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The
Jock Game
The
Jock Game
What do you think of the life of ballers?
"The True Players"
The Gree-Oh
I drove down to Atlanta for the NBA All-Star game on the night of February
8th, and it was so jam-packed in Hotlanta that you couldn't even make
phone calls with your cell phone. Evidently it was too many cell phones on
in the area all at one time. Then when I arrived, I was fortunate enough
to know the back roads of Atlanta to make it around the stuck-in-the-mud
traffic.
So I arrives at my hotel not far from the downtown area, and I'm sitting
there chillin' while watching the all-star game crowd of hot mommies, and
mack daddies on the prowl inside the lobby. I had to meet up with my
publicist to make sure we hit off the crowd with flyers of my upcoming
books and music. And in walks Mr. Allen Iverson with eight homies behind
him. The
crowd in the lobby was in shock. We all knew who he was, but we were all
sitting around thinking, "I can't believe this boy just walks in off the
street like Joe Blow."
But what the hell, that's how A.I. gets down. That boy is as URBAN as they
come, and was dressed the part, wearing an oversized sports jacket and
baseball cap pulled down nearly to his eyes. So he starts clowning with
his homies behind him, answers a cell phone call, then screams to some
other cats who were on the third-floor balcony of the hotel. "Yo, y'all
ready to eat? I know y'all niggas hungry." And I'm sure that he was
footing the bill for all of them, probably fifteen strong.
Now I'm sitting there thinking, I would love to write a book on this boy.
He's only the biggest icon right now of sports, the 'hood, survival, and
American contradictions. But I figured that approaching him about it at
that moment would probably be get me rebuffed like an asshole, while his
homies stared at me as if I was a Martian. You know how folks from the
'hood act
when they don't know you and you got no introduction. And I'm not
particularly the autograph seeking dick hopper. But hell, I figured I
could at least speak to him. Everyone else acted as if they were paranoid
about it. So as soon as A. I. began to walk past the chair where I was
chillin', I said, "What's up, A.I.?" Sure enough, he looked around his
homies to see who I was and grumbled, "Who is that?" When he made eye
contact with me, I raised my right hand and said, "Much love, partner." In
response, he did one
of those ice cool head nods and continued on his way toward the hotel
restaurant to feed his posse.
I quickly felt why most of the people in the lobby were apprehensive to
speak to him. They didn't want no cool head nod instead of a vocal,
"What's happening?" or something! But I understand. I took it all in
stride. I mean,
you gots to figure that A.I. gets thousands of unknown people speaking to
him. He'd run out of his fuckin' voice if he spoke back to everyone. I
also understand his position. Those ballers are on an island with all of
the love and hate that they get. So it's only survival for them to find a
way to
populate that island with only people who they know and trust.
Just imagine, all that damn traffic in Atlanta was created for twenty-four
men in shorts and jerseys to run up and down a court and shoot a burnt
orange leather ball through a stiff orange hoop. The shit is unreal, if
you sit back and think about it. And these very special men receive 12,
15, and 20-million dollars a year for it. SHIT!
So I ended up walking to the Players Ball that night, right past a
thousand cars that were stuck in traffic to travel a mere 8 blocks to the
downtown parties. Heads were in the flyyest rides imaginable; Benzes,
Jags, Hummers, Yukons, Navigators, etc. And they were all blasting their
systems in love for the other ballers, the rapper cats, 50 Cent, Jay,
Freeway, Snoop, Nas, Pastor
Troy, Outkast, Nelly. And the chicks . . . my God, THE CHICKS! Make a
brother wanna be playa for LIFE!
So there I was, walking alone at night like David Banner, sucking all of
this shit is in. I mean, hype like that can really make you feel like an
ant in
this damn world. And I had special guest tickets to the Players Ball. But
who really gave a fuck? I'm not a player. I'm just this cool-ass writer
dude
looking in from the outside. And when the shit is really sank in, that A.
I., Kobe, Kevin Garnett, Jordan, Tracy McGrady, Steve Francis, and the
rest of the ballers, along with the rapper cats, are adored by hundreds of
thousands of fans who they never met before, it gotta make a nigga
envious.
So when I crashed that night after everything was said and done, I told
myself, "Fuck it, man, you got a nice life, a woman, great kids, a big
crib,
a top-of-the-line ride, and a bright-ass future ahead of you. Just make
sure you never try to compare your shit to their shit is." Because when
you're up against the true ballers, those lucky motherfuckers are on a
whole different
PLANET. Seriously! But you know what . . . they are ALL envious of
something else themselves.
Even Michael Jordan, the God of ALL ballers, would just die to be 25 again
and in the dunk contest. Kobe would love to have the love from the streets
and the sneaker deal that A.I. has. A.I. would love to have Kobe's height
and his 3 championship rings. Kevin Garnett would love to make it to the
championship. Tracy McGrady would love to keep a healthy team to ball
with.
And Steve Francis is dreaming of just making the fuckin' playoffs. That's
just how life goes. We ALL want something we can't have, even the ballers.
Wisdom from The Gree-Oh
Circa - 03/03
at
(www.TheUrbanGriot.com)
For the BROTHERS
who READ
and WRITE
and THINK!
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