Turiaf tells heartfelt story

STANFORD, Calif. – Ronny Turiaf reached into his jeans pocket. “I need to show you something.” He held out a piece of white, flexible tubing made of a mesh-like material, a couple of inches long.

“What is this?” the new Golden State Warrior asked, a mischievous look in his eyes. “Guess.”

There’s one of those in your chest?

Turiaf smiled.

“A little piece.”

He then softly blew air through it – imitating the beating sound of blood being pumped from his heart.

“Dr. Miller gave me an extra one,” he said.

The original, which cardiovascular specialist Dr. Craig Miller at Stanford Medical Center implanted to repair an enlarged aortic root three years ago, did more than save Turiaf’s basketball career.

It probably saved his life.

It’s strange, of course, that a man who shows so much heart on the basketball court was in danger of having his real one fail. Turiaf, 25, is a player of relentless hustle and passion whose importance to a team cannot be measured by statistics alone. If the Warriors are to overcome the absence of Monta Ellis for at least the first part of the season, Turiaf will need to make a big contribution.

It’s also a measure of how far Turiaf has come that his heart ailment no longer is the first question asked of him – if it’s even raised at all. He does make something clear, though. That free-spirit personality that made him such a fan favorite at Gonzaga and in Los Angeles?

He always has been that way.

“But maybe you can also say that my heart issue made me even crazier,” Turiaf said.

Meet John Wayne

They are an odd pairing, the surgeon and the athlete.

Miller, 61, a past president of the American Association for Thoracic Surgery, was raised on a Northern California ranch, wears a cowboy hat and even performs surgery in boots. Turiaf grew up poor on the French Caribbean island of Martinique, speaks five languages and has a distinctive braided hairstyle.

Yet they recognize each other as kindred spirits. Both are driven to excel at their professions and still like to enjoy themselves.

“He’s just like me: a nutso,” Turiaf said. “He’s John Wayne. When I first saw him walking around in cowboy boots, I thought: ‘Yeah, he’s my guy.’ I was digging it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a little nuts,” Miller said. “It makes life interesting. What I like about him is he’s just a humble, wonderful human being. I don’t think you see that very often with pro athletes.”

Turiaf, whose first name is pronounced Roe-KNEE, took a roundabout path to the NBA. He was raised in a small fishing village, mostly by his mother, Aline Cesar. He inherited his sunny outlook on life from her.

“We had our share of problems and we didn’t have money for things,” Turiaf said. “But my mother was always happy. She would tell me that someone else always has it worse than you.”

At 14, he left the Caribbean to play basketball at a French athletic academy in Paris. Turiaf ended up at Gonzaga, where he struggled with his English and was shocked to learn that Spokane winters were not exactly Paris-like, contrary to what the coaches had told him.

But he became wildly popular as the exuberant big man who was instrumental in Gonzaga’s rise to basketball prominence. The West Coast Conference player of the year as a senior, the 6-foot-10 Turiaf was drafted by the Lakers with the 37th pick of the 2005 draft.

In a matter of days, everything changed.

A routine physical had turned up an abnormality, and the Lakers sent Turiaf for more detailed testing. He was diagnosed with an enlarged aortic root.

Miller said to think of it as the root of a tree. This is where the heart’s aortic valve is connected to the aorta – the big pipe through which blood is pumped to the body. Turiaf had an aneurysm, or swelling, near the valve.

But Turiaf didn’t recognize the gravity of his condition.

“I was like, ‘C’mon man, it’s enlarged because I’m tall. I’m not going to worry about that.’ ”

In truth, much more than his career was in danger.

“If this had not been detected, and he’s pushing up his blood pressure like crazy on the basketball court, it could have just ruptured and then, boom, he would have been dead,” Miller said. “Now who knows when it would have ruptured and killed him. But it would have.”

Turiaf had two options. One, give up basketball and limit physical exertion the rest of his life. Two, have surgery. Even then, there would be no guarantees that he could play again. Turiaf and the Lakers turned to Miller, who specializes in a version of the operation that attempts to save the aortic valve. That means patients don’t have to take blood thinners – whose side effects probably would have ended Turiaf’s career.

Reality had sunk in for Turiaf. He fought back tears at a news conference, saying he always had wanted to help his family financially by playing in the NBA. He conceded: “I’m scared of dying.”

Not gonna happen, Miller told him.

“He said: ‘You’re 22 and in the best shape of your life. I’m good at what I do. You’ll play again,’ ” Turiaf said. “So if the guy who is going to open me up like a lobster tells me that, of course I’m going to play again.”

But Turiaf did mention to Miller that if things didn’t go well, there would be a lot of upset people in Spokane. Miller noted that when the operation was a success, Turiaf might consider showing his appreciation by wearing Stanford basketball gear.

An iron sternum

The six-hour surgery on July 26, 2005, involved splitting Turiaf’s sternum and placing him on a heart-lung machine. Miller’s team built a new aorta root with a piece of Dacron graft polyester fabric conduit. Turiaf’s size didn’t make it any easier.

“He’s such a big guy that you’re down to your elbows when you have your hands in his chest,” Miller said. “His sternum is as strong as iron.”

But the surgery was a success and, most important for his career, didn’t require a heart valve replacement. A few months later, Miller put Turiaf through a stress test.

“We got him on the treadmill and tried to break our handiwork,” Miller said. “We wanted to see if we could tear it apart and we couldn’t. But he did almost break the treadmill.”

Turiaf did his rehabilitation at Gonzaga and then, after a stint in the CBA, rejoined the Lakers in January 2006 – six months after the surgery.

He is essentially the same, high-energy player he was before the surgery. Last season, he was a key member of the “Bench Mob” – the energetic Lakers reserves who helped Los Angeles reach the NBA Finals. His averages of 6.6 points, 3.9 rebounds, 1.6 assists and 1.4 blocks in 18.7 minutes per game were modest. But it says something that Kobe Bryant voiced his dismay when the Lakers didn’t match the Warriors’ $17 million offer sheet.

Golden State envisions Turiaf having a bigger role here, filling a longtime need in the middle by providing rebounding, interior defense and some backbone.

Miller acknowledges that he doesn’t follow basketball. But having played football and participated in crew at Dartmouth, he knows sports.

“Ronny might not be the best player on a team, but he’s a real spark plug that brings something special,” he said. “You can have all the Kobe Bryants in the world, but if you don’t have the type of chemistry Ronny brings, your team isn’t going to win.”

Time to move forward

Last week, Turiaf visited Miller’ Stanford office, which is filled with Western-themed artwork and ammunition – he’s an avid hunter.

“The man who saved me,” Turiaf said.

As they posed for photographs, Miller asked: “So what kind of warranty did we give you anyway?”

“A long one,” Turiaf said.

If there was trade-off to the surgery Miller performed, it’s that Turiaf eventually might need another operation. But that could be decades down the road. For now, Turiaf wears only a thin protective padding under his jersey.

He politely declines to allow a photograph taken of his massive scar. Turiaf, who said he rarely thinks about what he has been through, clearly doesn’t want the heart issue to define him.

“It’s a great feeling to be just talking about basketball and how I can help the Warriors,” Turiaf said earlier. “I’ve moved on. I’m looking forward to not having to talk about my heart anymore.”

With that, the tubing went back into his pocket. There’s no longer a need to show the souvenir. Each time he steps on the court is evidence enough of his journey back.