In about a week, an event tantamount to the lottery will occur in the city of Philadelphia. It will symbolically represent the
culmination of the childhood dreams of millions of young men from every walk of
life, from every part of the country. I
couldn’t help but be captivated by an open letter to all the potential draftees
from perennial Pro-bowler Larry Fitzgerald.
In his letter, as only one who has had the experience could, he
encapsulates the palpable emotions, anticipation, anxiety and sheer rush of
having your name called by the commissioner of the NFL.
More importantly he poignantly shares the iterations from
high school, college and now the exclusive, hyper-competitive environment of
the professional gridiron, replete with athletes that are all hungry, talented
and seeking a place in one of the world’s most exclusive fraternities. He cautions them to not make simply getting
drafted the biggest accomplishment of their lives. With sage articulation he
advises them to evaluate their inner-circle, understanding that some of their
homeboys won’t make the cut. He doesn’t
attempt to propagate abstract notions of this field of endeavor, Fitz keeps it
straight 100 with no chaser.
In an age of selfies-, self-aggrandizement, and swag, he
tells them to come in observing the veterans who have become what they seek to
be and SHUT UP! His anecdotal renderings
are instantly credible because he is that seasoned, successful veteran who has
held it down both on and off the field.
Somehow, even after reading that compelling composition, I couldn’t
shake a nagging, back story that has become a part of the ambient temperature of
feel-good narratives that will be spun up through the draft this evening.
For a number of these NFL prospects, tonight represents a
literal, generational change of fortune with instant riches possessing the capacity
to alter their future family tree. This
proverbial lottery will not only remove them from the ominous existential
threat of violence that is a quotidian part of their urban hamlets, but serve
as an “underground railroad” for family members and friends stuck in the
sweltering confines of de-industrialization, failed social policies, suffocating
poverty and urban blight.
What I frustratingly feel has been lost in the backdrop of
these ongoing, feel-good stories is this lack of context that created these
pockets of despair or what I call urban “Dante’s Infernos.” James Harden, star point guard for the
Houston Rockets, described his neighborhood as a bowl. The only things that seem to be able to
create enough momentum for escape velocity from these vestiges of our apartheid
past is extraordinary academic aptitude or mutant-like athleticism. An
exposition featuring the full living palette of our nation’s sordid history
that spawned and ultimately contributed to the festering dysfunction in these
bowls is at best a sidebar that we have become culturally oblivious to.
Our vicarious connection was made organic through beats and
rhymes and videos of street poets spewing hood lyrics of genocidal violence,
drug infestation and inner-city despair.
This dystopian theatre allowed us to hear without seeing, touching or,
if truth be told, really caring. We were
mesmerized by the poetic brilliance yet polarized concerning causation. For every one of these young men that are
able to grasp the golden ring of the NFL, thousands are not just left in their
wake, but will continue to populate the Siberian wasteland that is their
home. The almost billion dollars in
contractual agreements that will transfer instant wealth to these
twenty-somethings will affect little material change on the “domain of lost
souls” from which they escaped.
Like the designated land for dumps that are part of the
municipal ecosystem to treat waste, these ghettos, hoods, hamlets or whatever
you choose to call them will geographically exist on the periphery and be noted
as the birthplace of these now venerated professional athletes. What is unspoken is that in some instances,
the deleterious imprint of these confines shapes the decision making of these
newly-minted thousandnaires and millionaires.
The systemic dysfunction comes with emotional and social ties that
constantly call like the alluring and dangerous Sirens of Homer’s Odyssey.
Those that heed the call of their homies who pledge
allegiance to the code of the street find their lifetime dreams derailed,
delayed and in some extreme instances denied. Like Icarus failing to heed the
instruction of his father not to fly too close to the sun, their tribal
attachment to the inferno sears their ties to their childhood dream leaving
them crashing back into the barren land they had worked all their young lives
to escape. This tired trope is not a frequent occurrence but the point of this
missive is not about how often it happens.
The real objective is to get people to start asking why these desolate
places exist on the scale and scope that they do.
The last feature I saw highlighting the “escape” of another
promising athlete fully engulfed visually the random substance abuse,
fratricide, poverty and other societal ills as if they were implacable. We seem
to have collectively accepted not just that “the poor will always be with us”
as anecdotal, but that the archetype for poverty will overwhelmingly be this
people group devoid of de facto and de jure practices that facilitated it. It is my hope that these Horatio Alger
stories will stop being so antiseptic and start peeling the hideous scabs away
and drill down into this uncomfortable, real-life Twilight Zone.
