AS TRINITY RODMAN RISES TO SUPERSTARDOM, DENNIS CONTINUES TO BE A BUM
An ugly relationship hit rock-bottom this week, when an angry Trinity said her father is “not a dad” and she has “lost hope,” wishing Dennis Rodman stays away from her amazing soccer career
He has a better relationship with Kim Jong Un than his own daughter, flashing Worm Diplomacy to stall nuclear activity in North Korea. What garbles inside Dennis Rodman’s brain beyond his torment of alcoholism and debauchery? He senses we’ll never forget the feather boa, the bridal gown, the morning when Michael Jordan visited his apartment to stop his sexual escapades with Carmen Electra.
In his lifelong funk, he blew the opportunity to love and follow Trinity Rodman. She has grown up to become America’s most prominent soccer player, an Olympic gold-medal winner who leads the Washington Spirit. This is not a happy Christmas story. This week, she appeared on a podcast and destroyed Rodman as an absent parent.
“He’s not a dad. Maybe by blood, but nothing else,” Trinity said. “Hearing his voice is painful. … Our entire family is protecting him when he’s never once protected us. Why have I been so nice about someone who’s so selfish? He’s almost made it worse because he has put us in the public light at a young age. We never want to make him look bad and that is at the cost of holding in a lot. I guess it's just the anger that I haven't been able to let out is like difficult for me.”
The name of the show is “Call Her Daddy,” hosted by Alex Cooper. Trinity does not remember Dennis as basketball’s greatest rebounder and most grotesque wacknut. She wishes she never knew the man, forgetting when he brought a shotgun to practice and head-butt a referee and kicked a cameraman. In her mind, she is the daughter of Michelle Moyer, who met Rodman in a bar in 1999 and had two kids before divorce proceedings. The family spent time surviving in an SUV while Rodman was living the global high life and making millions.
“We had a (Ford) Expedition and we kind of lived in that for a little bit. We tried to live with him, but he's having parties 24/7. He's bringing random bitches in,” Trinity said. “He loves the spotlight, he loves the cameras, he loves bringing his children on stage and being like, ‘Oh, these are my kids.’ … When the divorce happened, it was just like, ‘F—k you, guys.’ I think he’s an extremely selfish human being. I think everything has always been about him.
“I lost hope in ever getting him back. I answer the phone now (when he calls) for my conscience to be like, he needed to hear my voice before anything happens. Like that's why I answer the phone, not for me.”
Of all the family breakups among celebrities, Trinity and Dennis could be the saddest and most distressing. She could have saved him. He won’t let it happen. At 63, he can’t help himself, posting an apology to his daughter shortly after the podcast was published. Where is he the other 51 weeks a year? Recently, he appeared in Chicago at the United Center, where he and the Bulls won three championships in the 1990s. The fans still adore him. Somewhere on the periphery, Trinity reminds him of his unavailability.
“Sorry I wasn’t the Dad you wanted me to be but either way I still tried and I still try and never will stop,” Dennis wrote on Instagram. “I will keep trying even when you’re being told as an adult not to respond to my phone calls. I will try even when it’s difficult and if it takes a long time.
“I’m always here and tell you all the time — rather it’s your voice or voicemail — how proud I am. I always had one wish and it was I wish my kids would call me and come see me. Hopefully one day I can get that. I’m here and I’m still trying pick up the phone you have my number. You see me calling, I’m still here.”
The Spirit drafted Trinity four years ago, when she was 18. Dennis decided to show up unannounced at a playoff game. “I was, like, so mad. I started crying on the field. So I’m trying to play the soccer game and I’m crying,” she said. “I was like ‘You took this happy moment from me. You f—ked with my head again. I’m walking over there (toward Dennis) so mad, like ‘F—k you.’
“After that, radio silence. I didn’t see him for, like until this year. Stupid me for thinking that was gonna be some type of new spark. That was me every single time. He would come around, and I’d be like ‘OK, here it is again. We’re gonna start something. He’s gonna be around.’ Boom, months and months and months. This time, it was years.”
In Chicago, Rodman wore a backwards Bulls cap and dark sunglasses, weeping during a standing ovation. “Thank you,” he told the people, with gray facial hair and something wedged in his lip. “What did I tell you?” former teammate Randy Brown told him in the back hallway. “What did I tell you, brother? This is real!” It’s curious to see him with Toni Kukoc, Bill Wennington and Jud Buechler. Never do we see him with Jordan, Scottie Pippen or Phil Jackson.
“Bulls Nation, please welcome home, the one and only, The Worm, Dennis Rodman!” shouts the public-address man.
If an occasional NBA game lifts his spirits, great. Dennis Rodman, if he does nothing else with his life, needs to unite with Trinity and his basketball-playing son, DJ. Maybe Bulls fans embrace him, knowing they’ve had little on the court since the dynasty was wreckingballed, but he should embrace the wonderful life his daughter has created.
We’re sick of Dennis being pulled out of gutters in Newport Beach. The new Rodman, the one Rodman we should care about, is Trinity. Five years ago, he told ESPN he had no idea how to help his kids. “For some reason,” he said, “it’s very hard for me to break out of that cycle.” Not until his late 30s did Dennis meet his own father.
Time is passing. Christmas is days away. Trinity is an American superstar.
Dennis might be drunk.
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Jay Mariotti, called “without question the most impacting Chicago sportswriter of the past quarter-century,’’ writes general sports columns for Substack while appearing on some of the 1,678,498 podcasts and shows in production today. He is an accomplished columnist, TV panelist and talk/podcast host. Living in Los Angeles, he gravitated by osmosis to film projects.