BALLERS
                                                      (but not shot callers)


This past weekend, HBO ( informally known as the Hell, Bondage, and Oppression channel) according to one of my former pastors, provided a sneak preview weekend for non-subscribers.  I haven't had paid cable subscriptions for almost two decades so the highlights, updates and unfolding drama of popular shows featured in this environment are only learned vicariously.  As a true die-hard fan of the NFL ( not for long), I was curious to find out what all the buzz was concerning the show "Ballers"  starring Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson as an ex-player now turned financial concierge.  It also features the progeny of my generation's Sidney Poitier, Denzel Washington, who may look like his moms but sounds exactly like his pops.

I have an inordinate amount of love/hate for a league that ostensibly is seen as Beulah Land for hundreds of thousands of young men from hamlets and hoods all over this country.  After reading "League of Denial- The NFL Concussion Crisis" my fomenting disdain can't wait to see the game meander through this potential PR crisis.  I initially struggled with what felt like a moral dilemma.  The NFL, like most male-dominated sports that have machismo as a requisite part of their culture, is under girded by hypersexual, who am I kidding, gauche objectification of women and pornography as part and parcel of its cultural landscape.  "Scrip" clubs, precipitation (makin' it rain), and cursory drug use are as pervasive as team prayers that follow a profanity-laced motivational speech to get everybody jacked up.

Ballers features all of the seedy, salacious, narcissistic, materialistic, hedonism that the league works so diligently to keep under wraps in an effort to protect the brand. While the show at times looked and sounded like an over-the-top hip hop video trying to cram as many scantily-clad thots and f-bombs in a one-minute segment, it was quite transparent in exposing many of the challenges that young men given a king's ransom to play a kid's game face.

Now here's where I digress. ESPN's 30 for 30 did a feature on the 2001 Miami Hurricanes ( that was painful to type).  This team was chock full of NFL-ready players and is widely considered one of the most talented squads to ever suit up in Division 1 football.  Antrel Rolle, the cousin of the player featured in the picture for this blog said something that was both an epiphany and a tragedy.  "Me and my crew out the gate were looking at a 100 mil in contracts" he proudly heralded.  It was at that moment that I wish I had been afforded an opportunity to shift the paradigm of these young men from seeing themselves as 100 million dollar commodities to a consortium of potential ownership and financial leverage.

Ballers, in a most sinewy, profane, and transparent way removes the veneer in which 21-28 year olds have to fight to not only secure their childhood dream, but discern, cut, and limit the parasitic ties of family, friends, financial advisors and all manner of humanity who literally see them as everything from ATMs, seed money for specious investments and baby daddies to secure their future.  In the midst of all that testosterone being sloshed around with a constant enticing, if not toxic, presence of estrogen, fortunes were literally being lost, transferred and forfeited in this Bacchanalian field of dreams.

Where the show really gains traction and credibility is in its sub-narrative of players who find themselves at the crossroads, the back end of their microwave careers, where everything from the new rookie drafted to the non-contract offer lets them know that they are no longer welcome at Disney World. The lights, camera, action and commissioner that welcomed them onto Paradise Island is replaced by the ignominy of a cleaned out locker and a handshake.  The collective income of  the players is about half of the revenue of the league.  Even with that enormous financial leverage, the average player rarely sees himself as anything but an employee of the team.  Myron Rolle took the unusual approach to see the league as a means to an end, a utility, a revenue source to ultimately, conceivably fund his dream of being a neurosurgeon, ironically focusing on the untenable complexity of the human brain.  So many of these men , even with their front-loaded, multi-million dollar pensions don't seem to have much to foster an identity that doesn't involve full gear while passing, catching, running or tackling. The real ballers, the real shot callers are the ones who not only write them checks with a whole lot of zeros, but those who recognize that football is what they do and not who they are.  That way when their services are no longer needed, EVERY ONE gets fired-even Hall-of Famers, they can call the shots in the next phase of their life outside of football.

                                                 
                                          Don't Start Something You Can't Finish
                                                   ( A letter to young men)



I was recently listening to a broadcast featuring a panel of men that I have known for years and deeply respect.  A statement struck me as my car sped down the canopied road I was traveling.  The panelist said, "don't start something you can't finish.'  This phrase can have many applications; business, sports, personal goals and ambitions.  Somehow, in the context of the narrative being discussed on the radio, what came to mind was this phrase seductively pouring from the lips of a woman in response to the not so subtle amorous or sexual advances of a man.

I don't think it unreasonable to assume that as your brain undergoes a chemical bath ( you get all tingley inside as Major Payne would say) to stir arousal and you are hypnotized by the magnificence of the woman you are fixated on- that the idea of fatherhood possibly creeps into that highly sexualized space. The here and now overrules the there and later. Even with your attempt to take precautions by " "wrapping it up" your decision to walk into the valley of the shadow of potential lifelong responsibility still  holds sway.

This act of your will is eternal and indelible. The social debate about when life starts is a wildly swinging pendulum. I will make it simple.  At the moment of conception, someone eternal(their spirit) is formed. Your genetic imprint is embedded into that life and the fate of this encounter, whether it be a one-night stand, a girlfriend or wifey material will change the course of your life.
 We are not taught and it is not widely understood that what a man creates he is required to sustain, provide for, develop. If you "don't see nothing wrong with a little bump and grind" yet are repelled at the thought of putting a ring on the finger of the woman of your affection or infection- hey, these are the times, you might want to flee the scene of a potential generational crime.

You don't want to aid and abet the possibility of your child not being given everything they need to be all that they were created to be.  Is this hyperbole?  Is this an attempt to make something so simple as smashing, rubbin' her the right way and trusting a big butt and a smile complicated?  I am borrowing from some songs of the 90s that glorified this love em and leave em mindset to illustrate that we have made the pursuit of momentary pleasure without telling the rest of the story a national pastime.  You may say, "pardner', ain't nobody got time for these grandma lectures!  But unlike anything else you invest your resources into; clothes, shoes, a car, a 401k, a home- planting your seed into a woman makes you responsible for a human life-God's highest form of creation.

Unlike all of the inanimate objects I named, all just stuff, that life that you helped ( ain't no more immaculate conceptions) bring forth will require an investment of your time, talent and resources for the rest of your days!  Of all the things men are raised to fantasize about being: superheros, sports stars, secret agent, race car drivers,war hero, I can't recall being a great father ever being part of the list.  The thing is, those other dreams are not necessarily within your control.  Being a great father, making your imprint on eternity, however, is within your grasp.  I realize that some of you reading this find these thoughts strange and completely disconnected from your reality.  Maybe you are the progeny of a man, who like you, was never shown how to be anything more than a sperm donor, a womanizer, or an in-and-out father.  You can break that cycle.  It starts well before you start entertaining the thought of being a husband and father....in that order.  You literally carry a nation inside of you.  Start giving thought to what that actually means.

                                                            MIDDLEHOOD
                                                      ( In the middle of Age)


I'm not sure when I crossed this chronological milestone called middle-age.  It seems to be well removed from the freedom of childhood, the age of discovery that was my 20s and the coming into my own of my 30s.  The middle traditionally connotes being sandwiched by something above and beneath you. Surely we all recognize that we are aging and becoming something, someone, ultimately the person we were meant to be.

For most of us there are external signs of our passages through decades. Our clothing tends to trend with us. Our titles change..some of us recoiling at the first time a kid addresses you as sir. In addition to becoming  Sr. Manager, Chief of this, Director of that, Senior Partner, President or Chairman; you become, Uncle, Godfather and the sweetest of all Daddy. You go from your first car, your first purchased car to mini-van ( NEVER) and perhaps dream car. You transition from a singles apartment to maybe a McMansion with room for your brood, in-laws and friends when they visit.

There are however no territorial markings to say you have officially arrived. Sometimes I feel like I am on a trolley that has a continually shrinking view of Disney World, Universal Studios, my high school, college and the fun destinations of my youth as we continue to what lies ahead. It almost feels forbidden to look back, like Lot's wife, for fear of pointlessly frolicking in the memories of your adolescence and early adulthood.  This trolley is a mixture of the magic school bus and the ferry on the River Styx.  It never reverses but will stop for moments at a time.  I guess it would be stating the obvious to note that there is no steady state here in the land of middle. The advertisements for sports are for the most part as a spectator even though they do feature "senior" Olympics and activities that are not too strenuous.

For the first time, you feel the sandwich.  You surreptitiously become a parent and a caretaker of adults-your kids and your parents. This middle also includes a growing recognition of not only the mortality and growing frailty of the people that brought you into the world, but your own finitude. You want to believe that you still have more than a modicum of the strength, power and physical agility you possessed before the threshold of your transition into middlehood. You are thoroughly convinced that is the case until you play a pickup game of basketball, get coerced into a flag football game or hit the gym with one of your younger colleagues and try to match his activity lift for lift.

And then the next day.......... you are immobile, physically traumatized like Loki after the Hulk smashed him like a rag doll in a dismissive posture of his status as a demigod. The full measure of your status as a middle-aged mortal comes to bare as you gingerly walk in search of your once youthful dignity.  The recovery is gradual, almost mockingly slow so that you are more attentive to your surroundings, almost reflective. It also seemed to be a time to ponder what lies ahead.  Not so much to spoil the beauty of the only eternity we can really process which is the immediacy of now.  But as my journey through middlehood gets me closer to the outskirts of seniorhood, to the extent that the days of my youth start to lose their vividness and fade to black and white, almost archaic, I continue to relish the one sweet spot in this land of in between.

 My relationship with God is bereft of the emerging frailties of my dust-formed body.

 His indwelling Spirit has matured mine to the point that my ability to see His attributes,understand His word,appreciate the splendor of His creation, and recognize His purpose and plan amazes me.

 To see His sovereignty in the lives of people that are marginalized and rejected as I walk through these territories, these hoods, has been the sweetest exchange-His immortality for my brief mortality.   You see, as my eyes require assistance, I see with unfettered clarity through His eyes.  As my body begins to show, as much as I fight it, the evidence of my residence in the middlehood, the influence of His spirit over the past 40 years allows me to face principalities, powers, spiritual wickedness in high places with the fervor of a young David against the giant from Gath known as Goliath.  In my weakness, in my acknowledged limited state, He is made strong.  As the encroachment of my next hood, traditionally filled with rubbing balms, pharmaceuticals and support hosiery, incrementally creeps into my existing space, I honestly don't fret.  As the psalmist said, " yeah though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death"(that is a reality whether you are young or old) I fear not what the future holds because I have been engrafted into the family of the One who holds the future.  Here's to the life in the middle!


 

UNPLUG

Why is it that people doing the most amazing, transformative, mind-blowing things are virtually anonymous? Fame used to have a little meat and bones with it, a pinch of substance.

It was curated by major studios, it was skillfully marketed to create an aura around people who achieved feats that were extraordinary, displayed gifts and talents that were exceptional, rare and even awe-inspiring. It occupied a good portion of the narrow bandwidth in which the white hot light of " stardom" effusively showered its denizens.

Our insatiable ability to be distracted by a phalanx of supposed newsworthy stories ( what does that even mean anymore) is the nadir of our ADD culture. There were 189 trending "stories" on my Yahoo thread falling under 7 categories:
World news ( very broad)
Celebrity ( What is a Blac Chyna?) absolute national obsession with this category
Sports   da-da-dum, da-da-dum (ESPN theme)
Politics
Entertainment
Business
Style

We have dubiously fostered the notion of edutainment as erudition. We have become massive consumers of EVERYTHING connoting pop culture. We can talk at length about the minutia attached to the life of celebutantes, actors, athletes, rappers, singers, and the biggest reality star in this country- one Donald J Trump.

But those blurbs, snippets about business, science, politics, international affairs get scrolled on by. Here is the conundrum, the meat and potatoes, the gluten-free substance that has a material impact on your life is found in the subject matter that will NEVER be click-bait!

The people that are the financial guardians of your investments, pensions, authors of legislative policy and taxation, healthcare, employment projections, infrastructure and real estate are more likely to know what's going on in the Black China Sea than know or care who Blac Chyna is.

This national obsession with mind-numbing entertainment by substituting being well-versed in pop culture versus the germane topics that impact your life is not by accident or coincidental. A low-information population, Jay-Z made a million dollars in a few days on 4:44-adding nam penny to your net worth-is a panacea for plutocrats, kleptocrats and the ruling political class.

We don't desire the meat of cogent information. We continue to feast on the calorie dense, no substance pablum of edutainment while the things that matter most pass on by like the Macy's parade!

Unplug!

                                                  HEATHCLIFF IS THAT YOU?

         " A word to the wise isn't necessary, it is the stupid ones who need all the advice"
                                                                                                                     Bill Cosby


William Henry "Bill" Cosby Jr was the author of language, cultural imagery and iconography that influenced my childhood, adolescence and early adulthood. The stand-up comedian, actor, musician and author who would get his Doctor of Education from the University of Massachusetts broke barriers in television not just for being  the first black man with a leading role on NBC's I Spy, but crushing the myopic, dystopic, monolithic portrayal of the black family and expanding the narrative of the richness of black culture in America by executive producing the eponymous ground-breaking "The Cosby Show" from 1984 to 1992.
"

Bill Cosby not only became transcendent as"America's dad," but he became an enormous economic engine for NBC spawning an additional spotlight into black culture by expanding the narrative to include a snapshot of life at HBCUs through the creation of the show " A Different World".  Our collective chests swelled with pride as this brother from Philly, a four sport athlete, Navy veteran and just plain ol' funny guy was blazing the networks with unprecedented positive exposure of our culture.  We would anxiously wait to see what college he would be "reppin' by wearing one of their sweatshirts during an episode.  A Different World literally encouraged tens of thousands of black students to explore the previously hidden environs of historically black colleges and universities and become doctors, lawyers, engineers, software designers, college professors, Fortune 500 executives and university presidents.

Bill was OUR dude!  It seemed every university in the country was wrestling to get him to be the keynote speaker at their commencements. He was awarded a battery of Honorary Doctorates.  I will never forget when he accepted an invitation from my alma mater; Florida A&M University.  The anticipation was epic and the atmosphere was electric.  Mr. Cosby was gregarious, warm and naturally....funny.  FAMU, like so many other institutions of higher learning considered it a feather in their cap to have had the corporation that was Cosby Inc to have adorned the halls of their campus.

After the Cosby show went off the air and Mr. Jello pudding stopped being the imprimatur of guaranteed ratings sweeps, Bill seemed to change.  In the early 2000s he started to become very critical of the black community, more accurately what some would characterize as the hood element.  His "pound cake" speech; his public remarks in May of 2004 in which he was critical of African Americans who put higher priorities on sports, fashion and "acting hard" than on education,self-respect and self improvement drew howls from everybody from Michael Eric Dyson to the Congressional Black Caucus.  For the most part we were dismissive. We chalked it up to Cosby getting older and sitting on top of his stack of nearly half a billion dollars. Like our elders who spoke their mind, he was just going off because he could.

And then the rumors,........ followed by allegations,.......... followed by settlements.

All at once, Claire Huxtable's chill, pipe-smoking, bad-dancing, surgery-performing husband slowly began to turn into somebody we could not have known. Some could have possibly forgiven him for being a "playa from the Himalayas."  But over the course of four decades, allegations about not just infidelity, but drug-assisted sexual assaults from over 50 women began to flow like magma from a volcano.  Our Dr. Huxtable was transforming into a salacious, non-board certified, monster known as Dr. Clyde Hyde!  Universities started revoking their honorary doctorates and the venerated and iconic show bearing his name was yanked off of every network, even BET!.  This insidious dichotomy, this Shakespearean tragedy in which people were saying "oh hell no" to Othello was borderline iconoclastic.

Suddenly, the name Cosby, Huxtable, Healthcliff became anathema!  There is a sad irony in the progressive loss of William Cosby's sight.  It is lock step in conjunction with our inability to even remotely transplant him back into one of the most robust chapters in television history where black folks all over the country literally set their watches to the broadcast time of two of his creations. Heathcliff, it was never you!!!

                                                            BAE-WATCH



Summer seems to be the one season in which we are made intimately aware of our bodies unlike any other time of the year.  As a son of the South, rising temperatures make the prospect of being layered in anything  other than shorts and a t-shirt foolhardy.  The Sunshine state offers many natural amenities that encourage you to come outside and not only play but beckon you to explore our abundance of lakes, sinkholes and some of the world's most beautiful beaches providing the opportunity for a water wonderland type of escape.  The challenge with the call of the outdoors, especially pools, water parks and large bodies of water is that the requisite garb requires that your "beach body' be on point.

A typical trip to the coast can either be seen as adventurous or angst ridden. My family's recent trip to the beautiful, emerald green water of a nearby coastal hot spot was an epiphany of sorts. Television has always curated what I call the masculine and feminine ideal.  Simply put, the body types highlighted on almost every prime time show, outside of caricatures, are a mixture of imagery drawn from runways, fitness magazines and a lens that rarely if ever captures what the average American now looks like.  Body dysmorphia is rarely a topic associated with men. As my wife and daughters enthusiastically changed into their bathing suits, I politely declined the offer to join them-resisting the powerful childhood affinity I had to swim in any body of water I found myself near.

The parade of humanity that walked up and down the shore line displayed a kind of confidence, a freedom in defiance of Michelangelo's David one comes to expect when any one dares disrobe in public.  Even with the sun bearing down on me like molten lava, and a pair of trunks available in the truck, there was nothing that would compel me to exchange the cool caress of Gulf waters for the slow bake I was enduring on the shore.

I don't know if former elite athletes who in peak condition looked like an anatomy chart now struggle when the cuts and  "dents" as my best friend used to call them seem to have been erased with age and lifestyle changes. This is more than feeling like you have fallen into the category of "dad bod'. What I was battling was more than an awareness of my mortality; it was a recognition that no matter how powerful one might appear to people, my muffin top shrouded any trace Herculean elements that I might be able to identify.

I have often noted that just around the age that the average woman reaches menopause, men of the same age begin to look like they are in their first or second trimester of pregnancy.  I am being transparent not to body shame, but to share how even the most stoic, seemingly confident people wrestle with this whole concept of being fit, Being a permutation of your best self can create enormous internal strife.  What kept me on the shore baking like a California raisin had more to do than me being partially naked and afraid.  Fearful that with each piece of clothing removed, my Kryptonian passport would be revoked and I would be relegated to the zone of mortals bereft of even a silhouette that looked like themselves in their former glory.

The epiphany was simply recognizing that in the confines of that vacationer's paradise, people who were at various stages of undress, nakedness if you will, were carefree.  Free of the enormous weight of soul-withering self criticism and just simply enjoying the incredible natural concourse of sand, ocean air and saltwater.  No pretense, no airs,  It's refreshing how people act when they are no longer bound to the dictates of what is deemed beautiful.

I THOUGHT

     


I thought I would never see the day when people chose to be entertained versus being informed

I thought I would never see the day when people would willingly, almost sheepishly, sacrifice liberty for the illusion of safety

I thought I would never see the day when human life would be discounted to such a level that to express a concern would spawn vituperative scorn

I thought I would never see the day when adults would wantonly make decisions that would have disastrous effects on children

I thought I would never see the day when the moral arc of justice would bend in the direction of injustice

I thought I would never see the day when august comportment would be replaced by base, primal behavior as normative

I thought I would never see the day when the United States of America lost its moral compass

I thought I would never see the day that people would prefer to interact with a device more than with other individuals

I thought I would never see the day when to say I love this country would be deemed arrogant and become a pejorative called exceptionalism

I thought I would never see the day when having a bibliocentric world view would singularly be construed anti-everything

I thought I would never see the day when absolute truth would be perniciously executed in the public square and folks would gleefully celebrate without context or understanding of consequences

I thought I would never see the day when civil discourse literally became a foreign concept

I thought I would never see the day when a nation's insatiable appetite for drugs ( prescribed, illicit and legal) would rise to the level of a deadly obsession

I thought I would never see the day when familial dysfunction would clog the national bandwidth as entertainment

I thought I would never see the day when I realized that praying for my family, friends, community and this nation would not just be a luxury, but an ABSOLUTE necessity.