In sports these days, athletes rarely live up to the hype. When they do, we expect them to go yard three times quick from the on deck circle. We are hopeful of the jaw drop every single play. Everyday, like legends of NBA yesterday. Some come into the league as men, some just very talented boys who rather spend all their time buying up a bunch of unnecessary toys…killin’ their legacies…their rock from age nine pride and joy.
When it comes to Dwight and Kobe, one wrecks, the other destroys.
Kobe got his lumps early in Los Angeles after forcing a trade from Charlotte for Vlade Divac. He was picked an absurd 13th out of Lower Merion High School (played in ABCD camp alongside Lamar Odom) but nevertheless to Tinseltown he star shot and became the league’s prodigal son…modeling his game after the greatest one.
Averaging 7.6 points in a little over 15 minutes a game. He wanted the fame but he came out not so plush. Expected to get it all now. Right now. Why wasn’t he playing more? We got Shaq? What? Oh it’s on! I’m coming off the bench in Hollywood, but starting the All Star Game? Damn man! Three Utah air balls tight. Now I will shoot your eye out kid on any given night.
He loved Magic and Mike the highlight, Hollywood, the Forum, Jack and all that.
Dwight wanted to be KG in reverse. Number 21 became 12. He was set on being number one.
Mom and Pop both were purveyors of the soul rock soul love. Their lives were guided through the church and so he smiled because he knew everything would be alright.
Lanky, guard play. State champion. McDonald’s, John Wooden and Gatorade Prep star. Any college he could have gone to…but no. To the league. He and Okafor. Who to choose?
Orlando Shaq they saw and chose him the top pick. Brian Hill. 21 victories the year before. McGrady’s gone. Double double rookie and he was the youngest to do so. Okafor won ROY. Huh? Get in the gym Dwight. 20 pounds of muscle later. Yeah. Strong. Quick. Bang the rack sick.
Work on his game Hill told him and the men with money upstairs. No post moves but don’t bring it in there. He will block you.
Three championships in. Black Mamba poison flamin’ in the dark. When you D him up, he’ll make you and your whole family cough in the smoke, ’cause you know he’s hot. Cough with fear until the slithering white hot dagger kills your competitive heart. Die in a loss. His jumper is like a fire hose for it splashes the crowd wet with water that makes you think. Parched throat. Fans screaming. I got this cat in front of me? Coach you must be dreaming!
Dude is nimble. Should I bang with him? Damn he’s just too quick. Should I lay off him from twenty feet? Thirty? C’mon man he’ll pop the three in your eye. Make your Daddy cuss he’s so sick.
Malicious wrath speed knots his veins. His game will slaughter you. He has no friends in this here space. You will not defeat him when he is on. He’s Jerry, Lew when he left Oscar to became Pacific blue part 2, the Magic you wish you had in you plus a little Elgin, Wood and Bob McAdoo.
Dalembert and Courtney Lee elbows. Dude. Yeah don’t get in the way because you will pay. Shoulders that countries can be built on. Slam dunk champion falling from the legendary All Star weekend sky. Did that nun just say “Oh Shhhh?”
He just needed something to wipe that damn smile off his face.
Cat’s hatin’. Coach screaming. Pat pushin’. Full of once in a generation potential. Dream athletic. Will he finally get it? 4th quarter. Sitting bench. No ball in his hands. Jumpers fly and Orlando leads with them. Philly Iguodala and Thad the Young one agony. Coach looks like he’s about to pop a Ron Jeremy he’s so mad.
Coach stop whining.
I. Must. Get. Ball.
Suspended. Sat out from a Iledelph airport hotel. Pacing. Mind racing. We can’t lose right? Shard Skips. J.J.’s J ignites. God loves me.
Big baby and ’em. Jesus is here? The Truth’s rage is free and hell bent on repeat. Defending champs. KG, my idol is idle but the cavernous and very loud Boston Garden? Celtics in three?
No. We win. I get this. No Chicago Rose. I’m the shamrock thorn. They have 17 but after this series they will last year have only one.
Three with Shaq but I want my own. This now is my home. Denzel, Will and Diane Keaton adulation where all the stars roam.
Why am I always second most? Second Jordan, not enough for Wilt? These are the stories upon my star crossed legacy will be built.
Westside. His game gets you high like James Worthy yellow mixed with Sam Perkins purple.
Colorado media Juggernaut be still. Please be still. I messed up, but I love my wife. Damn, pink diamonds cost 4 mil?
Sprite and McDonald’s costly. Fans frosty. They hate me and so does Shaq. We won how many chips?
Three? Get off my tip. Why do they hate me? Problems with the folks? I’m mad like a Katrina clap.
Swish! Best record in the West. Tired of Steve Nash twice, Dirk and San Antonio gettin’ my nice.
Boston 3 are out to get me?
39’d me. Six gamed me. Pimp legged Paul Pierced me. What the hell? Why can’t I get this? I guess I’m not Mike huh? I’m tired. My big man is in jeans and shoes and Phil looks as if he wants to retire. Boston Tea Party. My trophy case is starving. All I see is this cat asking me how his ass taste.
2009 after 2008 Olympics with Dwight summertime gold medal shine. Phil plays me less minutes. We cruise. New shoes. Ankle insurance. I want the league more physical. Cleveland King is who? What? MVP? What about me?
It’s not me either. It was Little Nate-to-night and I let him jump over me with no lead. DOY though. 20/20 though. @Mizzzzo wants me 40/30 though. You think I can do it? Let’s get it!
Pat is showing me the hook. Everything in his Larry Johnson Pat Riley book. Get big. Get strong. Get wins. Nobody can check me. They double team me. Try to beat me. I still smile. I get to Akron’s town. Learn how to frown even though I smiled and Cleveland apologized after tearing the shot clock down. Gimme the ball coach. Just gimme the ball!
Dude hits a three point game winner and runs off the court as if he’s more shocked than me? We should have had wins three.
It’s up to me. Look the ball! Oh snap! What? Is that Shaq? It’s time for the bang bang boogie baby. 40 point anti-puppets. After Barack wins we get to have Black Muppets? Never saw them on my Sesame Street. 71from the free throw line percent me.
Take this LeBron. It’s over for that!
I cry. I tweet.
Huh? No dap? Not even a fake Rafer slap? Oh snap!
It’s all good. Off to the Finals. The NBA Finals! Don’t the Lakers have like 15 big men? Whatever. None of them can guard me.
Chauncey is cookin’ from his own stove? Word? Kenyon lips to neck. J.R. Smith is talented but he and his coach are mental wrecks. Nene Webber dunks. These cats are hardcore punks who can jump up!
Swap! Swap! Swiccup! Yo these cats are crazy. My game they can’t stop because I got it from from Philly 6 and my Jellybean 23 Pop.
See you next year Melo. We just bust their ass in the Colorado snow caps.
Yes! To the Finals we are back! I must attack because Orlando’s D is wick, wick, wack.