THE RUB OF IDENTITY

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Identity is non-negotiable truth about none other than yourself. That might be why names are so important. People legally change their names from Buford to Antonio but the identity remains. When the Lakers were eliminated from the 2011 NBA Playoffs on Sunday most people maligned them because they felt the Laker identity had been breached. And the pundits and callers on radio stations citywide chimed in to reinforce this. They claimed that the franchise is above goonish antics, that Mr. Buss is a class act and that the actions of Lamar Odom and Andrew Bynum did not reflect those of true Lakers. This was chatter about the same Lakers whose studded alumni roster includes Magic Johnson, James Worthy, Wilt Chamberlain and Kareem Abdul Jabbar. Each of the men mentioned were stellar in his own right but at times demonstrated severe lapses in judgement on and off the court. Try as you might, there is no explaining away of the fact that “all have sinned and fall short…” No truer maxim has ever been uttered.

Nevertheless, there is a shameless ignorance that pervades society and recreates reality so that fools think they’re better than the poor depraved animals on television. Is the clear difference between my mistakes and those of a 7-foot tall millionaire simply that his mistakes are public and mine aren’t? And the banter of Colin Cowherd and Steven A. Smith would make you an idealist in 10 minutes. They would have you believe that we (the fans) have the innate right to judge without asking questions. By the tone of voice, the intimidating command of a wide breadth of knowledge, one listens and buys the notion that when a Laker embrarasses himself by acting brutish, he is deviating. Chances are that he is deviating from himself but not from his employer nor from the ethic of the National Basketball Association. The culprit in question, the Bynums of the world are merely reflecting the fragile mixture that is high stakes iconoclasm. High stakes iconoclasm means that if you create gods out of athletes, one day they’ll act like one. And there’s little one can do on the back end of such a creative genius save throw that god under the bus.

Identities aren’t changed overnight but they can be recognized in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye when a Flagrant 2 foul is committed by the team getting blown out on national television. The question is whether or not such recognition moves us toward honest reflection on how we arrived to the point where we are.

RECALIBRATION

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The National Basketball Association (NBA), National Hockey League (NHL) and Major League Baseball (MLB) all use a series format during the post season. That means you get to see the same ugly dudes for at least four straight games. Tonight the Lakers face the formidable New Orleans Hornets with an invigorated Chris Paul a.k.a. CP3. And for the record, he is THAT DUDE. Chris Paul recalibrated at some point in his career despite injury and is convinced that if you can take the Lakers to six games, surely you can take them to seven where anything can happen.

But the operative title of the post is fancy for “change.” That’s the truest synonym for what it means to recalibrate. The Lakers have old guys which is not a secret and various weaknesses not the least of which are Kobe Bryant’s ankle, Andrew Bynum’s perennial knee fragility and Pau Gasol’s intermittent cupcakeness. But what is proven in a seven game series is whether or not someone can change for the betterment of something bigger than themselves. How often does life present dilemma’s and crossroads that don’t offer a fail-safe? That’s what makes a conundrum difficult. You don’t know what to do, or how to do or if you can do. It’s always one of those three but you do know that if you don’t adapt, failure is definite.

The Lakers are in the midst of a microcosm that is meant to mirror life. Loss of a job, death of a loved one, a dream job halfway across the world, an idea for a business that will help millions are all in the scope and recalibration makes the difference. Will you make the necessary adjustments to meet the challenge with an effort suitable for today. The Lakers are well aware that Chris Paul has mastered executing mismatch situations where he is being guarded by a big slow-footed center. He has a construct of all of the favorable scenarios he can use to exploit the Lakers age and size. But the Lakers will have to contain the threats of CP3. It’s a champion’s job to remain fluid enough to recognize its own weaknesses while countering the enemy’s attempt to exploit them.

You have weaknesses too just like the Lake Show as do I and nothing exposes them more than a seven-game series. Play the same opponent long enough and both sides grow very familiar. Nevertheless, when the enigma of identity is brushed aside, all that is left is your wherewithal, your resolve and your willingness to sweat through the work of change. Change is seldom desired unless its attached to a good objective. What’s your reason to recalibrate and what stands to be lost if you don’t change?

LAMAR ODOM’S ROAD TO SIXTH MAN

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It’s hard to describe the allure, if there be any, of playing a reserve role. Lamar Odom is a reserve. He is a good one too but he’s a reserve nonetheless. But he’s the guy that everyone knows could and probably should start. They say you can’t teach 6’11”. True. and I’ll do you one better by saying you can’t teach 6’11” with 5’10” quickness, 7′??” reach and more specifically, Streetball handles. Put simply, Lamar can get you 10+ rebounds, double digit points and a host of other intangibles that come with his versatility. His tool shed is freakishly complete and at times, people have said he’s far too gifted to be so erratic. After all, I remember his Clipper days and his struggles with violating league drug policies.

Then there was one year in Miami and a quick move back to the city of Los Angeles where his career began. But this time, it was with the real LA basketball representative, the Los Angeles Lakers. He was part of the transaction that rid us of Shaq Diesel and brought us “the goods” along with Caron Butler and Brian Grant. Lamar is “the goods” as they call him.

He’s an interesting case study having lost his mother at 12 years old. He’s also lost a child to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS). Quite honestly he seemed lost in the limelight with its fickle fandom and lofty expectations. To add, he wound up a member of a storied franchise whose leader is an unrelenting demagogue bent on winning. But something about Odom refused to be rendered obsolete because of a learning curve malfunction. For the last three seasons, he’s redefined the sixth man role deferring publicly and privately while finding ways to offer his value. His 14 points per game weren’t the most points per game average he’s ever posted in a season but it’s only about 3 points off it.  He was an incredible catalyst this season displaying contentedness and dependability in 82 straight games. This is the second straight year he has played the entire season without missing a game. Odom also did a little mentoring last summer for USA Basketball during the 2010 FIBA Championships.

L.O. has finally been rewarded, not so much for his expert use of his skills but because he has accepted a destiny, at least in part. Sometimes your destiny is attaining a type of significance that people smirk at. We all have a little “Ricky Bobby” in us thinking that if you’re not first, your last. What good is Sixth Man of the Year if it means your the best of the non-elites? On the contrary, what good is a futile quest for a certain grade of stardom. Odom has found both significance and vitality and strangely enough about 3,000 miles from his hometown in Queens, New York. From the outside looking in, tthis dude is happy in his role. He’s a husband to woman he wanted to love and plays on a team that allows him to be himself. He’s a true sixth man reinforcing and at times igniting teammates. He talks little now and doesn’t exude anything more than a willingness to submit to the mission. Becoming a sixth man probably saved Lamar Odom from himself.

GOOD FRIDAY

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About 12 noon on Friday I received a couple of calls from family. They became missed calls, one from my grandmother and one from my dad. Granddad had been admitted to the hospital the night prior with serious complications of various sorts. He’d been ill. Ironically, I had just attempted to call him the day before and hadn’t gotten an answer. Needless to say I wasn’t expecting that I’d spend Good Friday, praying for healing and ultimately watching him breathe his last.

All the thoughts move from coursing to racing in those moments. Questions flood like blood rushing class 5 through your conscience. There’s introspection and contemplation about what I’ve done, what I’ve said and the fact that I may never get to actually speak to him again. And as it happened, I did not get to speak to my grandfather on Good Friday. But he’d spoke so many years prior about so many aspects in my life that I sorted through the lessons and found the good in the Friday that left me without the primary male figure in my life.

Attention to detail is the defining element of 6ixth Man Character Development. It’s also the staple of how I train athletes. But whether it was pursuing undergraduate and graduate studies, perfecting the filet technique for fresh fish, planting greens, stacking firewood, etc. detail was important to my grandfather. The accumulation of skills from habits is what I reflect on just hours since he passed away. I can remember my insolence with 4-D vividness as I pouted when he corrected me for not using my napkin enough or rushing on a car wash job. He taught me how to slow down and do it right the first time not because you don’t want to do it twice but because you give the best effort you can first…period.

Of course you don’t get that when you’re 12 because it feels like you’re being ridden. You’re not supposed to get it at such a young age. But I often thought over the last few years, “What did my grandfather see having been born at the start of the Great Depression to a black family in Arkansas?” I never asked him about his early childhood in the 1930s but figured that upbringing had much to do with his emphasis on seeing the first male grandchild educated and empowered to write a ticket of his choosing. Invaluable are his many lessons to me against the backdrop of his motivation. And I could beat myself up for not “getting it” sooner. Why did it take a revelation on the way home two days ago to convince me that once-and-for-all I have become the man I am greatly because of the disciplinarian who made me articulate and speak the word “Yes” as opposed to “Yeah?” Who knows. What I do know is that there are vital components to the construction of a human being’s sense of identity, competency and willingness to take initiative. My grandfather was absolutely vital to my construction and I think that helped make the Friday before Resurrection Sunday truly good despite the mourning.

HURRICANE PASSION

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The first time I heard the name Rubin Carter was in 1999 when the movie The Hurricane, starring Denzel Washington, was released. I was riveted learning the story of a falsely imprisoned #1 boxing contender who had arrested the interest and compassion of a young boy being educated in Toronto, Canada.

Movies never do real life any true justice but when the innocent are incarcerated, there is a nausea, a hellish tenor that floods my conscience. I think that’s why I tend to be drawn to biographies and historical accounts of human struggle.

There is a scene in the movie that depicts Rubin Carter, age 30, being processed into prison population. He has just been sentenced to multiple life sentences and at the point of arrival he refuses to wear prison garb nor shave his facial hair. As an innocent man, he is intent on not at all resembling a guilty man. His consequences, according to the movie and several interviews, are 3-4 months in solitary confinement under ground. If the movie has any veracity, Carter nearly lost his mind while “in the hole” but gained an acute awareness of his true character and its multiple facets. He’s enraged while stoic and craven. He is a complete composite of the things that make us…US. He’s scared and yet resolute, fit for war and yet resigned due to extreme subjugation.

Carter’s first 50 years of life were all but destroyed by injustice for the same reason that the historical Jesus was railroaded as a revolutionary to the extent of execution. Evil has it in for good; it’s as simple as that. When the innocent are downtrodden, I always think of Jesus. I think of truth and how offensive it is. I think of the duplicity of our age as people esteem virtue and jettison accountability. And the only real rival to malevolence is unrelenting hurricane passion. The hurricane is honest and won’t be refuted, You can’t stop the hurricane just like you can’t stop the truth. Rubin Carter reminded me of Jesus’ arduous road to the cross. Jesus was and is a hurricane come ashore despite  all futile attempts at resistance and I am glad to reflect on and celebrate Him this week.


THINKING VS. IDIOCRACY

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The setting was Mimi’s Cafe on a Friday morning around 10 a.m. when I heard three people discussing politics, the housing market and the president of the United States, Barrack Obama. Their exchange took about 10-15 minutes total but I was ready to puke by minute 3. The woman who initiated their conversation mentioned the president with a sarcastic tone to which one of her friends responded, “Where is he from anyway?” The woman exclaimed, “Saudi Arabia” in half-joking response and I thought and said words to my wife that I won’t repeat here in print.

I was upset and was surprised at how quickly I had arrived there – to a state of rage that is. I was maddened by the continued theorizing that our commander in chief is not a natural-born citizen. He was born in 1961 in the newest of the 50 states, Hawaii, which was added to the union in 1959. Obama’s birth certificate was produced prior to his embarking upon the presidency but I ain’t bloggin’ about that. I’m more interested in what lies beneath, as usual.

I wasn’t just upset enough to holler, “check please” due to the idiocy going on at my 6 o’clock. It was bigger than that. It was the blaming, the scapegoating, the scathing ridicule couched in matter-of-fact language about the nation’s president. It reminded me of the disrespect I witnessed when then president Bill Clinton flew into Monrovia, California via Navy 1 for an “America’s Safest City” celebration. I was covering the event for the San Gabriel Valley Tribune as an intern in the summer of 1996 and while walking toward the auditorium of Monrovia High School I heard some protesters saying, “Republican is the truth.” They had cardboard cutouts of Bill and Hillary in striped jump suits for criminal effigy effect. As I walked past them, a policeman behind me responded to the protesters, “Yes, but you respect the office.”

Fast forward to this morning and it just reminded me of how enamored we can become with ourselves. We are seldom interested in proof or legitimacy whether it’s the president, Kobe Bryant or some other satirized villain. We are lazy intellectually and it doesn’t matter what the seal on your diploma/degree says. We take too much at face value and/or use fraudulent sources of evidence as grounds for deriding and attacking. We might be smart people but we don’t always act like it. Today kind of reminded me that there is much to be said for how emotional idiocy leads to crazy talk.

ANXIOUS BEFORE DIGITAL

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Much is said about how fast the world has become. I was talking to a guy today about it. But I think frequency rather than speed is the difference between 2011 and 1993. Speed of communication makes for a more tangible love interest, teammate, roommate, etc. I get that. I understand that an IM is faster than a text which is faster than an email which is faster than a handwritten letter. But upon reflection, my buddy and I decided that the technology that brought you Yahoo Messenger and Google Talk merely capitalized on the anxious heart of man which has been in existence since the 18th century when the Industrial Revolution began.

I was in elementary and junior high school in the 1980s. The only guy who rocked a cell phone was the fictitious Zack Morris of Saved by the Bell. And Zack’s phone was hardly inconspicuous as it rivaled the size of an NBA player’s shoe box. Dope Dealers and Doctors were the only guys with pagers, a device used to notify the owner that someone needs his attention or a quick returned phone call. I eventually got one of those. But what I’m saying is that few people had the immediate access to others electronically that they do now and yet the heart has always been unsettled.

Case-in-point…my daydreaming in church about dunking in a game or thoughts of dating a girl in my third period English class. When I was younger, the material that is now given an artery via various service providers was being cultivated. I had the anxious heart. I longed to talk constantly, to interact incessantly and to avoid solitude. Technology didn’t invent the hurried life; it merely afforded it another agency by which to express itself. The mobile device, laptop, Ipads of the world are no different then the standard sidearm issued to a police officer. It is but one tool, a piece of the armor that goes with the uniform. Don’t blame distraction on cell phones for such indulgences are the modern version of doodling.

Doodling is what some of us do when we’re bored all the while wishing we could be somewhere else, do something else, be with someone else. Those desires still reside but we’ve gained a superficial access through a digital landscaping. That’s why we can text and talk face-to-face. In fact, while some think it’s rude to do both simultaneously, and it may be, it may be the most honest interaction. It certainly isn’t much different than me daydreaming about that girl in the third row who likes my best friend instead of me. See what I mean? At least now people have the nerve to say with their gadget geekiness, “Yo, you’re gonna get about 53% of my attention right now if that so take it or leave it.”

But we all know that’s kind of lame even with the honest vibe so what now? My point is that the anxious heart needs quieting with or without technology. My phone is as inanimate as fried chicken. But I am the living creature if I choose to be and I can go to places where the digital sidearm is not only unloaded but unnecessary. And how often do we go there away from the noise that stimulates us to frantic activity? Do you know silence? Have you ever sat in silence without working? Have you ever made space for God without reading, writing, or praying and just welcomed Him to sit with you? That’s what I’m working on and my anxious heart born in 1975 won’t stop complaining. It’s afraid but of what I don’t know. And I’m not alone. Y’all afraid too. Y’all afraid of being quiet, of waiting, of slowing down, of logging off, of letting the wind blow and the sun shine down. And that’s where we need to start – with the fear we have when it comes to sitting with ourselves in our own skin bare before God. What might that look and smell like? If that ain’t a conversation, I don’t know what is. If people read this and don’t write comments, it probably proves whatever confusing point I was trying to make.