Basketball Dead

It is with great despair in my heart that I allow this ink to start to trickle down this oral page a shade similar to my skin color and mood…..dark. Dark in theory because those who sit near me know my profound passion for basketball and clearly can’t fathom me giving it up and so….I’m weary. Weary cause this pastime I once loved has forsaken me and transformed into much more than just “how I played the game”. Although, I walk this earth with a metaphorical NBA-TV I.V. connected to my main vein like morphine gradually dripping dozens of statistics and thousands of highlights into my Shawn Marion like frame somehow I’m still in pain. You see, when I was growing up basketball was an escape from defeat & rival block beef & gat cocked heat and even though there were pit-bulls in the metaphysical as well as in the streets the only thing that ever got dogged was my dark brown ball and my sneaks. So with grief I inform my family & friends that I no longer can pretend as if my body and mind can bend itself into the skilled contortionistic mindset it takes to mend position and aggression with repetition and learned lessons and practicing so much that you know every move your opponent can execute and no longer have to resort to guessing or stressing cause being a student of the game makes u a pupil with bumps and bruises but graduating at the top of your class with honors, is a blessing. I remember this sport to be my only protection and on cold nights, accompanied by nothing but leather to fight off the congestion of monotonous days filled with problems with no resolutions in sight but ironically, an angled kiss, off a wooden backboard, in a flowerless playground, provided the perfect form of affection. Under-Armour type shirts gave me tight hugs and caught the perspiration, that encapsulated my fears and weaknesses and as the sun was fading I worked on fading away from not just my opponents on the court but the ones in the most important sport of life that tried to get me to revert to hating my days…….and fellow man but now I understand that regardless of the colors of our melanin jerseys or difference in the shoe branded steps we take into life’s paint our lanes will at some point merge and all those who attempt to impede my forward motion by blocking my path will be burrowed over as a I charge down the road to the riches cuz it’s too late in the game to forge a complaint. Besides, I learned many periods ago that those appointed to wear uniforms don’t always make the correct calls or truly see what we do but I don’t want “Big Brother” installing their equipment in my arenas to show replays of my moves or taking time-outs for official reviews. Official confuse what’s the right call with what they think is right and a players reputation often induces calls either produced by anticipation or spite. The game is watered down and now its politics more than ever and even when you’re winning by a landslide and the odds are on your side, never say never. You better, continue to go hard & come prepared to ball cuz the difference between good and great is explained through their resurrection after their fall.