In the days leading up to a long-awaited meeting with 7-year-old Cayden Addison, Minnesota Timberwolves star Naz Reid wants to get one question answered.
Can I lift him?
Reid is 6 foot 9 and 240 pounds. The top of Cayden’s head barely reaches past Reid’s waist, so the question isn’t of physics. The issue is that Cayden’s little body has been through more in the last four years than most go through in a lifetime.
A rare form of cancer puts Cayden in the hospital for stays that last longer than a month, often pummeling him with horrible pain in his joints and extremities, which makes it difficult for him to walk at times.
So Reid and the Timberwolves want to know if Cayden can physically handle Reid picking him up when the two meet on the team’s practice court in Minneapolis and get to know each other. They had been paired together as part of a campaign to raise awareness for the importance of registering as a stem cell donor, which they hope will help Cayden find a bone marrow donor to finally win an endless fight with leukemia.
Yes, Reid is told. Cayden is feeling good and spry after flying from his home in Virginia to the Twin Cities with his family to meet this famous NBA player who has a burning desire to help him. So after Cayden’s first few shots on the 10-foot basket fall short during their visit, Reid grabs him by the waist and hoists him into the air to make things easier.
“Every kid dreams about that one, right?” Darryl Addison, Cayden’s father, said. “Dreams about an NBA player lifting you up. … It was just amazing watching him get lifted up there like that.”
Darryl and his wife, Courtney, are hoping Reid has another big assist up his sleeve.
Reid’s out-of-nowhere emergence from an undrafted rookie free agent to the NBA’s Sixth Man of the Year last season mirrored the Timberwolves’ rise from the Western Conference gutter to the conference finals in late May. The six-year odyssey has endeared Reid, 25, to the Twin Cities in a way that few have matched. He is so popular that people are only half-joking when they suggest he could run for mayor of Minneapolis and win in a landslide.
When he enters a game at Target Center, usually midway through the first quarter, the fans roar louder than they do for any of the starters during pregame introductions. In the days after the team gave away a Naz Reid beach towel at a game, they were going for $100 on eBay. During the playoffs, a tattoo parlor had a promotion to ink “Naz Reid” on to fans for $25. The artists worked around the clock on hundreds of people.
The Addisons hope that Reid has only just started to lift Cayden.
Reid linked up with Cayden through NMDP, formerly known as the National Marrow Donor Program and Be The Match, to help raise awareness for the need for more people, particularly those of color, to get registered to become a potential blood stem cell donor.
This is a personal fight for Reid.
In the spring of 2022, when the Timberwolves were in the playoffs against the Memphis Grizzlies, Reid lost Rudy Roundtree, a beloved father figure to cancer. Roundtree had helped look after Reid from his teen years through the start of his NBA career. When Roundtree fell ill, doctors tried to get him strong enough to become eligible for a stem cell transplant, but he died before that happened.
“He kind of taught me those ropes with care and being there for someone, the next person, and he kind of installed it into my head and into my life,” Reid said. “So it’s kind of like second nature to me now, giving that hand or that care. So I think this is definitely huge for me.”
Added Sheila Roundtree, Rudy’s widow: “We’re keeping him alive with this.”
When Naz speaks, the people of Minnesota listen. And that is exactly what everyone is counting on.
“Whether it’s for Cayden or someone else,” Courtney Addison said, “if Naz can use his influence to get other people connected with NMDP to use their platform, I really just want this to be a time where we can inspire people to act.”
Naz Reid and Cayden Addison at the Timberwolves facility. (Fran Manzano-Arechiga / Timberwolves)
It all started so innocently for the Addisons. In 2020, Cayden started complaining about some pain in his legs and Courtney thought he was walking funny. His older brother, Christian, went through some similar things when he was younger, and so the parents just chalked it up to growing pains and powered through.
One day when Courtney dropped Cayden off at daycare, the provider mentioned to her that he refused to walk the day before, instead scooting around on the floor. That was enough for Courtney to call the family pediatrician, who told her to bring him in right away.
The initial X-rays and exams did not reveal anything to be concerned about, so the family headed to Courtney’s parents’ house in Richmond, Va., for Easter. Once they arrived, Cayden grew quite sick. A fever spiked and a virtual doctor visit wasn’t very helpful. It was during the height of COVID-19, so Courtney was reluctant to go to the hospital. When the issues were not resolved quickly, Courtney took Cayden to a children’s hospital emergency room.
Cayden was admitted right away for blood work. By the next day, a chaplain, an oncologist, and a slew of doctors arrived to tell the Addisons that Cayden had leukemia.
“I lie to you not, I did not hear anything else,” Courtney said. “My body was shaking uncontrollably. I still remember it as clear as day. And I still get emotional thinking about it because I have never sobbed so hard in my life.”
Cayden was in surgery a few hours later to have a port put into his chest, and he began chemotherapy later that day. He was 3.
“We didn’t have any time to process what was going on and to understand what was happening,” Courtney said.
Cayden was eventually diagnosed with Philadelphia chromosome-positive acute lymphoblastic leukemia, a type of cancer that affects just 3 percent of the population. The ensuing four years have been filled with chemotherapy, infections, surgeries, a hospital stay that lasted 37 days, hope, and heartbreak.
“He’s such a positive, happy, sweet kid,” Courtney said. “He’s always been like the sweetest kid, and it’s just so heartbreaking that he has to go through this. And so no parent should have to go through this.”
In April 2022, Cayden completed his treatment. Courtney loves the 1999 movie “Office Space,” and so they recreated a scene from the film in which the group of employees destroy a fax machine that had been the bane of their existence. But the Addison family, including older brother Christian, took out their frustrations on Cayden’s disposable chemotherapy pump.
“We were celebrating,” Courtney says. “I got all of the chemo stuff out of the house. I was like, ‘Get it out. I don’t want to look at it ever again.’
Unfortunately for the Addisons, that was just the beginning of Cayden’s battle. The cancer returned, forcing more treatments and leading to the family learning such technical terms as “detectable, but non-quantifiable,” which means that the leukemia is still hiding somewhere in Cayden’s body and will eventually return in full force.
After another round of treatments and therapy concluded just before Thanksgiving last year, doctors shifted their focus toward finding a bone marrow donor, the best chance for getting rid of his leukemia for good.
“At this point, it’s kind of a waiting game,” Courtney said. “It’s either wait to find a donor or wait until the science catches up and we have better treatment options.”
That is where Naz Reid comes in.
Naz Reid has become a fan favorite in Minnesota for hustle plays like this one against Ivica Zubac. (Gary A. Vasquez / USA Today)
Rudy Roundtree was one of the biggest influences on Reid’s life from the time he started emerging as a highly regarded prospect in New Jersey. With the blessing of Reid’s mother, Anashia, Rudy and Sheila Roundtree were there as a support system for Naz. Rudy retired early from his job to follow Naz from Roselle Catholic High to Louisiana State University. When Reid signed as an undrafted rookie free agent with the Timberwolves in 2019, the Roundtrees moved with him to Minnesota.
As a rookie, Reid spent plenty of time in Des Moines, Iowa, playing for the Timberwolves G League team. Rudy would make the 245-mile drive with Naz from Minneapolis, a constant presence and a warm blanket of familiarity in the Midwestern winter.
“Rudy could make him laugh,” Sheila said. “He was a little bit of a jokester.”
For those who know Reid, that is quite an accomplishment.
On a Timberwolves team filled with big talkers and fiery personalities, Reid is the one smoldering in the corner, stone-faced and contemplative. That may be why he was so drawn to Rudy, a larger-than-life extrovert who never met a stranger and never turned down a chance to start a conversation.
Sheila would call him the mayor for his hand-shaking, baby-kissing, gift of gab. He was always there to watch Naz, whether it was in front of a few hundred people in Iowa or 20,000 at Target Center. And when the couple would get home after a game, the fun was just beginning. He and Sheila would sit down and watch the game again, this time on television, so he could hear what the announcers were saying about his “Nazy.”
“If you talk to him, every conversation is about Nazy,” Sheila said. “He really, really believed in him.”
During the 2021-22 season, Rudy started telling Sheila that he was feeling tired all the time. He was diagnosed with leukemia, and after initial treatments were ineffective, he was hospitalized in January 2022.
Rudy did not want Naz to know how serious his situation was, and Reid was focused on helping the Timberwolves push for their first playoff appearance in four seasons. COVID-19 restrictions prevented Reid from visiting his mentor much in the hospital, but Rudy would call him every other day to check in with the conversation often drifting to his game, his mindset, and why he wasn’t grabbing more dang rebounds.
(Rudy) would always say to (Naz), ‘I need to hear your voice to see where your head is at,’” Sheila said.
Roundtree’s doctors were buying time for him to build strength, so he could be a candidate for a bone marrow transplant. He stayed hospitalized until he died that April at 60.
“I think I only got to see him maybe once or twice (at the hospital),” Reid said. “But the last two times that I did get to see were very, very crucial times. So I’m very grateful for that.”
There are about seven million Americans on the NMDP registry, which is connected to a network of registries around the world that counts some 41 million potential donors, according to Erica Jensen, senior vice president of innovation, strategy and marketing for NMDP.
At first glance, that appears to be a vast pool of donors for people like Cayden and Rudy. But the push for more has two primary drivers. First, the need for more ethnically diverse donors to increase the likelihood of finding a match for those in need. Second, the lower-than-ideal rate of converting those on the registry to actual donors. About 58 percent of the people on the register who are called when a match is found decline to go through with the donation, Jensen said.
“Getting the word out, getting people engaged, hearing the stories, and then signing up to save a life is impactful,” Jensen said. “And not only signing up to get on the list but then when we call you, you have to say, ‘Yes.’ ”
The Addisons know how that feels. At one point in this journey, they were told a match was found for Cayden. But when contacted, that person decided against donating.
“Devastated,” Courtney said. “Just because I know how hard it is to find a match. And so for us to have such a good match and then that person not be able to donate was devastating because we don’t know how long it’s going to take to find another match.
As part of World Marrow Donor Day on Sept. 21, NMDP is holding events in Minneapolis, New York, and Los Angeles to promote registering to donate, and to saying yes if one is ever paired with someone in need.
Reid will attend the festivities in Minneapolis; NMDP is finalizing agreements with celebrities in the other two markets as well.
“I think we all have something innate in us that wants to do great things,” said Cayden’s father, Darryl. “But when it’s really applied, something like this means the world to a family. We’re thankful for Naz and his family.
