INDIANAPOLIS — For nine long months, I found myself sitting at an old card table in my bedroom’s walk-in closet. An unshaded light bulb hung overhead, casting light on the dated cream and country blue wallpaper that decorated the closet. The small space was cluttered with bags, suitcases, and items that should have been tossed away years earlier.

While some might deem it a chaotic environment for writing my debut book, I found it to be a sanctuary—quiet and serene, warmed by a small space heater. There was even a candle flickering next to my computer, creating a cozy atmosphere as I let my imagination take flight.

I had to step into the shoes of Jeanette Lee, famously known as The Black Widow of pool. I had to delve deep into her life—everything about her. I needed to embody her voice, her expressions, and her honesty.

In that closet, I crafted her memoir.

From that very space, I traveled to gritty pool halls and glamorous venues hosting championship matches. I journeyed to remote fields in South Korea to meet a father who had turned his back on me. I wore a gold medal on the podium at the World Games, only to grapple with painful childhood memories of being forced into a room for a kiss from a supposed family friend.

As a teenager, I resorted to cutting my arms and ran away from home more times than I could count, seeking refuge on the couches of friends’ homes. I experienced the thrilling high of cocaine and then found my passion for pool, becoming deeply enamored with the game and rising to become the top female pool player worldwide.

But then, at 49, overwhelmed by my collapsing world, I sat in a hospital room petrified as a doctor pronounced the terrifying words: terminal cancer. My heart sank further as I faced my three daughters to inform them that I had Stage IV ovarian cancer.

This closet was where I transitioned from a sports journalist to an author, where I optimized every moment and memory of Jeanette Lee’s journey. I spent countless hours conducting Zoom interviews with her, unraveling the tapestry of her life.

It was in this small space that I typed, erased, and typed again, seeking to understand, to connect emotionally, and to convey the struggles of a remarkable Korean American woman who fought hard and overcame obstacles to become the finest women’s pool player of our time.

The weight of this endeavor was heavy, and sometimes tears flowed as I questioned how I could possibly do justice to someone like Jeanette Lee in just one book. How could I tell the complete story of a woman who stands as one of the most extraordinary female athletes of the last five decades without leaving anything important out?

Yet, this was my mission. As the co-author of Lee’s memoir, I assisted her in articulating the poignant and often painful narrative of a woman who was often misunderstood, hiding behind her red lipstick, high heels, and figure-hugging black outfits, exuding a confidence that could rival any award-winning performer.

Many had no idea that despite dominating her female competitors, Lee would return to her hotel room in tears, stung by the hurtful words aimed at her. She was a stunning sports star who captured ESPN’s attention, with her matches broadcast on Saturdays to woo male fans. She appeared to have the world at her feet, with hands blessed with incredible talent.

But deep down, Lee was a woman just seeking acceptance. Her journey for validation continues. She is one of those incredibly gifted and humble individuals.

“The Black Widow: A Memoir” is now available in bookstores. Here are five of my favorite excerpts from Jeanette’s memoir.

Embracing my monster

On a hot summer afternoon at Long Beach Island, where the sun sparkled and the sand was a brilliant white, my world changed. My mom had taken a rare day off from work to enjoy the beach with us, which was both a delight and a surprise.

She rarely missed work unless it was for a valid reason, such as a necessary appointment or a funeral. Our lives didn’t revolve around leisurely activities, but on occasion, she would carve out time for fun. That day, she brought Doris and me to the ocean.

As I stripped off my shirt at the beach, exposing my slender 13-year-old frame in a swimsuit, my mom noticed something. Just as I was about to run toward the waves, she shouted, “Come back here, Jeanette. Come back here.” The ocean would have to wait as a new sense of insecurity washed over me.

My mom stood firmly in the sand, pulling me closer. She traced her fingers along my back, up and down my spine. I watched Doris having fun in the waves while my mom instructed me to bend over and then stand back up. Bend over again. Stand again.

“Walk ahead of me,” she instructed firmly. “Now, stay still.” My mother observed my slender frame from behind, with bones visibly jutting out, and she understood. She worked as a nurse, after all. That day, she didn’t utter the term “scoliosis.” That disheartening diagnosis would come later from astonished doctors, who couldn’t believe I managed to function with such an unusually curved spine.

Always Feeling Like an Outsider

After school, I would return to a tall co-op building in Brooklyn’s Crown Heights, where I was surrounded by predominantly Black families. I envied the girls who had natural curves. To create the illusion of thicker thighs, I sometimes wore two or three pairs of leggings under my jeans and stuffed socks into my bra to appear bustier.

I was incredibly thin, almost sunken. When I stood with my feet together, a noticeable gap appeared between my thighs. Walking into my seventh-grade homeroom, I was subjected to taunts echoing, “Fall into the Gap,” mocking a popular commercial at the time. There were false rumors about me being promiscuous, claiming I had the gap because I was sleeping with multiple boys.

At home, I despised my parents’ strict rules and regimented lifestyle. After my baths or showers, I had to kneel and scrub the bathtub. There were set times for doing homework, brushing teeth, and going to bed. Sleeping late was not permitted, even on Saturdays when there was no school — and I loved to sleep in.

I remember being a teenager, filled with anger and frustration, shouting, “Mom, why can’t you just let me be?” She insisted I was squandering my life in bed, saying I needed to be awake while the world was awake. I ran away countless times, crashing at friends’ or teachers’ homes. I experimented with cigarettes and marijuana and even tried cocaine and acid.

I took needles and pierced my earlobes to create my own earrings. One time, I used a razor blade to cut my forearm repeatedly, wanting to bond as blood sisters with a friend. It took 28 cuts before I finally drew blood. I thought perhaps this intense friendship would improve my life.

But nothing changed. Nothing seemed capable of alleviating the deep loneliness I felt as an outsider.

Disliked by the Women: ‘Being Pretty Doesn’t Mean Success’

One day, I checked my mailbox and found a package from one of the leading female players on the tour. I was in disbelief. Perhaps my assumptions about their feelings towards me were incorrect. Eagerly, I ripped open the padded envelope, only to uncover a copy of the Dr. Seuss book “Yertle the Turtle.”

Inside, on the first page, was a handwritten note from a player I won’t name: “I believe you will relate to this book. You might see yourself in Yertle.”

In the story, Yertle is a vain character, fixated on being the highest turtle in the land. He demands that other turtles stack beneath him so that he can sit atop a grand throne. While he basks in his glory, the turtles supporting him endure pain.

That book symbolized how some might step on others without compassion to achieve their desires. Receiving that package made me realize that’s how these women perceived me — that I was solely looking out for myself.

Allison Fisher once noted, “The contrast between Jeanette and me is that Jeanette always aimed to be the most recognized player globally, while I sought to be the best player.”

Allison misunderstood. It was never about seeking fame or recognition. Those women had me wrong. I wasn’t after notoriety; I wanted to be the best, just like they did. My motivation had nothing to do with fame; it stemmed from a deep passion and love for the game of pool.

About the Men: They Objectified Me, Guided Me, and Taught Me Humility

On Comedy Central’s “The Man Show” in 2003, while I skillfully outplayed Jimmy Kimmel and Adam Carolla, they took breaks to sip beer, pretending to read books on attracting ‘hot Asian chicks.’ I didn’t shy away; I maintained my role and proved my prowess.

“You bitch,” they taunted after I executed a winning shot.

“You told me not to touch your balls,” I remarked playfully, fully aware of the implications. “So, I didn’t.”

Kimmel and Carolla were having a laugh, pouring talc into their shorts while claiming they needed to “chalk” their cues. Nibbling on pretzels, they called me “honey” and asked me to fetch them beers. Once my performance at the pool table spoke for itself, they finally admitted they stood no chance against me.

“You know what?” Kimmel said. “This is absurd. Do you really want to play some pool? Shall we play by my rules?”

“I’m up for playing any way,” I replied. The show’s finale featured me relaxing in a swimming pool, dressed in a black bikini, while Kimmel jokingly claimed the entire setup was cleverly designed to get me into less clothing.

‘Was it time for The Black Widow to die?’

The situation looked grim. I was nearing 50, and the chances of me celebrating that birthday seemed bleak. Nevertheless, I chose to ignore the dire forecasts, even when faced with the cancer diagnosis that suggested less than a 15 percent survival rate over the next two years.

But what did those odds really signify? I had defied the odds multiple times in the past. I had risen from being an outcast, a high school dropout, and a runaway to dominate the pool world. I had navigated through racism, scoliosis, the sense of abandonment stemming from my parents’ divorce, and a lifetime filled with surgeries and chronic pain due to ankylosing spondylitis and fibromyalgia.

When the unwelcome adversary known as cancer showed up in January 2021, I was resolute in my determination to conquer once more.

“Jeanette is the fiercest, most competitive player I’ve ever seen. She doesn’t back down and she doesn’t give up. She channeled that fighting spirit from the pool table into her battle with cancer.” — Don Wardell, Lee’s longtime physician and friend

“The Black Widow: A Memoir” is priced at $30 and can be purchased on Amazon, Walmart, and Barnes & Noble.