Peace among us...

The drug infestation of the 1970s...

The death of Len Bias hours after he was drafted by the Boston Celtics in 1986...

Magic Johnson announcing his retirement on November 7, 1991 due to being diagnosed with HIV...

The NBA has had some very dark moments, but none of those put as black an eye on the league as the evening of November 19, 2004 between the Indiana Pacers and Detroit Pistons. What you see above was the end result of a few moments of tension mixed in with competitive nature. Throw in the overwhelming presence of alcohol, and what we saw on our television screens was utter chaos and unbelievable violence. We've seen athletes fight other athletes, and fans fight other fans in the stands, but never athletes verses fans. Not only did it result in a change of dress code and years of goodwill having to be re-established between the league and fans, it also changed the course of Pacer basketball history, as a team with championship aspirations were forced to continue on without Ron Artest (now known as Metta World Peace), who was one of the primary instigators of the fateful night.

Artest would eventually return to the league, change his name, and spend time playing overseas before returning to the LA Lakers in the twilight of his career. Now, one would think that it would create a permanent divide between World Peace and the people of Detroit, especially the fan who threw beer on him, which led to the melee. Well, he's not known as Metta World Peace for nothing, as his then-teammate Stephen Jackson explained on ESPN's The Jump recently.

Grudges aren't meant to the held forever, and to see that these two people have reconciled is further proof that no matter what happened in the past, we are responsible for being the one who seeks forgiveness. Remember, to forgive is so that we can be released from the burden. If the other person does not receive it, we are free to move forward with our lives. As Jackson said, he doesn't know how they remain close friends to this day, it's amazing.

In a world in which there is constant conflict and strife, be the person who seeks true peace.

An American Icon, An American Tragedy...

 

When I first saw Orenthal James Simpson it was as a sideline reporter for NBC Sports football. My father would describe to me how Simpson's game on the gridiron was a manifest of power and beauty, whether it was at USC or for the Buffalo Bills of the NFL. He had such a presence on our TV screen that in the black community he was as big an icon as Michael Jackson or Bill Cosby. I would often see Simpson's image on Hertz commercials as he ran through the airport and Spot-bilt ads in my comic books. When I would play football with my brothers on the streets of Warner Robins, we would often yell out "The Juice is Loose!" whenever we got the pigskin.

When I found out that Simpson was going to appear in the "Naked Gun" movies I was stoked. He was a combination of goofiness and clumsiness as Norberg. I often wondered why he wasn't in the movies for long, as I later found out it was because of his poor acting, but when he did show up I always had a good laugh at his expense. Again, he was O.J.! Of course I was going to enjoy it!

Then June 16, 1994 happened. I was preparing myself for my graduation from Woodbridge High School, thinking about how I was going to celebrate later and say goodbye to friends I knew I would never see again. It was a hot and balmy 94 degrees as we all sat outside waiting for the next level in our lives as graduates. Once the pleasant exchanges were over and we all made plans to meet up later that evening, my family and I returned home. I figured I'd catch Game 5 of the NBA Finals between Houston and New York and then I turn on the remote control to catch this...

 

As that white Ford Bronco was cascading down the I-5 of the Los Angeles Freeway, with hundreds of onlookers with their signs above the bridges, everything I thought I knew about O.J. Simpson vanished with every passing mile. Suddenly, my thoughts weren't about his 2,000 yard season in 1973, or wearing a goofy afro with Leslie Nielsen. No, my thoughts went to "He's killed two people and now he's going to kill himself!" What occurred next has been the focus of the recent FX drama "The People vs. O.J. Simpson" and now being told in an ESPN 30 for 30 "O.J. Made in America."

 

As my wife and I saw the first part of this riveting 5 part series, it was a throwback to an O.J. I never knew. While the nation was burning in the heat of the civil rights movement of the 1960s, it was the one time Simpson deliberately wanted to stay on the sidelines instead of strapping on the helmet of justice. There was a line that really brought it home for me. One night at a club in Los Angeles, a young blonde woman saw O.J. sitting with a group of black men. The lady said, and I'm paraphrasing, "There is O.J. with those niggers." According to a white man who was in earshot of what was said, he mentioned that O.J. responded with, "She's right. I am O.J.!" No defense of his brethren in attendance, and it was in that one statement that I realized that he wasn't such a hero after all.

 

We are all fallen individuals, but there is something special about identifying with who you are and standing alongside those who are the same. Simpson called an audible, thinking that his rising tide of Hollywood stardom would encourage others to do the same. His ideology was that the only way to achieve equality was to avoid all mention of who he really was, a black man playing football, receiving the cheers of a divided America only because of his exploits on Saturdays and Sundays. Once that Bronco stopped in the residential neighborhood of Brentwood, CA, he realized that harsh reality.

 

Was I one of the individuals who celebrated when he was acquitted of double murder in 1995? Yes, and I'd be lying if I didn't say that it was less about O.J. and more about some misguided revenge for what happened to Rodney King three years earlier at the hands of corrupt policemen. However, I realized how wrong that was. Again, we are fallen people. As I now see the images of O.J. Simpson rotting his latter days away in a Clark County, Nevada prison, it was a stark reminder of being careful of the people we admire. Sometimes we need to realize that the stars that shine the brightest crash the hardest.

 

 



 

 

Local boy done good...

This past Sunday I was able to meet one of my favorite wrestlers of all time. Ron Simmons, known to many fans for being the first black WCW World Heavyweight Champion as well as a member of the Nation of Domination and the Acolytes Protection Agency in the WWE as Farooq. He had such a presence about him that though younger fans may only know him as the guy who is reduced to a catchphrase nowadays, he was one of the more powerful performers I ever had the chance to see. However, this is more than just an extended Wikipedia page about Simmons' career.

Simmons was well known around Middle Georgia, particularly in the small city of Perry. He attended Warner Robins High School, which was the school my brothers and I attended in the late 1980s - early 1990s. He was workout buddies with my uncle, and even to this day is one of the most celebrated athletes in the area, from his All-American career at Florida State to his exploits in the squared circle. Along with other players such as former Los Angeles Raider Eddie Anderson, it's always refreshing to see people from our hometown grow up to succeed on a greater scale.

Meeting him was more than about getting a photo-op (although it was incredibly cool!) it was about reminiscing about dreams from a long time ago. Often we allow the treadmill of life to interrupt those dreams and we leave them back in our hometown, thinking that they were only foolish machinations of our mind as we move forward to focus on bigger paychecks and comfort. Mr. Simmons was a reminder of how dreams can truly come true if we are willing to work hard and stay focused on the bigger goal ahead.

Wherever you go, bring your dreams and gifts with you; you never know what rooms they can open...

What is true Greatness?

To define the life of Cassius Clay, later known as Muhammad Ali, could not be contained in simple words or eulogized by the mountain of quotes that the "Louisville Lip" popularized in his heyday. It would be impossible to define him simply for his stance against an unjust system in America during the Civil Rights Era.

Even more, you could not define him by his unsurpassed skill and determination in the ring of the sweet science of boxing as he took on all challengers and became the face of a generation.

Muhammad Ali was so much more than that. His complexity was only matched by his bravado and quick wit. His mission wasn't to be the richest or most popular fighter, it was much more than that. It was to give that 9-year-old child growing up in Detroit's section 8 housing someone to look up to when their father wasn't around. It was to inspire confidence in a people who felt that no one stood up for them. His voice was loud and proud; his enemies called him arrogant, his supporters called him fearless.

No, his greatness was defined by his willingness to give up everything for what he believed in. He was willing to sacrifice championship gold and the fame to hold fast to his faith. Did I agree with everything he said? Not always, but I respected the strength of his convictions. Ali knew that the greater reward was to be received long after the final bell had sounded. People didn't follow him because of his "rope-a-dope" strategy; they followed him because of his presence. He was a symbol of power and pride.

One can be accomplished without being respected. One can be liked without being admired. Ali was all of those things, and it wasn't because of his sharp tongue or blinding speed, it was because he knew that true greatness goes beyond the cheers of man. As a native son of Georgia, this image of Ali will always burn brightest in my mind, long after the flame of the torch has flickered.