This Book Has Balls Page 19

  I spent time lacing them up so they looked and felt perfect. Sometimes I had to do it twice because I’d miss a loop on the first go-round and have to go back to the beginning. The whole thing was a ritual. Some people laced over the top and into the loop, giving it that clean crossover look. My homeboy Aaron from Boston taught me the lace-up game where the end of the lace poked into the plastic of the shoe so the ends ballooned out and looked like dangling liberty bells. I started going with the two laces per shoe move and rocked the double-cross color style for a while. It was all about getting your kicks ready to be seen out in the world.

  In the Seventies, Pro-Keds and Converse Chuck Taylors were the shit. They had dope colors and were made out of that heavy potato-sack canvas. Everyone my age was wearing them. Eventually they would tear apart, because when we were kids we actually wore the damn shoes out. The rubber sole would straight up peel off, but they were so comfortable that you didn’t even want a new pair. You’d just be walking around with a floppy sole until you pulled the sneaker apart, dissected it to the guts, and started all over with a new pair.

  I got my first pair of dope leather sneakers for our yearly Hanukah Christmas Confusion in the City Rapaport Family Gathering. They were the Puma Clydes, the first signature sneaker ever made. They were a huge deal in New York because Walt Frazier was our guy. They were white with the black Puma stripes, and I loved the way they looked regardless of the fact that my feet killed me when I wore them. I realized later it was because they had no arch support, and for me at a young age, the curse of being a Flat-Footed Jew was a fact I’d have to come to grips with for life. I would wear them all day every day until they peeled off my feet and went to the trash. Like I said, I wore the shit out of them. It’s what we did. It’s what every kid did. We wore the shoes!

  I remember I got some leather Converse All Stars that Doctor J made famous in the Eightes, and though I never found them with the red stripe and star, I rocked them daily with the blue stripe. I would scrub the shoes with a paper towel and a toothbrush to freshen them up before I took to the streets. I had two pairs at the same time, so I would wear one for everyday use and the other for basketball until sooner or later both wound up raggedy. The Sneaker World was getting to all of us, and we loved it. But we loved it because we couldn’t wait to wear them, to show them off at school or at the park. And when it was time to say good-bye, we let them go. We didn’t save our shoes for the closet or keep them around to sell later or put them on the wall like a picture—hell to the no. We got the sneakers because we needed the damn sneakers and wanted the freshest shit out there.

  Today, that’s no longer the case. I don’t know what the fuck is going on, and I can’t pinpoint the tipping point, but kids are buying shoes to NOT WEAR them. They’re actually begging their parents for some shoes they don’t want to wear. This shit doesn’t make any sense.

  Maybe it was the Air Jordans that sparked Sneaker Culture, but even when those hit the shelves, it was about showing them off on your feet. Yes, I know there were kids getting beaten up for them and, yes, there were fights in the streets and in schoolyards over them, but those were just a few bad apples, and it was all because they were jealous. The point is, your shoes are made for walking, for running, and for being on your damn feet, not for keeping in the box and telling your friends about them.

  Back in the day, you wore your Jordans out until they were beat up, dirty, muddy, and ripped apart. Then you threw them in the trash or saved them for a rainy day or a snowstorm. Put your damn shoes on, kids! Are you going to sell them on the market for a few dollars more than you bought them? No, you’re going to sell them on the market for a few dollars more than your parents paid when they bought them for you.

  Speaking of parents buying sneakers for their kids: my son once dragged me through New York City looking for a pair of Converse Comme des Garçons for his twelfth-birthday present. I didn’t know what the shoes were. I thought we were going to Foot Locker, and he looked at me like I was a stranger. “Dad, Foot Locker doesn’t carry the Garçons, you know that.” I know that? I can’t even pronounce that shit. My son pulled me into five different hipster boutiques before we found the shoe. They were cool looking, don’t get me wrong, but shit wasn’t functional! They had giant red bug eyes painted on the sides, but the soles looked like you shouldn’t even walk fast in them. Of course I bought them for him, and the shoe looks great sitting on his end table and in the selfie photo my son took of himself holding the shoes. And I’m out a few hundred bucks and confused as to how he got one over on me. But that’s what they do now: they buy shoes to never wear ’em.

  They don’t wear them outside, inside, on the court, or in life. The damn shoes sit in the box like they’re in a shoe coffin. Sneakers are made to be worn. Get them out of the box and take them outside and see what it feels like to be fresh and get a compliment, or to feel what it is to go out and play on those new soles before they turn to shit.

  No offense to sneaker designers, but shoes are not meant to be works of art. I know there are plenty of gifted and hardworking people making sneakers, but no one named Picasso or Basquiat is on the assembly line. Sorry. I know there’s a market out there for high-end sneakers; I’m not blind. I see what’s going on with the battle for them bullshit Yeezy Boosts and the Jordan 1s and the Nike Cortez Phase everyone is back on, but let’s get real: You’re lined the fuck up like sheep, sleeping outside a shoe store with a blanket and a cell phone waiting for a shoe you’re never going to wear? Yeezys don’t even have a purpose. They’re not made for hoops, walking, or running. They might not even be made for rapping in. What I do know is that you need to get back to wearing your sneakers and stop acting like you’re collecting dug-up diamonds.

  Me and Ali

  Muhammad Ali has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember, thanks to a photo that my father was lucky enough to take with the Champ. It’s a Rapaport fable for the ages.

  My father was working in radio sales in New York and got invited to watch Ali work out in the bowels of the Garden. Ali was there training to fight Frazier for what would become the Fight of the Century.

  My dad was a huge fan and couldn’t believe his luck that he got to watch Ali skip rope, shadowbox, talk smack, and work the heavy bag in a room full of reporters and celebrities. Everyone was in awe. No one had ever seen an athlete that size with the grace, speed, power, and footwork Ali had. My dad said that after the workout Ali held court like a comedian in the center of the ring. He poked fun at celebrities, taunted reporters, shook hands, and kissed babies. No one broke up a room like Ali. He was Don Rickles with a knockout punch. As Ali headed to the locker room, he passed my father, and my father found his moment. My dad’s friend had a camera and he asked Ali to pose for one shot, and he graciously agreed. That photo solidified the bond my father had with the Champ.

  The picture became a huge part of our family. And I thought it would be a good idea at age five to take it to school for show-and-tell. My kindergarten was right across the street from our apartment on Seventy-Seventh and York. It was literally twenty-five yards away from our building. Being that close to home in high school would not have been ideal, but in kindergarten it was fine. When I told my dad that I wanted to take the picture to school, he was hesitant but agreed, since it was so close to home and the odds of me losing it were slim. But he said that it was his only picture of him and Ali, and if I lost it, I’d be living in a cardboard box outside. He was dead serious.

  He had lost the only picture he had with Rocky Marciano and was not going through that again. It took a lot out of him to tell people he met Rocky Marciano when he had no proof. I know he met Marciano because he told me nine times a year. He loved to put a good story on repeat. Let me be clear: My father is almost a great storyteller. His desire to tell stories never matches the actual story. He starts off strong: the topics are gripping, the time period is interesting, and the characters are dynamic, but when it comes to the delivery, he just misses the
mark. But the Ali picture was sacred, and I was not going to lose it.

  On the day of show-and-tell, I double wrapped the photo in tin foil, smoothed out the surface, and gave a little extra room on both ends of the picture in case, God forbid, I dropped it. I put it inside a plastic zip lock bag, stuffed it under my arm, and rolled out. I mapped out my walk to school that day and my strategy. I factored in the direction of the wind, which corner would have the least amount of kids while crossing, and what door I was going to enter through once I got there. I’ll never forget the walk over. I slowly stepped all twenty-five yards while cradling the photo under my arm like a running back scared to fumble on the one-yard line. I looked both ways before crossing and got there safe and sound with the picture intact. It was go time.

  Most kids brought the usual show-and-tell bullshit: their favorite blankets, a crayon set with half the crayons missing, a Matchbox car, or some weird tool from their dad’s toolbox. One kid, Eddie, whose parents must have said “fuck hygiene,” brought in a white bunny rabbit with pink eyes. The rabbit didn’t move, though. When Eddie put the carrot in front of it, the rabbit just stared at it like he was taunting Eddie for bringing him in. The whole time this debacle was happening, I was thinking, Wait till they see the picture of my father and the most famous person on the planet.

  Then they called my name.

  I strutted to the front of the class and unwrapped my pride and joy one corner at a time. I put the picture on the easel and told the class my version of my father’s story. I was hyped, and I started in. For some reason, when I looked up at the class, no one seemed to give a shit except for Eddie, whose rabbit had just shit pellets all over the cage. He was looking at me, but the rest of the class stared at the shit cage. I didn’t care. I told that story with every fiber of my body. I was animated and all over the place. You would have thought it was a picture of Ali and me. I recapped the story of my dad meeting the Champ and finally got a few of the kids to listen, even though most were still taunting Eddie’s sick rabbit. I gave that performance my all, and when I was finished, I was exhausted. Fuck that bunny for trying to steal my limelight. I’m sure that pebble-shitting rabbit is dead and gone by now, but I still have this picture.

  My father, Disco David Rapaport, and Muhammad Ali in the basement of Madison Square Garden, 1971.

  The Champ

  Muhammad Ali remains a thread that connects me and my father and my brother. We reminisce about the Champ and his fights to this day.

  Some of my favorite memories are of sitting in the living room watching Ali and Cosell do their thing on ABC’s Wide World of Sports. Cosell would talk to Ali, and my dad would be laughing hysterically at their banter. They were like Abbot and Costello. You could sense the love and respect they had for each other. To this day, there’s never been an announcer-athlete camaraderie that can touch theirs. Cosell would ask a question, Ali would say something about Howard’s hair, and they would just go at it. Keep in mind that this was before the fight, too. How the hell did Ali stay that loose when he was about to get in the ring with a man whose goal was to take his head off ? My father would be cracking up watching and tell us, “I love Ali, he’s so much smarter than all these other loudmouths. Cosell can’t even keep up with him.” My father wasn’t that into Howard, but I thought he was cool, original hairpiece and all.

  We would watch an Ali fight, then talk all night about it. My dad knew boxing, so he would school us on the sport. He would talk about Ali’s speed and footwork and how his ability to take a punch would ruin him later in life, and he was right. My dad would break down his fights with Earnie Shavers and Ken Norton and be in awe at the size of the guys Ali was beating. But it was when Ali beat Foreman that the Rapaports realized he was the greatest of all time. The way Ali played possum in that fight and then knocked George out cold on his feet and watched him fall to the ground like a tree in the forest was epic. Of course, you can’t talk about Ali if you don’t mention Frazier. Those fights were brutal and life changing for both fighters. When I watch that first fight with Frazier when Ali lost, it still upsets me to this day.

  Ali got knocked off his feet in the eleventh round by that now-famous leaping left hook. When he hit the canvas, it was like watching your favorite superhero get beat by a villain. Maybe it was the connection my father and I had over Ali. Regardless, it’s one of those fights I still have a hard time watching but an even tougher time turning off.

  They would fight two more times, and the fights were epic. So were the press conferences.

  At the second press conference, Ali and Frazier started fighting live on TV dressed in three-piece suits, and it freaked me out.

  Ali got in Joe’s face, and Joe, trying to defend himself, got up, and Ali said, “SET down, Joe, SET down.” I knew he meant “sit,” but with his Louisiana accent it came out “set.” I didn’t know why Ali and Frazier hated each other, but I took Ali’s side. It wasn’t until much later in life that I realized their issues went much deeper than just two fighters wanting to take each other’s heads off. I was acting like the press conference fight was the real fight.

  I started crying, and my father said, “Calm down, Michael, they’re not fighting.” I told him, “Yes, they are, Dad, and Frazier is a jawbreaker.” My brother Eric yelled, “This is fake, dumbass. You’re really dumb, Michael,” but I was crying, and my dad, standing there wearing his sole pair of black bikini underwear that were way too small, said, “Michael, calm down. They’re not fighting. Frazier didn’t hit him.” My brother screamed, “He didn’t hit him. Calm down, loser.” And then he smacked me in the back of the head, and I started crying harder. My father then smacked my brother in the back of the head, and he started crying. The whole thing caused chaos in my home.

  When Muhammad announced he was coming back in 1980 to fight Larry Holmes, I knew something wasn’t right. I received my weekly issue of Sports Illustrated with Ali on the cover; he had a mustache and was bloated. My dad, who always grabbed the mail, sadly tossed me my SI, knowing how I’d feel when I saw it. Ali’s eyes looked glazed over. Something wasn’t right.

  In the article Ali talked about how he was going to beat Holmes and that Holmes was overrated. Like the rest of the world, I felt secure Ali would win. Why wouldn’t he? There’s no way Ali doesn’t win against a guy I’ve never heard of, a guy my father never mentioned. Looking back on it, my dad didn’t want to bring up the truth: Ali was past his prime, and Holmes had one of the greatest jabs the game had ever seen. Ali was done, but people were still willing to pay to see him. And most of them would regret it.

  My father and I watched the fight on Pay-Per-View at Radio City Music Hall. The place was packed. It was weird being at Radio City for a fight, since it was known for everything but boxing. It was home to Sinatra, B. B. King, and the Rockettes. Not the usual setting for a fight crowd, but the place was sold out. People couldn’t wait to see the return of Ali. The only thing I can compare it to is a Mike Tyson fight. The energy was palpable. The entire world craved time with Ali, and they were about to get it.

  But the fight was a tragedy. My dad saw it unfolding immediately. “Ali looks slow, Michael. This isn’t going to be good.” Ali came out slow-footed, glassy-eyed, and heavier than he’d ever been. He was a shell of everything we knew, but I still had hope. “Come on, Champ, play possum for as long as you want, but when he drops that jab, come over the top with the big right and drop him like you did Foreman. You can do it, Champ, let’s go.” But it was not to be that night. Things got so bad that Larry Holmes himself actually asked the ref to stop the fight. There can be no worse feeling than to nearly kill your hero in the ring.

  At one point my father was yelling at the screen, “Stop the damn fight!” He wanted to leap through the screen. The fight was finally stopped when Angelo Dundee made Ali call it quits. I was crushed. My dad had to pull me up from my seat and walk me out of the theater.

  After the fight, I rode home on the back of my father’s BMW motorcycle. As we
drove back home, I cried the entire way and wiped my tears and snot on the back of my father’s coat. It was a sad night for everyone.

  The Champ Makes Grown Men Cry

  Years later I met Ali. It was 1997 at the Independent Spirit Awards.

  I was there with my friend actor Kevin Corrigan, whom I’d met while filming Zebrahead. You may know Kevin’s work more than his name. Kevin’s a great talent, and that year the Spirit Awards nominated him for best supporting actor for his role in Walking and Talking. My man Benecio del Toro ended up winning the award, but I love him, too, so it was all good.

  The Spirit Awards are like the Oscars for indies. There’s something beautiful about the indie world of moviemaking. People make films with passion, blood, sweat, and tears. To make an indie, you have to give it everything. This was a great time for independent film, a time when top talent got involved. I remember seeing Sean Penn and John Turturro sitting side by side that night, two of my favorites.

  It was a cool event held on the beach in Santa Monica under a giant tent. They gave out gift bags with Sony Discman CD players and gift certificates for massages. Muhammad Ali’s documentary When We Were Kings was up for an award, and people kept saying the Champ was in the building. Once I heard he was there, I knew I had to meet him. Corrigan and I were scouring the area looking for Ali. I was excited to see him but at the same time I was freaked out. My heart was literally racing. We started looking all over the place for a huge crowd surrounding him but couldn’t find it. I saw a security guard and asked, “Is Muhammad Ali really here?” He pointed and said, “Yeah, he’s right over there at the table.” Holy shit. I looked at Kevin and he looked at me, and, knowing my admiration for the Champ, he wasn’t shocked when I beelined it to Ali. I didn’t even look back to see if Kevin was with me. My heart was pounding for real. As I got closer, I saw a couple of fans lined up around him saying hello, and there he was, sitting at a table, Muhammad Ali. I really couldn’t believe it. He was right there. I recognized his wife, Lonnie, sitting to his left, and his lifelong friend and photographer Howard Bingham to his right. I was a few feet away now and slowly moving in. A couple of people said hello to me, but I could only focus on Ali. I stood behind the other fans who were reaching down to shake his hand . . . and then I was up.