t want to just throw money at people. When I see someone working towards their dream, I want to help them,” he said. “That’s what people did for me. They saw that I was working towards something and they helped me get there.”

In 2011, after an early morning basketball training, Steven and I ate two pies each for breakfast outside a bakery in Newtown and showed up late to prestigious schools where we were paying heavily discounted fees. In 2017, aged 24 and 23, one of us was New Zealand’s highest paid athlete in history, and the other wrote a book about it. Both of us were given opportunities at young ages and both of us made the most of them. Both of us were invested in, whether by parents, siblings, schools, universities, coaches, or editors. And though we followed different paths after that bakery visit, this book saw those paths cross again for a reason. My Life, My Fight is what happens when young Pasifika are allowed to become their best.


Steven Adams: My Life, My Fight (Penguin Random House, $40) is available at Unity Books.