#WEARETHEANTIDOTE - Part 3 of 3

For me, being the antidote starts with a willingness to say hello. I look at some people, listen to some people, am offended by some people so much so that I give up on them and on moral excellence. But there's never been anything wrong with virtue as it doesn't have an expiration date. The more we encounter destructive thinking and behavior, the deeper we should delve into our true ability to be "given against" such things. Why in the world would we become the thing we revile? Why? Because there's a little toxin in us all and unlike the body, we get to choose whether or not we develop the antibodies or not. If we desire, we can be overrun with the influence of disintegration. Division has an addictive quality to it. But we have within us the divine capacity to reintegrate.

Every stranger can't be my enemy and not all my teammates want to take what I have. We've become so suspicious and prejudiced that the notion of loving one's neighbor as him/herself is nearly impossible. But still, we are the antidote and the chemical composition of "us" is basic stuff like: hello, holding the door for the person behind us, learning someone else' story, doing things without expecting a thank you and cleaning up messes we've made. No one questions whether or not it is better to help society live than die. We question whether or not we play a role in making it live. Yet we know full well...what we are. Listen intently to your complaints today. Write them, meditate on them, simmer even! Note how they make you feel and then be "given against" them. Ask yourself if your complaints have led you to do what's right simply because it's right. If they've led you elsewhere, just know that your real identity is as ANTIDOTE not venom.

#WEARETHEANTIDOTE - Part 2 of 3

We do it all the time, choosing the poison of retaliation as modus operandi. Our operating system often looks a lot like living under the control of impulse and convenience, blaming and targeting others as interlopers to our expectations. But antidotes restore vitality. We are the antidote(s). And personally, here are a couple of stifling realities I experience that poison me. #1 Racism #2 Classicism #3 Theft. These toxins mess up everything they touch and they're easy to both hate and replicate. One minute I'm complaining that a non-black doesn't understand why I brush my hair or keeps mistaking me for the other black guy. The next I'm using broad strokes in a conversation to demonize that group of people. Two wrongs still don't make a right. Sounds like poison being prescribed to cure a snake bite.

I'm convinced more than ever, though, that we are the antidote. An antidote is meant to heal. But maybe most of us humans, no matter our religion, really enjoy getting even more than we do healing. Somehow we think that one middle finger begets another. We think that the best way to protect our children is by isolating them and keeping them in view. But I'm convinced that there would be less Amber alerts if the village at large was allowed to look after our kids a bit. The villagers would dispose of pedophiles and the like.

#WEARETHEANTIDOTE - Part 1 of 3

The word "antidote" has this greek rendering that means "given against." It's the counter agent to whatever toxin you've been exposed. In 2007 I was stung by no less than 15 wasps at once. My wife happened to come outside as I was writhing in the driveway. She remembered that mud is said to function as an analgesic and proceeded to turn on the hose. She made some mud, smeared all over my head where most of the stings occurred and the pain gradually subsided. How do we treat our figurative wasp stings?

Antidotes, I've read, can be created by injecting small amounts of a poison into an animal so it can naturally produce antibodies. Those antibodies can then be extracted to save say a human life. But in our world, what if the venom is unkindness, isolation and self-absorption? When people insist on not making eye contact with me, I usually let 'em off the hook. I don't engage. I have neighbors on either side of me that I don't know. Many strangers don't want to know me (venom) and I respond in kind by pretending I don't care (also venom). Huh? The antidote to unkindness, isolation and self-absorption is certainly not to reflect those non-virtues. But isn't that what we do? Tit-for-Tat? A husband cheats on his wife and she fixes his wagon with a comparable act. Your teammate won't pass you the ball so on a routine 3-on-2 fast break you return the solid and cost your team buckets. There's a small picture and a big picture that we see in the worlds in which we live. Focusing on the small one is always the most poisonous because it's only about us. (Part 2 tomorrow...)

TREY EIGHT

Dude asked me yesterday if I felt 38 years old. I ain't trying to read into a simple question too much but that's like asking someone how much they love their unborn kids. Or maybe it's more like being asked, "Do you miss the NBA career you never had?" Wait a minute, I got it. I visited my sister in Brooklyn, New York earlier in October for the first time. I had never been to the east coast...EVER! I once spent a few days in Miami, Florida as part of a demonstration team for a coaching clinic but as east as that was...it wasn't New York.

I hadn't seen Ground Zero, hadn't ridden a New York Subway train, hadn't been to Union or Times Square and hadn't hooped at a park just a minutes from the Barclays Center. It was a new and foreign experience so if someone had asked me upon my return if New York felt like New York it would have been an impossible question to answer. To what could I compare or contrast the current experience. I mean...the subway train caught me off guard when it took-off and an elderly New Yorker riled up as I fell into his space. I stood on the grounds of the most grave and gripping memorial I will ever behold at 9/11 Tribute Center 120 Liberty Street NY, NY 10006. What''s my reference point of comparison for a location where ghastly events robbed a city of 3,000 inhabitants. 

Back to age 38. I've never been this close to 40. I don't feel old per se but I do feel different. There is a sense of urgency in me but I swear that was there 4-5 years ago. The latest sensitivity to the new age terrain, however, involves all the usual suspects. I have no biological children and the cats in the NBA my age are becoming a select few. I'm not as motivated to even play basketball as I was at 23 though I can find that drive when called out ha ha. But feelin' 38? I'm not feelin' 38. I mean, I'm felin' 38 in the sense that I appreciate not punchin' out at 37. Life is no right as much as it is a sign that God's grace persists. So yeah...I'm feelin' 38 with both hands, so-to-speak. But as far as 38 goes, I know that men my age post questions online like, "What can I expect at my physical? I didn't play sports in high school and haven't had a health exam in 22 years." C'mon bruh. That ain't got nothin' to do with being 38 and its commensurate ailments. I don't hate doctors enough to stay away that long. And while weight rooms and eliptical machines are the opposite of sexy, I'm not trying to feel 38, not that way. 

So what now? What's the difference between 38 and 28? The late 30s is a season. Jay Z once said, "I used to think rappin' at 38 was ill but last year alone I grossed 38 mil..." Is that the difference ha ha. Maybe for Jigga but not this bruh. Now young people get to chattin' with you and you realize, "Man I got 15-20 years on this person. They hit you with a sir or compliment you on ya shoes as if they didn't expect swag from somebody your age. Then 38 hits you a little bit. The role is mentor now. The perception of others shifts. I mean...old is not the operative word. But there is guidance responsibility I feel now that I didn't say 8 years ago. It is what it is and I'm down. Like so much else, age is the stuff of labels. Categories are tempting as we try to figure out where we belong at various stages of life. I can't get down with 'em though. 38 is perfectly public for me. No shame. But the meaning of the number is unclear. All I now is that I should probably keep tellin' the truth and learning from as many people as I can. Jesus only needed 33 years to live full and with purpose. I've gotten five more than he had so the least I could do is keep eyes up. Happy Halloween.

IN CURRENT TRAFFIC

...Took a break from blogging to start a podcast and I'm convinced that as many people love listening to 30 minute tirades as do the number of those who love reading them. Anyway, I had been thinking quite a bit lately about how I got to school from the 4th through 8th grades.

Let me start by asking you how your kids get to school? Do they walk, take a bus, hitch a ride with a neighbor family? Do you take them and make yourself late to work some days as they meander and stall because they've been Instagramming and texting all night? If you don't have kids, can you remember how you got to school? Well, I can.

According to Google Maps, with "normal" traffic my route to school from about 1984-1989 was 1 hour and 10 minutes. That's a one-way trip. That's barring an accident on one of the three busiest freeways in Los Angeles (I-10/405/101). Ignorance is a saving grace man. I knew I was in school with kids who walked or were driven to school. But I don't remember thinking too much about that after I was on the bus in the afternoons. I thought more about finding a way to sneak and eat my candy on the bus ride home without the driver seeing me. I memorized lines for my role as the Cowardly Lion in the school's production of the Wizard of Oz. I attempted to complete homework on that ride home while fending off Corn Nuts, ambient laughter and exhaust fumes. Some days I just slept until a jolting brake alerted me that the bus was exiting the freeway for the first afternoon stop.

Whether going or coming, the ride from South Los Angeles to Woodland Hills was a labor in hindsight. It was anywhere from 2 hours and 20 minutes to 3 hours spent on the road round-trip and it all started because mom thought it'd be a better educational opportunity. So...what precious virtue was forged from this furnace of daily expedition you ask? Here's what I got:

PATIENCE
For the majority of the 5 years I attended schools in the San Fernando Valley, it required me to take two buses from my home to school. Back then Metro Transit Association (MTA) was known as the Rapid Transit District (RTD), also known as the Rough Tough & Dangerous because of the stereotype that gang altercations ensued on these public buses. I got up for school between 5 and 5:45 a.m. from the time I was 9 years old until I was 13 and began my day as early as most adults who rise early to earn a living for their families. The RTD, if on time or not missed, was a 10-minute ride to my school bus stop from which I boarded the Los Angeles Unified School District or contracted equivalent transportation en route to the promised land. It's still vivid how I felt on those mornings, anxious to prove that I was intelligent, eager to perform well with peers who didn't ride a school bus. Everyday felt like a basketball tryout and for whatever reason I was willing to endure mild Carmegeddon for the chance at an escape route from the inner-city.

RESOLVE & RESOURCEFULNESS
Sometimes buses break down and while your science teacher is reading the paper and having coffee in his San Fernando Valley home, as a "bussed-in" kid you have to decide to wait until the bus arrives (could be hours), run to another stop to try and catch a different bus headed to the same location or sprint to your school-bus stop because the RTD never came that morning. Oh and there's also thugs who don't care how young and small you are. Some mornings you simply have to decide how to evade or engage these cats who prey on the week like 1 and 2-men war tribes. I wasn't a fighter by nature and everyday presented the possibility of getting jacked on the way to school. But when it was all said and done I finished the 8th grade. I figured that a couple moments in a full sprint beats a full day of dodging the imbeciles who would harass you all day if you went to school in your own neighborhood.

HUMILITY
I wish I could say that I didn't experience racist indoctrination prior to my integrated education. But I didn't grown up in communities where Americans of African Descent trusted Whites. Truth is, it's hard going from black homogeneity to white homogeneity, from being the majority to being a gross minority...gross in every since. When I was in fourth grade, Madonna was fresh on the pop scene pretending she had only recently lost her virginity. Kids in the Valley loved her while I barely knew who she was. Boys in Woodland Hills were saying, "Bitchin' and Rad," and their jeans were rolled at the bottoms and uncreased. What? Hair was spiked and argyle sweaters were en vogue, but not where I was from. So when I had seen enough, I mumbled, "Madonna Sucks!" and this kid said if Madonna sucks you suck. I had only recently started using the word "sucks". It sounded terribly offensive. But when in Rome yo. So the encounter escalated, he called me a "Nigger" and a smashed him in his face when the teacher wasn't looking. I think he knew he'd provoked at least a portion of the encounter so he didn't tell on me. I was terrified. I thought I'd be kicked out of school but that was the end of it.

I realized at some point that the teachers were well aware of the difference between us bussed-in kids and the natives. But whatever reservations they may have had, I benefited from Mrs. Kaufman and Mrs. Morford. Fourth and Fifth grade were "dope" experiences for me. No matter what challenges I had on the playground, these white women treated me with respect and demanded the same of me as anyone else. This was a big deal too since I was in some kind of cohort with the higher performing students. I swear I was one of 2 black kids in the classes. But it was in those first two of the five years that I learned to accept help from those willing to offer it. Color matters but there is no honor in refusing tutelage. It was as if I had been fortunate enough to be placed with teachers who responded to students who demonstrated a willingness to learn.

CROSSOVER
Long before I was ever good at basketball, I lived between this 'hood and suburb world. My white friends made light of it and my urban homies called me an Oreo when I slipped up and used proper English. The Valley kids didn't believe that gunshots were a nightly occurrence in South LA. They didn't believe that once I got on that bus in the afternoon, I had to change a little bit, smile less, check my wardrobe to make sure I wasn't displaying the wrong colors. But whether they believed it or not, a kid had better understand his transition as routine if he intends to succeed across the divide of inner city dwelling and affluent academia. I learned the hard way that speaking too proper an English dialect in my home neighborhood could come across as arrogant to adults and peers whereas speaking slang in Woodland Hills netted you caricature status. So at school if you blurred the lines or forgot where you were, you might have an Argyle sweater walk up to you rocking side-to-side with his hands overly demonstrative while yammering, "Yo, yo, ma homeboy. W'ssup?" The crossover is a learned skill by which you learn to effectively communicate without consciously betraying your identity. Those five years in the Valley taught me how to communicate without losing myself.

I'm realizing this has gotten long and I need to get ready for work so to be continued...

p.s. - Peace to Serrania Elementary and Parkman Junior High School.

CP3: UNIVERSAL POINT GUARD

The new NBA Players Association president is Clippers point guard Chris Paul and I couldn't think of a better choice. Check the resume: He's a dad, an all-star, an Olympic Gold Medalist and he's coachable. I once met former Lakers sharp shooter and former New Orleans Hornets head coach Byron Scott and he told me how upset Chris was when he (Scott) was fired in New Orleans. The reaction was like that of a kid who amusingly tries to stick up for his dad when pops comes home and says, "I was fired today son." CP3 was ready to make some calls to the owner, ready to protest, ready to fight for all things decent. I think Coach Scott talked him off the frontline.

But Paul seems like an extremely protective guy, someone with a high quotient for justice and someone who has decided it's too much work to try and convince people that you're something other than who you were born to be.

He's quoted on brainyquote.com as having said, "No matter where you put me, I don't care if it is North Carolina, Florida, California, New York City; I'm going to be who I am." I like this next quote even better where he's recorded saying, "I trust my wife more than I trust myself." That's a real man talkin'.

There's something about CP that makes you wanna buy a jersey. There are some people who are bigger than the sports they play, whose jersey number and last name signify something transcendent. It's like what comes to mind when you see the words Johnson in purple over #32 or Manning over #18 up in Denver. In the moments we are blessed to encounter an athlete who is both competitor and ambassador, we find it difficult to merely fanaticize toward the iconic figure; we actually desire to emulate that personified inspiration. We prescribe that emulation to ourselves, to kids, to random others. The impact of an athlete who crosses over from phenomenal performer to "leader" can never be measured. Derek Fisher is a similar case study of a clutch guy who's ethos permeated his profession. But Fisher was not in the echelon that CP3 is currently in. And that makes Chris Paul even more interesting to watch. He's about as elite as it gets and yet he says things like...

"I have a Dominique Wilkins Hawks jersey that I still wear. That's probably my favorite one. What's funny is that I spend all this time collecting jerseys, and now people are out there collecting mine."

Almost without trying, just by being himself, Paul is grounded. It just so happens that his self is a transparent, honest self. Sometimes it's hard to believe he was literally a Laker for several hours until David Stern vetoed the trade.

I keep arguing that the character driven athlete, the basketball player who is self-aware will undoubtedly outperform his deluded counterparts. And I guess that's true to a degree. But more impressive to me is when a guy like Chris Paul embraces leadership as if to say, I've been a point guard my whole life, why not assist and make plays everywhere else too.

The Quest to be Superior

See if these words strike a chord in you. WE ALL STRIVE TO BE SUPERIOR. I'm the best MC, the best mom, the best point guard. Superlatives are really what people desire. Most likely to be on television or in my case, Most Likely to become the fourth member of a boy band (at the time BozIIMen) while preaching on weekends. That was the fortune fortold of me in 1993 as high school concluded. I kind of preach some weekends but I never got that call from Bell Biv Devoe telling me I was what they needed.

There's probably no better indicator of just how much people want to be superior than when men participate in 3-on-3 basketball. I got that call on Friday night asking me to fill in at the Nike3on3 at LA Live held this past weekend. First bout with superiority? My knee. It didn't feel good as a result of my Wednesday game but was I going to submit to injury. You already know the buffoonish retort. HECKKKKKK NAW! I'm a man. So I played. And I took Advil which I never do as insurance. Keep in mind, I wasn't asked to save a life or walk into a burning building to retrieve babies. I was asked to play basketball in one of the most volatile environments. And so i quested to be superior to my weakness and then to be superior to other weekend warriors.

Why is 3-on-3 so bad? Because every trained basketball player and coach knows that this is one of the purest forms of basketball. If you screen and cut, communicate and move without the ball in your hands, it's poetry in motion. If you're selfless and you exploit match-ups, spoils go to the cerebral. But that's not the brand of hoop played in front of Staples Center. It's more like, "Nah bruh, I gotta pound that dude. He's being physical so I'm gonna be physical. He's shoving so why play basketball when I can bruise." I watched brutish men throw each other around like it was a WWE Royal Rumble. And it's not about prize money. It's about that P-R-I-D-E. I'm the alpha, no I'm the alpha and so-on. Question is...why the quest for such an elusive payoff? It'd be equally asinine to chase the tail most humans weren't born with or attempt to taste wind. Who's superior? Is Kobe Bryant , who in 17 seasons of NBA participation has won 5 championships to date? Because then, by superior, we mean reaching the pinnacle of performance only 29 percent of the time qualifies as superior. Or go with Mike Jordan because he got 6 in about 15 seasons. Okay, so now I'm at 40 percent success which in my classes growing up equated with TAKE YO DUMB BUTT HOME AND STUDY SOME MO' because 40 percent is an F-minus.

So somewhere along the line, a myth was purported and spread that superiority is achievable. Drake wasn't the first guy to assert that he started from the bottom (which he didn't) and rose to stardom via hard work. The myth of questing for superiority promises that it's accessible for the relentless. I assure you it is not as evidenced by 3-on-3 basketball and athletes worldwide. I was at the Drew League at King/Drew Magnet High School in South Central yesterday.  I saw James Harden and Metta World Peace team up and lose a close one to a team of less famous men. It was funny too because the player formerly known as Ron Artest once maliciously elbowed Harden in the back of the head a couple of years back causing him to leave a game. I digress.

Back to the lecture at hand though, there's something evil about questing for superiority. It's like we weren't meant to actually be God. We are housed in these mortal frames with limitations that stem from our emotions, vices, physical injury, etc. No one can rule forever. No one can be the best everyday. And so why make claims that you can. The first time I saw a dead man in the streets it was allegedly due to one man's failed quest for superiority. He had been in an altercation earlier that day and had successfully beaten up a man who after the beat-down vowed to come back with a gun. The recipient of said ass-whipping kept his promise. And the superior became fatally inferior and the inferior became, for a moment, superior. Ah...to know what came of that shooter though. Ancient wisdom literature says that, "Again I saw that under the sun the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favor to those with knowledge, but time and chance happen to them all." While in the midst of time and chance our quests are better spent on discovering purpose. I can assure you that I wasn't put on Earth just to win a 3-on-3 basketball tournament. I'd certainly like to believe there's more for me here than that.

INTEGRITY NOW OR LATER?

Prep Schools, Reclassification, Hold Backs... What the...? These are common terms now considered part and parcel when it comes to maximizing your son or daughter's recruiting potential out of high school. There are Amateur Athletic Union (AAU) tourneys every weekend in converted warehouses turned multiplex facilities. You pay to park and to get in just to watch kids, who aren't old enough to drive yet, play basketball. There's a lot to say about all of this craziness but I'm especially intrigued with the extended prep educational experiences prescribed to many parents.

The fifth year is common now for the serious top recruits, the ones with NBA on their minds. It's hard to look at the phenomenon and not think, "Man, maybe I just didn't want basketball bad enough back in the early 90s when I was in high school. Kids now are down to stay a year longer in school and be held back..." then I come to my senses. There used to be a stigma about staying in school too long, looking older than everyone else and graduating from high school at 19 or 20. And I realize that now you can actually graduate and go to basketball academies where you won't be judged as if you failed senior year. But still...it's weird to me.

In the last 10 years in our culture the ethos of amateur basketball has morphed into, for elite players, a systemic on-ramp to professional basketball. There's a concocted cocktail almost scientific in its exactness that is supposed to at minimum land a prep a scholarship. Back in the day, and I know how this sounds, but back in the day your high school team was the primary vehicle for exposure. My college coach came to Diamond Bar high school and saw me play. He didn't come to some basketball factory with short courts and running time games. And this isn't to say that my day was better. I'm just saying I struggle to understand the obsession. There's opportunism in the eyes of people who have made lucrative business out of the basketball stage that used to be more formative and recreational. And there's the same opportunism in the hearts of parents who desperately want their athletes to excel.

I guess it worked for Shabazz Muhammad the Minnesota Timberwolves rookie recently sent home from the NBA rookie transition program. In fact, it works for enough guys, just enough guys to keep the amateur compulsion alive and well. And I get that. I get that keeping kids busy keeps them out of trouble and that skill mastery is likely when you repeat-rinse-and-repeat. But dude, you ain't got to lie to get your kid good. You ain't got to hold your kid back and reclassify him so that he's class of 2014 instead of 2013. Commit to the core virtues that make people great and the young bull will still develop. Trust me. Some things never stop working. Patience is a virtue and a developer of virtue.

PRIDE in disguise

One of my "Core 12" lessons learned from NOT playing basketball. is RESPECT UP, DOWN and ACROSS. I still play as much hoop as possible and yesterday I had a game down at Caltech in Pasadena, California in the Inter Hoops Basketball League (IBL). My squad has been on a losing slide of late, dropping close games due to inefficiency in a number areas. Namely, we ain't hittin' shots or rebounding very well.

But yesterday we squared up against a team that had 6 players total, one of whom was female. My team is five men. So you see where this is going right? There's a chauvinist in me who isn't about to be beaten by a girl. I know, I know. And so the game starts and she's pretty good, not for a girl. She's good! She hit a couple of 3's and played almost the entire game. She was a fundamental player knowing when to cut, how to fade and shape up to the ball for shots and how to screen.

So on one play I saw her on my left peripheral preparing to set a screen on the ball meaning she was about to block me on my left so that I couldn't slide into a proper defensive position to stop the point guard from attacking the basket. Well, I did what all good defenders do (I think) and leveled her. And I know that sounds mean and brutish. Referees quickly called an offensive foul on me saying that I ran through the screen. I yelled at the ref that I can't control the "differential". I literally used that word so as not to say, "It's not my fault she's not as strong as me."

Now let's pause.

Back to my Core 12. RESPECT UP, DOWN and ACROSS is a term that I use in my 6IXTH MAN approach to character. It means that I show a reverence for all people no matter how I may view them. It means that I honor people because they have been created by God.

When I knocked that young lady down, it was one of those moments where I could hide behind the basketball play. "That's the price you pay in hoop for attempting a screen." I believe that. Really I do. Basketball is physical and knows no gender. It's a game. HOWEVER!!!! I took it personal that she'd try to step in front of me. IN FRONT OF ME! I knew I was being arrogant in the moment, in my mind and I believe it was a poor display because of what I was exuding. The referees knew I was making an immature power play and they responded.

See, I know at least three other ways to handle a screen. I could have easily closed my space to my defender and gone over the top of the screen. That's what I normally do, especially in a league where the art of screening is raw. I didn't even help her up. I'm still learning that fine line between competing and being human. As I reflect, all I can say is that the level I took it to yesterday didn't match the type of game being played. Pick on someone my own size? That's kind of how I came to look at the situation. Still unsure. Was I dirty in putting that girl on the floor? Her team was destroying us at the moment. And she wasn't a small woman. But where was my mind and more importantly my estimation of the scenario: A balmy Sunday in Pasadena in a game that no one will remember. Perspective is necessary.

I think the team we played yesterday respected me. Every time I switched to guard someone they said, "Damn man, why do you have to guard me?" That always makes me laugh. My response is usually something like, "Somebody needs to guard you. You're killin' us." The moral: If you're losing a game, it's because the other team respects you. They are coming after you because they respect your ability to beat them. Question is...how will you respond to counter the energy? #core6of12 #Respect

THE UNSUNG ESSENTIAL

So I'm talking to this guy today who will probably play in the NBA in the next 1-3 seasons when I realize, "Yo, this dude is surprisingly humble." And I can't help but think that it is this one quality that will make him a great pro.


Humility is that virtue that everybody respects but really thinks is a sign of weakness. Let's be honest. But there's something about knowing there's other great players in the world besides you, knowing that complacency can undo you at any moment, that stimulates a competitive drive. And as I talked with this guy, I could sense his appreciation for generosity and a place to workout. There's a nice gym where I work so one day at the "baba" shop we had both just gotten fresh cuts when I ran into him and we traded information. He was lookin' for a place to get some private workouts in which can be challenging when you're an international professional player in town for the summer. So I obliged and watched his relentless work ethic. I opened the gym for him one night at 11 p.m. and he text me at 2:44 a.m. like..."thanks Norm, I really appreciate it."

So as I'm talking to him today he's telling me how he knows what intensity he needs to train at for it to be valuable. He said a lot of guys don't have an imagination when they do individual training. "I've pretty much seen every defense that can be thrown at me so when I'm working out I can visualize what the help defense is going to do and work on moves that counter,..." he continued. What?

In sports we talk about mental toughness which usually translates to playing through pain or fighting fatigue. But what about seeing what isn't there. Who teaches that? Who practices like that? Jonathan Gibson a.k.a. "J Gibb"does. And that takes humility. As good as he is, it would be both easy and acceptable for him to be content with a career in Europe where he's had tremendous success already. But he respects his friends, his barber, people he's just met, a church facility that happens to have a gym and his unseen opponents. He's a temperate dude, the kind of guy who always looks like he's about to smile but will destroy you based on countless hours of preparation. Ask anybody from West Covina, CA who knows hoop and they'll concur.

Humility is as much trade craft in basketball as a crossover counter move or running floater. It is the ultimate intangible, the very skeleton supporting other virtues like tenacity, motivation and resolve under pressure. To be humble is to be acquainted with your mortality. One of the most human things one can be is humble. And while plenty of prideful ingrates have enjoyed success, the true professional is defined by humility. #JGibb2NBA

THE REALITY OF RECRUITMENT

I performed this wedding ceremony yesterday in San Clemente, California for a buddy of mine, one of my college roommates. He was the baseball player and I the basketball player. He and his fiancee (now wife) asking me to officiate was like gettin' picked up for a 10-day contract in the league (NBA). Because when give you charge of their DAY, it's a huge investment of trust. In some cases, you might be the only person they know who legally can perform a wedding LOL. I was a bit surprised 'cause he and I haven't been that close over the years since undergrad.  I don't know if there was a more beautiful place to get married as you can see... 

No matter...I wrestled with some things personally yesterday given my role. When you're up there in front of this couple on the perfect day and you realize you're wearing a moth-eaten suit that's dated along with the tie, it messes with you. My shoes weren't shined either. Thankfully I was clean. But I didn't have my glasses and my shirt felt over sized. You see where I'm headed? I was distracted.

There was something far more significant going on and I was being haunted by the demons of comparison, arguably an athlete's greatest nemesis. In the end, I remembered just about everything necessary for a legal wedding to be conducted, particularly when I headed for home, stopped for gas and raced back to the venue to have the bride, groom and witnesses sign their marriage license. That would've been a fail far worse than my moth-eaten Hugo Boss. What I learned though was that I need a new suit or two because that's a shame I ain't bought one since 2008. And secondly, I'm qualified! My homie and his wife asked me because they believed I could improve their chances of having the greatest day possible. They needed help as well that they felt I could provide. No dime-a-dozen here, even though that's what tugs at us all. At day's end, There's a reason why dudes get 10-day contracts in the NBA. They deserve a shot. Recognize who and where you are. You made the team for a reason and it's not because of how you look in your uniform (most of the time LOL).

UNFOLLOW @whennecessary

I had to unfollow somone yesterday. Well...I didn't have to but I chose to and let me be specific about the social media application to which I'm referring. Twitter as opposed to Instagram or the others. And I'm sure the person in question isn't waking up this morning wondering what happened to his follower @6ixthman. True. I'm not trippin' either but to the point, I unfollowed because of hearsay, admittedly.

This guy plays basketball professionally for the Chicago Bulls. He's one of the more exceptional athletic wonders in the history of the sport too because he's not the prototypical NBA player. But recently a friend of mine gave me ears on the ground about the guy's character. The anecdotes he described painted a less-than-admirable picture of this public figure and you know how it is...you might not have been there but ya boy was there so you trust that he ain't got no reason to lie. So you buy the episode without much investigation.

Womanizing exploits, arrogance displayed in a setting where charity was the focus and a gross sense of entitlement rounded out the sketch of this revered basketball superstar who has 916,321 followers on Twitter alone. See, the number 916,321 is alarming and is for me beyond my scope of reference. All I know is that a full Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum seats 93,607 for a football game. That's not even 100,000 people. The dude I'm talkin' about has more than 9 times that amount of people interested in...HIM.  At least via social media, this rapacious human being is adored by nine coliseum's worth of humans. All those people, on some level, care about the tweets of one guy. This is 2013. This is reality. This is why leadership has to be something people embrace from places of grandeur. We can't always control the places our gifts take us. But yo, who you gonna be when you get there? Seems like everybody is watching...

PATER pronounced (PAT-AYR)

KEEP CALM and TELL YA STORY!

I read on history.com that Father's Day was introduced in 1910 but didn't become official until Mother's Day did circa 1972. It's a cool expression, a truly worthy sentiment. And on Father's Day 2013, I did something that was a first. I wished God a happy Father's Day. I figured, when I was runnin' from that knife, my father looked out. When I was in that intersection on two occasions getting hit by cars, my father eased the gas pedal and heightened the driver's awareness. It was the difference between 37 and 15 years on the planet.

Pater is the latin-based Greek word for Father. It has a range of meanings including: someone who originates, ancestor, even someone who serves as a paternal figure...a stand-in...a surrogate. The father piece can be a touchy subject for many of us. Suppose you don't have children of your own like me. Or suppose you didn't have an adequate father figure in your home growing up...like me. It makes days like yesterday not-so-much awkward as much as an adventure in transparency. There are few days like Father's day where such a private reality is exposed, where your designation is so clearly communicated. Father issues present an interesting confrontation on days like we just celebrated.

And it's not, at least for me, a volatile encounter. It's simply an opportunity to talk straight, to be who you are without apology for who you've become. In my case I'm honestly just a guy who doesn't have his own children. It's not a crime committed toward me. It's not technically a defect of personality per se. It just...is. And because IT IS, I'm thrown into two potential realms of conversation. On one hand I wasn't raised by my biological father. On the other hand, I'm 37 years-old and not a father myself. Both scenarios, while not as uncommon as one might think, evoke pity. I'm not sure why.

When I graduated from Chapman University in 1997, a family very close to me gifted me with a Pullman luggage saying I would need it. They were right but they may not have known the reasons for my travels. What else?...KIDS! I've been to 5 of the seven continents on behalf of mentoring via basketball. I thought it would be as a player all those years ago but let's not open old wounds LOL. The point is, as ironic as some might have it be, I may not be a father but damn...I sure feel like one. Is that wrong? God has offered me a privilege to be the "other" voice in the lives of literally hundreds of kids worldwide, some of whom will one day do what I'm doing in light of their Father's Day awkwardness. To all my PATER brethren...stay true to the cause.

NEW MOTIVATION

Kind of surprising when you become that dude comparing yesterday to today, saying things like, "That's the problem with these youngbloods..." I used to laugh at people who talked like that. Back in the day was back in the day for a reason.

I text guys pretty regularly about working on their game (feels more like I'm beggin' these dudes to come out to a free gym with fiberglass backboards and nets that aren't tattered.) I hit 'em up because I figure these players are like me and my old crew. I would've followed my cousin Billy to Zimbabwe if he thought there was a good game there. We never had to look that far. In the city of Los Angeles you might hop the fence at Samuel L. Gompers Middle School, John Locke High or hope that the gym wasn't too full at Mary Bethune Park. We usually played outside 'cause you did what you had to do. I'm not gonna lie and say we never "found the door ajar" at a local gym. Getting on the court was the optimal Friday evening.

But here comes the old man speak. As recently as yesterday I sent a text out to collegiate and even professional guys in town for the summer. All they really need is a gym I would imagine so I offered one and kept the invitees to a minimum thinking to keep the runs from going south. All you need is 15 heads so that there's always only one team waiting to get on. But alas, the responses these days usually sound like, "Awww man, I'm in LA right now." (translation = I'm with my girl right now). Here's another common retort. "Who's all these ppl in this group text? Last time the run was weak." I couldn't argue with that last comment because he was right. For a guy of his caliber, the last open gym he attended wasn't competitive for a professional. But I still submit that brothas like me would've played and just tried to destroy the weaker players in the gym.

Motivation is harder to master these days...I mean from the "older guy" side. By the way, anything beyond 30 is considered aged in basketball. I can say this though, as I toggle between writing this blog and texting one of these young bucks. In order to create good competitive open runs (pick-up basketball games) you have to purge the guest list. You have to make sure it's not lackluster hoopers disinterested in improvement. Distraction lurks like never before and all it takes is an opportunity to show off overseas earnings to ruin a consistent summer pick-up basketball scenario. Good player are bit more fragile these days and their tolerance is low for anything sub-par.

It's a bigger, better deal mentality that puts the pressure on guys like me to stay attractive. And it ain't changin'. Long-live the art of character development in the age of elite ELITES.

HUMILITY AS PRACTICE

CHAPMAN UNIVERSITY'S all-time winningest head coach, still learning. 

My college coach Mike Bokosky said some classic things in our practices back in the 90s at Chapman University. There was color to be sure. Athletes, y'all know what I'm talkin' about. But listen. Of all I learned, I think one of the cooler things he ever said was when I started coming back around the school in the early 2000s. I heard him say, "I think I'm a better coach than I was when you were here."

There's a lot of grace in a statement like that, the grace one learns to afford to himself. We have to look at where we are and evaluate the stage of life against where we've been. When I finished in '97 I could see coach making tremendous strides just based on my final conversation with him after the last collegiate game I ever played. Coach and I had a typical player-coach relationship where he was the clear authority and I was the disgruntled player always wanting more minutes, more limelight. But he told me on the way to the van after that game that he should have played me more during my career. When you see someone you admire admit a failing, the power is immeasurable.

There comes a point in life where growth seems either impossible or too costly. It's easy and acceptable to coast. In '97 I was only 21 years old. I didn't get the significance. I was more focused on the fact that he was saying I was a better player than he thought during my college career. Forest for trees ma brothas and sistas. Here was a guy modeling a learning posture, still coaching me. When I saw him somewhere around 2006/2007 and he still claimed to be transitioning, being formed into a calmer more collected version of himself, I started paying attention. Am I a better me today than I was last year, or even last month? Hope so.

INTERRUPTED

Reading a chapter of C.S. Lewis' "The Screwtape Letters" tonight made me think of the 2010-2011 Western Christian Fighting Lancers Basketball team I coached that year. They were, in a word, stellar! But here's why.

In chapter 22 of the book, Screwtape continues his advice to his protege Wormwood. If you've not read it, it's an imaginative work depicting how an apprentice demon might mentor a junior devil on how to ensure the failure of his subject, a human. And this human could be you, could be me or anyone hated by the biblical Satan. But in this particular chapter tonight it was, at least in part, about how the interruptions of life make us angry and how that can be used to destroy lives. See, no one likes intrusions. They get in the way of our objectives don't they? Well, in 2010 the season began at the Webb Tournament and it was the third quarter when Andrew Hyde, my best player, went down with a torn ACL off of a routine rebound. It was an immediate deletion of a leader and flat out go-to guy. The word interruption is an insult here.

This was unjust, criminal, a tragedy. Hyde was a senior along with the other 11 young men on the squad. I had 12 freakin' seniors man who had played together for the better part of 3 years in some combination. Not only that, but they liked each other, hung out away from school and had come to own just enough swag to set them up for a championship run their senior year. But when big Drew went down, it was crazy to watch what transpired.

A group of kids who had already lost their star player along with their previous coach whom they trusted decided to reassign (themselves) roles. They didn't have a private meeting as far as I know but everyone morphed. Mark McMahon led us in rebounding, steals and assists while Michael Broad led us in scoring. Damian Jara was our tireless floor general and defender of all point guards not wearing our uniform. Kevin Michalak started playing like a man 5 inches taller while Zack Carpenter started draining 3's. Joe Allen took a charge from anyone stupid enough to run him over and Tyler Hong exploded for points against some of our toughest opponents. Chris Weeks committed himself to making his minutes count by playing our system with precision and remaining that spiritual leader. Christian Solis rejoined the team after his teammates voted him back in. He had quit to focus on his primary sport, football, but returned to give the team a physicality only he could bring. Jason Ji, our big man form Asia, worked his way back onto the team after quitting and humbly accepted his challenge to earn the respect of his comrades. He succeeded in that and displayed great skill when he finally got a chance to shine. Danny Chakbazof broke down defenses and stuck opponents with 3-balls from multiple locations around the arc. And my man Andrew Hyde? He legitimately functioned as a third coach. He saw things we coaches couldn't see and had the capital with his brothers to communicate it.

In a situation where immaturity could have defined them, the 2010-2011 Fighting Lancers opted to respond the way they had been trained by parents, former coaches and their Faith. It's almost three years later that I reflect and write because I realize the power of choice when it comes to the intrusions life will bring. What will you do when you're interrupted?

ENEMY or OPPONENT?

We used to talk about opponents in basketball as the enemy. I took it literally too and struggled to turn that switch off sometimes. I mean, if you're a boxer, how do you beat a dude up or get beaten up and then shake that guy's hand after it's all over? I'll catch clips of UFC (Ultimate Fighting Championship) bouts from time-to-time and I marvel at the conditioning but even more-so at their ability to respect one another. Mixed Martial Arts (MMA) is brutal man. You're in a cage with a guy wearing compression shorts and you can't run. It's like kill or be killed or at least submit or force him into submission. The gloves are minimally padded too. I'm not sure I wanna do dinner after that meeting. But I'm sure many of them do.

I think that the difference between an opponent and an enemy is that an opponent is opposite you for a fixed period of time whereas your enemy...? Well, he's sworn, a lifetime foe, your permanent adversary. An enemy is probably sourced in evil, fully committed to your demise. That dude stickin' you on the perimeter (so-to-speak) is not necessarily an enemy though we might need to view him  that way for motivation's sake in the heat of a contest.

In hoop, I've seen players intentionally hurt people, namely in scenarios where two people are competing for the same contract or starting spot. I've been involved in those "scrimmages" that often become "skirmishes." There's nothing worse than someone taking a cheap shot at you. But I'm starting to recognize that while people do plenty of bad things, they themselves can change if they understand what's driving them to do the evil. Hood lessons are prolific and one of them (unstated of course) says that the best way to win a job is to eliminate the competition by any means needed. But subscribing to this thinking means we've bought a lie. Sooner or later there's always an opponent bigger, faster, stronger and more gifted than you. The ENEMY is not the dude guarding you; the enemy is YOU, or at least something in you.

How many times does fear lead us to cowardice. The player who's afraid of not getting the position will resort to all kinds of brutal tactics because he's selfish, arrogant and desperate. But when you face fears head-on, you can make sense of an opportunity and understand that our real enemy is probably almost always fear. There's a real enemy out there but he ain't a man. Most of the time he looks like LONELINESS, ANGER, ENTITLEMENT and even GRIEF. Don't people do weird things when they feel isolated, furious, like they deserve more or like they've lost something? I know I do. Next time you square up with an opponent, start trying to see the real enemy. Trust me, you'll play better.

SWIIIIIIIIITCH!

DJs used to do that during a jam. You're dancing with someone and he yells out...SWIIIIIIITCH! And you're trying to get ya game up talkin' to the girl you're dancing with right now but DJ just called it out so you gotta move. Gotta change partners. Not Cool!

Speakin' of switchin', it's funny how we gain and lose appetites for things. Kids start drinking coffee before they're 10 years old now. I didn't really start 'til I was about 27/28 and even then it was seldom. I remember working out for pro basketball and boycotting all things caffeinated, sugar-laden and dairy. So my affinity for coffee and tea probably began more like at age 32/33. I'm down for a cup-a-day now. A dude I hang out with told me that he used to drink like 25 cups some days when he was in the Marines. C'mon son....

Anyway, I was on that Spotify the way I normally indulge and I hit that juke box vibe and took it back to 1995. I dug up Das Efx, a 90s rap duo that I listened to back then. I went to the tracks I remembered liking. The tracks started, beat kicked in and I was 18-20 years old for like 5 minutes. Ah but then it happened. Something didn't taste right. Yo, it was the lyrics. They really didn't make sense to me anymore. It was like I'd had a gross change in palette. And it wasn't just the profanity because that was actually minimal. But it was the reverberation about sexual prowess, violent exploits and hedonism. I couldn't stand the refrain. Not all the songs dealt in those three themes but bottom line...MY TASTE FOR SUPERFICIAL MUSIC MAY BE GONE. I ain't for certain but I think I may actually be growing up. Don't get me wrong, I'm still a hip-hop guy down with the underground likes of Theory Hazit, Eshon Burgundy, Derek Minor, Deepspace 5 etc. But I'm good on that other stuff.

The coolest part is when you're not trying to be noble, not trying to prove that you've chosen a more refined rap alternative. It's cool when the right choices just kind of find you because something on the inside of you has changed. I wish I could still listen to DJ Quik the way I used to. Somehow I don't see that wish being granted and I'm fine with that. #authenticity

RESOLUTE IN ACTION gentle in manner

Maybe being an underdog is the prerequisite of courage.

One of the guys on the tandem bike is going to the University of Southern California (USC) next fall when he should be enjoying senior year of high school. There won't be one last homecoming, a senior night for varsity basketball, a prom, a "You-should-kneel-before-the-senior" mentality. It's a forfeiture of significant proportion, especially since the guy headed to college is going to be two years younger than every other freshman on campus (by-and-large). He already skipped a grade and now he's skipping the last year of secondary ed to take his talents to the land of Troy.

It's wild because when you coach dudes who aren't NBA or college basketball bound, you wonder how they're processing the practices, the rigorous demands and such. But the guy in question was arguably the smallest and hardest working player on my team two seasons ago. No questions asked, he committed to anything he attempted, taking charges from opposing players more than twice his weight. As a sophomore, he injured himself in a game or in a practice (can't recall) and he cut his back on a portion of the bleachers. It resulted in an infection that kept him out of action for nearly a month. Who gets injured by the bleachers? How many players are even willing to make plays that involve the seats (LOL). If JD Kumala is 135 pounds I'd be shocked and suspicious. But what he lacks in girth he compensates for via something much more valuable and transferable.

Sometimes you run across these strange individuals who, while aware of obstacles, engage every single one of them because it's what they've always done. They aren't trying to prove a point. They're not the Kobe Bryant types, too unapproachable to like. These types of folks are simply resolute, refusing to NOT strive. This morning he said, about the task ahead,

"Coach...I'm really putting myself on a limb this time because I'll be at least two years younger than everyone else. I hope I'll be able to manage it..."

I ain't even responded yet but I know what I'm gonna say. You're good! You don't manage the unchangeable! Being younger than everyone else, missing high school because you left early, wading into a university world when all you've known is private Christian education in its fish bowl...that's just the reality of the station you're in youngblood. What JD will do is trust God, employ his true identity and maintain a thirst for learning. It's who he is. Who are you?

OPERATOR ERROR

How many times have I been fouled, hacked and hammered in games I've played. I mean...I'm being fouled in that picture on the left. That was actually one of the tougher regions too (LOL). Thankfully the foul sent me to the free throw line where I believe I converted. But I'm almost positive I missed the shot in the photo. Seemed like a "gimme" too but it's so easy to lose concentration, to focus on the things that matter but that don't matter as much as say...finishing the play.

There's always a main thing, always a prime objective. I see guys getting hurt all the time in pick-up games at my church and the reasons vary. But the main one is simply that the operator isn't surveying the situation and walks, stumbles or runs into a precarious tendon-threatening scenario. I'd like to believe that I've learned my lesson or at least am in process of doing so.


What dangers lurk? Anticipation is always the mark of a veteran. There's no such thing as blaming fire for the burn. Proximity is the nemesis no? When I started college, I went to beach party where a teammate told me a story about his brother laughing and joking while tip-toeing near a bonfire. He was cacklin', being loud, drinkin' brew, just chillin'. The laughter turned to squall, screeches and squeals when he fell in that bonfire. I still die just thinking about it. Funniest scene ever. He survived by the way.

There's always risk and we're always the one operating in the reality of the risk. There is a way to play it. Keep ya head up today! Expect the contact. Seek the wisdom you need in order to finish what needs finishing.

THERE ARE NO NO-BRAINERS

You always have to think. That's what I learned yesterday. As a rule, you can't get away with assumption - that is - taking for granted that others understand you. Most of the time, people don't understand one another. And there's a good chance that it's because they don't want to understand one another. I came to this conclusion yesterday at Sushi. Yes I eat Sushi. I realize it's 2013 and everybody is all eclectic but even saying I eat Sushi requires courage. I mean...I'm very black, whatever that means, and originally from South Central Los Angeles, home of Church's Chicken and Tam's #5. Guys like me aren't your usual candidates for cuisine involving raw seafood. But I ruminated over crunchy rolls yesterday with a co-worker and then I received this text from a young guy I hang out with some time. He wanted to chat about something vital to the next several months of his life and he was like, "Where you at?" and I was like, "I'm over here with these chopsticks. What you wanna do youngblood?" "I'm comin' through," he responded.

So, lunch with one friend turned into lunch with two friends. But one of the friends (the younger one) needed to talk serious. So we did. It was a no-brainer too...to me. The relationship I had with this young man required my sitting, my listening, maybe even my input. And it felt natural as if this is why I'm on the planet. Can you imagine? Put on the planet to talk to people, to listen, to counsel? But you can never assume that spending time in this way on a Monday afternoon is valued by others. If someone asked me what I did yesterday afternoon, would I have been proud? Would I have been embarrassed because this is not deemed "work" in our society? Would I have spun the truth a little? It's a no-brainer that I did what needed to be done right? Wrong! What is right though is that I took time to examine the situation with a young brotha. He needed discourse, the kind that can impact life-changing decisions. I guess the moral goes a little something like..."DO THE RIGHT THING, even it's not a no-brainer to the world around you."

SMELLING SALTS

Who's your go-to when you need inspiration? Life gets stupid pretty quickly and the motivation to be creative can dip drastically in a moment and without warning. These are the times when we're desperately in need of resuscitation, a life breath and/or stimulant. It's so easy to scapegoat kids and practicality as the culprits of dream extermination. "I had some dreams but hey...I gotta do what needs doing."

By this logic, my body needs to dump waste from time-to-time. It's a non-negotiable right? And since I gotta do what I gotta do, I better steer clear of recreation and plans to live a fulfilling life. There's a list of "gotta-dos" that still don't explain why we're not operating from places of passion. The way people follow kids around to soccer games on the weekend you would think the whole of American parents dreamed as children that they would one day grow up and watch packs of kids follow a ball around. I can picture parents as 5th graders saying to themselves that they aspire to abandon music, jettison athletics and discard a love for literature because...well...that sounds awesome. Nah bruh...that sounds like the stupidest, most counter intuitive thing ever. Basketball wakes me up, as does singing, guitar playing and writing blogs like this one. I have several passions and they better start showing up more in your life and mine or else...

The Warrior vs. The Explorer Part 2

I recommend you read part 1 of The Warrior vs. the Explorer 

It's taken me nearly 14 years to get back to the Philippines. And if its a bookend this time around., it's a fitting one as I'm here, with intention to use basketball. In that, it is just like the first time. In '99, the goal was to get on with a team in the Philippine Basketball Association (PBA). So I came over having sent my footage ahead. I remember getting here and thinking, "I don't. Even know where to begin." Cell phones weren't a part of my regular rotation yet. But I eventually worked out for this one team and a week or two later was on my way back stateside. Thought I'd be back the very next year but by Janury of 2000 I was in seminary gettin" drowned in heady speak about the Yahwist and Elohist blah blah blah.

All these years later there's still Jolibee everywhere, basketball craze and traffic. But I'm here in a position to learn oh and my wife came too. She wasn't here in '99. Not sure she would have been down with who I was then anyway Lol. But this time I have a team with me of phenomenal people ready to serve and receive. This time basketball has a utility that can't be stifled. And yet the first trip is inextricably connected to the second because 6ixth Man was birthed from the first trip. SUBMISSION TO TRUTH may have been solidified during the uncertainty of whether I would ever play professionally. It was in the Philippines and on the plane home that I had to admit I wasn't able to control destiny the way I'd anticipated up to that point in my life. Tenacity is one thing but nothing could dispute that the PBA was out of reach and quite frankly it was a motive purifier. It's quite possible that last 14 years have been my condensed wandering in the wilderness. Being back here could be a passage through to promised land of contentment in simply "going hard" to share both the authenticity of Jesus Christ's ethos and have closure. There's a big picture and maybe now I'll ne able to see it in serving kids who have far less than I did. Good to be back in the land of Lumpia and Adobo Chicken. #longroad #2wisdom

Middle Skool

They say that junior high is one of the most awkward times of a person's life, particularly for males. To the most manly lookin' go the spoils. And the spoils include attention, affirmation, a glimmer of fame and even preferential placement. So if you're undersized, a late bloomer, a plane Jane, or the like you better be good at something. And by something I don't mean French Horn. You better be an athlete, have wealthy parents who host your early-teen parties and personalize your invites or be talented in a YouTube-worthy sort of fashion. 

I was at my cousin's basketball game yesterday and ear hustled some conversations while observing the middle school animal in its natural habitat. Powder Foundation? At 12/13? For real? Hair, nails and flirtation? These girls are already in competition mode. Survival of the cutest is the rule. Well maybe not but it's certainly up for debate.

And then these boys, these males, these hybrids. They're like half child half 'grunter/snorter". I saw one complain because he thought he got fouled. He was competing fiercely, attempting to define himself with basketball prowess, sportin' neoprene sleeve and Dwyane Wade-esque Nike combat gear. But alas, when he had the ball stolen from him and tripped, he resorted to...tears. His dad hoisted him and held him like an infant in his arms. It was the kind of episode that would ruin a high school male whose machismo is permanently infused already. But these budding alphas are a mysterious, impressionable blend. They want an identity in the worst way.

The only reason I ended up on that campus yesterday was because my cousin hit me up like, "Hey, Norman I have a basketball game at South Pointe at 3:15 if you want to come." Translation: "Can you come, can you come, please, please bro, come man, I'm really really good. It would mean everything...!!!" I had to go once the interpretation came through. LOL

Maybe puberty is the most volatile transition because it's so tangible, so immediate, so public and so conflicting. Maybe we hated Junior High because we didn't have a tour guide through human development, a mentor/confidant to help manage the journey.

THE YEAR OF THE DREAM DEFERRED?

As 2012 ended I realized I was having a mid-life crisis at only 37 years old. Maybe it wasn't so much mid-life that defined the crisis as it was just life in general. I looked in the mirror a lot last year, mostly to count the greys in my hair which is thinning a very strange way. I saw greys in the go-tee as well. Some nights I couldn't sleep in 2012 and I developed this crook in my neck that I thought was from sleeping weird but who knows. I normally do a little traveling throughout the year for basketball camps and/or speaking engagements. In 2012 I did no traveling. But I did a lot of other things.

I completed a full school year of teaching 7th and 8th graders at Amelia Earhart Middle School in Riverside California. I was laid-off at the end of the year due to budgetary constraints. While teaching, I coached varsity basketball for Western Christian High School in Upland, California. In the Spring of 2012, my wife noticed a coaching position opening at Columbia International University in South Carolina and told me it was a fit. CIU didn't even have a team yet and they still don't. They were searching for a coach to come in and build a quality, Christ-centered, mission-minded, character-driven basketball program. So I stepped to the stage quickly, figuring I'd at least get an interview for a job at a University that doesn't even have a basketball team yet. I assumed the criteria they had thrown out would deter coaches who just want to raise money and field a team of athletes. My thinking was that for what I lack in college coaching experience I make up for with conviction and a commitment to developing men regardless of outside pressure. I'm the guy with nothing to lose, or at least that's how I live out most pursuits. I called the basketball office 3-4 times to follow up and see if the search committee was screening applicants. I told my wife I might need to hop on a plane and go interview. We started getting our heads around moving from sunny So Cali (where we riot not rally) to THE SOUTH. After the application was submitted and the clock began ticking, I realized I really wanted this job.

I wasn't going to be inheriting someone else's damaged goods and nightmare recruits who go to Christian schools to womanize and dissipate. 'Cause that's what happens all over the nation. Athletes who can't qualify for Division I or II schools due to academics or eligibility infractions often end up going the NAIA (National Association of Intercollegiate Athletics) route. So there are some Christian schools with real basketball pedigree. Unfortunately, athletics is God to many of the guys on the hoop squad and spiritual formation never takes precedence. So I was thinking, "what could be better than starting from the ground up and producing a character driven, Christ centered team of competitive sons of ....guns." I'm all about destroying the opponent within the scope of the sport. But man...to be able to do that in a way that develops men into true followers of God with his truth as the GPS. No joke, I thought this was a God sent opportunity and felt it'd be easy to take being cut from the Riverside Unified School District teaching team. You know how it is. If the girl or guy you're dating says, "It's not you; it's me," you can deal with it easier if there's someone hotter on deck.

Between March 26 and May 21, I maintained conversations with the CIU Human Resources assistant and even the athletic director. I didn't get the job, an interview or any official indication that I wasn't being considered. And it was funny because all the while, I was in other communications with a church about coming onto their staff full-time when my teaching contract ended. The lead pastor of the church had prayed with me one-on-one that I would get the Columbia coaching position even though he wanted me on his team. He even put in a call to a fellow alum from his seminary who he thought was working at CIU. On June 10 I started working at a church. And since I was technically still head coach of the Western Christian Fighting Lancers Boys Basketball program, I figured I'd still have my coaching outlet. But by  August of 2012 I was neither a college nor high school coach. What happened to the "someone hotter" waiting in the wings? I didn't get the college coaching job and now I'm not even a coach at all. Oh and all the private training I was doing dried up too. Basketball players working out with me decided that didn't want to anymore. Really? Did my Chevrons get stripped from my uniform in 2012? Felt like it but as I write this I'm realizing that I downplayed that too.

If 2012 was a basketball game, the 1st and 2nd halves looked nothing alike. But I am adjusting and I do like the place to which I've arrived in many respects. Teaching the Bible, counseling young and not-so-young and structuring programming for spiritual growth is what I'm doing now. The exhilaration is not the same. But the purpose seems to be. More to come in 2013. I am doing a basketball camp in the Philippines under the name 6IXTH MAN in April though.