Taking it back to 1992

I was sitting in Kosmos (the former Goose Loonies) today and they were showing the 1992 NBA playoffs -- Bulls versus Trailblazers as part of NBA's Greatest Games. Of course for me the greatest NBA playoff game ever played in my lifetime would be the one where Michael Jordan pretty much single-handedly handed the Utah Jazz's ass to them in a hat while suffering from the flu and looking like he could simply black out at any point in the game.

And I wasn't even a Jordan fan (Lakers all the way, baby) at the time. But I HATED the Jazz (still do) so I was all about that. I mean, that was mindblowing. I mean, if you didn't see that game I, like, feel sorry for you.

But anyway, I'm watching this game from 1992. I was like a freshman in high school at the time and I loved pro Basketball. I had a major crush on Georgetown's (and later the Charlotte Hornets and later the Miami Heat's Alonzo Mourning.) I still own a bunch of his rookie cards. They're like, worthless, but whatever. I still like love the 'Zo even if he never did live up to his potential being, like, the world's shortest center. (I think he was only like 6'10" or something when folks like Shaq and Dikembe were clocking at the over seven footer mark.)

So I'm like watching this and I'm riveted and I'm wonder -- what the HELL happened to Basketball? Like, their shorts are still a little stingy in '92, but those brothers were styling. I mean, I couldn't take my eyes off the grace, the charm, the die hard competition. I mean sure, they're getting paid, like, millions of dollars, but you're like, these dudes are worth it. Look at the show their putting on! It's a work of art.

So then I thought what year did I start to hate basketball and then it dawned on me -- the year I graduated from high school and started college -- 1996. The official date of when things I once loved started to suck.

I guess I was working at Superstars at Northwest Plaza Mall that summer in St. Louis when the number one jersey we were selling out of was that of a young, recently drafted, quite possibly a gang-banger from Zo's alum, Georgetown, who went by the name of Allen Iverson. I was curious about Iverson as it seemed like every homie in the hood wanted his jersey. It was frickin' out selling old school Jordan's and Shaq jerseys like it wasn't a thing. It was crazy. But the dude had all these issues. Like he was involved in this shooting and almost got put out of school and almost ended up in jail and he had a bigger posse than most rappers. I was like, what's the deal here?

Did Jordan have a posse? I don't know. I mean, I don't think he rolled with an entourage unless you count the other members of the Chicago Bulls. And I know that Jordan was a high roller. He liked his clubs, golfing and gambling, but last I checked MJ hadn't shot anybody. He might have wished he shot someone, like those punks who killed his dad, but hey, Mike was a lover and a ball player, not the sort of brother to be predisposed to getting into gun fights.

So, while selling my like 20 Iverson jersey that day I approached this cat with the cornrows and asked him what the deal was with Iverson, and the homie was all, "I like Iverson because he keeps it real. He's from the streets. He acts street. He's a thug. I like him."

So basically, folks liked him because he was tattooed down and G'ed up. Fascinating.

Therefore I stopped watching basketball. I mean, I tried to watch it. I loved the game. NBA action is FANTASTIC! I loved Magic Johnson and Mugsy and Larry Johnson and the Knicks. You know, back when they would just beat the crap out of people to win games. I liked how Anthony Mason craved stuff in his head and how Phil Jackson managed to reign in Dennis Rodman. I loved the first Dream Team. Who didn't? I mean, the other teams would literally roll over and let them win just so they could be all like, "Man, MAGIC JOHNSON straight knocked me on my ass, Ivan! This is a great moment in Lithuian Basketball history!"

So, what the H? I watching this '92 playoffs and there's no tattoos. I mean, there's some ill-advised haircuts and the afformentioned slighty stingy shorts, but no one is worried about that rap album they need to put out over the summer. They're worried about Bakestball. Clyde (I should probably just shave the rest of it off) Drexler is trying to make his place in history and take out "Superman." I mean, Shaq jacked the title, but c'mon, Jordan was Superman, the brother literally was the first to take off from the free throw like and dunk that ball like it was nothing. He had hangtime.

But now I look at a B-ball game and go, who on earth are these hoodlums? BasketBrawl aside, it's not like violence in sports is new or anything. I mean, even Air Jordan, the picture of tranquility and grace, tried to gouge Reggie Miller's eyes out that one time. (Reggie had a bit of a mouth on him.)

But it's all about 1996-1997, man. Rapper Tupac was shot. Then Biggie was killed and what sprung up in their place was the marginally talented, NBA wannabe Master P. Then magically, basketball started so suck. Coincidence? I think not. Just as rap music became a lot of posing, basketball became about 5 percent game and 95 percent hype. Scores kept getting lower (like I'm gonna watch a 87-80 brickhouse fest.) The hyped up players didn't live up to the hype and soon everybody and their gramma was the second coming of Jordan.

I got news for folks. Um, there won't be another Jordan.

There won't be another Tupac or Biggie either because we've got Tupac and Biggie lite. Which I detest. And the tom-thuggery of AI. Why? Man, why? I'm too young to be whining about how horrible things are. My father was enjoying B-ball well into his 40s. He still watches it now, but he knows what the deal is. Keepin' it real is ruining basketball like it ruined rap music and it all happened in 1996.

Think about it.