“It doesn’t matter if we win or lose, it’s how we play the game.”
An old cliche that finally made complete, visceral sense to me this past week.
Covid has kept family and friends apart for so long that simple occasions that we once took for granted now feel like an historic achievement.
I got a bunch of family and friends together to play a simple kickball game. There were people present I hadn’t seen in a few years, some for a decade.
With heat, mosquitos, and small children (I had 2 toddlers to corral), I didn’t give us great odds to get though an inning let alone an entire game.
But everyone there seemed to understand the ever rarer ability for occasions like this to happen in these Covid times. Even the young ones, 7 to 14, hustled to their field positions or stepped up to the plate in pro timing with a sense of importance and urgency.
We got through 7 full innings with a very productive game of 3 outs or 5 runs per inning: double plays, home runs, peg outs, force outs, and more.
The young ones weren’t given special treatment so when they got on base or forced an out, there was a real sense of achievement and not a cheap pandering feeling.
I happened to be the final out of the game (I got pegged out representing the tying run). And when we lost, I had perhaps a brief sigh of failure before turning to the overriding sentiment we all shared: SUCCESS! WE HAD COMPLETED A GAME!
I had participated in one of humanity’s longest standing art forms: Sport. Whether to stay physically fit, for enjoyment, or to practice necessary survival skills like hunting or combat, Sport is an all time great achievement of our species.
Knowing I had been part of a successful execution of a single game of kickball was so satisfying, I did not care at all that we had lost.
This is why the Olympics are so important. Sport is happening. Peace is happening.
So much value is placed in winning and that is well and good (it is PART of Sport: to win), but if we do not value the ability to even execute sports, if there is no greater society to functionally host, or if cheating destroys the entire foundation and spirit of a game… then winning means nothing.
The real victory is having any games at all and completing them properly.
This goes for politics as well: the real victory is having a system that allows for fair elections and functioning government at all.
My biggest takeaway from this simple, kickball game is that I will teach my children to play hard, compete with everything they are capable of, and give every last ounce of life to their pursuits – Sport or otherwise; but to value the higher morality most of all: that we even get to play the game – Sport or otherwise.
We made it! We’re in our third week of 2021, and 2020 has not come back to life yet. 2020 was special and given I’m a sports fan, I could not wrap up 2020 without using a sports analogy. 2020 was a lot, and dozens upon dozens of events, people, and places made it special. And just like in professional sports, there are countless great players who turned in a great season, but there’s always one player who can stand out for a particular reason, that person being the most valuable person of the year.
Before giving my MVP award for 2020, I wanted to give a backdrop to the thought process.
We all know Peyton Manning, before Papa Johns and Nationwide Insurance commercials, was once a very good NFL Quarterback. Such a great Quarterback, that he was considered by some to be the 2011 MVP, which was not surprising for an eventual winner of five NFL Most Valuable Player awards. However, in 2011, Peyton Manning DID NOT play a single game. In the 2010 season, Peyton led his Indianapolis Colts to a 10-6 record clinching a then NFL record ninth consecutive postseason appearance. Coming into the 2011 NFL season, the Indianapolis Colts were usual favorites to compete for a Super Bowl, mainly because of the reliant greatness of Manning. In the Spring of 2011, Peyton underwent a series of possible career-ending neck surgeries, given he was 35… the Colts released him. The Colts went 2 -14 without him. A record that gave the Colts the number one pick in which they drafted Andrew Luck. Peyton, he made out okay going to Denver and winning another Super Bowl.
So it wasn’t Peyton Manning’s actual gameplay in 2011 that made him so valuable, it was what he DIDN’T DO (keep that in mind for later) that made him so great. If Peyton doesn’t get cut by the Colts, the Andrew Luck pick is now for my beloved Washington Football team to pick, and instead of Robert Griffen III, we get Andrew Luck. Denver doesn’t get Peyton and has to seek other QB options, meaning they don’t face the Panthers a few years later in the Super Bowl. And so on and so on.
Get it??? So now for the actual 2020 part of the 2020 wrap up.
Like it or not, Donald Trump was a major part of your life in 2020. Yes, Trump literally trumped every person, place, or thing that took place in 2020.
Like the fly that landed on Mike Pence’s head during the Vice Presidential debate, it took me a while to write a 2020 wrap-up. Just as never in history had a fly and a human-made contact and neither reacted to it, 2020 was simply that, a year in which events unfolded unlike never seen before. The lion share of those events centered around Covid-19 and only one person bears the most responsibility for the United States’ response to the virus…
Trump.
He’s the MVP of 2020, and here’s why.
Time magazine got it all wrong. Joe Biden and Kamala Harris should not have been selected as “person of the year.”This is not a slight against them, I voted for them. To be candid, it’s because the Biden/Harris ticket won primarily off the disastrous handling of the COVID-19 pandemic by Trump.
No way, Joe Biden… if “the safe government job you got out of college as opposed to taking that internship at MTV” were a person… even wins the Democrat nomination. The Democratic nomination seemed to be going the way of Progressives like Sanders and Warren; however, once COVID-19 and the dangers of both the virus and lack of leadership from Trump hit, most saw the only goal in 2020 was to vote out Trump. Whoever was most “fit” to make that happen, all who didn’t storm the US Capitol Building… really didn’t care who that was.
As early as Feb 2020, Trump was made aware of the dangers of Covid-19 and decided, for political purposes, to ignore it. Granted, Trump has ignored any and all relevant issues since becoming POTUS, but 2020 was his Jay-Z’s Blueprint album. He went all out in a classic way… Trump ignored to address the problems of the nation in the areas of health, science, race relations, police brutality, the environment, immigration, energy… the list is too exhausting to continue. All of these elements led to a historic turnout amongst voters, Georgia going blue… twice! Sports arenas and courts dotted with “VOTE” and “BLM” messaging, just to name a few. Trump’s actions of 2020 have seemed to spawn a sense of activism and political awareness not seen since the 1960s.
Post-election, Trump has acted like a true disgruntled employee. First, by making constant outlandish attempts to overturn the election. Trump and his Four Seasons Total Landscaping Rewards Member friend, lawyer, and hair color expert, Rudy Giuliani, made every attempt to overturn the election claiming fraud. Fraud in which no one on the Trump team could ever produce any sort of evidence proving there was fraud in the 2020 Presidential Election.
Back to the Peyton and the 2011 Indianapolis Colts… Trump’s 2020 magnum opus year was a year like Peyton’s in 2011. Similar to Peyton never taking a snap in 2011 and it having ripple effects throughout the entire league for seasons to follow, Trump’s inability to lead has effected the entire country… particularly his inability to immediately respond to COVID-19 has led to more than 300,000 Americans dying and counting, not to mention a host of failed policies and procedures in which the ramifications will be felt for years to come. Who knows how different 2020 and the years to follow would have been if the dangers of COVID-19 were immediately addressed by Trump when he was first told.
And then there’s January 6, 2021. An event in which the 2020 MVP became the most dangerous hype man for. An event, at the most, was an outright Coup d’etat, and at minimum, a terrorist mob. An event that shows the 2020 MVP, may not play many games in 2021, but please believe he’s still got some sacks to deliver to the American people.
Over the past few years, Los Angeles Clippers Forward Kawhi Leonard has created a basketball resume that has thrust him into being considered one of the best in the NBA. Rightfully so, he is a back to back defensive player of the year and has been named an NBA finals MVP for two different teams. The awards along with his dominance in the playoffs have led some to state he’s now the best player in the league. Ousting LeBron James, who is universally considered the best player in the world for over ten years straight.
In the words of ESPN college game day commentator Lee Corso, not so fast!
The epic second round collapse Kawhi and the Los Angeles Clippers suffered at the hands of the Denver Nuggets, is not the only mark against why Kawhi should not (and never should have been) compared to LeBron James as the games best.
Here’s why.
Even more so than Tim Duncan, the NBA has never seen a superstar as removed from the media and spotlight, as well as his own teams like Kawhi Leonard. He has a global platform to use and doesn’t use it for anything. Not even to promote the game of basketball. He says nothing and we know nothing about him. But that should not count against him for anything basketball related. It does take into account being the best overall. However, to be the best, you must have an on and off-court presence.
For example….
Simply look at the press conferences post the loss to Denver after game 7. Head coach Doc Rivers had true words to say, even Lou “lemon pepper Lou” Williams (a nonstarter for the Clippers) had more substantial words to say. Kawhi, barley nothing. He’s the best player for his team, yet had the fewest words to say about their epic loss to a team after being up 3 – 1.
Now let’s take a look at the NBA Finals MVP in which he rightfully won. The following is to not discredit his accomplishments, rather to put them in their respective place amongst the greatest. In this case, specifically against LeBron James.
Kawhi’s first finals MVP, the 2014 NBA finals.
In a revenge series with the San Antonio Spurs in 2014 Kawhi won the finals MVP. The Spurs had lost a seven-game series classic against the Miami Heat in 2013. In the 2014 Finals, LeBron dropped 28 PPG (points per game) against Kawhi’s defense. The highest PPG total for either team. No other Miami Heat player outside Dwayne Wade averaged more than 15 PPG. Simply put, LeBron was the only Heat player that showed up to that finals. The Spurs on the other hand had four players drop at least 15 PPG in the series. Kawhi won MVP for he was the best amongst a team that played some of the best overall team basketball to date in the NBA finals history. Thus the real reason he won MVP, not cause he “locked down” LeBron James.
Kawhi’s second NBA final MVP, the 2019 NBA finals.
In 2019… in a LeBron-less Eastern Conference (he joined the Los Angeles Lakers in the offseason), Kawhi forced a trade from the San Antonio Spurs and ended up on a “one player away” team in Toronto (the Toronto Raptors had the best record in the Eastern Conference the year before). He won against a hurt Golden State Warriors squad (if Kevin Durrant or Thompson weren’t hurt, GS would have won), whereas the Raptors had everyone healthy and ready to go. Once again, Kwahi just happened to be the best all-around player on a very good, well-coached, and healthy team.
The here and now.
Now in the same conference, LeBron took a less talented and older Lakers team to the number one seed over Kawhi and the Clippers, and has beaten the Clippers in their last two outings… before the shutdown and once in the post-shutdown NBA bubble.
Kawhi’s hand-picked superteam Clippers team had to go six games against the Dallas Mavericks. A team that only had one great healthy player in Luka Doncic. Only to advance and lose after being up 3-1 with a loaded Clippers squad against the Denver Nuggets.
LeBron wouldn’t be allowed back in the country if that were to happen to him. LeBron losing in the second round with a handpicked team!? It would have ruined his legacy.
So… a claw (Kawhi’s nickname due to his defense) may be good in a little dogfight, but I’ll take a King for the long haul!
Please Don’t Boycott Games. Public Awareness is not the issue right now. One would have to be living in a monastery somewhere away from all civilization to be ignorant of the current disparities in criminal justice between different races in the United States.
Also, it’s unlikely anyone will see that the Celtics and Raptors aren’t playing and suddenly change their mind about such a deep-seated issue as racial injustice.
So what does a boycott accomplish?
There will be no money generated for truly good people (the players particularly, but also the coaches, managers, staff, owners, and other employees who seem to be 100% all on the same page about this).
The world will receive none of the messaging that NBA players have so successfully brought to each game via text, video, and spoken word.
A gaping hole will emerge in media content that will be filled with more of the wrong voices, particularly the current RNC convention.
What does playing accomplish?
Playing will generate more money to help fight the system via political power, programs, education, protecting polling locations, etc.
More of the right messaging from the right people will be front and center on prime time television.
Playing games with a heavy emphasis on racial justice will prove that an industry can not only exist, but thrive taking a very firm political stand (whereas conventional wisdom is to never alienate one’s audience in pursuit of the almighty dollar).
Although boycotting might seem like an effective gesture, it will be rendered meaningless almost immediately after the moment has passed.
Political power and cultural consensus is the goal right now for anyone fighting on behalf of Black Lives Matters.
Finally, as Trump proved in the 2016 election, the loudest and most media-dominant voice will take all the oxygen. These NBA Playoff games are keeping the focus on some of the most talented, wealthy, and brilliant minds one could ask for in service of the greater good. Let’s keep it there as long as possible.
For 5 weeks I’ve been living life in the WNBA bubble, also known as the wubble, in Bradenton, Florida at the prestigious IMG Academy.Players and team staff are quarantined, tested daily, and holding social distancing practices as much as possible. We practiced, ate, and gave medical care while getting used to our new normal without being allowed to leave the premises. Well, as much as possible around teens who were on campus for various sports camps and Academy staff who were going home to their families everyday. I guess you could say that we were separated from them as much as we possibly could, although I did find out that Academy staff were being tested every 2-3 days as well.
I’d be foolish if I said that everything was well-planned and that the logistics were perfect from day one, but through some trial and error, and constant communication, we seem to have hit a bit of a sweet spot. For instance, every person on each team’s travel party had to take 3 coronavirus tests prior to flying out to prove that he/she had not been exposed to the virus. The testing did expose several players prior to leaving and even caused one team to delay departure due to multiple positive results. However, once given the “all clear” we were placed on a commercial flight which, from our city, happened to be a full flight that allowed for no social distancing at all. Thankfully, as a healthcare provider, I was well prepared with an N95 mask, face shield, gloves and enough wipes to sanitize the entire plane. Upon arrival, we then mixed in with the rest of the people in the airport- although by no means full- Florida had just been rated a growing coronavirus hot spot, so even a handful of people warranted suspicion.
Once we arrived as a team at the IMG premises, we picked up our room or house keys and set out to find our dwellings for the next 4 days where we would be quarantined again. Meals were delivered 3 times a day, and grocery delivery services became fast favorites of everyone. The only time of day that we were allowed to leave was for the daily testing procedure that was scheduled by team so that we did not potentially cross-contaminate one another. After the initial quarantine period practices began for 2 weeks until the season finally kicked off on July 25.
While there have been a small number of true positive tests, most teams have stayed to themselves still, with the occasional moments of mingling at meals or the pool. When a positive result is returned, all team leads are notified, with care to protect the identity of the person to decrease the stigma. The athlete or staff member is immediately isolated in a designated off-campus hotel and tested again for the next 2 days to determine whether or not the result is true or false. In some cases, if there is a roommate or family member present, appropriate care is taken to retest and isolate them if necessary as well.
The elephant in the room was the noticeable differences between what was shown and exposed about the NBA bubble compared to the wubble. For instance, our testing seemed to be administered using a different procedure almost daily, by different people- some getting good samples and some barely seeming to scratch the surface. The problem is that an insufficient sample is listed as “positive,” causing the individual to be isolated at a remote site and having to wait at least 2 days to obtain consecutive negative results. This has lead to missed games and practices. Instead, the NBA has access to rapid tests to be used in similar cases which can turnaround results within hours and avoid an unnecessary isolation and missed games. Let’s not even talk about how it’s taken the entire 5 weeks to get someone (2 people to be exact) into the wubble to staff the hair salon for a limited 2 week period to do hair for a couple hundred women and the male staff, while the NBA has had multiple barbers on site from the beginning, and they rotate them out every 2 weeks. The WNBA doesn’t know if/when the hairstylists will return after this initial 2 week period. NBA players can also have family members visit and go in and out on designated days, while WNBA players cannot unless they came in on the first day as a caregiver for an accompanying child.
The disparities in services and accommodations are present and the topic of some conversations, but overall everyone recognizes the real reason we are here- to cut the risk of exposure to, and spread of the coronavirus. It is my opinion and has been for a few months now, that it will be difficult to play any sport without the use of a “bubble” experience. This takes a lot of time and effort to plan and raises multiple medical and logistical challenges. I applaud the medical professionals and team and league representatives who have labored tirelessly to make a season possible, and I believe that the NBA and WNBA have been successful because of it. Is it realistic to put all football (college or professional) or major league baseball teams into the same bubble where they only interact with one another, are tested daily, and don’t have to travel for games? Probably not. For this reason, I side with the college conferences that have decided to forgo all Fall sports.
I also applaud the NCAA for beginning to look at possible bubble situations for men’s basketball already, and hope that they can identify locations that can adequately support the unique needs of athletic medicine, performance and education of college athletes. I’d be lying if I said that I was 100% confident that the NFL season would start without a hitch. We have seen the challenges that MLB has faced when each team has been allowed to “create” it’s own bubble at the facility. However, trusting athletes to go straight home, not have outside company or even family visit, and the many other scenarios make it very difficult to predict outcomes from day to day. The truth is that America still has way too many people who don’t take the virus and it’s spread seriously, thus the decisions made away from the facility are often based solely on self.
I’m not sure what it will take for us to change our behavior collectively so that we can eradicate this virus, but hopefully, sports can help us unify in ways nothing else has been able to do.
The Washington District of Columbia Football Club…
For the first time in my lifetime, there’s a serious call for changing the nickname of the Washington DC professional football team. The team’s nickname is not one of opinion… it has never been a question of whether or not it’s racist or offensive.
Real simple, would you ever call anyone a “bleep-skin”? If you didn’t know the team name, would you even know the term existed? No… because it’s a terrible name and needs to be changed immediately. No one uses this term in real life, we all know why, let’s not play dumb.
Nowhere else in the world do you see sporting teams named after whole peoples. There is no such thing as the “Berlin Russians” or the Paris “Italians,” no because it sounds stupid and without substance.
So that’s that…
Now what should be the new team name?
I’ve seen a number of suggestions and they’re all over the place. From the respectable nickname of the “Red Tails” (to honor the Tuskegee Airmen) to the boring and lame “Presidents” and “Generals” to simply being called the “Americans.”
NOOOOOOOO!!!!
Just call it the “Washington District of Columbia Professional Football Club,” with no gimmicks, no mascot, no cheerleaders, no band. Just the coaches, trainers, scouts, and players.
Why?
For starters, we as Washington area sports fans already went through a terrible team name change. The Washington Bullets was a great nickname for our professional basketball team. No one, and I mean no one, hunted down anyone in the name of the “Washington Bullets” and shot them for said reasons. The reason for changing the name due to Washington’s murder rate is one thing, but to change it to the Wizards is just whack. Luckily our old red, white, and blue colors are back. But for years we were the laughing stock of the league due to lack of talent, ugly jerseys, and a terrible nickname.
Secondly… the new team name NEEDS to be done quickly, to revert the media’s attention and focus back to the game of football. Outside of a coupleRGIII’s here and a Sean Taylor (RIP) there, my childhood team has been ridiculously awful.
A no-nonsense type of approach and new name is exactly what that organization needs to change its image.
Lastly, the new name should be simple and straight forward, for it may bring some seriousness to Washington as a whole. The past few years we’ve seen the most illogical and asinine stances from people. Flat-Earthers to Trump voters refusing to wear masks amongst a health pandemic, it’s been a lot to take in. Maybe, just maybe, a team in the nation’s capital once named as one of the worst racial slurs in history could turn around and be a symbol of reason and progress. If the team were to change its name, show success, be a lead voice for what’s right, it COULD have an impact and trickle effect for the rest of the NFL and beyond.
If you’re a sports fan like me, you’ve been fixated on ESPN’s The Last Dance documentary. Outside the NFL draft and free agency, not much is happening in the world of sports. Sure, there’s entertainment elsewhere, but you can only laugh at hearing “Carole Baskin” so many times and as funny as it is, it cannot replace sports. Nothing can… except when the context is about sports. And the Last Dance delivers what we secretly love the most about sports… drama!
The Last Dance primary focus is the coverage of the Chicago Bulls 1998 championship year, a third in a row, and their second set of three-peat championships of the 1990s. The ten-part documentary series chronicles the 1998 season in addition to that championship season. The documentary examines several aspects of Michael Jordan’s years spent with the Chicago Bulls. The series reviewed the first three-peat championship years spanning from 1991 to 1993, only to have Jordan retire for the first time the following season to pursue baseball. There’s even coverage dating back to his college basketball days at the University of North Carolina under legendary coach Dean Smith.
The series also gives us the in-depth insight on Jordan’s relationship with his fellow teammates. From possibly the most underrated star in NBA history in Scottie Pippen to the man who said Carmen Electra wasn’t cute enough, Dennis Rodman. Relationship focus goes beyond the locker room with references to the 1992 US Men’s Basketball Olympic “Dream Team,” arguably the greatest collection of talent on one time of all time, and how Jordan the super-star related with other stars at the time. The “Dream Team” included not just basketball stars, but legendary figures such as Larry Bird, Magic Johnson, and Charles Barkley. With the inclusion of those greats and others came forever the controversial omission of Isaiah Thomas from being a member of that team, a feud he carries with Michael Jordan till this day.
The documentary brilliantly showcases how talented Jordan was, and how his drive combined with his talent led to him being the greatest basketball player of all time. Yes, this coming from a team LeBron guy, Mike is the greatest.
Michael Jordan has had the most successful career as a professional athlete in the history of all professional sports, and it’s not even close. His on-court dominance of winning six championships while never losing one and being the MVP of each championship season to his basketball brand of shoes and appeal being the premier brand worldwide will simply never be matched.
However, there is a matchup Jordan has not competed well against, and that’s social activism. And that’s OKAY. Yes, it is perfectly fine and okay that Michael Jordan is not thee face and champion for social change in the likes of Muhammad Ali and Lebron James.
It’s okay for Michael Jordan to simply dribble.
Back in 2018, FOX News Host Laura Ingraham stated Lebron James was stepping out of line for openly denouncing the actions of President Donald Trump. And that Lebron should focus on making millions playing basketball rather than being a political activist.
Lebron turned her comments into a full fledge documentary about activism amongst Black athletes.
What Laura Ingraham and others don’t understand… for Lebron James, Kevin Durant, Chris Paul, and many other prominent athletes, social activism means just as much to me as their talent on the court. Definitely a passion of theirs.
That was and is not Jordan. And that’s ok. It isn’t as if Jordan didn’t CARE about being on the right side of history, it just wasn’t his PASSION.
Michael Jordan also isn’t the biggest hip-hop fan. Shocking right! The man whose shoes have literally been the standard footwear of every rapper from Rakim to Da Baby. Air Jordan’s (J’s) are mentioned in every other rap lyric.
And though MJ could easily sing deep tracks of an Earth, Wind, and Fire record before acknowledging Da Baby and Lil Baby aren’t the same person, he and his Jumpman brand are still very much a part of hip-hop culture.
This is because the greats like Mike know what they’re good at, and what they’re not. He knows the difference between voting and supporting a man like Harvey Gantt for Senate in North Carolina over Jesse Helms, the epitome of a segregationist. He even donated money for Gantt’s cause. Jordan never has nor never will be the one on a podium trying to excite the crowd about a candidate. He’s excited the crowd through his play, the best ever. And him simply being great at dribbling is great enough.
He’s neva’ gonna come see you play, he doesn’t love you.
Dribble, spin, hook shot, rebound.
You’re not good enough for him to come see.
I was alone at Monsignor King Hall before practice one morning, working on my footwork.
The neckline of my green t-shirt was soaked in sweat. I was in the gym working my eleven year old love handles off to perfect my patented “drop step to the baseline” spin move.
The sound of the basketball bouncing off the kelly green floor and the squeaking of my sneakers were like music to my ears.
The season before I had fallen in love with basketball as a ball boy for the Monsignor King tournament. I had to be close to the action for the LaSalle high school game to witness one the nation’s top prospects, Ron Artest, play in the championship game.
My first teammates at St. Thomas Aquinas (STA) were a group of special kids: Izzy Bauta, Mike Blake, P.J. Marshall, Joey Romano, Nick Russo, and myself. We were coached by local mailmen, Joe Romano Sr., who was Joey’s dad, and John Browning.
Our team was good. Like, legendarily good. Our first season together we made a splash in Catholic Youth Organization (CYO) with an outstanding record. We’d easily score about 60 points a game. Any given game each of the starting five players could score 12-14 points each. I am still waiting for the local Catholic newspaper, The Tablet, to do a documentary on our successful run. We were unstoppaBULL. Get my drift? It was 1997 and who didn’t wanna be like Michael Jordan? Chicago was on fire that year, and so were we.
That year, people started to talk about how historically dominant we could become if we continued to play together throughout the summer.
And that’s saying somethin’. NBA Hall of Famer, Chris Mullen, used to workout on that floor and rumors have it that he once broke the backboards at Monsignor King Hall while practicing for the Dream Team before the ‘92 Olympics.
Yeah, so you could say that we were almost NBA Hall of Fame, Dream Team level nice, ok?
Anyway, that spring, we had won our first championship on a corner buzzer-beater against St. Rose. We had tasted the sweetness of victory and I wanted to improve my basketball skills over the summer.
But inside our apartment on 2525 Bedford Avenue, my world was crumbling. Dad was never home and the only time I’d hear from him was when he played music on Sunday’s. Sometimes he’d be so into his records that it felt like I was invisible to him.
With the hurt and anger towards my father growing, basketball was a much welcome distraction to muddle the chaos going on in my home and in my young mind. I had asked Mom if I could join karate to blow off steam but my mom felt that I might have been too much of a brute and injure the other kids my age. Not to mention that she just did not have the time to take me to practice with all that was going on in her life.
So when I came home from school energetically rambling about my desire to want to play on the basketball team, my mom initially rejected the idea. But she saw how excited I was and she finally relented with a little persuasion from another parent who offered to take me to weekly practices twice a week.
The turbulence when my dad would come home and the size of our cramped apartment felt like flying through rough air in a small airplane. The uneasiness from the tension created a cagey atmosphere that left me suffocating with resentment from how he had treated my mom and me.
Basketball was an escape to another dimension where I could be free to release the stress of my emotions. The more I poured my energy into the game, the more it gave me the fulfillment I was desperately searching for.
(Silverback’s Note: Read Power of Love Part: I, here. Remember, click on the section hyperlinks to listen to the tunes.)
Inside Monsignor King Hall, her voice rumbles across the court.
“LET’S, GO, GREEN! LET’S, GO, GREEN!”
My mother, sitting in the wooden bleachers, leans back, takes a deeper inhale and continues to bellow. I can hear mom’s voice from the center circle.
Just like her prayer time every morning, that voice got louder, and louder, and louder.
I adjusted my yellow Rec Spec goggles as the referee was giving our team’s final instruction. I can’t even hear him.
“LET’S, GO, GREEN!” “LET’S, GO, GREEN!”
Soon it’s the only voice that everyone can hear in the gym. There’s six minutes on the game clock to begin the first quarter and the scoreboard is buzzing with electric current. Adrenaline is running through my veins. The referee toots his whistle and lobs the ball into the air.
I won the tip-off, and Mom switched to a more provocative cheer.
“YOU. CAN’T. BEAT THE GREEN, YOU CAN’T BEAT THE GREEN!,” she shouts as we got into our positions to run our first play of the game.
Looking back, her volume was a somewhat obnoxious level of support considering that our team was about to dismantle our opponents during the first few minutes of the basketball game.
Monsignor King Hall was the home court to one of the most ferocious boys junior high school basketball teams in the history of Brooklyn CYO sports.
From 1996 to 1998, the STA boys’ basketball team would rack up 149 wins and 1 loss. We didn’t have a team mascot or a nickname so our fans would cheer for us using the color of our green cotton t-shirts. Our loudest super fan was my mom, Madeline Louison. At 330 pounds, she was also our largest and most gangster, cheerleader as well.
I can feel her fierce love and undying support with every echo of her voice that rang through the gymnasium. It’s that same voice that I can still hear in the echoes of my mind, passionately encouraging me to push myself to be better to this day.
She’s still cheering me on and is the driving force behind my competitive passion. She’s still in my corner encouraging me to strive for more through the power of her love.
You see, Madi has always been the personification of the Bible. She embodies the ruthless ferocity described in the battles of the Christian Old Testament combined with the warm loving narrative of the redemption story told in the Christian New Testament. That’s how I described her to my therapist, anyway.
“You know I am an atheist, right?” Dr. Brown says to me in one of our early sessions.
“Yeah, that’s cool,” I respond as I am sitting across from him at a wooden table inside his apartment office.
“Tell me about your mother but with less Biblical references so I can understand,” he says with a slight grin that accentuates the shine in his brown skin.
I had just completed unpacking my father’s story of origin to my therapist and it was time to discuss my mother. I found myself in the therapist chair because I was experiencing an emotional block in 2014.
The woundedness of my father’s absence during my childhood and the effects of two colossally failed romantic relationships as a young adult had left me broken and searching for healing. I was struggling with emotionally connecting with humans – I felt unable to love.
“My mom and I have a really close bond,” I respond. “We’ve had to be there a lot for each other through the years…”
My goggles were foggy from the perspiration. It was scorching outside and I could feel the heat rising off the gravel courts in the Coney Island public housing complex.
Our Dream Team was playing in our first summer tournament. We had made it to the championship of the 2nd Annual Stephon Marbury Basketball Classic.
Our team had not played hard enough in the first half to be competitive. It was halftime and Coach Romano was red in the face.
“Get your heads outta’ your asses and focus!” Coach Romano growled at halftime. He usually didn’t cuss at us but when he did his Brooklyn-Italian accent really came out.
Izzy and I plop our dense 180-pound frames into the lawn chairs. We both stood about 5’8 and our knees were protruding off the edge of the nylon seats. I cross my arms in frustration.
The PA announcer had been talking nonstop during the first half and it was good to finally hear some music blaring from the speakers set up near the courts. Jay-Z’s debut album, Reasonable Doubt, was playing during a break in the action.
Our team was not accustomed with losing and we began allowing the unfamiliar territory to disrupt our flow.
One of the parents passed around a bag of frozen orange slices to cool us down.
“Put those orange slices down and focus, Andy!” my teammate P.J. shouted. “You’re not boxing out!”
Focus, I thought.
How could I focus when all I wanted was for my Pops to come watch me play ball? I had so much heaviness on my heart. All of my teammates’ dads were there to watch them play. Even the ones that didn’t get much playing time.
Why doesn’t he want to hang out with me? I got game.
It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate my mom being there. It was just that she didn’t know much about sports and I just wanted my dad’s guidance like all the other boys. Some of my teammates wondered if I even had a dad at home.
Basketball apparently was a “waste of time,” according to him but the game I loved had already given me more than he ever had.
“Pick your head up!” my mother commands. “Get your head in the game. You’re letting those little guys get the rebound over you!”
We were playing in a rough neighborhood against a gritty team of all Black players from Coney Island. I was the only Black kid on our team and you could tell that my White teammates or their parents had never played in such a lively environment. Matter fact, they were the only White people participating in the tournament, the only White people on the basketball courts, and most likely the only White people for a few blocks.
Far away from our home court and in strange surroundings we were down by 15 points. We had been down before but not by this large of a margin. The pressure of the deficit and the exuberance of the crowd was becoming increasingly stressful.
Maybe we weren’t as good as we thought?
The horn sounded to start the second half. I looked on as all of my teammates’ fathers assured their sons and provided final instruction.
At that moment, something switched inside of me. The separation from my own father felt more pronounced. I felt so alone, so unprotected, so wounded. In order to protect the vulnerability of my feelings, a menacing ball of anger ignited inside me.
Enough.
We inbound the ball and I beeline to my spot on the post and call for the ball with gusto. I wanted to get a bucket.
The shot went up and I found a body to crash into as the ball was in the air. I boxed out, snatched the offensive rebound out of the air and scored on the put back layup.
“Oh he’s a beast on the inside!” the color commentator says to start the second half commentary.
Damn right I am a beast! I’ll ball out without my Pops.
The sound of male validation sparked such a self-confident feeling inside of me that I began to chase it by playing harder.
“Great rebound, Andy!” shouted one of the White dads.
Keep rebounding, they can’t stop you.
We score on a few back to back possessions and cut into the lead going into the final quarter.
Every time I glanced over to the stands and remembered that my father was not there I felt my blood boil hotter and hotter. I wanted every damn rebound. I wanted every freakin’ loose ball. I wanted to squeeze every pebble on the basketball’s leather skin.
Who needs a Pops anyway?
I was on a roll and our opponents didn’t seem to have anyone on their bench to match my ferocity in the paint.
I began mouthing off at the referee after he called a loose ball foul on me. I was being too aggressive positioning for the rebound, he said.
“I didn’t even touch him!” I lashed out.
Okay… so I elbowed the kid. But I had no capacity to care even if I was playing on their turf.
“Callate la boca,” my mom shouts. I am chewing on my jersey to keep from erupting and I softly whisper into my jersey, “That’s such a bullshit foul call.”
Well, at least I thought I whispered it, as the referee whistles me for a technical foul.
Coach Romano is besides himself and Coach Browning has to hold him back from yanking me off the court by the strap of my goggles.
He decided he can’t take me out of the game, we had the momentum and we needed a big body in the paint for rebounds.
Coach Romano found his composure and Joey huddled up our players at the center circle.
“Keep your head in the game big guy,” my teammate Joey said, slapping me on the head. “We need you in the game to win this.”
With Joey’s pep talk, I regained my composure and got back to dominating in the paint.
The game was back and forth as we entered into the final minute of the championship. We had clawed back to take the lead by one point with 42 seconds remaining on the game clock.
Just then, out of nowhere, a rainstorm soaked the court. Everyone scattered for shelter ending the game with mere seconds left.
When we all returned the following week to play, we had found our winning confidence. With NBA rookie sensation, Stephon Marbury, watching court side, we walloped their asses for the remaining 42 seconds left in the contest.
Marbury, A Kid From Coney Island housing projects, had just completed his rookie season for the NBA’s Minnesota Timberwolves as a member of the now iconic 1996 NBA rookie draft class that featured future all-time greats Allen Iverson and Kobe Bryant.
It was an odd way to end such a hard-fought game but we were going to meet an NBA player and take home a giant trophy. I couldn’t contain my excitement. I didn’t care much for Marbury at the time, other than that I could brag to my friends that I was somehow closer to Michael Jordan.
I can still hear mom as we victoriously left the basketball court that day.
“YOU. CAN’T. BEAT THE GREEN, YOU CAN’T BEAT THE GREEN!”
My mom and I were in a joyous mood on that drive home in the minivan. Boy, did we need that victory to lift our spirits. Winning gave us something to celebrate. I still wanted my dad to be there, but it was great to look up from the passenger seat and not see her tears.
Mom switched on the ignition of the minivan to pull off. The choir picks up mid track where the song had left off earlier in the day. This time the choir sounds so angelic, so sweet.
“Jehovah Rapha” the choir croons.
“You’re my healer…” mom and I triumphantly join in unison as we try to hit the high notes of the songs crescendo. We both sound terrible.
It was in Coney Island that I began to understand what the lyrics of that gospel song really meant.
Basketball had provided a space to set my pent up emotions free. Jehovah Jireh.
The game had supplied me with the confidence and male validation that I was craving in my father’s absence. Jehovah Shamma.
All undergirded by the support and the healing love that my little heart so needed. Jehovah Rapha.
In addition to my teammates, Mom and I have always been a team. I consoled her through the sting of her tears and she soothed the intensity of my rage. Our wounds shared a common source but the power of our love was more than enough to bring us through any challenge we faced together.
When I reflect on that era of our lives together, one of the tracks on my favorite album by Jay-Z comes to mind. The lyrics on Blueprint (Mama Loves Me) remind me of the things I asked God for in my nightly prayers as a child.
“Mama loved me, Pop left me…” Jay begins. “Mama raised me; Pop I miss you. God, help me forgive him; I got some issues…”
Thanks for always being more than enough for me, Mom. You’ve always been the answer to my prayers.
Even with the national shutdown and suspension of our normal way of life, most pastimes can still be enjoyed. If you have reliable internet service, you pretty much can get anything you need. Is it the same? Of course not. Seeing a movie meant for a theater release isn’t the same as streaming… no matter how big and new your television screen is. Yes, you can still order the Surf and Turf platter via delivery; however, it simply isn’t the same served in styrofoam. Considering it costs the same, you want the same taste and experience you’d get in the actual restaurant.
But it’s something.
Prior to this shutdown, I was in a gym rat groove. I still can run outside and use my dumbbells at home (don’t worry about the weight of the dumbbells). Is it the same as a full-fledged gym??? No.
But it’s something.
One aspect of society that cannot be modified, and for good reason, is sports.
Yes, ESPN is currently airing a HORSE basketball tournament between current and former NBA and WNBA players. I get it, they’re trying something. And I tried watching it. I really tried, it just simply wasn’t appealing to me. Aesthetically, it looked like it was shot on an Iphone 4. It was little action and mostly interviews with the players, the competitiveness was manufactured, and it wasn’t live. Sorry, something about the unknown of watching live sports is a major appeal to why we love it so much. I currently watch the classic games shown by various outlets, and love seeing the unknown in the face of fans as they watch something they don’t know or expect to happen. It’s a really special feeling only live sporting events can deliver. Either at the event or home, the emotion of fans cheering and live action is needed. A prerecorded HORSE competition simply can’t deliver that. And as a rabid sports fan, I only want the full return of sports. No more barnstorming and bad ideas, just the real thing.
I can watch a remote episode of a sketch comedy show or a news broadcast, not the same, but it’s something. And that something is currently the state of sports. Meaning, we don’t have a true understanding of how or when the shutdown will end. And that understanding is beyond and more important than sports. With that being said, if with the utmost safety we can get modified versions of sporting events, I think it would be welcomed by many.
Proposals such as playing in empty (fan-less) stadiums, playing in one arena and city, and other similar ideas of that nature are a good start. Sports is needed. The positive economic and social impact of professional sports teams on cities is beyond simple calculations. On a smaller scale, the same can be said for the economic and social impact of collegiate athletics (the NCAA) on college and university campuses nationwide.
The need to have an outlet for celebration and sports is inevitable and emotional. I just hope we don’t have to wait too long to experience it again.
The 2019 National Football League season will go down as a very special football season for many years to come. It was the 100th season of the National Football League in which they announced their 100 greatest players in league history. Secondly, it was the first season in which several Black quarterbacks were amongst the league’s best. With Baltimore Ravens Quarterback, Lamar Jackson winning the NFL MVP and Mahomes being the second Black quarterback to win the Super Bowl MVP, the league showcased what sensible people knew all along: Black quarterbacks are just as capable of leading their teams to victory as White quarterbacks – a mindset that still lingers in some fans, and even worse, some front-office decision-makers.
We’ve come a long way in American sports regarding race. We still have a lot more progress to make on race and gender issues in sports; however, this article will highlight how far we’ve come.
I want to tell the story of a great Baseball manager, John McGraw, and how his story serves as an example of racial progression in sports.
Most people have never heard of the legendary baseball manager John McGraw. McGraw, a man who died in 1934, is still considered “the best player to become a great manager” in baseball history. John played and managed his entire Major League Baseball career without ever having the opportunity to do so with any Black or nonwhite player. Unlike many of his contemporaries, McGraw did follow players and teams of the Negro Leagues. He did so up until his death, in which his wife found in his pocket a list of all the Black players he wanted to sign over the years. McGraw would never come close to being able to sign any Negro League players, for the league would not become integrated until the arrival of Jackie Robinson in 1947.
Unlike John McGraw, Andy Reid’s coaching career is most unique regarding race relations in sports. As mentioned before, the racism surrounding Black quarterbacks has kept hundreds of would-be good Black quarterbacks from being just that, quarterbacks. Which has led, up until very recently, in any given NFL season a handful of black starting quarterbacks.
Since Andy Reid’s coaching debut in 1999 to winning Super Bowl LIV, for the bulk of those years Donovan McNabb, Michael Vick, and Patrick Mahomes were his starting quarterbacks. In other words, in an NFL where only a handful of Black Quarterbacks exist, Reid has coached three of them over his entire career. Reid and McGraw are clearly alike, it should be about the players, not the politics.
Hopefully, articles like this won’t be necessary in the upcoming years for the hysteria around Black quarterbacks simply won’t matter, only if he’s got it or if he doesn’t. More importantly, never again will a manager or coach have to go to their grave not being able to sign a player simply because of the color of their skin.
