When "doing what I want" goes wrong.

Over our long and illustrious history of video gaming and watching live and televised sports, AK and I have often witnessed athletic performances that are so profoundly epic that they we have created the category of "I do what I want". LeBron James dropping 31-13-6 on ESPN against No. 1-ranked Oak Hill Academy as a 17-year-old (allegedly). Randy Moss in Madden 2004. The autistic kid from Rochester (see below). Perhaps the man who put it most eloquently was Reggie Miller after his 25-point 4th quarter against the Knicks in Game 5 in the 1994 Eastern Conference Finals. At the Garden. Talking shit to Spike Lee. "I was in the zone." While this phrase is reserved for examples of organized competition at its most awe-inspiring and chill-inducing levels, we have also come to identify these words with a mentality that can only be described as absurd. Where the millions of dollars in adjusted gross income, the near-constant attention from the media and from fans, and the pressure of competition itself have transcended professional sports and have become a lifestyle. We have documented below when 'doing what I want' "ain't the best thang," as Dave Chappelle would say.

The most embarrassing athlete on the Internet.

Carl Lewis - "Break It Up"

Although Carl Lewis is more renowned for his horrific butchery of "The Star-Spangled Banner", this little-known celebration of spandex and synthesizers demonstrates just how far the rabbit hole goes. At first you're not certain what exactly this video is intended to accomplish. Is it an advertisement for one of Jack LaLanne's gyms? A promo for the United States Olympic track team? AAAAAH! It's Carl Lewis' application for gender-reassignment and an ode to his love of teamwork and world peace all in one! How did this get released to the general public? Some of the more inexplicable moments of this catastrophe include our friend looking confused as he bursts soap bubbles (:58), molesting a 70-year-old woman with oversized plastic sunglass in a jacuzzi (2:07), "sneaking off" with same woman to the sauna (2:42), and wiggling arhythmically on weight machines (entire video). This is the same man that came within sixth-hundreths of second of breaking the 100-meter world record.

I know this was the 1980s, but still, this is astonishing. I haven't even devoted time to the vocals.

Neon Deion.

Deion Sanders - "Must Be the Money"

In this monument to egocentrism, "Prime Time" himself allows us a glimpse into what he is like off-the-field. Which is exactly what he is like on it. How many of you were surprised that he watches himself dance in the mirror? Yeah, that's what I thought. I know there are many of you Cowboys and 49ers fans out there (and maybe even some aficionados of the Falcons) who believe Mr. Sanders belongs in the Hall of Fame as THE best cover cornerback ever. Certainly, there is an argument for this. But, as a football player, he was a huge, wet, dripping vagina. Anyone who watched football with some degree of regularity during the 1990s can attest to this as the motherfucker avoided contact whenever possible.

Maybe it's because "my hair is done, my fingernails [indecipherable]." If he's going to visit a stylist and get a manicure, it should, at the very least, be some sort of prostitute. Nope, it's a man. With large muscles and a sleeveless buttondown. Who undoubtedly gently carresses his head while he slips it in Deion's ass (not that there's anything wrong with that).

At some point during this video you'll notice that his lip-snyching isn't even close to the recorded track, either that, or he has no idea about the words to his own song. Unfortunately, I can't fault him for this as most of the lyrics are unintelligible. You'll also notice some suspect footwork (1:52) and a seizure (2:51 and 3:20). He made an entire album, my friends. Do not contemplate that for too long. Your brain may become vacuous and collapse unto itself.

A "wiggly" proposition.

Juan Pierre - Freestyle

Freestyle rapping is not easy. It isn't for everyone. In my own a weed-addled attempts at a coherent, adrenalin-sparking rhyme "off the top of the dome" amongst a small group of friends, I waxed poetic about the illest Civil War manuevers and sexual faux pas. I can't imagine the pressure that an amatuer must experience while attempting to spit hot fire at a World Series parade. Especially one who, for various reasons, has acquired the nickname "Cracky". So I can sympathize with Juan Pierre.

"They came to the bottom, they slipped, they slipped, and yeah we got 'em. And then we goin' ta Wrigley Field, I got the wiggly feel, we got them Cubs and you know it's all about dem loves. And then we wha? We went to New York...and then we came out and showed all our heart. Yes, we comin' down. And you know we rockin' steady, we comin' down, and yeah yes we ready..."

Ready? For what? The 2004 season? When Dan Patrick makes a sarcastic racist comment on live TV and when Linda Cohn (you can tell it's her though she isn't visible in the clip) is laughing maniacally then you should probably focus more on other pursuits. Like not making the most outs in the major leagues.

He is just as good at rapping as he is at football. I swear.

Brandon Lloyd - Freestyle

"In rap, I throw the ball to myself." That's because, in football, he can't find a quarterback to throw the ball to him. Not Mark Brunell. Not Jason Campbell. Not Alex Smith, Tim Rattay, or Ken Dorsey. Then he apprently flows into a diatribe against the media, knocking them for their criticism that he only plays for personal accolades and success. He then calls them "crackas" and let's the world know how deep his love for the Georgetown Hoyas really runs. I'm still trying to figure out from whence that came. I used to have an Othella Harrington jersey.

Rather than defending himself from these nay-sayers by rapping about how he occassionally blocks downfield on run plays, he would rather let people know that yes, I am not only in it for myself, but I also play for the money. And this is where I have an issue. If B. Lloyd were a potential Hall-of-Famer, or even if he had made a single Pro Bowl, maybe this video wouldn't piss me off as much as it does. However, he was never had a season in which he has exceeded 50 receptions. It makes me question who the real sucka is (OK, it's me because I haven't figured out a way to make "everyday Christmas" while demonstrating a consistent mediocrity relative to my peers).

In some respects I can empathize with him. Pause at the 41-second mark. I see the shame and hurt, B. It'll be ok, you can cry if you need to. At least you're not Charles Rogers.

Shaq is, indeed, alidocious.

Shaquille O'Neal featuring Fu-Schnickens - "Whats Up Doc? (Can We Rock?)"

This post is actually going to come as a surprise to AK (and to myself quite frankly). This is a rap song that I have enjoyed for many years. I can remember bringing the tape to elementary school in 5th grade. This track is off Shaquille O'Neal's breakthrough album Shaq Diesel, which actually was probably the most successful album released by an athlete. Unfortunately, the video itself is a montage of Shaq highlights (featuring the same dunk over and over and over again) and not the original.

Although the song brings a credible rap group to the table in Fu-Schnickens, this had to be posted because Shaq's lyrics are nothing short of mind-bending. Here they are. Shaq is fucking awesome and he certainly embodies on and off the court, an athlete that "does what he wants."

I'm the hooper, the hyper

Protected by Viper

When I rock the hoop yo, you'd better decipher

In other words you'd better make a funky decision (whoo)

'cause I'm a be a Shaq knife, and cut you with precision

Forget Tony Danza, I'm the boss

When it comes to money, I'm like Dick Butkas

Now who's the first pick? me, word is born and

Not a Christean Laettner, not Alonzo Mourning

That's okay, not being bragadocious

Supercalifragelistic, Shaq is alidocious

Peace, I gotta go, I ain't no joke

Now I slam it (what?) jam it (unh)

And make sure it's broke.

Athletes and Hip-Hop: Why Just Because You Can, Doesn't Mean You Should

Kobe Bryant

NOTE: THIS VIDEO HAS SINCE DISABLED EMBEDDING, IT CAN NOW BE VIEWED HERE

Now, I want to make one thing perfectly clear before we get to the lyrical stylings of Kobe Bean Bryant... I like this song... on many levels... I actually bought this single in high school because I thought Brian McKnight was smoothest, most righteous R&B singer in the game. I don't listen to that genre of music anymore, but I still feel that way. Now, the point when this song switches gears and becomes completely stupefying is at the 2:40 mark. Kobe emotes:

Your love's a sword slicing gently through my body
Burn so sweet, blood boils when you speak (yeah)
Makes me weak but I refuse to weep
Yet when I sleep I feel tears tricklin' down my cheek (c'mon)
Stay strong, pride telling me move on
My heart's fightin' me, forcin' me to hold on
Yours forever, fell for you beyond measure
Pure as ever, fazed by sins of treasure

The verse almost serves as an afterthought to the entire song. It's as if Kobe showed up at the studio, ready to spit a traditional 16 bar verse and after the first couple of takes a distraught Brian McKnight telecomed in from the mixing room, "Hey big guy, no no no, it's all good stuff, but, and I'm just spit-balling here, why don’t we just shorten it to your first eight lines and see how that plays."

Some great moments: Brian McKnight putting on a dunking display (incase you missed his skills during his multiple Rock N' Jock appearances), Kobe "talking with his hands", the referees/dancers inexplicably ripping off their tops, Kobe mouthing "what" once he's done with his verse (minus 20 hard-guy points for those keeping score at home).




Ben Gordon

[EDITORS NOTE: IT HAS RECENTLY COME TO OUR ATTENTION THAT THIS IS IN FACT A COMMERCIAL. OUR OFFICIAL POSITION IS... YEAH, BUT STILL] Um. Wow. I know. If you are a Bulls fan and you just watched that first time, it's time for a seat and some deep reflection. It's entirely too much to absorb right off the bat, you need time to digest what you just saw. Here's what I came up with after 20 minutes of gentle weeping, hidden away in my crawlspace... Professional athletes are the perfect storm of exorbitant celebrity, unmitigated hubris, constant image developing and droves of yes-men with access to recording studios. Now, we all know "that guy" who gets drunk and freestyles at the party. He almost instinctively tells himself that it's time to showcase his written rhymes after polishing off a twelve pack of Mickey's Big Mouths. That's fine. He's around friends and that private shame will only be known by those who witnessed it first hand. But sometimes, well, that guy has a nasty jump shot and he decides to rub some of his excess ducats together and cut a record. It shouldn't deter us from loving the way he plays basketball, but it should serve as a cautionary tale...


Some Great Moments: JUMPSHOTS! Breaking Newtons Law's/ Draining Balls/ Droppin' Jaws, BG casually marking up his rhymes with improvements at the studio, Push-ups?!?!?!, nodding white guys almost convincing themselves this isn't the worst flow they've ever heard.




Cedric Ceballos

"I don't give a damn WHO you play for, the Lakers, David Stern ain't out here, let's ball big boy." These are the immortal words of Ricky, the street smart, jive talking hoops hustler in... a Cherokee Parks jersey??? And that's only how it starts. As the video unfolds, we're treated to four minutes of the blandest hip hop ever. On top of that, the video is a cross between White Men Can't Jump and Skee Lo's "I Wish". Just let that marinate for a second. Now, I do have to admit that Warren G lends some minor credibility to this track (although Nate Dogg would have been better) and the flow Ced is laying down is disarmingly adequate if you're entering this endeavor with low expectations. However, upon further listening, it becomes painfully obvious that this is a second rate DJ Quik impression. As a lark, I looked up Ced's stats on basketballreference.com and was surprised to find that he averaged 21 ppg and 8 rpg while with the Lakers in 1994, being his one and only All-Star caliber year. Then I scrolled down and looked at the "Players with Similar Career's Statistically" section and saw the name Matt Harpring pop up more than once. That's when it all clicked for me. This song is the Matt Harpring of hip-hop songs.

Some Great Moments: Ricky's confusion as to whether he's supposed to be ripping off Sidney Dean or Mars Blackman, fully dressed "video ho's" (to use the parlance of our times) gyrating on the grandstand, MTV Veejay Allison Stewart's doppelganger asking Ced "How about a 68 and I owe you one?", "Flossin in my chevy with the wind in my hair/ But it's a westside thang, mic size thang/ Winnin battles ain't nuthin but a chicken wing/ I eat 'em one by one, good clean fun/ No need to bring a gun, come and get some."



Ron Artest

NOTE: THIS VIDEO HAS SINCE DISABLED EMBEDDING, IT CAN NOW BE VIEWED HERE

First of all, I think this piece had potential. If you remove the freestyling interludes and edit together a coherent take home message, this would actually be a redeeming social commentary. A heartfelt portrayal of urban street life. A first hand depiction of the dangers that exist in a very real and powerful way in the ghettos of America. Unfortunately, the freestyling portions remained and all you can think about while Ron is trying to say some real shit is, "What the fuck was that?!?"

I'm not making fun just for the sake of making fun here. I honestly do think Ron Artest (melee aside) is probably a largely underestimated and misunderstood dude based on his childhood and social disorders (in some way/shape/form). I think this video, more than anything, demonstrates that we all have demons which we must face. We must combat those things inside of us with our passions, those things we're willing to fight for, those things that make us feel whole. Luckly for us, Ron picked basketball and we benefit by witnessing his talent. Unfortunately, he also picked music.

Some Great Moments: All the freestyling, the sneaky way he compared himself to Bill Russell and MJ at the end of the video.


The 1985 Chicago Bears

Alright, there's a lot of ground to cover here. As human being, I'm aware that this production (while done in the mid-80's) is completely insane. It feels like they all lost a bet and decided, "What the hell? This is going to be painful so let's try and have a good time." As a Bears fan, I watch this with inexplicable amount of genuine awe at just how utterly perfect that team was on the field. When Sweetness, Singletary, Dent, etc are earnestly rapping into the microphone, all I can see are highlights and big games won. However, my mind usually wanders and starts wondering what if we put this into a time capsule - What would people in 2185 think of this? The answers I usually arrive at horrify me. Moving on...

I love that they made this during the 13th week of the season. What a bunch of cocky assholes. Can you imagine if that happened today? Mike and Mike (once the producers told them which sides they were arguing for/against) would have reoccurring conniption fits for months on end. Superbowl Shuffle ringtones would gradually chip away at our very being, destroying our will to live. It would embolden geeky white men everywhere to create tribute videos on YouTube. Basically, things would be up for grabs in the worst possible way. Thank God it's just a cheeky cultural reference instead of an insufferable piece of web junk, being attached and forwarded to every piece of outgoing mail.

Some Great Moments: Calvin Thomas "on" the Sax, Willie Gault's chocolate swirl (1:10), Mike Tomczak going WAY too far selling his rhythm guitar playing (2:52), Steve Fuller's stage presence reminding us all why he was a career backup quarterback (3:05), the two moments competing for "Most Awkward Dancing Ever Committed to Film" between (1:42) and (1:53), sticking the punter with the cowbell, the astounding whiteness of Gary Fencik (4:17), the fact that this song got nominated for a Grammy, I could go on and on...

The Infinite Aybss: Chicago Basketball

Michael Jordan was my childhood. His highlights were the salve for whatever ailments arrived in my early life. You see, before I discovered MJ, I was a painfully shy kid with a speech impediment in elementary school who was an easy target for bullies. I wore my heart on my sleeve and that sensitivity only bred more ammunition for taunts, mostly from kids in the grade above me. I was, however, always a good athlete. I played flag football, baseball and soccer with a silent fury. I derived most of my self confidence from these activities. I'll never forget hitting a game winning home run off my biggest bully, Andy Schmeising, in little league. I remember his third grade fastball being intimidating on a level that seemed ungodly at the time. He struck me out my first time up and I went back behind the dugout and shed some quiet tears. My Dad found me and told me in a stern but loving way that toughness was something earned, that crying was not a productive way to combat disappointment. He was right. I popped out my second time up, but the contact felt good in my arms and hands. Then, in the final inning with the game tied and a runner on first, I belted one of those ungodly fastballs deep into the gap in right center. I rounded the bases like my demons were chasing me. When I crossed home, my teammates hoisted and carried me off the field. Someone later told me that Andy was crying when he left the field, I never looked back though, it didn't occur to me. My Dad drove me and my buddies home and we relived the moment with big toothy grins. The following Monday, I bumped into Andy at recess and he, surrounded by his friends, asked derisively, "What did you hit, a double?"

I quietly corrected him, "No, a home wun."

They all laughed at me and my inability to pronounce my R's.

I shrugged my shoulders, saw the masked pain in his eyes and walked away feeling ten feet tall. It was the ultimate affirmation that sports were my salvation from a world that I sometimes felt I didn't belong.

The Jordan legend firmly took hold of my imagination during 1990 when the Pistons had our number in the playoffs. I would watch those games and have these wildly unhealthy mood swings for a boy my age, but something clicked for me on those agonizing spring afternoons - THIS was my sport. The baseball mitt and shin-guards got tossed in the garage to collect dust and I resolved myself to shoot jumpshots until dusk every afternoon. I would also follow the Bulls wherever MJ would lead us. It was official. The artistry of his game transformed me during those first championship years. Bulls games were required viewing which everyone understood as bedrock. On those special occasions when you got to witness MJ in person at the Chicago Staduim, you treated it as a sacred journey to the hoops Mecca. A gift from the basketball Gods. Deafening decibel levels were expected and always delivered. The Knicks and Pistons were LOATHED. The Cavaliers were mocked. The entire aura of "Chicago hoops culture" gave us a civic pride that could not be understood unless you were a part of it. The identity of a Chicago Bulls fan carried with it a certain swagger that caused you to bound through the turnstiles, dripping in red, hungry for basketball and fully expecting a hoarse throat by the final buzzer. People throw the phrase "Glory Days" around, but I don't. The Chicago Bulls are the reason.

Around the time Jordan left and the Bulls started losing basketball games at a harrowing clip, you could hear two *thumps* around the city scape. The first was the ground shaking from all the casual fans jumping off the Bulls bandwagon. The second was the season tickets prices falling back to earth, opening up previously untouchable seats. My Dad, the shrewd and loyal business man that he is, went in on second row season tickets during the lean years (although there is technically nothing lean about Eddy Curry). As I mentioned in a previous post, the Bulls averaged 19 wins during the six year span following MJ's departure. It wasn't the same experience, but I think my Dad and I went out of habit. We had faith that things would turn around eventually. We mused to each other that Ron Artest would be a good NBA player if he could control his emotions. We felt bad for Elton Brand's nightly 20-10 going to waste. We read the newspapers when our second overall pick ran his motorcycle into a lightpost in Lakeview, effectively ending his career after one season. We watched Jalen Rose average nineteen field goal attempts per game during an entire season (which should NEVER happen under ANY circumstance). We sat in our seats for all of this, still rowdy, still optimistic, still engaged because in a strange way, we felt in debt to this team and all the wonderful memories.

Now, here we are in 2007. A new era with new faces, but the name on the front of the jersey remains the same. I went to the game last night, the biggest Bulls game since Jordan left. Hands down. The game itself was a major let down. Great energy in the first half, complete stagnation in the second half. The third quarter was PAINFUL to watch. Skiles should have brought Nocioni or Tyrus in for P.J.or Big Ben to cause more transitional offense, opportunities for run outs and at the very least some hustle plays. He kept the old guard in, who were giving up too many open jumpers and running a stand still offense where the ball would get passed around the perimeter for the entire possession before Gordon would be forced to drive it into the teeth of a stingy Pistons zone defense as the shot clock expired. That 16 point halftime lead we built evaporated to one point by the end of the 3rd quarter, after that the officiating was terrible in the fourth (not an excuse for losing) and we couldn't hit ANY crunch time free throws (getting closer!). Are the Pistons a better team that us? Probably. Could we beat them in a 7 game series? Absolutely. Just not this one.

Ok, so here's the main reason I really walked away from this game with such a sour taste in my mouth and the impetus for this post (well, I also wanted to tell you a little about my little league homer to be strictly honest). The crowd was bordering on docile at times when the Pistons would string some hoops together. The people in our section were especially reluctant to put their hands together and holler. Now, I know, I know, you aren't likely to bump into a painted face and mustached big belly on his tenth beer in the primo seats, but this isn't just any game. You gotta show some spirit! This is a MUST WIN in the conference semis against THE PISTONS! Now, the upper deck was raucous with their chants and towel waving, but by the time the sounds trickled down to the court, the madness seemed all too distant. Perhaps my expectations were too high, but the impassioned rally cries certainly didn't seem to align with the magnitude of the event. The people sitting in front of us in the first row, IN THE FIRST FUCKING ROW, were musing outloud if they should split during halftime with the Bulls up by so much (even in jest, this is completely inappropiate on a level I can't even begin to fathom). The people behind me (who thought I was drunker than I actually was) kept making snide remarks about my constant cheering, even asking me at one point if I minded taking a seat. IT'S THE PISTONS! WE NEED TO WIN THIS GAME! TAKE MY SEAT AND THROW IT IN THE INCINERATOR FOR ALL I CARE! I HAVE NO USE FOR IT, YOU ABSOLUTE JAGOFF! Well, that's what I should have said. Anyway, you get this little picture I'm trying to paint. I was disillusioned walking out of that building, but it was probably my fault for assuming a simple playoff run could recreate that lightning in a bottle from the Jordan years. The Sport's Guy wrote last week that the quintessential basketball crowd from yesteryear is virtually extinct due to league expansion diluting talent, high priced modern arenas relegating the diehards to the nosebleeds and the overall cultural shift towards fuzzy sideshows and kiss cams. The basketball is no longer THE reason you attend a game. I didn't buy that. Well, now I'm forced to nod, swallow hard and accept that painful reality. My boy Benny put it best on IM this morning, "The lack of passion and enthusiasm that are becoming commonplace in our sports venues is a malaise that appears to be eating at Americans in general...I think America is rotting from the inside from indifference...nothing is sacred...nothing really matters."

It's a sad day in Chicago for those who woke up this morning and finally realized that Michael Jordan is not walking through those doors again. There's not enough beer on Clark Street to drown that kind of sorrow, but I’ll give it a shot...

Go Cubs.