The Comeback After the Collapse
There’s more to Keyontae Johnson’s story than just the moment everyone remembers. “I don’t want to be remembered as just the person that collapsed,” he says.The Comeback After the Collapse
There’s more to Keyontae Johnson’s story than just the moment everyone remembers. “I don’t want to be remembered as just the person that collapsed,” he says.
Keyontae Johnson had just miraculously awakened after three days in a medically induced coma. He couldn’t understand what he was seeing on his phone: Why were so many superstar athletes sending him heartfelt messages wishing him a speedy recovery?
His mind was a blur. Time seemed to flatten. He stared up at his parents, Nika and Marrecus, as he lay in a Gainesville hospital bed. Nika’s eyes were wet with tears. She had feared that her only son wouldn’t wake up.
“How does everybody know I’m in the hospital?” he asked.
“Keyontae,” Nika said, “you collapsed on national TV in the middle of the game.”
It was too much to process, that horrific night on December 12, 2020, when in a split second, Johnson’s life changed forever. The 6-foot-6 junior from Florida, then the Southeastern Conference Preseason Player of the Year, had just hammered home an alley-oop dunk against Florida State. The Seminoles called a timeout. A few seconds after the break concluded, Johnson returned to the floor; his body suddenly crumpled to the ground as he dived headfirst into the hardwood. He lay face down, motionless. He would have no memory of any of it.
Nika and Marrecus weren’t at the game. They were watching it on TV from their home in Norfolk, Virginia, nearly 775 miles away. Nika had just gone to the bathroom, but when she came out, Marrecus said: “I don’t see Keyontae.”
Something’s happened to Keyontae, Nika thought. She just knew, in the way that mothers do. A few moments later, their phone rang. Florida’s staff was calling, telling them to quickly pack a bag and catch the flight being arranged for them.
Keyontae’s heart had gone into a dangerously fast and irregular rhythm, resulting in sudden cardiac arrest. Florida athletic trainer Duke Werner saved Keyontae’s life, as he administered CPR before Keyontae was taken to the hospital.
The next few hours felt like days for his parents, who had so many thoughts and fears running through their minds at once. The phone call, the flight, the hospital. “It was the most terrifying time of my life,” Nika says, “not knowing if we are going to get there and he was going to be dead or alive.”
Each of the three days that passed felt heavier than the last. And then, finally, Keyontae woke up. As his parents talked to him, he and Marrecus made a sound to each other that they had been doing since Keyontae was little: “Yerrrrrr.” That was when Marrecus realized: “I knew he was all right.” He was so overcome with emotion, he had to leave the room to gather himself.
They would eventually find out that Keyontae had an underlying heart condition. But in the coming days, they all just tried to make sense of what had happened. When Keyontae woke up in the hospital, he didn’t remember his collapse; he was just a little disoriented because he had a tube down his throat. He knew who his parents were. He could move all his extremities normally. He asked his mother to show him the video clip of his collapse, given that he had no memory of it.
She refused to show it to him. She feared he would relive the moment in the way she had been over and over again. The clip haunted her. Whenever she shut her eyes to sleep, she’d see him falling to the court again and suddenly jolt awake. “I couldn’t get it out of my mind,” she says.
He kept asking, so she finally relented. But the clip didn’t seem to affect him as it had affected her. He was just grateful to be alive.
Before the collapse, Johnson had a promising future ahead of him as a projected lottery pick in the 2021 NBA draft. He was versatile on both ends of the floor, passionate in the way that he played. His joy for competing was almost palpable. Even as a kid, he wanted to do it all, not just score. And he brought that same all-around poise to Florida, with momentum building as he headed into his junior year.
The path seemed so secure, so certain. And then it wasn’t.
The near-death experience didn’t deter him. He still wanted to play basketball. No, he was going to play basketball again, he resolved. He felt he had so much more to show. To prove. The NBA had always been his goal. Though it wasn’t certain he would be physically able to play again, Johnson told himself he would still at least explore all his options.
“It’s just me not having fear,” Johnson says. “Just not going to take no for an answer until I know for sure I can’t do it.”
But returning to the court also had a catch. Johnson had the chance to collect an estimated $5.5 million tax-free insurance payment if he walked away from basketball altogether. Given that it was tax-free, it was even more tempting. Florida had taken out the policy on his behalf, as schools often do for high-level players who are likely future NBA players.
He declined the payout, determined to keep playing the game he loves without any assurance that he would ever even be cleared by the NBA, let alone play in it.
Many thought it was a shortsighted decision. Before his collapse, he had almost been guaranteed to reach the NBA. Now, his future was an impossibly large question mark. It was unclear whether he would ever play again, but Johnson knew he had to try.
He and his family heard the chatter: How can you turn down $5 million?! He should have taken the money and run! That’s so stupid! I would’ve taken it!
NIL money wasn’t a thing yet. But Keyontae’s focus wasn’t money. It never had been. A life without basketball? That was something he couldn’t imagine. He wasn’t willing to give up on his goal, no matter the cost.
“[The money] was definitely life-changing for me, and it could have changed my parents’ and my sister’s lives,” says Johnson. “But when I thought about it, it just didn’t feel right.”
Johnson sat out for nearly two full seasons at Florida after his collapse. He eventually transferred to Kansas State, seeking a fresh start and a chance to play again, and was cleared to play. Johnson had undergone comprehensive evaluation at the Mayo Clinic and at other medical centers. His cardiac team became comfortable and confident in Keyontae’s unrestricted return to play under his treatment plan. He played at Kansas State without showing any symptoms.
Johnson had a magnificent 2022-23 campaign, leading the Wildcats to the Elite Eight and earning third-team All-American honors. He averaged 17.4 points and 6.8 rebounds while shooting 51.6 percent from the field that season, showing versatility and deep range and knocking down 3-pointers at a 40.5 percent clip.
His health status was also reviewed comprehensively by the NBA’s Fitness-to-Play Panel, and he was approved to enter the draft and become a member of the NBA.
Despite his comeback year at Kansas State, questions have remained about Johnson’s future in the NBA. He’s eager to show that he has a lot of basketball left in him. He’s 23, but because he was sidelined for two years, he has, in a sense, 21-year-old legs. His journey is almost just beginning.
And he will have a chance to prove himself, as the Oklahoma City Thunder selected him with the no. 50 pick in the 2023 NBA draft last Thursday. It was a beautiful moment, one that he and his family had envisioned for so long.
“Hearing my name called,” Johnson says, “was truly a blessing. … Being surrounded by my close friends and family. Just knowing a couple years ago my future was in question, I am just so thankful and full of gratitude to be given this opportunity, and I know I will make the most of it.”
He feels a chip on his shoulder to prove that he can play at the next level, that sitting out those two years didn’t affect him. That he didn’t make the wrong decision by turning down the insurance policy. “I definitely feel like I can still prove people wrong,” Johnson says.
He’s able to beat defenders off the dribble and pull up for jumpers with a silky-smooth release. But he can also muscle his way to the hoop. He has “a special gift,” says Kansas State coach Jerome Tang. He is incredibly athletic (42-inch max vertical), has a 7-foot wingspan, and pound for pound may be one of the strongest in his draft class.
“It’s like having three players in one person,” says Tang, who was named Naismith Men’s College Coach of the Year. Before coming to Kansas State, he’d spent the previous 19 seasons at Baylor, where he coached 14 players who went on to play in the NBA. “There was nobody his size that was as strong as he is or as quick as he is or as explosive as he is.”
Tang was impressed by Johnson’s overall physicality and on-ball defense and says it will translate well to the quick-paced tempo of the NBA game. “Everybody’s a really good player every night, so I think people are going to see a different level of his ability to guard the ball one-on-one,” Tang says.
More than any physical attribute, Johnson brings mental toughness and maturity. He’s had to contemplate what’s truly important to him. He knows that at any minute, all of this can be taken away. That motivates him; that guides him. “Every day I think about it, and I go ahead and take about 30 minutes to myself and just cherish the moment,” he says.
The tattoos on his left arm remind him of that mentality. He had most of them done in the first few months after his release from the hospital. He has his mother’s name next to boxing gloves and hearts, as she survived breast cancer. He has the faces of his grandparents Larry and Mary DeJarnett, who inspire him to keep faith.
He has a clock tattooed with the word “N:OW” inscribed on it, meaning “My time is now.” There are also poker chips: “Letting every situation fall into place.” Then, inside a speech balloon, comic-book style, the words “Write your own story.” “This situation is like me writing my own story in my journal,” Johnson says.
“I don’t want to be remembered as just the person that collapsed,” he says.
Many saw the clip of his collapse and now see him suiting up for NBA Summer League, but they don’t know the in-between. Those two long, painful years in between when he attended dozens of doctor’s appointments, had more MRIs than he can count, sat in waiting rooms in hospitals, tried to stay patient, not to get discouraged. He had to look at himself in the mirror each day and ask himself how far he was willing to chase his dream.
He’s approaching every day with the same attitude as he begins practicing with Oklahoma City. Before and after every session, he feels thankful he woke up that morning. Thankful he can run and jump and dunk. That he has the chance to show he has so much more to give. Thankful that all of this happened to him and gave him a perspective that’s rare for someone his age.
“People are always going to remember [my collapse],” he says, “and the way I bounced back is going to inspire people.”
Soon after waking up from his coma, Keyontae learned he would miss the rest of the season. That had been one of his first questions. But the extent of his condition was only just beginning to come into focus. He was devastated. He cried.
In the coming months, Keyontae underwent arduous medical testing, trying to figure out whether it would ever be safe for him to play again. Rather than return to the court, he became a student coach for Florida, scouting for the staff and offering support to his teammates. The Gators were more than his teammates; they were some of his closest friends. Coaching helped him feel like he was contributing in some way, but it was difficult. He felt helpless as Florida lost in the second round of the 2021 men’s NCAA tournament.
“It was just hard,” Johnson says. “I was supposed to be out there helping. It was supposed to be a big year for me, and just knowing I couldn’t do anything.”
He masked his pain, often smiling, brimming with positivity. “I’m trying to be the energy guy, where I’m being very positive, joking around, just making everybody feel comfortable,” he says.
He didn’t fear collapsing again. But when he was with his parents or by himself, sometimes he broke down and cried. It was painful not knowing where his career was headed. That creeping doubt occasionally led to a spiral: Will I ever play again?
He turned to his family, especially his mother, for inspiration. He saw how strong she was when she’d been diagnosed with breast cancer in October 2014. She began chemotherapy in March 2015. He’d sit with a basketball on the floor at the foot of the couch she was lying on to comfort her.
She promised him she would be OK, and told him to never stop fighting for his dreams.
So when Johnson was enduring his own struggles, he drew strength from her.
“I’m not finished,” he would tell himself. “God wouldn’t put me this close to end my career. He kept me here. He could have taken me. He kept me here.”
Keyontae and his parents decided to seek outside expert medical opinions around the fall of 2021 to get a better understanding of his condition and potential to play again.
He yearned to play and wanted to exhaust all his options. But Florida, prioritizing caution, wouldn’t clear him. Following SCA, the team’s physician and other athletic program stakeholders must clear an athlete to play. The team at the University of Florida weighed things in the balance and concluded, “No go.”
His parents started researching other options and were referred to a highly regarded cardiologist at the Mayo Clinic. After a week of extensive testing, the doctor told them that Keyontae would be safe to play with the right treatment plan: “First and foremost,” the doctor said, “he has the right to play basketball.”
The right.
Those two words meant a lot to Keyontae and his parents. They affirmed his desire to keep pursuing his dreams, as scary as the entire experience had been.
Nika remembers Keyontae asking the doctor, “If I was your child, would you allow me to play?”
“If you were my son,” Nika recalls the doctor saying, “I would first ask you if you could move on with your life without playing basketball. What would your answer be?”
“I could,” Keyontae said. “But I don’t want to. I don’t feel like my life would be the same without basketball.”
“With you answering it that way, if my son answered me like that, I would absolutely tell him that he would be safe playing basketball if he followed my instructions.”
That doctor put a treatment plan in place. Still, Florida wouldn’t clear him. Johnson didn’t want to leave. He was adamant about getting his degree in Gainesville. That had always been his goal since he was a kid, when he idolized the Gators and Tim Tebow.
He ended up staying for a second season—missing yet another full campaign—so that he could get his degree.
Keyontae and his family decided to find a school that would be better suited for him. He entered his name in the transfer portal. He knew some doubted whether he’d be able to play again after he sat out two full seasons. “I’m big on trying to prove people wrong when they said you can’t do something,” he says.
He began taking what Nika called “baby steps” in his second season as a student coach, slowly reintegrating himself back on the court per his doctors’ orders. He was allowed to do only stationary work, such as shooting drills. No running. No pickup games. No full-court and no contact drills. “I could not participate with the team,” Johnson says.
He wanted to explode, dunk, as he had always done, but he had to take his return to the hardwood slowly.
“The biggest hurdle was giving myself grace,” Johnson says.
It was tough, mentally, constantly being recognized on- and offline: “You’re the kid that collapsed.” It became almost an identity, attached to him. The most harrowing moment of his life had been on display for millions, and it followed him. He needed to visualize a new future to truly move forward.
He kept working as he considered where to transfer. He had many schools to choose from, and many were willing to clear him medically, but he felt Kansas State was the best place for him. He liked its medical staff and the plan it had in place for him.
Here it was, everything he had been hoping for. He finally had his second chance at playing again.
Johnson was a bit nervous the first time he got on the floor to run drills at Kansas State. “I was going [out] there, second-guessing,” he says. It was about two weeks after he arrived on campus, and it was his first time truly running at gamelike speed.
He knew, logically, that he was safe. He wore a heart rate monitor during practices and games. Kansas State also monitored how his heart was functioning as he slept at night.
But he couldn’t shake a certain feeling. Point guard Markquis Nowell could sense his discomfort, and he reassured him: “Bro, everything is gonna be fine. The medical team, they all got you. Just go ahead and hoop, man.”
Something in Keyontae loosened. He began to trust his body, playing with instinct, the way he always had.
Tang noticed how quickly Keyontae adapted given his limited training during the previous two years. “I thought by the time Big 12 [season] rolled around, he would start getting his legs and start to get his timing,” Tang says. Johnson was comfortable well before then, though. “It seemed like it was effortless for him.”
In the first game, against University of Texas–Rio Grande Valley, Johnson was so overcome with emotion about being on the court again that he couldn’t hear the crowd. He felt as if he were in a movie. And then he saw his mom in the stands and blew her a kiss.
She began to tear up. The fear she felt inside about another collapse began to dissipate. She beamed. It had taken so much for her son just to get here. Just to step on the floor again. And there he was, fearless, in his element.
Keyontae was in his own world. He felt as if he were on the court by himself, just shooting for fun. He drained three 3s en route to 13 points. He continued to thrive as the season wore on. He averaged 34 minutes per night.
“Every day,” Tang says, “you could tell he was thankful for the opportunity.”
He was named Big 12 Newcomer of the Year and first-team All-Big 12. “Proving a lot of people wrong,” Johnson says, “just showing them what I could do more. This conference was stronger than the SEC. We were playing tough competition, and I’m showing my skills after being out for two years.”
Johnson has a similar motivation now as he heads into his rookie NBA season. He yearns to show that he has a lot more to give. He doesn’t think about the what if. What if the worst happens again? “It can happen to anybody,” he says.
He is more keenly aware than most that he has a finite time on earth. But while he’s here, he hopes to give back by helping to place automated external defibrillators in gyms and other public places to increase the chances of survival for those who have experienced cardiac arrest. He aims to spread awareness about cardiac issues and sponsor heart screenings. “Heart screenings can catch potential heart problems early, so we can take action and prevent any serious issues,” Johnson says. He started The Key to My Heart and partners with Heartfelt Cardiac Connections as a spokesperson. He doesn’t want another family to go through what his did.
“When I share my story, I hope it motivates others to take their heart health seriously,” Johnson says. “The combination of CPR and having an AED present was a game changer in my life. I’ve been blessed with so much, and I truly believe my purpose is to save more lives through awareness of SCA and heart disease.”
He is reminded of his purpose when he looks in the mirror each morning and sees the tattoo of his grandfather Larry’s face underneath his shirt sleeve. He and Larry used to listen to jazz when Keyontae was little. As the two swayed to the melody, Larry always told him: “Be a mellow fellow.” Meaning just relax. Go with the flow.
Johnson remembers that advice as he takes the court for another workout, this time in a new city, with a new team, in Oklahoma City. He dribbles and rises toward the rim, full speed ahead. He doesn’t feel fear. He doesn’t second-guess himself. He knows exactly what to do.
Just go ahead and hoop.
