Sexual metaphors,
A linguist thats cunning,
I’m a quite fucker,
So you’ll never hear me cumming,
Titillating. Exciting. As you’ll soon see,
You done said a mouth full,
When you go down on me,
If you bite off more than you can chew,
Spit out what you can’t swallow down,
Eat your Wheaties,
Get your knee pads when you know I’m in town cause…
“I spit when I talk….”
I am wearing your blood on my jersey like a crimson ribbon that signifies victory. Tiny droplets decorate my uniform like a soldier fresh from battle. These drops here above my number indicate I took from you that which you did not intend for me to have. I took your blood. I took your dignity. And I took your will to and ability to get back up. Can you see the red green yellow splatter on my neck from the bloody snot I knocked from your nose?
You do not deserve to be on the same field as me. Get back up. Please? So I can make my point again.
I am certainly a football fan. I was born and raised in Chicago so I have a soft spot for the Bears. But as I tell people when they ask, “I am a fan of the game.” Which perplexes people who have some arbitrary regional love for one team in particular or another. And the often overdone hatred for one team or another because your daddy lost money on a game back in the 70s or whatever. I don’t get down like that. Because of my love of the game, I can watch any team play. Any team. Players I know and love or players I never heard of before. I love high powered shootouts and low scoring defensive battles. Love them all. It makes no difference to me.
However. I will freely state that I love the game or mentality of certain players more than others. I loved the game of the late Steve McNair. He was what a football player is supposed to be to me. He played hurt. He wanted in the game no matter what was broken and he wanted the ball. The part of me that sees myself as a warrior fighting something (the days, maybe) is inspired by the get back up he had inside. If we could rewind 1000 years to the times when we would have been at war with others for whatever reason I would want men like him fighting with me. In my heart I am sure that he could have had his hand chopped off and would still be swinging a bloody stump at the enemy until he bled out. And I honestly hope that that would be me. Doing all I could to bring victory to my side.
I know he had issues off the field. I know. And I am not ignoring them nor apologizing for them. I didn’t know him and won’t address that part of his life that was not my business. What was my business was what he did come game time. He made me appreciate a game I love even more. He was a warrior. I do believe the metaphor is overdone. And I hate that from time to time when black athletes use it, the media jumps on them as if they are kicking babies. But the metaphor does apply to some players. One of those players is Bret Farve.
The gunslinger. I know he is a drama king. Sure he is. I know he teeter tooters every off season. And I actually understand. Here is a man trying to envision himself making a transistion. He is/was not only good at what he did all his life, he could be said to be one of the best. And considering that, it will be some sort of a let down what happens when he has to see himself as something else. It is a scary thought. Fuck what you did for the game. Fuck that. He knew that the game would move on without him. It did not stop for any of the other legends when they moved on. The real concern for him is what the game did for HIM. unless he wants to go into mixed martial arts ultimate fighting, he will never get the opportunity to dominate another man in such a way that there is little or no question about how he is superior. There will be no more chances to gamble it all and do some crazy shit you know better than to do because it MIGHT work. Your madness and your genius cannot share the stage anymore. If you show your madness from that point forth, you cannot use your genius to get out of it. Only your genius can die. Your madness will not only become more apparent, it might just take over.
And that’s the worry.
Look at the other greats. Look at Ali. Look at Jordan. Look at Jim Brown. They all have after sports lives of significance. And we humor them and want to know about them. But really what we want to know is how did Ali feel before the rumble in the jungle? Jordan, what was it like beating the Pistons and burying them as an organization for a decade? And Jim Brown, how could you walk away from the game when you were the baddest player on earth just to go and be a shitty actor at best? Do you want to be Bret? With a gun full of bullets, watching young Tavaris Jackson make the same turnovers you could make without the possibility of your occasional flare for the fantastic?
I love Bret Farve’s game. It is as close to the game McNair played as anyone in the game now has. I want to see him play for selfish reasons. But I also think maybe he should walk away. Maybe he should stop teasing himself with the memories of glorys past. He was once the best player in the game. And even though that memory is fading, maybe he should consider the potential negatives. Maybe he should take a trip and visit Earl Campbell and ask him how his knees are now. Maybe he should walk away while he still can. Quitting while you are ahead is not the same as quitting. More of our sports heroes should be able to bore us with stories about their charities and projects instead of making us wonder when they should have quit for their own sake.
Contradictions are everywhere. I want to see him play. I don’t think he should. But I will cheer him on if he does. And I will respect him if he doesn’t. You and I, we were never as great at anything as he once was at his craft. So try to imagine how hard it must be for him to call it quits. True gunslingers die when another gunslinger ends their career. It must be hard to walk away when you still have bullets in the gun. Even if you know you should.
It has been a long few days. I’m working on getting my hustle up in this here bad economy. I’m fortunate to have been busy as hell these past few days. Music and musicians seem to be the topic everywhere right now. I have been getting hit by the most random references by the most random people of late. An old Asian lady in line in front of us in wallymart made a Sly and the Family Stone reference and I wasn’t even sure I could close my mouth. As we walked out there were some young kids playing the Chi Lites “Betcha By Golly Wow”. So of course, when I cranked the car they were playing “I Miss You” by Klimaxx (I think thats how it’s spelled) Somewhere on the way home I had a moment. I remembered how much music is and always has been the unseen but always felt force in my life. Busy busy. Hustle hustle. There is a song that tells that story better than my shoddy words can say.
Like the women I have known and loved. Music can leave me or I it. But I will always feel the same about it because music is passion to me. The right song makes me cry. The right song makes me fight. The right song helps me love. The right song makes me mad enough to kill. The power we have as instruments on this earth can be felt and seen in the music we listen to. Not sometimes. Always. Ladies and gentlemen, Stevie Wonder.
I love NASCAR. Seriously. Im black and I love NASCAR. Love it. And Kyle Busch especially. That young man drives like I think I would want to drive if I could. I think he is going to kill himself in a car one day. (and isn’t that how real racecar drivers want to go?) Oh. Have I failed to mention I always wanted to be a racecar driver? Just today I saw a cat in what appeared to be a new Calloway Corvette. I am not even very fond of the corvette as a car but that thing was so sexy and sounded so good I tried NOT to look at it and couldn’t. Every now and again I see a car and I tell my wife, “I would kill myself in that car right there. I would think I knew the car’s limit and I would think I could push it and it would turn out that the car is better than I think it is and I’m not as good as I think and the end result would be car rolling over umpteen times and me not making it.” Her response is the same. She tells me thats a car I can’t have. My ex wife wouldn’t let me have a motorcycle. If you know me you know I would kill myself on one of those. I think the smarter you think you are the dumber you become on a street bike.
My father had a son a few months older than me by a woman he was dating while he was dating my mother and that young man, who I never met, died on a street bike in my hometown of Chicago. He was standing on the bike at 100 miles per hour. Bike go one way. He go the other. Now as dumb as that sounds (if you have ever been on a chicago highway that sounds even dumber) I must admit that my brave ass would be stupid enough to try that… if I owned a bike and wasn’t married and thought I could do it. This is one reason why I don’t own a bike. Because I think I can do anything. I think I can do anything. But I know I shouldn’t. Discretion is the better part of valor. So those of you who racecars for a living can relax. I won’t be out there racing you or wrecking you. But more importantly…. I won’t be wrecking myself.
You know her. You heard shit. Most of it bad. But certain parts are real good. You know she is crazy. She is married. She has a boyfriend at work and she is messing with another cat yall work with too. You have been watching her since day one. You appreciate the look. The smell. The fact that she is thicker than a Wendy’s frostee…
Damn.
You end up working with her crazy sexy ass and after a little while she gives you a green light to schedule a performance. You are flattered but you let the invitation stand. It’s sexier that way. Plus you know she is going crazy trying to figure out what’s taking you so long. Your conversations function on the surface as basic but thats never what it really means.
“Hey. How you doing today?”
“I’m ok. I’m a little stressed though.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. I need to relax.”
“Won’t you find a quite place and take a few minutes…”
“It’s not the same.”
“Well you do what you gotta do.”
“What about you? When do you take lunch? You wanna go sit out in the car and relax for lunch?”
“Ah see… If I have lunch I need to eat. I can’t handle taking a break and not savoring my snack. Plus I hate to rush.”
“See…”
“Lemme run before the boss lady comes and starts yelling something crazy.”
“I yell. But nothing crazy…”
So you get tempted. You have to focus day to day. You know you are too good at what you do to play second fiddle to anyone. Much less be the fourth string quarterback. But what if you do get in the game? What if you are as good as you think you are? Do you move up the depth chart? Do you replace #1? Are there still cats in line behind you? What if you get the starting job and dont want it or can’t handle the stress? What if the pussy drives you crazy? What if you drive the pussy crazy? What if some cat who used to be on her team gets mad at you and runs up on you and jams you up?
You know she has problems. She is nuttier than a pecan pie dipped in peanut butter. You ask yourself, “Exactly how much dick does she need?” And why the hell are you even considering fucking with this woman? You know it can get you killed. Your better judgement tells you to walk away. And you listen to it. But many a brother didn’t. It might seem like a good idea at the time but you shouldn’t fuck with crazy.
