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.
Nine people… including Kobe Bryant, his daughter Gianna, Gianna’s teammate and parent, as well as the helicopter pilot, passed away today when their helicopter crashed in Calabasas, California, shortly before 10 am PST.
One of the world’s greatest players ever, and one of the most decorated… his numbers and accolades speak for themselves…
Despite every major news source confirming the bad news, it’s still hard for his close friends and family, as well as die-hard fans around the world, to believe that Kobe has passed.
The world quickly reacted, including Michael Jordan and Barack Obama:
“I am in shock over the tragic news of Kobe’s and Gianna’s passing. Words can’t describe the pain I’m feeling. I loved Kobe – he was like a little brother to me. We used to talk often and I will miss those conversations very much. He was a fierce competitor, one of the greats of the game and a creative force. Kobe was also an amazing dad who loved his family deeply – and took great pride in his daughter’s love for the game of basketball. Yvette joins me in sending my deepest condolences to Vanessa, the Lakers organization and basketball fans around the world.” – Michael Jordan
Many of us grew up with Kobe… we saw him mature, stumble and get back up, overcome adversity and tough injuries, and ultimately rise to become the star he was destined to be. Twenty years with the same team, we might never see that again. We either loved him or hated him; but above all, we respected him as one of the best.
Condolences to his wife, his daughters, close family and friends, and everyone who loved him from afar.
MAMBA, YOU WILL BE MISSED!
This article was originally published on 26 January 2020.
The two time defending NBA champions Golden State Warriors will have the chance to defend their title against either the Milwaukee Bucks or Toronto Raptors. The good money is on the Bucks, and for the sake of a competitive series against the Warriors, let’s hope it’s the Bucks. The champs managed to beat both the Houston Rockets and Portland Trailblazers… without four-time scoring champ and back to back NBA finals MVP Kevin Durant. Durant is questionable… at best… to play at all during the entire finals. Yes, the Warriors won a title without Kevin Durant, back in 2015. Those Warriors did win; however, they did so by needing six games to beat a Cleveland Cavaliers team who had just LeBron James, some guy named Matthew Dellavedova, and me. Both Kevin Love and Kyrie Irving were injured during the playoffs with Irving being injured during game one of the finals.
That one Kevin Durant-less title does beg the question, how good are the Warriors when all their title runs were against injured depleted teams or only with the current unbeatable version with Kevin Durant?
Well… there are two different truths to that answer.
The first truth. The Warriors built their main core via the draft. How a team drafts is the most honest and telling of true basketball knowledge in a front office. Steph Curry, Klay Thompson, and Draymond Green were all drafted. The Warriors can’t help who they face. They can’t help the fact Chris Paul and Blake Griffin never stayed healthy when the Clippers were the team most equal to them. They can’t the help James Harden and his Houston Rockets simply don’t translate their regular season into the playoffs. They can’t even help the fact they got Durant. He was a free agent in the summer of 2016, who could have gone anywhere and any team could have gotten him.
The second truth. The Warriors in 2015 lost against the Cavs. LeBron and the Cav’s loaded up in 2016 and beat the 73 win Warriors in a classic seven-game Finals. In 2017 and 2018 the Warriors had KD. And simply put, when you add a four-time scoring champion like Durant to a team with a perennial defensive player of the year candidate in Draymond Green, a two time NBA MVP in Steph Curry, and one of the greatest shooters in the game in Klay Thompson… no one is beating that team. No one. Not Russell’s Celtics, Bird’s Celtics, Magic’s Lakers, Mike’s Bulls, or Lebron’s Cavs… no one.
Which makes this title run the true test.
The Warriors without Kevin Durant going against a fully healthy squad in the Finals is something we haven’t seen since 2016 (when they lost).
Look, the Warriors ruined title competition the past two years with KD. The basketball Gods have balanced the playing field again. Which truth will unfold this time in June? If the Warriors win, their title run goes without question. If they lose, the true mightiness of the Warriors and their place in history will definitely be questioned, and deservingly so.
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.
Last week, LeBron James opened his I Promise School in his hometown Akron, Ohio. The $8 million public school focuses on at-risk youth and their families. The kids get free uniforms, free bicycles and helmets, free breakfast, lunch, AND snacks… their families get food pantries, their parents get GED and job placement services, and if or when the kids graduate, they get to attend the University of Akron for free. That’s a dream come true for 240 kids and their families, and a hell of a good deed for a man who could easily be worried about his transition to LA or his multiple business ventures. Instead, he decided to give back in the most significant way possible.
Regardless of your political views, where you’re from or where you work, it’s hard not to feel good about such a story that will have a positive impact on hundreds of kids and their families from day 1. Right?
Wrong… Trump couldn’t help himself. LeBron did an exclusive interview with CNN’s Don Lemon about the school shortly after it opened. In the interview LeBron was candid about how he believed Trump has successfully used sports to divide us. In typical Trump fashion, he attacked LeBron and Don Lemon on twitter.
And if that wasn’t petty enough, he added “I like Mike!”, which on the surface just looks like a jab in the on-going and never-ending debate of who’s better, MJ or LeBron.
But when you dig a little deeper and read between the lines, you should recognize the legitimate criticism Jordan has received over the years for his apolitical positions and lack of support and charity for communities of color. Considering many of the kids in these communities have struggled, fought, and in some cases died wearing his Air Jordan sneakers, you quickly realize Donald Trump liking Mike over LeBron has nothing to do with their game on the court. One could easily insinuate that he prefers the rich, quiet, passive Black athlete who’s happy with his money and status, like Jordan, instead of the rich, vocal, and extremely active Black athlete who is intent on pushing the conversation and having an impact on his community, like LeBron.
You got all that from “I like Mike!”? Yes, we did. But you be the judge.
Don Lemon being the dumbest man on TV and LeBron not being smart are just the latest dog whistle tweets and remarks in a long history of Trump attacking the intellect of Black people. More and more Republicans are starting to push back on Trump and his rhetoric… they push back on Russia and his odd obsession with Putin, they push back on his trade policies… but never on race, never when he takes an uncalled for shot at a person of color.
Will any prominent Republican’s denounce his tweets on LeBron? Probably not. In a country where minorities will soon be the majority, Republican’s might want to think about to trying to appeal to all American’s. Letting sexist, racist, xenophobic comments and remarks go unchecked, even if it is from the leader of the free world, will catch up to their party sooner than later.
Back in the day, I’m talking way before hashtags, Dr. Dre dropped his classic 2001 Chronic album. One of the lead singles was “What’s the difference,” a song in which Dr. Dre questioned why he had been the target of so much criticism for doing the same things other rappers had done in their careers. The song reminds me of the criticism of LeBron James, a criticism he receives that’s simply not exclusive to him as a player.
Despite very few flaws in his game, LeBron SHOULD get criticized for his blah career free throw percentage (upper 70s) and the fact that he averaged 4 turnovers a game this season, which is 2x more than his buddy Chris Paul.
But that’s not the criticism. Instead, most of the criticism and negative talking points about him have nothing to do with his actual game on the court. Two of them come to mind…
Taking his talents to South Beach and creating a “super team.”
So what. I’ve been to Cleveland several times, and I’ve been Miami several times as well… it’s a no-brainer. But that’s not the main gripe, it’s this myth that he “created” a super team and he was the first to do it.
Yes, LeBron, Chris Bosh, and Dwyane Wade were the first stars to construct the nucleus of a team; however, General Managers have been building teams with multiple stars for years. No team has ever won a championship without multiple all-star caliber players.
Let’s look at a few… Bird doesn’t win without Parish and McHale. Thomas doesn’t win without the Bad Boys. Jordan doesn’t win without Harper, Rodman, and Pippen.
And the second critique… Lebron’s not a “killer.”
A very subjective measurement of a player, and one that LeBron apparently doesn’t have. Lebron lacking the “Jordan” or “Kobe” killer mentality comes from his deferment to pass in situations rather than take a contested shot because he’s the best player. And the best player does whatever it takes to win.
Despite being the only player to average a triple-double in the NBA finals, leading multiple statistical categories on both finals teams for the past four years, and three NBA finals MVPs… he’s not a killer?
I don’t get it. I’m obviously a LeBron fan. But I just don’t understand the furious hate LeBron receives when other notable players seem to escape the same level of disdain.
I said all that to say this…
Considering serious social and political issues in our country, the uncanny criticism of LeBron is akin to the hypocrisy of American politics. Perfect example, Roseanne Barr was recently fired from her show for a series of racially motivated comments. The right has gone crazy suggesting a violation of free speech – the same free speech that NFL players exercised by silently kneeling during the National Anthem that they said was disrespectful to the flag and military, therefore justifying Colin Kaepernick and Eric Reed not having a job.
Perceptions and opinions have dangerously turned into facts. If having discussions and problem-solving were hard before, then they’ll likely be much tougher moving forward… tougher than Lebron and the Cavaliers playing the Golden State Warriors in this year’s NBA Finals. Just don’t say that in front of Kobe and Michael Jordan fans, because they simply won’t see the difference.
Point out the hypocrisy… it’s staring us in the face everyday.
Subscribe for free to receive similar content from Trae Lewis.
