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.
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.
Like millions of fans, Kobe’s death affected me more than I thought it would. I didn’t know him, I wasn’t even a Lakers fan, but I respected him greatly. His preparation, his tenacity to compete, and his attention to detail made me root for him even when he was playing against my team.
As a Black male, I found myself in a weird place trying to understand why I couldn’t stop thinking about Kobe and Gianna and the rest of his family who was left behind to cope with his tragic loss. We’re taught at a very young age, directly and indirectly, that showing emotions is a sign of weakness. Under no circumstances do you cry or let others see you cry. But when Kobe died, people witnessed some of the world’s most notable Black men cry and show emotions. It was tough to watch because you could tell many of them tried to hold back the tears, and literally could not. The no crying rule in public had been broken. Sad because a man and his daughter died as well as 7 others in a horrific accident, but beautiful because it humanized Black men in a world that often strips them of their humanity.
But society continues to reinforce that crying, especially in public, is a negative attribute in every way possible. Combined with America’s fascination with sports… we don’t give our athletes time or space to show emotions, to live outside of their respective sport(s); and if you’re an NBA or NFL fan, chances are the subjects of such reinforcement are young Black men.
While the world witnessed notable Black men crying for weeks after the news broke and at the memorial service, they probably didn’t think much of it. But millions of Black men saw those same tears and raw emotions and realized it’s ok to do the same. And that’s a huge win for their long-term mental health, and ultimately their families and communities.I probably won’t immediately start crying the next time I’m hit with tragic news, but if it hits me hard… I now know it’s ok to do so. If WebMD and other studies are correct regarding crying helping our mental health, then by not doing so would do the exact opposite. Compound that by decades and decades of not crying, and you can imagine the negative impact and toll it can take on someone’s mental health and the communities they live in.
Most change isn’t easy, but most change is good, and inevitable.
We all wish Kobe and Gianna were still here. But if through Kobe’s tragic departure millions of Black men can realize that showing emotion is a strength and not a weakness, then Kobe might’ve made his biggest impact of all, and it had nothing to do with basketball.
Filled with plastic trays and your typical school lunch fare, we all sat like Black Vikings at these elongated brown tables. While the top five floors of St. Edmund Preparatory High School were for a formal education of the mind, the basement lunchroom tables were for informal debate. In those days, watching the basketball team play on cold Friday nights in Brooklyn was the must-see event of the week. Naturally being a starter on the basketball team, I earned my seat with the jocks, upperclassmen, and the “cool kids.” It was 2002 and our junior varsity basketball team had just won the city championship the previous year and I had lost weight to prepare myself to play on the varsity level. Socially, I was dating my first girlfriend, I had lots of gelled curly hair, and admittedly was feeling myself. Our coach mostly played upperclassman and I struggled to find minutes on the court that season, but otherwise, life was good.
A bit of a bookworm and a basketball junkie, I couldn’t wait for my issue of Sports Illustrated to arrive every week. I’ll never forget that week in February of 2002 that I received my issue with a kid that kinda looked like me on the cover along with the words “The Chosen One” emblazoned in white letters. As a deeply religious teenager, you can image how incendiary I felt that cover was, but it only inflamed my curiosity even more: Who was this kid? And why was the iconic Sports Illustrated magazine saying he could play in the NBA as a high school junior? I was a high school junior and was struggling for minutes at St. Edmund and you’re telling me this kid can play with Shaquille O’Neal (my favorite player at the time) in the NBA?! Where is Akron, Ohio anyway? Why does his school name have two hyphenated saints? Who is this kid?!
Because my family invested in the luxury of books and magazines, we were probably one of the last families to order cable television. So when LeBron James made his television debut in December of 2002, I did not get to watch ESPN broadcast the first nationally televised high school game featuring LeBron’s high school team, St. Vincent-St. Mary. Trust me when I say that I actually asked my mom if I could go watch a high school kid play basketball at a friend’s house. I have Caribbean parents so you can imagine how that conversation went with my mother: “Are you crazy? No, you’re not going to no Wesley’s house to watch no game ah esta hora a la manana! Are you crazy?” Obviously, I wanted to be prepared for the following days’ lunchroom debate to give my reaction of the kid they were calling “King James.” Alas, I was relegated to reading about him in the paper the next day. He dropped 31 points? Who is this kid?
The following year I was voted as one of the captains of the varsity basketball team. Although I was our team’s grossly undersized center, we hoisted our second New York City championship before losing in the state tournament. But I had earned the respect of my basketball peers and was voted All-City along with two of my teammates by all of the head coaches in our league. Meanwhile in Ohio, LeBron also won a city championship, but he then went on to win a third state championship and second Mr. Basketball award for the state of Ohio. He went on a few months later to be drafted the overall number one pick by his home state team, Cleveland Cavaliers. By his NBA debut in October 2003, Nike had already signed him to a record $90 million dollar endorsement deal and the pressure was mounting for LeBron to deliver that night. Although we still didn’t have cable, my mamma couldn’t tell me nothing now that I was in college, so I went to a friend’s house to watch his debut versus the Sacramento Kings. This time I didn’t have to read about it in the paper: he had 25 points, 9 rebounds, 6 assists, and 4 steals. Who is this kid?
I graduated college in three years with a 3.6 G.P.A, and in those three years, I had three internships and three jobs. You do the math. My hard work paid off and in 2007 I was proudly hired by the iconic American company, American Express. “Is this what it felt like to be drafted,” I wondered at the time. A designer that I knew from college reached out to invite me to LeBron’s Nike sneaker release party in lower Manhattan one night. I partied a lot in those days and as I was playing NBA 2K at the event a voice asks from behind me, “Who’s winning?” I turn around and it’s Lebron James in a cream mink vest. I keep my cool and simply respond, “You.” He laughs and we dap each other and he walks away. Later that summer, LeBron was taking his grossly inexperienced and relatively untalented team to the NBA Finals for the first time in Cavs franchise history – and in only his fourth year in the league! Who is this kid?
I was having a great year at work and was on my way to receiving the company’s highest rating for elite performers. In the spring of 2012, I was selected from thousands of employees to be a member of the highly selective, Global Rotation Program, which afforded me the opportunity to live in Sydney, Australia. About to embark on what would be the professional and personal journey of a lifetime, I watched from my work computer at the Amex Tower in Sydney, as LeBron won his first NBA championship as a member of the Miami Heat. He was winning on South Beach and I was winning on Bondi Beach. Who is this kid?
In 2016, I signed the largest deal of my sales career to date and Lebron had returned to the Cleveland Cavaliers to win their first championship in franchise history – the state of Ohio’s first professional championship since 1964 – his third ring overall. Since then, as I write this piece, I am at a moment of transition in my career and LeBron recently announced that he was leaving Cleveland, transitioning to the legendary Los Angeles Lakers. Who is this man?
Over the last 16 years, the world has come to intimately know Lebron Raymone James and his family. And in a sense, he and I have grown up together. From the evolution of our sense of style to our ever-receding hairlines, I’ve grown up with King James as a reflection of my generation. And in my own small way, possibly even a reflection of myself. As a double entendre, he is the celebrity look-alike that I get most often.
The Michael Jordan vs. LeBron James debate will fervently continue to go on and that is a piece for another day. Yet, there is something LeBron did this week that continues to set him apart from not only all the other sports greats before him but as one of the great philanthropists of our time. In addition to lending his voice to social issues and spending $41 million dollars in 2015 to sponsor 1,100 college educations, this week he opened a public school in Akron whose mission is to aid students and parents of underprivileged families in Akron. Certainly, other athletes (like Dikembe Mutombo, who built a state-of-the-art hospital in his native Democratic Republic of Congo) have given back to their communities in major ways. Though what LeBron is doing is slightly different given the scale of the impact that he is achieving through educating children and college kids. This is a shining moment in a darkened backdrop of Black Americans deeply complicated relationship with the American Education system. Perhaps, his legacy through education will even shine brighter than his legacy as a basketball prodigy.
In Grant Wahl’s now iconic Sports Illustrated article from 2002, he famously described the meeting between “His Airness and King James,” as akin to when a teenage Bill Clinton met JFK. But maybe the photo above is actually the more appropriate comparison.
That’s who that man is… I hope to follow in his footsteps.
Possibly the most popular, unpopular thing in America is Baseball.
Every year around Halloween, polls are conducted on what’s America’s favorite candy to eat. Oddly, a frequent top choice is candy corn. Candy corn, in my anecdotal experience, is eaten only during Halloween, and after which, mysteriously is absent from the stores and consumption from people. Candy corn is also not a candy in which the masses draw too or crave. It’s not a very popular candy, yet during Halloween, it’s everywhere. You will never see a kid skipping down the street eating candy corn in July, not a chance. So how is it so popular? The same way baseball is popular, it’s ingrained into Americana, but not by choice, by circumstance. I’ll explain.
Circumstance.
Baseball by and large is played without much interruption from other sports. Baseball is synonymous with summer, which is the time of vacations and overall group activities. From work outings to student five dollar night, baseball is an excellent option for group outings on the cheap. For most, that’s about as good as it gets. Unless you’re 55 and a White male, which is the current average demographic for baseball. Football average age demographic is 47, and basketball… 37, basketball is also the second most popular sport in the world, but that’s for later.
Though baseball is still very much popular, it’s not very much liked. The Major League Baseball All-Star game is this week, and more news and attention has been dedicated to Lebron joining the Lakers and where disgruntled San Antonio Spurs star Kawhi Leonard might get traded. The sport has become candy corn. Something only good for the special moment – the more enjoyable venture takes precedence once the moment is gone. Just like candy corn is taken off shelves as soon as November 1st hits, baseball is put on the backburner to football as soon as the calendar hits September. The patriotic sport with the most history has largely taken a back seat to the more popular sports of football and basketball.
How did this happen?
Baseball has not embraced the Latin culture of its Latin players.
The pace and the length of the game is the slowest and longest ever in baseball history, aka boring.
The biggest stars of baseball are virtual unknowns outside their respective markets.
Baseball doesn’t even generate funny internet memes.
Baseball is largely absent from talks on social media to the workplace water cooler.
But unlike candy corn, which is relevant for only its “once a year” glory, baseball still has the distinction of being the most successfully solely Black run enterprise in America… the Negro Leagues. Baseball is also a much safer sport than football, and as previously stated a much more cost appropriate sport than basketball to see live.
But with all that being said, baseball has a decision to make… either be candy corn and marked 3 bags for five dollars and liked only as a niche market, or become relevant again and be embraced. If not, all it will be is a place for sales professionals to have “team building” ventures, and while there, only buy expensive beer and talk about if Lebron can lead the Lakers to a championship.
America’s changing… is baseball in fear of being left behind?
As a young child, I had dreams of being an Olympic gold medalist, a professional basketball player, and a WWF (before it became the WWE) superstar. I just knew I’d be able to do it all. I unfortunately had an injury in high school, which put a damper on those dreams.
However, I still received an athletic scholarship to work (not play) with one of the main sports teams at a major university. This scholarship helped cover my tuition, books, and a few other expenses such as housing and my campus meal plan. In return, I spent roughly 5-6 hours a day at the athletic facility between practice, game prep, study hall, etc. On game days, I spent more time at the facility than the athletes did! Did I forget to mention, I had a full course load of classes?
Although I came from a privileged family, my parents never gave me an entitled upbringing. That meant if I needed something, I had to work and earn it, which included everything I needed in college. It really started to hit me towards the end of my freshman year when I had exhausted the extra funds I was granted via my scholarship, loans and other awards. I needed additional income to be able to travel home, go out with friends, and do normal everyday activities!
I was fortunate enough to find a work-study position in one of the school’s offices that was willing to work with my hectic athletic and class schedule. If I had one free hour in the day or even just one free hour in the week, they’d let me come in and work. The work-study position allowed me an opportunity to earn extra income, but the athletes on my team didn’t have that option because of compliance rules. I knew many of the players would’ve loved to earn an honest extra income especially during the off-season or free time between classes and practice. As a result, some of them unfortunately resorted to wrongful activity that I will not discuss.
So what is my perspective? I can go both ways on this argument. The NCAA, specifically Division-1 televised sports, is a billion-dollar industry and a major source of revenue for institutions. The athletes who contribute to that success should be compensated accordingly. But, college tuition costs between 30-120k or more for many of these four-year institutions, and these collegiate athletes should be grateful for that. Right? But what about the athletes who are walk-ons who contribute to a successful team but aren’t receiving any type of athletic scholarship? The time they put in and the contribution they make still helps that team; yet, they’re receiving no scholarship or type of compensation. What about the other collegiate sports that aren’t moneymakers for the university? Does that mean only football, basketball and baseball players should get paid? What about the irregularities that also exist between the male and female team funding?
There are so many factors that exist that I haven’t even mentioned, and all of them contribute to the very reason on why a solution hasn’t been made. Considering the disparities that exist between the different programs and the different schools, I do believe that potential resolutions should be thoroughly examined on a case-by-case basis. I do like the thought of athletes at major Division-1 teams being considered as student work-study employees. Higher performers receive higher wages; bonuses and additional grants or scholarship aid is given based on individual and team performance. Also, walk-ons and those without scholarships should be able to receive some type of funding for their work contribution. This could help student-athletes learn the valuable aspect of money management, which tends to be the ultimate demise for many professional athletes. Whatever the solution is, student-athletes need to be valued and compensated considering the billion-dollar industry that relies solely on their athletic ability.
