Where Are They Now? VII (2008, POLITICS EDITION)

Typically, you get some Where Are They Now feature archived from the old Yahoo! site, around 2005-2006, bolstered with a 2008 update. Well, you know, somewhere between WATN Numbers 6 and 8 I forgot to do a number 7. Reading IS Fundamental, kids! So, to compensate for our demonstrated incapacity of counting to ten, just in time for the Party Conventions, here at Nasteedunx we’re inserting a fresh new Where Are They Now 7: Politics Edition.

Victim #7: Reggie Love

REGGIE LOVE IS ON TOP OF THE WORLD.

Yeahhhh… THAT Reggie Love. Chew it, swallow and digest that. Now, say it once more with me.

REGGIE LOVE IS ON TOP OF THE WORLD.

You Nasteedunx purists will point out that, technically, Mister Love doesn’t qualify for a WATN, since his personal shame-of-fame never took place on the hardwood. Or the blacktop. Not even the driveway. Nonetheless, ol’ boy shurrrr found a way to get teabagged. Pretty badly, in plain view for all posterity. So badly, in fact, he got kicked off the Duke basketball team by Coach Krzyzewski. Gosh, not even Greg “Green Tea” Paulus can claim that!

A 6’-5” Charlotte native and former All-American football player and North Carolina high school hoops player of the year, Reggie was an up-and-coming forward for the Duke Blue Devils, a walk-on for Coach K’s eventual 2001 championship squad. He was also a two-sport star, starting at wide receiver for Dookie football. Despite his emerging development and “Big Man on Campus” status , a spate of injuries sidetracked his ability to do either sport consistently.

One thing which the Cameron Crazies suggest, and the Lacrosse team confirmed, is that Duke athletes and their fans sure know how to party hardy. Reggie Love was no exception. Before heading back down Tobacco Road one night after a game in 2002, Love decides he’ll spend an evening away from the team at an NC State frathouse. And whether you’re in Rome or Raleigh, you do as the Romans do, y’know? Placing way to much trust in his newfound Wolfpack-in-Sheep’s-Clothing friends, he partook in the imbibing of a few adult-beverages-of-choice. Quite a few. More than enough to get a lil’ tipsy. Enough to leave him passed out, flat-assed-cold on some shoddy (Gawd-knows-what)-stained fraternity futon.

Now all throughout modern anthropology, college frat boys have been well known for embellishing outlandish personal stories where they dished out some measure of comeuppance to college jocks, especially when there were no witnesses to verify the story. For example, aided by just a little inebriation, one of my own frat brethren will be more than happy to share with you every detail of how he allegedly dropped knobs with Rick Fox after a run-in one Sunday morning during a drinking-buddy trip to Chapel Hill. It’s something I suppose he thought was at least remotely feasible and, to somebody not named Vanessa Williams, impressive. Anyway, it’s always convenient to tell the tale when there’s nobody with a tape or a photo or some scintilla of proof. But get a picture or two, and it becomes really hard not to blab to any fool who’ll listen. It’s even harder in the new millennium, when you can spread the embarrassment worldwide via the World Wide Web with little effort at all. All those in the collegiate world who weren’t familiar with the usage of “teabag” as a verb, were now simply two clicks from viewing Reggie Love as Exhibit A.

The news of the ‘bagging incident spread like wildfire through the Piedmont, in Raleigh, Winston-Salem and especially Chapel Hill. The timing couldn’t have been any worse back in Greensboro for Love, as he was just explaining his way out of an Underage Driving While Intoxicated charge from the previous fall to the athletics department and the (legal) courts. Mortified by the dual displays of poor judgment, Coach K had enough, suspending Reggie indefinitely for a “Violation of Team Rules.” What was not crystal clear right away to those who reading newspapers about the suspension was, by that time, thoroughly unambiguous to those flooding college hoop chat rooms and message boards.

Reggie may have gotten banished from Duke hoops, but he wouldn’t leave the school without getting re-focused and snaring a bachelor’s degree in political science. He managed to stick with the talent-starved football team and led the Blue Devils in receptions in his senior year. Still NCAA-eligible, he was allowed to return to the basketball team in 2004, and through it all endured the kind of love on the road that only an ACC heckler can bring to the arena. Recognizing his innate leadership qualities, growth and maturity on and off the court, the ‘04-‘05 Blue Devils voted Reggie Love, bringing all of his 1.6 points per game to the table, as its team captain.

By the end of 2005, though, his hopes for a pro football career were dashed, following uneventful training camp runs with the Green Bay Packers (as a receiver) and Dallas Cowboys (as a Bill Parcells project at linebacker). Reggie found himself searching for a new lease on life, and a way, applying his poli-sci pedigree, to disassociate himself as best he could with the “politics of the past.”

Reggie Love realized he needed a change. Change He Could Believe In.

Enter a presidential candidate equipped with a wicked drop-step move and 20-foot range.

Latching onto Senator Barack Obama’s staff and his underdog campaign early on has put him in the catbird seat as the Democratic nominee’s right-hand man. He started out as a “staff assistant,” merely a mailroom hack. He would find out that, mostly due to superstitions and to relieve tension, the Junior Senator from Illinois loved to run ball on the day of major events like primaries. And in the mailroom, Obama found the perfect guy to break him off at the ankles and post him up in the paint. This mailroom guy came equipped with a Duke degree and sports connections like former Dookie Chris Duhon, who’d jump at the chance to play some 3-on-3 with a potential Baller-in-Chief. Obama’s “3-on-3 Challenge for Change” events drew rave reviews during the primaries.

Even more importantly, he found someone eager to perform the simple yet persistent deeds that come with being the designated “Body Man” for a presidential contender. Now Reggie Love has vaulted from the shadows of punchlines and crude-joke message boards to become the “feel good” political cover story of the New York Times.

“There’s no doubt that Reggie is cooler than I am,” Mr. Obama said, laughing, in a phone interview. “I am living vicariously through Reggie.” Mr. Love said he had been hired with “no job description whatsoever. It was just like, ‘You just go out there and — Take. Care. Of. Stuff,’” Mr. Love said, taking his time with each word.

Some of the “stuff” Mr. Love takes care of: When Mr. Obama makes calls to woo superdelegates, Mr. Love is at his side with a briefing book, dialing the numbers. When an outdoor speech ended on a windy day in Noblesville, Ind., he appeared behind Mr. Obama as he shook hands on the rope line. “Jacket?” he asked, a coat draped at the ready over his arm.

Mr. Obama often mentions that Mr. Love was a wide receiver on a football scholarship at Duke who also walked onto the basketball team. At a rally a few weeks ago in Mr. Love’s hometown, Charlotte, N.C., the candidate led the crowd in a chant of “Reggie, Reggie, Reggie!”

Now with the Democrats coronating Obama, media outlets from ESPN to the major news networks to the papers back home in North Carolina all want to do feature articles on Barack’s “Body Man.”

Sure, the laughs (and a couple other items) were on him for awhile, but it looks to me like Reggie got the last laugh on all of us. Obama found an assistant who knows more than pretty much anybody his age about damage control and triumphing above shameful adversity. Besides, you probably couldn’t find a better person than Reggie to keep watch for B.O. I mean, seriously, who better to keep an eye out for a dude’s n*tsack? You know, in case Jesse Jackson comes calling?

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Facializer #7: Kevin Johnson

Ah, yes, KJ. Come November, that might be Mayor KJ to you.

Back in the day, though, the diminutive point guard used big men as his personal platform. As Cleveland Cavalier super-sub John “Hot Rod” Williams could attest.

“I’m Kevin Johnson’s Jockstrap and I APPROVE This Message.” (Paid for by Hot Rod’s Dignity!)

And hey, what’s a good stump speech without a good stump… like 7-foot-3 Mark Eaton?

Or you could ask Hakeem Olajuwon if KJ would be the kind of mayor somebody like him could “look up to.” No doubt, “The Dream” still has nightmares over this jam, surely Baron Davis' inspiration for his comparable vault above AK-47 over a decade later.

KJ has parlayed a high-flying career short-circuited by injuries and his local-boy-makes-good persona into an urban redevelopment enterprise in his hometown of Sacramento, building a community development corporation (St. HOPE) he founded two decades ago. Remember the sleepy, flood-prone cowtown chided by Chris Webber and would-be NBA free agent signees as the place where Black social life and culture go to die? Well, he may have just enough pull to become the California capital’s first Black mayor.

He has the standard mayoral candidates’ wide-ranging platform: swatting back crime rates, boosting public school quality, attracting new jobs, “A City That Works for Everyone.”

Interestingly enough, and probably to his benefit, he has demonstrated a willingness to play chicken with Las Vegas’ Maloof Brothers over their demands for a new city-financed arena for their Sacramento Kings and Monarchs, in the same year Seattle’s Sonics skipped town for the prairies of Oklahoma. Might the Kings become the Vegas Stratospheres under hometown baller KJ’s watch? Time will tell.

He snared the most votes in the June primary, topping incumbent Mayor Heather Fargo, but got less than half the votes and will compete with her in a November runoff. Slightly tougher obstacles to climb than Hot Rod Williams are the politically-driven assaults, including three active sexual assault allegations (one closed-case from Phoenix back in 1995 is getting requests to be reopened at the behest of Fargo and her supporters), derelict landlord accusations, charges of anti-gay rights rhetoric, and the alleged abuse of Federal AmeriCorps money. But the centers who dared to jump with the 6-foot-1 guard will tell you, you can doubt Kevin Johnson’s abilities to overcome... but you do so at your own risk.

~iyf

Celebrity Posters I: CHRIS BROWN Gets Dunked On

If R&B superstar Chris Brown loves two things, it's dancing... and streetball hoops. He mixes the two together at celebrity events all the time. If you ask him, he'll tell you he thinks he's a superstar at both. And truth be told, he's at least half-right.

Here he his clowning Little... oh, excuse me, "Bow Wow" at the All-Star celebrity game. Bow Wow is about his level, streetball-wise.

He has a harder time handling high-caliber comp. Here he gets schooled by Hot Sauce and the AND1 team, although he gets to shine for a moment or two.

This summer, though, the rightful heir to the "King of Pop" label wound up on somebody's poster, just not in the way he'd planned.

At a high-profile Streetball matchup in NYC (a daily run called the "Dog Show"), he gets caught on tape, making the crucial streetball error of lazily laying the ball off the glass and gets his sh*t swatted off the boards. Later, he makes the fundamental streetball mistake of jumping to play Help Defense, right under the rim. Against some dude nicknamed Tarzan, who left the megastar looking like Jane for trying to run up late to swat his wind-up tomahawk jam. As usual, the game stops, pandemonium ensues...

Chris, stick to dancing, Cuz, stick to dancing!
(He gets Da Bizness about 1:45 minutes in)

~iyf

Team USA: Now THAT'S the Olympic Spirit!

Ah yes, the Olympics are here! It’s that time every four years when people set aside their antagonisms, resentments, aggravations, and embrace the spirit of international camaraderie, friendship, mutual understanding, respect, diplomacy, courtesy, fair play, and... ummm…

Oh, to heck with all that crap. Time for The Dream Team to open up a can on some third world nation! Look out, Angola, Team USA is back… and this time, they’re p*ssed off!
We all know about THE greatest play in Team USA hoops history. If you've gotten this far, it needs NO introduction…

But what are some of the other great bang-ons in international comp? We’ll post a few here at Nasteedunx, but find some more links and we’ll add ‘em here. Doesn’t have to be Olympic games, but it oughta be FIBA, Pan-Asian, Goodwill Games, or any other tourney where one nation gets to lay the proverbial smackdown on another.

First here’s a photo gallery of slams where Team USA members got to experience the Thrill of Victory… and where opponents endured the Agony of De-Feet in De-Face…

And here’s a sample of international-style gold-medal throwdowns caught on tape the past few years. Somebody call the Red Cross!

Andres Nocioni (Argentina) on KG and Duncan (USA) (FIBA 2002)
(SLAM Magazine: “En su cara!”)

Anderson Varejao (Brazil) ON Jermaine O’Neal (USA) (FIBA 2003)

D-Wade (USA) ON Primo Brezec (Slovenia) (Athens 2004)

Sean Marks (New Zealand) on Yao Ming (China) (Athens 2004)

Melo (USA) on Argentina (FIBA 2006)

~iyf

Where Are They Now? Part VI (2006, updated 2008)

Victim #6 -- Gheorghe Muresan

I'll be honest, the jams over Muresan weren't all that memorable for a cat who's 7-foot-7. Sure Jordan got 'em a couple of times, and C-Webb did him once like he still does Tyra today. But he's kinda like Manute, he got dunked "past" and "around" more often than "on" or "over".But the NBA's Most Improved Player in '95-'96 never became a mainstay in the league, catching an injury bug in his knees that wrecked whatever little hopz he had left. He tried a little Hollywood action, but the cries for a sequel to "My Giant" fell on deaf ears somehow. The Romanian (uh, never mind, I can't think of something cool that rhymes with Romanian. Alwaysinthewaynian?) went back to Europe but got dunked on too much even over there (just ask Nate Huffman).

So now he's working the MCI Center in DC, gettin paid to hobnob with the K Street bigwigs in the Wizards' corporate suites. I kid you not; see the WashPost article. I can hear Jack Abaramoff now: "I'mtelling you, Senator, you get that Defense Pork bill passed and Gheorghe Mursean will stop by your suite at halftime... sure, you and your colleagues can get a picture dunking on him, it's not like he isn't used to that!"Plus he's opened a Giant Basketball Academy in Maryland. Again, I sh*t you not! Let's listen in: "Kids, camp counselor Ronnie Fields and I will demonstrate why you do NOT take a charge when you're 7-7 and standingdirectly under the basket!"

Jordan on My Giant, I think MJ made Billy Crystal cry:

YouTube Bonus: Gheorghe Muresan, DANCING MACHINE!

YouTube Bonus II: Anything Jordan can do, Gheorghe can do better. Acting, Dancing, Cologne Modeling. Yes, Cologne Modeling. Ah... the ODEUR!

(2008 Update: So when is Gheorghe relegated to power forward? When he’s part of what was billed by the Maryland Nighthawks (then with the ABA) as the tallest team in “pro” basketball history, pairing up in the paint with 7-foot-9 Sun Ming Ming of China for one night only. The wings were seven foot tall, and the point was run by some 6-foot-8 dude. This Dream Team won… by four points... at the buzzer. Gheorghe’s Giant Basketball Academy campers continue to get counseling assistance from the likes of Nighthawks star and momentary streetball legend Randy “White Chocolate” Gill)

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Facializer #6 -- Shawn Kemp

Nobody, and I mean nobody, wanted to be caught milling around in the paint when the Reign Man soared to the bucket. Everybody remembers the Lister Blister and the Rodman Squat, but do a search on Google for a "Shawn Kemp Mix", and you'll see how often he flat terrorized opponents, using his lean athletic body to create some powerful, innovative, and at times degrading dunks. When he and Gary Payton carried the Sonics into the Finals and put up a fight against the MJ, Pip, Rodman and the Bulls, Kemp had made himself into the Sultan of Seatown.

But Chinua Achebe was correct in warning, "Things Fall Apart." He split for Cavalier Country (remember those silly uniforms??) after Seattle couldn't pay anything close to The Glove's salary. It wasn't long after he left for Cleveland, sadly, when he learned that Domino's Delivers. Reign Man became the Michelin Man suddenly.

And it didn't help matters when Sports Illustrated revealed he had more kids then Father Flanigan, something like seven kids by six chicks. By the time he got to Orlando, the new Biggie Smalls (I don't think he likes it when ya call him "Big Poppa") looked like a prop from a Jurassic Park movie. And balled like one, too.

But don't look now. Shawn is running, in Houston, slimming down, and has his sights on a return to The League. Stop snickering! Really, he is! Don’t Call it a Comeback! Like Van Gundy and the Rockets couldn't use a little help these days. At the very least he can be a walking lesson for T-Mac on what NOT to do with your career. Wear yo Jimmy-hat, Tracy! Who's Yo Baby Daddy??

Shawn Kemp Mix on YouTube: Those Were the Days!

More Kemp comeback fodder, from around January 2006. See you thought I was kidding? Hey the brutha's got child support payments to make, so don't hate! ;)

(2008 Update: Shawn’s still globetrotting for dollars, floating from Korea to Italy, but meanwhile he’s gotten so up in age that the onre of many children he begat illegitimately, Shawn Kemp, Jr., is now a blue-chip college prospect. He went into rehab to shake off a coke problem but still appears to love the ganja.)

~iyf

Nike Hyperdunk Ad III: Call a Medic!

Yo, Iyanla Vanzant, seriously... if you're reading this you NEED to get in on this action. A "Starting Over" house for Nike Hyperdunk victims. These poor fools are losing rep and chicks left and right, particularly this mouse-in-the-house, "Todd."

Hey, Ladies!!...

Nike's Hyperdunk Recovery Center is gonna need not only psychological counselors but some chiropractors, masseuses and physical therapists, STAT. Maybe even a CAT-scanner. These busters got neck problems, now head trauma and concussions... My guess is the next entrant will require a spinal realignment after forgetting to box out on some Hyperdunk-clad tip slammer. I just hope these ballers are paid up on their insurance... where's that damm duck ("AFLAC!") when you need him?

As an aside, glad to see the lousy pub the Swoosh Crew is getting up in NYC for the billboards hasn't derailed the commercial campaign. Don't cry for Nike, though. On Madison Ave, they know the only thing better than good press to push a product's recognition is BAD press (ask AND1 what the "trash talk tees" did for their company). Like Black folks with Imus, the ones who insist on some wack boycott never buy the product anyway. Thanks to their efforts, more people know about the Hyperdunk shoes now, without Kobe having to hurdle a pool of buzzsaws.

~iyf

Crammed-On Chronicles IV: T-Mac ON Shawn Bradley (Put Out to Pasture with a Poster)

April 25, 2005

Dropping 34 on the host Dallas Mavericks in the opening game of their first-round playoff series, the Rockets’ newest star, Tracy McGrady, announced his intention to cement himself as a bonafide NBA superstar. With the recent expectation of a second child and a 1-0 playoff lead on the road, certainly his spirits were as high as ever. But as Game 2 approached, one could envision McGrady searching for something a little extra special to bring home to Houston.

What might his future kid see when he (if it’s a ‘he’) opens his eyes to the world every morning? How might Tracy show Junior how Daddy takes care of business? Certainly, the 6-foot-8 superstar has basketball accolades galore in his award room but let’s face it, toddlers love pictures. They gawk at posters, not trophies. After Game 1, you can imagine McGrady exploring Dallas’ Academy Sporting Goods for posters of his current stardom, only to find glossies of Kobe dunking and Dirk Nowitzki launching jumpers. If they had any Rocket posters, they’d be of Yao Ming, or, worse, Steve “The Former Franchise” Francis.

Tracy knew that if he was going to find a worthy poster of his likeness in a Rockets’ jersey, he’d just have to make one himself. He couldn’t throw down on Yao, now that he’s a teammate. But maybe he could get a little help from him.

Game 2, first quarter. While Dirk is riding T-Mac’s back in the left corner trying to strip the ball, Yao Ming is strategically backing the straw-legged Shawn Bradley into the paint. Trying to deny the toss-in to Yao, Dirk swipes at the ball on the left, leaving the baseline to the right exposed. In a burst, McGrady is gone, leaving Dirk in the vapors, and Shawn Bradley is out of position.

Bradley tries to swim around Yao’s shoulders to meet McGrady at the baseline. But Yao continued to back into Bradley, until the 7-foot-6’er was stuck at ground zero, directly in front of the hoop. The Mavs’ center leaped feebly in an attempt to meet McGrady at his apex. But with McGrady’s outstretched right arm elevating the ball high above the white rectangle, Shawn had never been this high. Not without a ladder and an oxygen mask.

T-Mac shook the Texas boomtown with a boom of his own, arguably the biggest of his career, screaming as he crushed the rim, ricocheting the ball off a cowering Bradley’s shoulder. The echo from this boom could be heard as far as the Salt Lake City office of the AARP. A stunned Rick Kamla explained, “This is what they call ‘dunkin’ on your whole family.’ And he’s from Utah, he’s got a lot of them!”

Climbing down from Mount Bradley, oblivious to teammates rolling on the floor and tossing towels, McGrady turned his attention to photographers behind the basket, as if to ask, “Did you get that? Did you get THAT?”

Meanwhile, you could look at Shawn and sense the exasperation, probably what Roberto Duran looked like when he begged, “¡No más! ¡No más!” Flash back to a career of getting punked by everyone from Shaq to Robert Pack, from Mo Taylor to Keon Clark, from Chris Webber to Ed O’Bannon, from Earl Watson to Mark Davis. An 11-year career with over 2,000 blocks, brought to an unfortunate end with one devastating “punk-tuation.” Mr. Bradley, you have AARP on line two.

McGrady’s best Game 2 highlight actually came when he brought the ball down the court with just nine seconds left in a tie game. Seven seconds and one jumper off a Yao screen later, he had his 2-0 Rockets lead to bring back to Houston. But at T-Mac’s triumphant postgame press conference, he revealed his ulterior motive, to send something better than a postcard back to Clutch City.

“That's a poster for my kids,” McGrady said. “I was hoping he was going to jump.”
Now with one glance, Tracy’s kid will wake up every morning without any doubt that he’s got quite a legacy to uphold. Keep drinking your milk, son.

Dallas would come back to bring down the Rockets in the series, solving Yao and Tracy’s two-man game and shutting down the whole team in a convincing Game 7. But for most people outside the Metroplex, the series will be remembered for the moment Tracy McGrady rode Shawn Bradley into the sunset.

Crammed-On Chronicles III: Chris Paul OVER Dwight Howard (CP3... Oh!)

December 20, 2006

Chris Paul just wants a little space. Despite his Rookie of the Year accolades, every time he drives in the lane, opposing teams treat him like Earl Boykins, cutting off passing lanes, daring him to lay it up. Opponents know the guard will drive the lane since he can’t hit threes. They also know with Peja and David West out, he’s got no passing options, unless you consider Desmond Mason or Tyson Chandler from 10 feet out an “option.” So “crowd the paint and dare Chris to lay it up around the post men” is the one-dimensional defensive game plan, and so far it has worked. Going into the matchup with the Magic, the Hornets have won only two of its past 12 games. But opponents didn’t plan on another dimension to this six-foot guard’s game.

Cut to the third quarter. Dwight Howard recognized Chris Paul’s man was lost on the pick – from the very same spot on the floor that Kobe beat his man before making a shorts ornament out of Dwight two years ago. But at least Kobe could dunk, Dwight thought to himself. As CP3 flew past him to the hoop, the 6-foot-11 center waited patiently for the layup attempt so he could go for the swat, maybe intimidate the little guy enough that he could add to his league-leading rebounds total. This time, though, there would be no layup.

Dwight was curious about the message on Chris’ yellow wristband. And Chris was more than happy to share it with Dwight as he neared the rim, offering him a point-blank view. Much to the Manchild’s dismay it didn’t read, “WWJD?” or “LIVESTRONG.” Instead, in very small font the wristband displayed the message Chris Paul offers to all future big men who dare to challenge him at the rim.

“IF YOU CAN READ THIS… YOU ARE ABOUT TO GET DUNKED ON!”




~iyf

Where Are They Now? Part V (2005, updated 2008)

Victim #5 - Mike Mardesich

Quick, which Terp has been "involved" in more Maryland victories than any other player? Not Lonny Baxter, not Stevie Franchise, not Laron Profit. Try Mike Mardesich! The operative word was "involved," and not "instrumental," as M&M only could muster career highs of 5 points and 4 rebounds -- as a freshman – and generally became successful with his knack of staying the hell out of the way. Well, except this one time...

Serving as a human hurdle, thanks to Damon Thornton, probably derailed illusions of the 6-foot-11 Mardesich making the NBA as a Mark Madsen-type hustler. But he hasn't been starving. Instead he's over in the Netherlands with the "Eiffel Towers" (now renamed the much more fearful "Matrixx Magix") of Nijmegen. The monument-al reference is ironic, since when Damon banged on him it was as if he just felled the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

(2008 Update: No good update for the Croatian Sensation from Long Beach, really. He was spotted during the 2008 Final Four hanging out with former Maryland and current West Virginia assistant Billy Hahn. Perhaps he’s found another line of work. Probably not a bad idea! His last pro-hoop sighting was in 2006 in France, playing a few games with Reims Champagne Basket before falling off the face of the televised earth.)

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Facializer #5 - Darryl Dawkins

Ahh, the memories! Remember the "In Your Face Disgrace!" "Sexophonic Turbo Delight!" "Cover Yo Damn Head!" "Spine Chiller Supreme!" "Yo Mama!" And of course, the "If You Ain't Groovin' Best Get Movin'-Chocolate Thunder Flyin'-Robinzine Cryin'-Teeth Shakin'-Glass Breakin'-Rump Roastin'-Bun Toastin'-Glass Still Flyin' Wham-Bam-I-Am Jam!" Jams so nasty and vicious each one got a nickname. "Snap-back" rims were inconceivable before Chocolate Thunder came on the scene. Only thing worse than getting dunked on is getting a glass shower on top of that.

Dawk is a coach now, moving on from the perennial USBL champion Pennsylvania Valley Dawgs to lead the new-look ABA's Newark Express. But I'll bet he could still take his centers on a trip to PlanetLovetron with a simple drop step in the paint.

(2008 Update: Darryl’s put coaching aside for a minute to help out the developers of Atlantic Yards (you know it as the eventual home of the Brooklyn Nets) with some sorely-needed community outreach)

Bonus: Wait, I thought Wheaties was just the Breakfast For CHAMPIONS? Oh, well, I suppose if you count USBL champions, then OK!

~iyf

Oh, You Didn't Know? Tyson Chandler in Middle School

Dude was 6-9 in friggin' middle school. THIS is why there's social promotion, people!





This dunk was brought to you by your friends at BC Powder(TM), the Back Pain specialists!

~iyf

Nike Hyperdunk Ad II: Have A Leroy Sandwich!

Less than a week 'til the Hyperdunk kicks hit the streets, and here's installment numero dos from the Swooshinistas. A former bully gets his comeuppance on the Brooklyn blacktop. Dunked on so bad the local bodega names a sandwich after this sorry mugg.

Take a lil' White Chocolate and mix it with a lil' Hot Sauce on the courts, add a pair of fresh Hyperdunks for a lil' posterage and whaddya got? Have a White Sausage sandwich, Terry! It's on the house! Just on principle, man, NEVER take your eyes off a white boy named Leroy...

1-877-DUNKD-ON. Operators are standing by!

~iyf

Fakin Da Funk II: Kobe Over MVP Nash (GO TOWEL OFF: After This Disgusting Dunk on His Star MVP, the Suns' Owner Gets His House in Order)

DATELINE – April 27, 2006, 8:30 AM MST
U.S. Airways Center – Phoenix, Arizona

Jake and Zack were in the locker room, gleefully folding up the towels and cleaning up the lockers after last night’s Lakers-Suns playoff contest. All night and up to this morning, it was hard for the two brothers and college interns to contain their enthusiasm after their favorite player, Kobe Bryant, took off like a bullet train and left likely MVP Steve Nash hanging onto his jockstrap for the ride. They stopped what they were doing everytime the slam re-played on Sportscenter, which was often. As Kobe swung from the rim, as if to ask the capacity crowd “any questions??” the brothers instinctively winced, with a “ooooooh!” hushed just enough to keep anyone from catching their excitement. Zack whispered, “Nash knows he should’ve stepped out the way! He looked stupid enough acting like he was trying to box out Kwame Brown.” “He thought he was out of the circle, and could flop for the charge,” responded his brother. “Dumb move. I guess he thought all MVPs get that call. But you don’t mouth off at Kobe and then minutes later expect him to just lay it up off the glass over you.” A remote control abruptly shuts off the laundry room TVs.

“Jake! Zack!” Startled, they looked up quickly to see Kip, the game operations director. “The Boss wants you. Upstairs.” THE Boss wants to see the towel boys? “What for?” inquired Jake. “Go ask him… You might wanna hurry.”

As the scene shifted from concrete pillars to oak walls and marble the boys grew anxious. They’d never been up into Robert Sarver’s office before. Perhaps a promotion is in the works, they thought. In his conference room were the Directors of Basketball Operations (head coach Mike D’Antoni) and Human Resources, and in the center chair Bob was clearly not in a good mood, as he berated the Broadcasting Director on the conference phone.

“…and that’s the LAST time we use Ricky Davis for color commentary, do you understand me! Jumping up and down and screaming ‘Oh Sh*t! Oh Sh*t!’ after that Bryant dunk is NOT what I call good radio!”

“Yes sir, Mr. Sarver, it was an error in judgement. I’m deeply sorry.”

“The next FCC fine is coming out of your pocket, Al,” warned Sarver as he pressed the hangup button.

Jake extended a hand to introduce himself to the directors when Sarver cut him off. “They know who you are, ‘towel boys,’ close the door and sit down.”

“Now, I trust that you along with the rest of this proud Phoenix Suns organization are completely disgusted with our team’s performance last night.” The boys glanced at each other, then nodded in a mutual display of false agreement.

Ruth, the administrative assistant, interrupted the closed-door meeting. “Mr. Sarver, the Gorilla mascot is on line three. He said he saw some highlight last night and was so disgusted he wants to quit.”

“Tell Gorilla he’s already fired, Ruth, we have Robert Traylor all lined up to replace him in that outfit… Now, ‘towel boys,’ I witnessed something during the game last night that left an awful taste in my mouth, almost as bad as the taste Steve had last night when that offensive foul wasn’t called.” Zack began to chuckle when Sarver hollered, “Did I tell you to snicker, boy?” and quickly returned the room to glum silence. Sarver presses a button to bring down a screen showing the Kobe smash-on-Nash movie on auto-play, courtesy of Don’t Blink Mixtape (dot com).

“I was personally disappointed to witness some of our so-called ‘fans’ up there cheering in the stands as our poor little Steve was unkindly knocked to the hardwood. I’ve already rescinded the remaining playoff tickets for those turncoats. I also have the referee under review in the commissioner’s office for that lousy non-call.”

“But here’s why you’re here… freeze the play right there, Mike.”

As Kobe does his 270-degree swing on the rim, “I want you to tell me who are these two knuckleheads right here, sitting cross-legged right in front of our Suns’ home bench?”

“That’s us… sir,” admitted a red-faced Jake.

“Hit play… stop… And what are you two doing as the referee blows that whistle?”

“Pumping our fists, sir.” said the towel-boy tandem, now sinking into their chairs.

“And you, what are the exact words you’re mouthing as Kobe dunks the ball all over our poor star player?”

“I think it was, ‘And one, muthaf&*#!’” Zack received a sharp elbow from big brother. “Or something like that. Excuse my language, sir.”

“Now you know that kind of response is totally inexcusable. Gentlemen… you leave me no choice…”

Sarver pulled out a form and began signing it, in several places. The brothers tensed up, awaiting their punishment and fate.

“You’ve… been… traded.”

“What?” blurted a stunned Jake.

“Don’t question me, boy, you heard me. That’s right, traded… for one cute, dedicated Laker Girl cheerleader and future cash considerations. Now you can go cheer on your man Kobe all you want, and dry his punk ass off, too.”

“But you can’t send us to L.A., we’re still enrolled in spring semester!”

“Don’t give me that college crap, it’s the University of Phoenix. It’s not like they don’t have a campus in every stinking city! Go to L.A. and see if a real college will take you punks in. See if Jerry Buss will pay your room and board too! Now get out of my office and get to packing!”

As the whimpering towel boys exited with the Personnel Director to finalize the paperwork and ponder their futures, D’Antoni offered a final plea for some compassion. “Now Bob, c’mon, trading the towel boys? Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on these kids? After all… they are your children.”

“Don’t tell me how to raise my sons, Mike. But hey, thanks for the tip about that Don’t Blink thing, I’ve been looking for that Matrix dunk over Al Harrington for years! Whooo that was so nasty!” The men had a chuckle as Sarver led D’Antoni to the door. “Get outta here or you’ll be late for your flight. Let’s get ‘em back in Game 3.” Ruth peeked her head in again as D’Antoni leaves.

“Mr. Sarver, I’m sorry. Stephon Marbury is on line two from New York. He sounds like he’s crying ‘Whyyyyyy?’ over and over and I don’t understand…”

“Tell Steph to get some counseling and mind his own damn business, he wishes he could take playoff facials like that. Oh, and, Ruth… get the private videoconference ready and put all my calls on hold while I, uh, ‘interview’ the Laker Girl!”

~iyf