The Couch Potato Series: Running With The ESPYs

"Ladies and germs, welcome to our coverage of the 16^th Annual ESPY Awards! That's right…it's the only award show on television that rewards sports employees for…gasp…trying to be the best at their jobs! I'm your host, Michael Benjamin, and I just sold my dignity to the highest bidder on EBay! I've been practicing my fake-laugh for weeks! Let's Go!!!!!!!!"

(You have now entered Mike Benjamin's official retroactive diary of the ESPY's – and there's no turning back. Just don't give me sass about my decision to write an epic post-show diary of the proceedings. Hey, if ESPN's gonna show the awards on a five-day tape delay, why can't I do a retro-diary based on the rerun of the rerun? I can't wait to hear the high-pitched sound from a bleeped-out expletive!)

Like I was saying...LET'S GO!!!!!!!!!!!!!

HOUR 1

6:31pm (EST): Our host Samuel L. Jackson, wearing a silky white three-piece, stops mid-walk to pose with Venus and Serena, who happen to get front-row seats to the ceremony. Next to them on the front row: Michael Phelps (and MOM!), Kobe and Vanessa Bryant, and…Matthew Stafford? (Just kidding.)

6:32pm: Any opening bets on the over/under for camera shots of Phelps' mom's tonight? 10? 20?

6:44pm (EST): Jeremy Piven and Marisa Miller (your typical smoking-hot supermodel) walk out to present the first ESPY – Best Championship Performance. Ten years ago, did you ever think that Piven would be one of the go-to actors in Hollywood? He was George Costanza's understudy, for Pete's sake.

6:47pm: Phelps takes home the first ESPY of the night, with Mom failing to hold back her crocodile tears. Why Phelps? Because as Sammy J predicted, this is the only year that anyone gives a crap about swimming. 6:50pm: Just so you know, I'm going to start calling Sam Jackson by his various movie roles for the rest of the retro diary. Like DJ Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince, I'm all about breaking up the monotony.

6:51pm: Jules (Pulp Fiction) introduces Will.I.Am and Danica Patrick to present the "Best Upset" award, which is accompanied by a pre-recorded "Damn!" to openly gawk at her hotness. Personally, I'm starting to get sick of the media fawning over Danica, even though she's won like NO races since entering Formula 1. Plus, she's just not that hot. She's like the sports equivalent of Erin Andrews. 6:54pm: The U.S. Soccer Team wins "Big Upset" award, with Landon Donovan hosting a bitter "Yeah, We Know Nobody Really Gave a Crap About Us Before Last Week" look on his face. He's just happy to be back in the tabloids after telling his ex-teammate (Beckham) where to stick his 25 million dollar salary.

6:55pm: Ahh! NOOOOO!!! Stuart Scott's eye in Hi-Def! He just broke my HD tuner. Crap.

6:56pm: Oh boy…they just showed Stacks Edwards (Goodfellas) acting like a bama for TV again. (Why does this sound so familiar?) I've got to give ESPN some credit here. It takes skill to squeeze references to chicken, weed, Obama, and F-bombs into a three-minute segment.

7:01pm: Rashida Jones and T.O. engage in some stale banter, with T.O. coming across as really lame. Since his off-field career has taken off, T.O. has always rubbed me as an athlete that just wants to be seen as funnier than he is. Dude, you don't always have to bring home the funny. That's why they created Ad Libs.

7:02pm: I can't believe Matt Ryan's taking home the "Best Breakthrough Athlete" award over D-Rose. Okay, so I guess it's cool to vote a perennial second-tier QB over a basketball player that will be no worse than Michael Ray Richardson before the coke. This looks like it's gonna be one of those ESPY awards that I'll be laughing out loud at in ten years on ESPN Classic.

7:05pm: Great thing about being a black man: Shaving your head takes 10 years off your appearance. Just ask Gary Payton. By the way, did you know that Sam Jackson's now 60?

7:07pm: Yes! Sylar (Zack Quinto) from NBC's Heroes and a woman wearing a dress littered with glitter are on stage now. Go ahead, Sylar! You know you just want to tear her head off! She deserves to be punished for her fashion felony!

(*Personally, I'm just excited at the fact that there's another Zack in our lives. Shoulda been you, Mark-Paul Gosselaar.)

7:11pm: It's a crime against sports that "Best Game" award was given to the Super Bowl in a year that had the Phelps relay, the Celtics Game 4 comeback, and the Tiger/Rocco duel. Plus, I've already had my fill of Ben Roethlisberger for the night. Just saying.

7:12pm: I just got faxed a transcript of Santonio Holmes acceptance speech: "Hey yall, thanks for letting me win. I look forward to performing more crotch grabs next year."

7:13pm: Similar to the Oscars, ESPN is doing a quick rundown of all the crappy winners that won't get any television time during the show. Why cut the ESPYs short? It's not like we're in a rush to watch WNBA highlights.

7:15pm: Sam Jackson: "It's nice to see all the true fans out there." Uhh, who's he talking to? Isn't he in a theater full of athletes?

7:16pm: Mace Windu and Wyclef collaborate on an old-school blues rendition praising sports fandom. Here's hoping that Will Leitch or Bethelhem Shoals jump on stage and start doing the Charleston.

7:19pm: The Guy Who Akeem Thrashes (Coming to America) begs the audience to get up and dance. Cameras just cut to Dara Torres awkwardly flexing her guns in place. I guess no matter how much success a white person has, they'll never be able to make up for that inherent lack of rhythm.

7:24pm: Hey, look, it's Barack on the big screen! Didn't you know that he's a big sports fan too? Man, he's so relatable to his constituents! (For the record, Barack's sports fandom is starting to get so played out now. It'd be great if he spent all this time trying to fix our economy. Or, better yet, getting me a job.)

7:26pm: Ahh, they just cut to Condi Rice clapping! My retinas! Too much ugly in Hi-Def!!!

7:28pm: Great piece about Arthur Ashe, Nelson Mandela, and the power of rugby uniting the peoples of South Africa. I'm really impressed by the fact that we're actually watching a second-class sport (played in an African nation, no less) get a serious chunk of television time. I guess ESPN's trying to cover their rugby highlight quota for the year in one fell swoop.

HOUR 2
7:35pm (EST): Who's that girl sitting next to T.O. in the audience? Judging by her lack of guns, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that she's not an athlete. Just playing a hunch.

7:37pm: Why does Nelson Mandela's grandson look like a poor man's version of the guy from Blood Diamond? More important, why did ESPN cut to the one guy (Jim Boeheim) who's definitely not going to donate a cent of his cash to the cause? Everyone KNOWS he's gotta save that cheese for his recruits!

7:42pm: Jeff Gordon walks out with Olivia Wilde from House to present the "Best Moment" award. I'm just glad to see that Jeff decided to go with the Filene's Basement look for tonight's festivities. Glad to see that his celebrity status hasn't dissuaded him from shopping at his neighborhood discount retailer.

7:46pm: Wow, they just cut to Mike Phelps' mom about five times in the last twenty seconds. Wait, make that six. She's about twenty camera shots away from taking home the Mateen Cleaves' "Most Face Time For A Complete Non-Factor" award and hosting her own mid-morning cooking show.

7:48pm: Peyton Manning is freaking hilarious. I can't wait for him to host a game show in twenty years. He's our generation's Carl Weathers. Or, more likely, the anti-Rick Fox.

7:54pm: Condi Rice, again, is on stage. I know she's got a lot of free time nowadays, but they couldn't find ANYONE else to present this award? I'm now three HD Tuners in the hole. Thanks a lot, ESPN. 7:57pm: Doesn't Nastia Liukin look like…every single white teenage actress you've seen? I swear I just saw her making out with Pacey on an episode of Dawson's Creek this morning.

8:01pm: I can't believe they seated Mike Tyson directly behind Kurt Warner. Either Kurt's walking out with a tattoo directly above his right eye, or Tyson's gonna end up a born-again Christian by the night's end. I really shouldn't be hoping for this, but I'd like to see Matt Leinart try to give Kurt lip when he's got Iron Mike on speed dial. I know he saw what Tyson did to Andy from The Office. (Or, his friend, anyways.)

8:05pm: Came back from a commercial with a random guy on-stage screaming "I AM THE CHAMPION! I AM THE CHAMPION!" at me in my LaZBoy. (That's gotta be the worst Final Cut dissolve-edit EV-VER.)

8:08pm: Looks like Phelps is going to clean up on the men's side of the awards bracket tonight. Kobe's got to be seething by now. Yup, yup…they just cut to him making that clenched jaw smile. (And you Laker fans thought that he put that one away for good.) I'm holding out hope that we'll see his "chipmunk face" by the end of the night.

8:11pm: Don Meyer's gotta be pissed that he's not winning an award for holding the record for more dubs all-time, but because he got mowed down by a tractor-trailer and is down his left leg.

8:13pm: After what's gone down with the Erin Andrews video over the past few days, doesn't Don Meyer have to feel like he just got hosed? Last week, he would've been another dirty old man. Now, he's a full-fledged pervert. ESPN really should've edited out his "Glad I walked the red carpet behind Erin Andrews! (with a cheesy smile)" comment.

8:14pm: Michael Phelps' mom camera count: 14. Who had 20 in the prop bet?

8:23pm: "BULLETIN, BULLETIN, BULLETIN, BULLETIN! No more Stevie Wonder behind the piano! No more dreads that start at the back on his scalp and continue down his back! No more fake laughs from Kobe in the first row!"

8:27pm: Crap. Guess we're not gonna get the chipmunk from Kobe tonight, since his team brought home the "Best Team" award. Wait, why is Sasha Vujacic on-stage? Did he even hit a three at all during the playoffs?

8:28pm: Mister Senor Love Daddy (Do The Right Thing) jogs out to wisk us away to ESPN backstage coverage with his blessings, and finishes the show with a duet with Stevie Wonder amidst confetti and Matthew Stafford man hugs.

8:59pm: At last, the ESPYs have been signed, sealed, and delivered. Sorry, I couldn't resist.

Who wants to watch the post-ESPY's Backstage Show? Umm, me neither. Adios.

(For more pictures of the ESPYs, here's the link. You're welcome.)

The Couch Potato Series: "Hey, Your Brother is SMART?"

Folks, I need you to be honest for a second.

When someone mentions the phrase “sports blogger”, what’s the first image that comes to mind?

(Thinking…)
(Thinking…)
YES! That’s it!

"Alec, I’ll take a fat, lazy, white guy living in his parents’ basement for $400, please!"

Since I began writing regularly four years ago, I fought hard to erase that unceremonious image from your brain. We writers are a proud group of creators who work hard to ensure that our fart jokes are done timely and properly to maximize the funny. Yeah, so what if we like to work in the basement? Everybody knows heat rises in the summertime!

However, since my return home, I’ve afraid that I might slowly become that dreaded stereotype. Granted, I’m still going out for job interviews and social outings, but I just haven’t been able to channel my inner Michael Scott to the laptop. I’ve become like Jon Favreau’s character in Swingers, only with less disposable income and more awkward phone calls.

Let’s be clear: I’m still black, thin and living in my own room. I mean, it’s tough to find the chemical reagent Mike Jackson stumbled on back in ‘83. (Too soon?) And as for the skinny, I shattered my piggy bank to buy a set of Perfect Pushups. Hopefully I’ll build up enough muscle tone to avoid constantly getting mistaken for Oscar Proud on Sixth Avenue.

The tough part about being a sports blogger right now is this: The sports landscape is DEAD during summer. I’m talking like Sinbad’s stand-up comedy career. D-E-A-D. If I hear one more sports talk radio jockey grumble about Joba Chamberlain’s need to go to the bullpen, I’m going to split their head open with a battle axe. It’s gotten repetitive, which can only lead to one thing: BOREDOM.

In a dual effort to jumpstart my creative juices and keep lactic acid from building up in my cataracts, I began to re-read my favorite posts. After looking over my "Fresh Prince of Bel-Air" and "A Different World" reviews, I’d decided to resurrect my ginormous plan and alleviate these dregs of, well, summer. I think we’re due for another “Throwback” sitcom synopsis.

(Before I continue, let’s pause for this quick station identification. Simmons made a valid point concerning the death of M.J. in a recent mailbag, and I’ve just got to bring it up again. Was anyone else thinking that Michael Jackson might just hop out of his coffin at the Staples Center memorial? I did. Think about it. Michael Jackson’s provided us more memorable moments than most major sports franchises and even some developing nations. Why not top it off with the greatest histrionic performance ever? During the entire ceremony, I was hawking that coffin like it was the draft lottery envelope at the ’84 Ewing Sweepstakes. Honestly, if Mike decided to jump on stage during Lionel Richie’s solo, I wouldn’t have been totally surprised. For one, it would’ve been the best TV moment in history, and Michael Jackson was tailor-made to eviscerate the stage. It was only after they wheeled his coffee out the door that I thought to myself, Wow…he’s really gone. Just thought I’d throw that out there before diving headlong into this column. Thanks for the memories, Michael.)

“Smart Guy”: March 26, 1997 – May 16, 1999 (3 Seasons)

My Introduction: I don’t do this often, so I’d better make it count. Since BET recently decided to program re-runs of this classic series, I decided to take advantage and watch the channel. For the record, BET’s got to be the only channel that still advertises cell ringtones and lump sum payments. But to be fair, BET has done a great job of getting into the syndication game. Yes, I know I just complimented the same network that gave us the disaster dubbed the BET Awards. I will now light myself on fire. Toasty.

Promise not to laugh when you read this. There is a stark difference between “dorks” and “nerds”. And Master T.J. Henderson from Washington, D.C. was no “dork.” Heck, Smart Guy was a television show created For Nerds By Nerds, like a FUBU equivalent for young, black bookworms. This family situational comedy (or, sitcom) was centered on our hero T.J. (Tahj Mowry), the innocent tween accelerated to the tenth grade due to his capacity for higher learning. More often than not, young T.J. would be found matching his academic intellect against the street smarts of his older brother Marcus (Jason Weaver), a debonair dude more interested in smooth-talking high school honeys with his partner-in-crime Mo Tibbs (Omar Gooding). Marcus and T.J. do a great job of annoying their older sister Tasha (Essence Atkins), all while their young pops (John Marshall Jones) makes sure they stay out of trouble. Over those short seasons, this simple concept develops rapidly into an exciting comedy.

The Main Characters That Held The Show Together And Gave Danny Kallis and Suzanne De Passe Jobs (B-): Can’t really give you an honest answer to this one. The show faltered after three seasons, probably because the show was built in a limiting vacuum. Whenever you build your show around a promising child star, the cute factor inevitably comes into play. That’s why Rudy got replaced by Olivia on Cosby (even though she is drop-dead gorgeous now), why Bart and Lisa will never grow up, and why T.J.’s creative hit show had a built-in expiration date. Nothing kills the cute factor faster than a teenage face splattered with acne. Just ask Alicia Keys. Ouch.

Rising Stars (C): I’m convinced that scoring great roles in Hollywood is like trying to break in to a pick-up game of park hoops. You’ve got to establish yourself right off-bat or you’re screwed. If you don’t, your acting career can go one of two ways: Home Shopping Network or cameos. There’s no shame in pulling a Jaleel White and stacking your filmography chips with obscure episode cameos and movie one-liners. My college roommate Josh and I laughed for about an hour at Jaleel’s “Show’s Over” line in Dream Girls because those were literally the last two words Urkel spoke in the entire movie. Just. Epic. It was like a referendum on his entire career post-Matters. That, my friends, is unintentional comedy.

Anyway, the actors from “Smart Guy” never ended up making the leap. Omar Gooding had a legitimate shot to break into the rotation with his portrayal of the lifted running back D.H. in ESPN’s “Playmakers” until the NFL pulled the plug on the show. (I need to get a copy of that first season.) What’s wrong with showing professional football players doing lines of coke and anabolic steroids, NFL?
Moment the Show "Jumped the Shark": Like I mentioned earlier, Smart Guy was a show with a short shelf life. And that’s was before they changed the theme song during the show’s high popularity point. In an instant, the show stopped giving off the “Hey, there’s a 10-year-old in 10th grade! What a concept!” vibe and started moving awkwardly towards the “I guess we’re going to try and tackle mature subjects now” phase. The lesson, as always: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Sometimes, it’s that simple.

Eye Candy (B+): Before talking about this category gets more uncomfortable than a fake out-make out, I’ll drop three quick sentences and keep it moving. Whenever four out of the five showcase characters on a sitcom are men (with the “Dad” character being a widower), it’s a mortal lock that legions of hot women will be included. Once the opening credits rolled across the screen, I’d already mentally written three sure-fire scripts for the show (Dad gets back on the dating scene, Mo/Marcus fight over cute girl, T.J. falls in love with hot teacher). I’m just glad that the hot girlfriend rotation for Marcus and Mo didn’t get to unrealistic “REALLY???? Come ON!!!!” levels like Will had going on that last season of The Fresh Prince.

Theme Song (B+): I don’t think executive producers have fully realized it yet, but the best theme songs are the ones that you do a terrible job of mock-singing to yourself way after the show’s over. Smart Guy does this perfectly with the signature “He’s a Smart Guy!” line looming at the tail end of the song. Think about it. How many times did you imitate that “Shoom! Chi-chi-chi-chi-chi-CHOOM!” noise from the very beginning of the Family Matters theme? (Or, maybe it was just me. Perhaps I’ve said too much.)

Best Season (Season 2): Not too many to choose from here, but I’ve gotta go with Season 2. Better theme song (with Omar Gooding getting credit in the credits), better screenwriting, better girlfriends, better Mo, better child acting…better show.

Worst Season (Season 3): Season 3 of Smart Guy reminded me of that screwy last season of Family Matters when Urkel and Stephon both existed at the same time, old Harriet left for more loot, and the crazy experiments just moved weirdly towards science fiction levels. I mean, the show was destined to end. Young Teej was on the cusp of puberty, Yvette was on the brink of college, and Jason Weaver was ready to begin his career of one-hit wonders and black audience blockbusters. Basically put, the Smart Guy schtick had run its course.

TV.com Show Rank: 870 out of 18,234 shows. In other words, astoundingly average.

My Overall Rating (B): If I stopped and made a time capsule of stuff from middle school, I’d have to toss in a director’s cut of Smart Guy (along with a copy of Pokemon Yellow, of course). Smart Guy exists as a representation of late-90s culture, when DVD’s were just beginning to replace VHS, when cell phones were on the cusp of being affordable for everyone, and when boy bands ruled the pop charts. The Disney Channel owes Smart Guy their livelihood as a network, as the show effectively bridged the gap between their ridiculous paid-Disney Channel movement (anyone remember when they gave us one free weekend of Disney per year?) and the Even Stevens/Lizzie McGuire generation. Smart Guy, we'll never forget you. Well, at least I know Latavia and LeToya won't.

I’m just waiting patiently for Tahj Mowry to pull a Drake “Hey, Isn’t That the Guy From Degrassi?” on us and lay down some background vocals for Trick Daddy or something. Hey, you know it’s coming.
Keep enjoying the summer, everyone.

Mike Benjamin is an aspiring sports and comedy writer that hails from Queens Village, NY. You can check out more of his work at his blog, Points Off Turnovers. Make sure to start following him over at Twitter, too.)

Sir, Can You Please Sign On the Dotted Line?

The most exciting day on the NBA calendar is the start of the free agency period. NOT.

I’ve always imagined David Stern pre-free agency acting like Ryan Seacrest at the very end of American Idol when he’s pressing loyal viewers (not named “Mike Benjamin”) to dial I-D-O-L-S zero-whatever for Bo Bice, Tamyra Gray, or some other singer not named Kelly Clarkson destined to flame out like the famed Justin Guarini. (I think I saw him working at a Denny's last week.) I just know our commish is standing at his oak desk eager to announce the year’s salary cap, eager to figure out sneaking ways to manipulate the next collective bargaining agreement, and bent on pushing another playoff officiating fiasco under the rug. It’s hard out there for a pimp.

But why is this day so special? Well, it’s because it’s the only day where you’ll see journeyman power forwards ask for ridiculous deals (Charlie Villanueva), one-dimensional players get overpaid (Ben Gordon), and former Knick players (Quentin Richardson and Zach Randolph) get traded for one another in a furious attempt to cut salary and dump garbage. I'm just giddy for the day Joe Dumars is forced to give Rip Hamilton away for 60 cents on the dollar. Yes, Pistons fans...it's coming.
Truth be told, this first day of free agency holds the most intrigue for die-hard fans around the country. To us, these stoolies are the guys that have the potential to propel our players to the playoffs and beyond. Heck, the guy that your owner let walk away looks like the missing piece to our championship puzzle! Of COURSE we’ll overspend to get him! (By the way Magic fans, that’s the reason you won’t be having Hedo Turkoglu in your starting lineup next season. Enjoy groaning as Vince hoists fadeaways from the loge section while your best defender (C-Lee) matures in my backyard (New Jersey). You can thank your brilliant GM and greedy power forward for that.)

The most intriguing part, of course, is always seeing how your team will respond to the chaos. For example, when I saw that Memphis sent an offer sheet to David Lee on Day 1 (10 mil/year), I chuckled like Wimpy before tearing up a plate of hamburgers. Seriously? Do you really think D-Lee’s going to rely on the likes of Chris Wallace to assemble a championship-caliber team in a dead basketball market? Now, thanks to Hedo’s controlling wife (Jackie Christie must've gotten to her) forcing Turk to select Raptor irrelevancy over Blazer resurgence, we’ll probably get to see David Lee don a Knick jersey for the next five years.

Unfortunately, the gloom and doom of free agency begins to seep in after the big names leave the market. Simply put, the rest of free agency pretty much equates to dumpster diving. Got a roster spot to fill? How about looking at Travis Diener! Need a walking poster to fill your summer league team? Take a look at Robert Swift! Mulling over sending a player to Europe to blossom? Why not! He’ll enjoy getting paid in Euros!

So, eager NBA fan, enjoy watching your rookies and journeymen battle for the final roster spot in Summer League over the WNBA’s lugubrious glory. Yes, I’d also make that decision 10 times out of 10. (The WNBA: Expect layups. Sorry Candace.)

In reality, the NBA should just go ahead and let the networks turn Summer League basketball into reality television. You’re telling me folks wouldn’t tune in to watch a guy named Christmas play? You’re telling me that this wouldn’t beat out Wipeout for ratings? Think about it. It’d be like Knight School, only 37% less racist!
Anyway, now that it's finally stopped raining on the East Coast…go ahead and enjoy the summer. I know I will.

(Lebron, I’ve got my eye on you. And Dwight, work on your post game. You'll be glad you did.)

Mike Benjamin is an aspiring sportswriter that hails from Queens, NY. You can check out more of his work at his blog, Points Off Turnovers. Make sure to start following him over at Twitter, too.)

Enter The Sandman: Dubbing the Draft's Handshake Mixtape

For the past 15 years, we Yankee fans have been blessed to hear a certain noise emanate from the loudspeakers at the top of the 9th here at our stadium, the House That Ruth George Built. A certain Panamanian pitcher emerges from this second dugout and begins moving – from quick walk to compact trot – to his throne seat, which sits surrounded by his faithful companions. During his confident stroll, an all-too familiar sound from an all-too familiar rock band permeates the Yankee Stadium atmosphere. As Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” raises in volume, the capacity crowd responds, standing at attention to cheer our hero, Mariano Rivera. Enter the Sandman.

Why do we call him that? That’s easy. Because when Mo comes in, he comes ready to put your team to sleep. He’s shutting the door on another Yankee victory, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Period.

How cool is THAT?

While football has passed it in popularity and basketball in sensationalism, baseball remains the only sport that manages to continually do one unique thing better than all other sports. Yes, I’m talking about the at-bat/closer music. Doesn’t every hoops hero deserve to hear their favorite song to get pumped up?

However, after contemplating it for about thirty seconds, I realized that problems would undoubtedly arise. What happens when two alpha dogs exist on the same team? Does Shaq get to hear his rap (no doubt the classic "Kobe, Tell Me How My @-- Tastes) over Steve Nash’s favorite emo band in Phoenix? Will the fracture create a schism in Denver between Chillups and “Stop Snitching, the DVD?” Or, better yet, between Melo and LaLa?

I'm prepared to live with the consequences.

Likewise, I’ve come to the conclusion that every draft pick needs his own entrance music. Think about it. I’m talking about WWF style, loud noises, with the McMahon brothers yelling your name over the loudspeakers. You only get one chance to make it count on draft night. Why not hype it all the way up?

Can you smell-elelelelelel what The Throwback Kid is cooking? (You’d better hope so after all this rain here on the East Coast. My sinuses are strong enough to smell the dead bodies caked up in my neighbor’s garage.)

Instead of scripting a mock draft for you, I’ve decided that every pre-draft diary needs its own flavor, its own way to distinguish itself from an otherwise monotonous sports action-less event. Plus, I think everyone’s pretty much been overwhelmed by the amount of mock drafts out there. As one NBA GM put it, the only thing you can predict about this draft is that it’ll be unpredictable. David Stern, just give me Step Curry or Tyreke Evans and get the heck off my TV set. There’s a whole world of Smart Guy episodes out there for me to DVR. I know you can make this happen.

Anyway, I’ve already met with the players that will be sitting in the Green Room on Draft Night. In order to bolster their draft stock, they’ve allowed me to share their handshake song choice for their big night with NBA fans everywhere. But...I've decided to tinker with their selections just a tad. I mean, you can only have but so many dudes shaking hands to Weezy. Just saying.

Hey, what they know won’t hurt ‘em. Am I right? I said, AMIRIGHT?

Without further ado, let’s cue up the music, and check out the choices from our draft class.

1. Los Angeles Clippers: Blake Griffin – M.A.S.H.’s “Suicide is Painless”

For many draftnicks, Blake Griffin remains the sole glimmer of upside in an otherwise crappy draft class. I loved seeing him in college; heck, I even begged our black college counterparts (Morgan State) to present him a true challenge in the first round of this year’s tourney. Who was I kidding? They were like lambs led to the slaughterhouse. Since there’s no other way to say it, I’ll say it: Blake, you’re a beast. Yes, we know that you play above the rim (sorry, Psycho T), you posterize your foes and you snarl at wiry opposition. Sure, you’ll have to entertain the idea of adding a jumper to your repertoire to become a complete nuisance for defenders from the 4 spot, but no one’s really complaining.

Actually, Blake…we’re all laughing. We laugh at your given name and its valley girl origins. We laugh at your Frankenstein face, noting that it remains shell shocked weeks after you realized that the Clippers (yes, the same team that’s given us studs like Manute Bol and Pooh Richardson) won the draft lottery. And we laugh at the fact that you’ll be counting on guys named Z-Bo and Ricky Bobby to…wait for it…PASS you the ball! (Crowd erupts in laughter) There’s only one way to escape this monstrosity. I once heard a guy tell me suicide was painless. Face it, kiddo: the only thing worse than tragedy is obscurity. Which is what you’ll face as Kobe dominates the headlines.

2. Memphis Grizzlies: Hasheem Thabeet – Christina Vidal’s “Taina” (theme song)

Watching a foolhardy general manager attempt to create a latch on to an outdated basketball talent models is like a woman believing that she can change her man after a few dates. Really? If he’s been putting his soda cans on the coffee table without a coaster for twenty years, what makes you think that he’s going to change after five months? It’s just not going to happen, baby.

The same goes for UConn’s Hasheem Thabeet. As my boy J-Till wrote in his mock draft, if this guy couldn’t abuse smaller defenders on the NCAA level, how can anyone possibly believe that he’ll step his game up once he gets to the big leagues? I’ll add this one caveat: Guys like DeJuan Blair owned Thabeet simply because they taxed his legs tremendously with their lower body weight. Thabeet, as a wiry big man, needs to fill out down low or the bigger post guys will tear him up come November 1st. But, don’t worry Mr. Thabeet. Like Taina, you’ll get to see your name in lights…even if it only stays lit for a few seasons.

Only eighteen months ago, the Grizzlies had one of the best interchangeable centers in the league. Now, they’re scrapping around for spare parts. How is Chris Wallace a GM again?

(Before we continue, I would first like to downgrade Terius “The Dream” Nash’s penalty for breaking man law to a misdemeanor following the release of Steve Harvey’s new complete informational guide to the female world. Let’s be clear: “The Dream” STILL broke Man Law with “Shawty Is a Ten”. But after seeing the composite reaction from Steve Harvey’s new book, “How to Break Man Law and Make Money Doing It” Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man, I had to retract some of my vitriolic statements towards the singer. Why? Well, Steve Harvey broke close to one trillion Man Laws by deciding to write his “tell-all” book on the male mind. The guy even sat on Oprah’s couch.

Ladies, I promise you: Any guy with decent sense could have written up that beauty shop fodder. Seriously. But we don’t because we’re not as stupid as we look. We wouldn’t be caught dead handing out dating pamphlets. Not only would that be an egregious breach of Man Trust, the deviant sole would also be ex-communicated from man life faster than a sexually active priest from the Catholic Church.

Secondly, do you even think for a second that any lady would dare pen an instructional guide for our kind? No way. Once they saw the instantaneous swag we gained after viewing “Want Women Want”, the vault was permanently sealed. Now, we've got a better chance of sneaking pencil shavings out of Attica than of finding out what goes on over there. So Steve, shape up or ship out. And speaking of shape-ups, I personally think you were funnier with the super-sharp line-up. It's time for Mr. Hightower to make his comeback, if you catch my drift.)

3. Oklahoma City Thunder: Ricky Rubio – SBTB: The College Years' “Standing On The Edge of Tomorrow...Today!"

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our annual “We Haven’t Seen That Much Video on Him, But Everybody Swears He’s Legit” hoop star of this year’s draft. The only legit video anyone’s seen of this kid was from the Beijing Olympics, where young Rube got the best of an ancient Jason Kidd. (Why didn’t Chris Paul or Deron Williams start again?) Besides that, all we’ve got to go off of with Rubio are some foggy YouTube clips and the words from his PR camp. (Oh yeah, plus his recent disaster workout against the chair) If this guy ends up being a carbon-copy of Yi Jianlian…I won’t be surprised. For reals.

4. Sacramento Kings: Jrue Holiday – Daft Punk’s “One More Time”

The wackiest song with the wackiest music video goes out to the player with the wackiest name spelling for the simplest pronunciation (Drew), who will be playing in the wack-est city on the West Coast. Don’t worry Jrue, there’ll be plenty of folks willing to go cow-tipping with you after your off-season workouts.

5. Washington WizardsMinnesota Timberwolves: Tyreke Evans – Beastie Boys’ “Sabotage”

If you’re a Wizards fan, you’ve got to be bitter about what’s transpired over the last twenty-four hours. You had the opportunity to trade your albatross contract (Jamison’s extension) and the #5 pick to Phoenix for Amare, but instead…you’re getting rid of all of your expiring contracts (also known as “trade bait”) for another electric but erratic backup (Randy Foye) and the rotting corpse of Mike Miller. You just got hosed. And Washington fans wonder why they’ve only won one playoff series in 27 years.

6. Minnesota Timberwolves: Stephen Curry – Jay Z’s “Song Cry”

This song isn’t for Step Curry. This song’s for all the tortured Knick fans, those tired souls who will gather on Thursday night to hear the Wolves snatch our dream guy. I’d bet on a reaction similar to that of housewives everywhere once they heard about Jon and Kate’s pending separation. (What's going to happen to the PLUS 8???)

7. Golden State Warriors: Jordan Hill – Michael Jackson’s “Speed Demon”

Hill’s a stallion bent on racing the other full breeds on this fast-paced team (no homo). I just wish that Baron had a mulligan clause written into the multi-year mistake contract he signed with the Clips last year. That’s why I still use Golden State in NBA 2K8…just to imagine what could have been. I just know that in twenty years, my son’s gonna walk up to me and ask, “Hey Dad, were the Warriors EVER good?” I’ve already picked out my favorite pocket square to cry on for the occasion.

Warriors…come out to play-eeee-aaa. Or not. I hate it when superstars get too greedy.

8. New York Knicks: Brandon Jennings – Snoop Dogg’s “Nothin’ But a G Thang”

Some people will go ahead and argue that Jennings lacks the skills, the jumper, and the size (diese) needed to engineer the point guard position in the NBA. But don’t believe the hate. I love the fact that Jennings can go coast-to-coast and serve up alleys on a platter for our wing guys. Plus, there’s something to be said about a point guard that carries himself with swag. You’ve got to love a guy that’s going to clown his rival (Rubio) by painting him as inferior. You’ve got to love a guy that tells reporters that his natural position is “3-guard”. I mean, we haven’t had a guy with swag this phenomenal since Walt, and New York desperately needs his flat top fade and confident stride to steal the spotlight.

Wait, where you expecting more? Come on, I’m like Tom from MySpace. You’ve gotta come strong to crack my top eight. And since this draft’s so ridiculously weak, there’s no reason to waste any more time once the talented top-five guys leave the Green Room. (Heck, even Jerry Maguire would have trouble locking these Pine Sol prospects into guaranteed deals.) I fully expect the deputy commish to be reading names by the end of the lottery.

Enjoy the NBA Draft, everyone.

Mike Benjamin is an aspiring sportswriter that hails from Queens, NY. You can check out more of his work at his blog, Points Off Turnovers. Make sure to start following him over at Twitter, too.)

The Curious Case of Kobe Bean Bryant

In sports, whenever a superstar is precariously close to realizing their biggest individual dreams, a myriad of historically relevant questions tend to saturate our discussion. In the case of one Kobe Bean Bryant, one question tends to become more pronounced than the others:

Has “The Mamba” eclipsed M-Jeff Jordan?

See, I've never been big on saying anyone has "eclipsed" anyone, because basketball (unlike any other sport) is about experimentation, mimicry, and free-flow (like I mentioned in the first installment of my “Basketball and the Black Aesthetic” series). Kobe gained from Mike, who gained from Dr. J, who gained from the Big O, who gained from Baylor, etc, etc, etc. No one is mutually exclusive.

Football is our chess match. Baseball is our marathon. However, Basketball…ahh, basketball…is the result of our creativity running wild…like an experiment that's constantly improved and reworked.

Instead of answering this question (which has been debated both ways and now bores me to death), allow me to posit a more intriguing query. No offence.

How will we remember Kobe Bean Bryant in 15 years?

Before winning this latest championship, the Kobe Bryant of 2003-2009 came off as a more smug reincarnation of Jordan, an athlete with a huge chip on his shoulder (Shaq). He's a product of the "Let's Find the Next Jordan!" basketball decade. He's also hurt by the increased scrutiny that faces the modern player, the YouTube clips, the blogs, etc, etc, etc. There will never be another MJ because people expect too much from our superstars now. Think about it. When LBJ hit that fadeaway 3 to beat the Magic in the ECF, how did you react? Honestly? Sad to say, I was like "It's about time." WHAT? Lebron had just hit a fade away three with 1.0 sec left over two guys to keep his team alive in the series...and I wasn't floored. Impressed? Yes. Floored? No, not really.

Therein lies the problem. As 2 Corinthians 10:12 says and I paraphrase, "When you do all of this comparing and grading, you quite miss the point" (Message). While no one is mutually exclusive as far as the acquisition of their skills and abilities go, everyone deserved to be treated separately from those who came before them. If my Uncle was a no-good cheat, does that mean that you're allowed to treat me as such? Of course not. Kobe should be allowed to exist simply as Kobe, LBJ simply as LBJ, Nate Robinson simply as Krypto-Nate (I kid, I kid).

But as fans, we don't allow that to happen. We need our guys to be tangible, to fit some designated mold we’ve previously crafted with our defective imaginations. But that's stupid. Everyone's different, and should be given space to be whoever they want. If Tim Thomas chooses to ignore his basketball potential and simply enjoy his steady stream of dollars and cents, why not let him?

Well, because it pains us to do so. He’s wasting his opportunity, we yell. That could’ve been me, we scream. You get to play basketball for a living, others complain. For this reason, we hate it when our guy misses a layup in crunch time, or clangs a free throw to extend the series, or loses a series-saving rebound. That could have been MY chance to shine. Heck, we’ve all dropped the ball before. We’ve probably wasted countless job hours surfing the web for free or filling out a popularity quiz on Facebook. Can’t Dwight miss a free throw every once in a while?

But this question brings me to my next point. Even if Kobe didn’t go on to win the NBA Finals this year, I would still regard Kobe as one of the best ever. Period. Here’s my chief concern with Kobe. He's never allowed us into his personal space. No, I’m not asking Kobe to set up a Twitter account so that I can track the amount of times he gets Peapod to deliver canned meats to his house. I don’t need to hear public relations stories about his excursions to soccer practice or listen to his Michael Jackson a cappella performances with his children. Kobe deserves his privacy, and I intend to leave him be.

However, I’ve always seen Kobe’s career as an elaborate ruse. Simply put, he’s always maintained his façade, never allowing his innermost feelings to enter the public domain. Kobe shows us what he wants to show us…doing so in the simplest terms and the most convenient definitions.

Let’s be clear: He’s not the first athlete who’s ever tried to pull the wool over our eyes. Magic did, smiling his way into our hearts long before allegations of extramarital affairs crept into our bylines. Michael did, giving us a show on the court while fighting to exorcise those demons of anger, infidelity and gambling that continue to infect his life. Tiger does, feeding us discouraging rhetoric while excelling in a sport that offers multiple championships sans physical contact. And Kobe now does, painting a watercolor of his wonderful life and career…even if that picture fails to reveal an honest story.

Yes, part of that is our fault. We eviscerated him after the Colorado mess because he edited our storybook ending, so to speak. Kobe was the man of our dreams, the guy that fit the generic superhero role that we’d come to expect from mere mortals following His Airness. Kobe was the single face to emerge unscathed following the “Next Jordan” movement, a divisive time that effectively swallowed up the careers of guys like the venerable Harold Miner. Kobe had proven himself a winner, a master craftsman, a tailor worthy of hire. But then, he became real. Too real, in fact, for our puritan ears to handle. His extracurricular exploits expedited his sentencing in the court of public opinion well before our hero stood proper trial. (He was found not guilty, by the way.)
Following the trial, his bitter divorce from that precocious partner (Shaq) and subsequent switch to 24, Kobe emerged without spot or wrinkle, or so he thought. In this age of digital media and convergence, we are allowed access to spaces once deemed irrelevant. Kobe, we need to see your true reaction to pressure, your true smile, your true disappointing face. We need to see your humanity.

MJ and Tiger are cool with blocking their humanity from us. But now, I can only remember Jordan as a BRAND. Michael Jordan IS the fist pump, the tongue wag, the Jays, the cologne, the movies…no more, no less. In reality, MJ is human. He doesn't have good relationships with any of his former teammates, he's recently divorced, and he's a rabid gambler. Unfortunately, he chose to become un-human, to become a brand...but people can no longer connect with who he is. Again, as the Bible says, "all those things (rings, money, brass) pass away." We only see a dark reflection of M.J., but he's just as lost and confused as any basketball player who once reigned supreme.

Kobe is a carbon copy of '96 Jordan, the Jordan that recoiled into his shell following the death of his Father and his foray into amateur baseball. The Jordan that no longer cared about public perception, that blacked out his youth from his memory. That's nothing that we should be proud of, or attempt to emulate. As fans, we are now starting to realize this (thanks to the economy, Obama, etc.) and are beginning to once again embrace distinct quality over monetary quantity. However, as the lynch pin between these two eras, Kobe has already chosen his path.

Yeah, we'll remember that Kobe Bryant was "The Black Mamba", the "Closer" before Kyra Sedgwick, the 2009 Finals MVP, a legend among mere mortals. However, because of the change that has occurred in our world, the historical perspective on Kobe Bryant will always come attached with jeers and respite.

Why? Because Kobe chose to embrace a defective archetype (the '96 Jordan)...and dismissed those unique characteristics to speak to his individual humanity.

Kobe is who we've created him to be, but we can't stand it. Alas, this is what he’s become.

Mike Benjamin, II

Diamonds Are Forever

The four most common comments I get about the blog are these:

1. Dude, why don't you show (Player X) or (Team X) some love?


2. Even though I don't know ANYTHING about sports, I love your writing!


3. Mike, I need more of you…write more columns!


4. Wait, wait…so, you write? I thought all English majors became teachers!
   

Yup, this is the life I live. No, I don't plan on becoming an English teacher, to answer your question. I've been penning these entries for the last four years, documenting sports moments and describing random occurrences. From that initial first bus ride to my internship until now, I've attempted to become a Writer.

When I started writing this blog, my mission was simple. I wanted to make people smile. Before I had the ability to conjugate verbs in this space, I was laughing at my own corny jokes, crying after crushing Knick defeats, and contemplating my place in this dangerous new world. Of course, because your writer has grown and matured over the last four years, his writing has also changed substantially. After a year, I finally learned how to use multisyllabic words. However, my initial premise has remained the same: Encourage people to laugh loud and love life.

Whatever you've thought to yourself, someone else has thought about it too. Whatever you've been through, someone else has been through it too. However weird you may think you are, someone else out there is just as weird, if not weirder. More than anything else, if you've ever felt alone and unloved, believe me…you're not alone. I love you and Jesus loves you.

Hey, we're all on the same team here.

Ideally, this post would have been written to acknowledge my 100^th Facebook post, to serve as some sort of centennial celebration. On that future day, I was hoping to gather enough people together so that I can jump into the fracas and realize my lifelong dream of crowd surfing (a post to come on this later). But who knows what the future holds. Why not celebrate the diamond anniversary? I mean, I just turned 22, I'm unmarried, and I'm jobless…when else will I have the time to write poetic prose entries like these? (Let's just pray for that job thing to come fast…)

So I present to you, the full archive of my writings thus far, or better yet, Mike Benjamin's Life: Where Ordinary Happens. Yeah, you might wince at some points. You'll probably laugh at most others. But rest assured, this blog was definitely home cooked, and made with a very special seasoning…directly from the heart.

Sports Stuff

Hoop Heaven (bold= Mike's Must Reads!)

#2: "Divine Intervention…and the New York Knicks" (2006)
#5: "Cannon vs. Wilmer? Knicks vs. the League? Am I asking too many questions?"
#10: "Courtside at the Women's B-Ball Game!" (2007)
#11: "All Star Game? Las Vegas? Was This REALLY a Good Idea????"
#13: "A Quick Course in Bracketology 101: A Mike Benjamin 'Note'"
#14: "An NCAA Tourney History Lesson" (Part 1)
#15: "An NCAA Tourney History Lesson" (Part 2)
#16: "While You Were Mourning Your Dead Bracket"
#17: "Another College Basketball Dynasty…Gator Nation Unite!"
#19: "Looking at an Action-Packed NBA Playoffs-Live in 2D"
#20: "The NBA Playoffs (Part 2): Illuminating Television"
#24: "Drafting a Draft Law before NBA Draft Day 2007"
#38: "My Conspiracy Theory: Examining Duke's Fall From Grace"
#39: "The NCAA Super Sweet 16"
#40: "Rock, Chalk, Jayhawk: See You in New York, Derrick Rose!"
#41: "Lebron ft. Kobe, Biggie, and 'The Message'- "My NBA Playoffs LP""
#42: "Can I Kick It?": Obama, 21, Swat Kats, and the NBA Finals Preview"
#43: "Jackson Has His Phil as Allen Burns Sas-sage in Kobe's Kitchen"
#44: "Draft '08: I've Gotta Get You Outta My System…Seriously"
#49: "Let's Turn Our Attention to the Round Ball!"
#50: "Wait…What's THIS Happening in New York?"
#54: "The Courier's Tragedy: Christmas Day's Game-Within-The-Game"
#59: "Mo' Better Hoops": Basketball and the African Aesthetic"
#60: "Mo' Better Hoops": Examining the Origins of Africana "Form"
#61: "Mo' Better Hoops": Magic, Larry, and the Form/Function Debate"
#63: "Mo' Better Hoops": M.J.'s Epic Transcendence of the Game"
#66: "Rescuing Black College Basketball"
#74: "The Deconstruction of the Mythical Folk Hero"

Football Collies

#4: "Hey John Mellencamp, I Got the Point after Chevy Commercial #62"
#7: "NFL Playoffs, Heartbreak (Knick Style), and Tom Brady's G Rating"
#8: "After 41 Long Years, It's About Time"
#9: "The NHL or MTV Challenge: The Duel?" Colts or Bears? YOU DECIDE."
#12: "Ode to Joy: Thomas Jones, Jets, That's What's Up!"
#25: "Peeking Over the Cubicle: An Intern's Preview of the NFL Season"
#26: "Time to Lay the Most Egregious of Smackdowns"
#27: "They Are Who We Thought They Were!" (Part One)
#28: "They Are Who We Thought They Were!" (Part Deux)
#35: "We Remember…Tony Dungy and Negro Bowl I"
#36: "Uhh, Can We Play the Big Game Already?"
#37: "For The Love of the Game"
#45: "The Morning After: Rambling on Spring '08, Facebook, and SB XLII"
#55: "NFL, College Cliches, and the Top Brother-Sister Combo…Period."
#57: "The Butterfly Effect (and some championship Sunday picks)"
#58: "The Super Bowl: A Shortcut to NFL Small-Market Success"

Alternative Sports Musings

#9: "The NHL or MTV Challenge: The Duel?" Colts or Bears? YOU DECIDE."
#18: "Asking the Tough Questions While Watching the '07 Masters…"
#29: "Hey Copy Editors, Let's Focus on the MLB Postseason, Okay?"
#51: "2008: The Greatest Sports Year of Our Lives!"

Holiday Helpings

#6: "Kirk Franklin, The Meaning of Christmas (and a little Egg Nog)"
#33: "Unchain My Heart: Sean Taylor, Barry Bonds, and the NBA"
#34: "Good Vibrations: My Christmas with Mariah, Kirk, and THAT SONG"
#53: "Christmas Dessert: Where My Inner Kenan Thompson Reveals Himself"
#54: "The Courier's Tragedy: Christmas Day's Game-Within-The-Game"

Road Trips
#3: "The Life of an Intern"
#10: "Courtside at the Women's B-Ball Game!"
#21: "Live From Panama: A Country Not Controlled by George Bush!"
#22: "Panama: Let's Live For The Wonderrrrr of It All!"
#46: "Back to Life, Back to Reality…But First, Beijing 2008"
#72: "When 'Doing the Most' Goes Wrong"

Columnist Comrades
#65: "Real Recognize Real: J-Till's Search for the Answer"
#67: “Our Monster Mash – The Method to Our March Madness!” (Krystal Johnson, Michael James, J-Till)
#68: “Our Monster Mash – The Madness Continues…” (J-Till)
#69: “Our Monster Mash – Duke’s ‘Just Win Baby!’ Attitude” (DeMario Greene)

Rants, Raves, and Theories
#1: Sports, College Life, and Tackling the Facebook Note Conundrum" (1^st ever)
#23: "F.R.O.G. Helps to Ease the Pain of Loss"
#30: "Matt 5:5 – Blessed Are They That Mourn, For They Will Be Comforted"
#31: "My Ginormous Plan to Alleviate the Dregs of October"
#32: "In West Philadelphia, Born and Raised…"
#37: "For the Love of the Game"
#47: "Hey, What's The Deal With the 'New' Facebook?"
#59: "Mo' Better Hoops": Basketball and the African Aesthetic"
#60: "Mo' Better Hoops": Examining the Origins of Africana "Form"
#61: "Mo' Better Hoops": Magic, Larry, and the Form/Function Debate"
#62: "How NOT to Take an L on Valentine's Day"
#63: "Mo' Better Hoops": M.J.'s Epic Transcendence of the Game"
#64: "Straight Grillin': Your Average Nerd's Study Guide!"
#71: "The Bucket List"

What I'll Miss About College
#48: "A Nod to My Writing Past: Life as a Freshman Dorm Resident" (1)
#52: "Talentless Actors, The Horror of Hulk, and HBO's Greatness" (2)
#55: "NFL, College Cliches, and the Top Brother-Sister Combo…Period." (3)
#56: "What I'll Miss About College #4: "Career Fair" (4)
#64:"Straight Grillin': Your Average Nerd's Study Guide!" (5)
#70: "YEAH! My Thesis Presentation is so NOW!" (6)
#71: "The Bucket List"(7)
#72: "When Doing the Most Goes Wrong…" (8)
#73: "It's So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday" (9)

Hopefully, that'll catch you up on my stuff (if you care) and hold you over on your jobs. Enjoy!

(*For the record, I've got Lakers in six. Too much length, too much athleticism, too many fouls to give (to Howard). And they've got the best closer in basketball. Even though his personality is a complete farce. (Count how long he fake-laughs in this clip for more proof.) I miss the '96 Kobe. But LA's got it in 6.*)

The Deconstruction of the Mythical Folk Hero

Where can we find today’s mythical American heroes?

Surely not in the coal mines of the mighty Alleghenys, or in the dusty pages of a Dean Koontz novel.

Definitely not in the pockets of worn windbreaker jackets, or in the amalgam of individuals clamoring for attention on city streets.

Perhaps they can be found in the realm of politics, where a junior senator from the Midwest can rally an unstable country behind his unquenchable spirit and symbolic fist bump.

However, without question, sports remains as the single realm that allows the populace to sculpt heroes in the same façade as those characters documented in our glorious and shameful past.

Sports, you see, really do matter. The basketball court is our Roman Colisseum, the football field our Spartan Agoge. We scream for our heroic figures to exude grandeur, to entertain us, and most of all, to provide historic records of their achievements so that we may pass down their legend from generation to generation. We beg perfection from mortal individuals in a world that scoffs at that very idea.

To me, there’s something poetic about a dream deferred. As Shakespeare once wrote, there’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. When one of modernity’s heroes falls short of inscribed goals and society’s high expectations, he nonetheless indirectly escapes the hollow sublime. Our society demands its heroes to function without blemish, to perform as enthusiastic actors on our make-believe stage. Perhaps this is why the greatest superheroes wear masks. Or, in the case of football players, helmets and face paint.

But alas, in the sport of basketball, one is not afforded the same luxury. As Super Bowl MVP Santonio Holmes runs unbound in the forests of the Yucatan, unknown basketball stiffs get mobbed for autographs and memorabilia as they exit common urbane locales. Heck, my mother recently saw Herb Williams exiting our local YMCA. As the great Dave Chappelle mentioned in his Inside the Actors Studio interview, once you acquire fame…you can never be unfamous. Perhaps infamous, as the martyred Ron Artest can surely attest, but never un-famous. And as a basketball player, your gift of freakish athleticism and height may very well come to function as a curse.

I’m not here to wish this inauspicious prophecy on the Black Mamba. The Black Mamba, or Dendroaspis polylepis, is a venomous “tree snake” found in the jungles of my native Africa. And no, I don’t wish ill-will against Kobe Bryant, either.

However…why can we find many of the scribes, thinkers, and fellow superpowers of the basketball underworld passionately rooting against this artificial Lakers infantry? Why am I cheering against this collection of men, simple pawns used to potentially capture victory for the overzealous chessmaster (Kobe Bryant)?

Well, there are a bevy of reasons, actually. Some root against the Lakers because of the inherent bias found in today’s NBA, with Stern’s referees crafting champions at their discretion. Some root against the Lakers because of their annoying fans, those imbeciles that choose to hang pennants from their car antennas and blast E-40 en route to the Staples Center.

But as I watched Kobe complete yet another momentous comeback against arguably the hottest team in the Association, an intriguing hypothesis crossed my mind. Is it Kobe Bryant’s destiny to play the tragic hero? Is he simply a physical vector destined to fall short of its intended trajectory?

Simply put, I want to see how he reacts to normalcy. Throughout his career, Kobe has shirked normalcy, instead choosing a path of decadence without genuine exuberance. Like a surgeon, every move has been predetermined, every motion calculated, every game tape examined. Since the Colorado incident, Kobe has worn the mask of politeness, conformity, and uniformity. Bryant has formed friendships with supporting cast members beneath his level, even while it pains him to do so. One by one, his sponsors and advertisers have crawled back to his feet.

Personally, I miss the old Kobe Bryant. The high school phenom from Philly that donned the LAKERS #8, the youth that chose to ignore gravity by playing expertly above the rim. The kid that wasn’t afraid to show his emotions and embrace those veterans around him, for better (Shaq) or worse (Gary Payton). The innovator of the famed running alley-oop pass, and the awkward teenager who famously took Brandy to his senior prom. The basketball savant that possessed a semblance of enigmatic majesty. Yeah, I miss that guy.
Let’s be clear: I’m not forwarding the idea that ’96 Kobe compares favorably to ’09 Kobe in regards to his talent level and basketball acumen. That teenage prototype needed the compassion and support of the Big Teddy while this fully functional version is clearly autonomous in nature. When he’s doing work, Kobe Bryant is a well-oiled machine. But…he’s just that. A machine.

In short, Kobe Bryant has become a binary. Either you love him or you hate him. That’s it. And this ongoing rhetoric is not conducive to the formation of the folk hero, a mythological status that young Stephon Curry enjoys but an aging Kobe still seeks to attain.

In many ways, this is Kobe Bryant’s last chance. Lebron will improve, Dwight Howard will learn a wider array of post moves, Wade will find a new cast of characters, and the Paul/Williams dichotomy will become new fodder to strengthen the NBA’s menacing stranglehold of the advertiser. And with over 1,000 games already transcribed on his physical odometer, Kobe’s not getting any younger. Soon, Kobe Bryant and his ragtag troupe will take residence in the annals of Basketball.

Kobe stands as a marketing godsend, global ambassador, and revolutionary cosmopolitan. But will that career-defining championship forever elude his grasp?

In a matter of days, we’ll soon find out.

Let us begin our journey to this final frontier.

Mike Benjamin, II