This Book Has Balls Page 2

  I need to see a therapist about this, LB. You know any good ones? I’m gonna assume that you’re not a psychotherapist kind of guy, so I’ll just deal with this on my own.

  Anyway, my personal Hoop Dreams were inspired by you, and although they became Hoop Nightmares by the time I was sixteen, I really wanna thank you for the inspiration and apologize for the loads of unwarranted hate I hurled at you during your playing career. It really wasn’t personal. Of course, it did become a little personal in the Nineties when you were coaching and general managing the Indiana Pacers, but that’s a whole other story that has no relevance here.

  Nonetheless, Mr. Bird, I hope this letter finds you well in French Lick, Indiana, and I sincerely hope you consider accepting my apology.

  Your Friend,

  Michael “Bird” Rapaport

  P.S.: Larry, this was me in 1983. I even secretly wore your T-shirt back in the day.

  Ain’t No Fact Checkin’

  So, yeah, I didn’t make it to the NFL, MLB, or NBA. I didn’t even come close. I tried my best to become the best basketball player in the world. I literally practiced every day. I skipped Hebrew school, birthday parties, and family trips to play ball. I tried hard—maybe not hard enough—but it wasn’t in the cards for me to be the Next Great White Hope in the NBA. Guys like my spirit animals Chris Mullin and Rex Chapman were the real deal. Some people may think I wasted a lot of time with a dream that went nowhere, but I have no regrets. I gained so much from it. My best friend to this day is a guy named Gerald, whom I met when I was twelve years old playing a pick-up game of three-on-three. Because of basketball I got to spend time in Harlem and the Brownsville section of Brooklyn. Being from the Upper East Side of Manhattan and having best friends in Harlem and Brownsville opened my eyes to a whole new world and a whole new perspective. In Brownsville, I was the only white kid who would come around and hang out. Gerald grew up in the Howard Projects, and I would go out there to play ball and would sleep over at his house after hours of playing. Going to Howard Park and seeing guys like World B. Free, Dwayne “Pearl” Washington, Jerry “Ice” Reynolds, and the Legendary James “Fly” Williams play pick-up games right in front of me every day is something I wouldn’t trade for anything. World B. Free is actually the person who gave me the nickname Bird in 1982. Being exposed to these people at such a young age was beautiful and shaped the way I see the world. Traveling on the subways of New York City to play in different leagues in random parks all over the five boroughs was a gift that I’ll never take for granted. I don’t regret any of the time I spent playing basketball in those days. It gave me real focus and strong goals in life. Unfortunately, basketball just wasn’t what I was best at.

  Yeah, I didn’t make it to the NBA, but I can lift a five-pound weight and spin a ball at the same time. Can you?

  At nineteen, when not a single college basketball opportunity presented itself and after a wild street fight left me with a quarter of my ear missing after it was bitten off by some maniac who didn’t play by the basic street-fighting rules, I decided to officially shut down the “I’m gonna be an NBA player” phase of my life. It was over. The time had come to turn to something that had always came easier to me than playing sports: the fine art of breaking balls. I was good at it and I knew it. It was in my blood.

  So, I moved to Los Angeles in June of 1989 with the goal of becoming a stand-up comedian. After years of honing my craft of antagonistic ball breaking throughout New York City, making people chuckle on stage wasn’t that hard. I was a decent stand-up comic at best and I enjoyed doing it, but I finally found my calling when I first started acting in 1990. It came more naturally to me than anything I’d ever done in my life—

  Wait a second, wait one single fucking second, hold the fuck on here. I need to stop this right now.

  This book isn’t the life and times of the world-renowned heartthrob and multifaceted thespian Michael Rapaport. This book isn’t about my high cheekbones or drop-dead good looks that have left women breathless and men envious for the last twenty-five years. I’m sorry to disappoint you people, but this isn’t about any of that bullshit. This book is about sports. So, let’s reset.

  I started off as a sports fan, and although the dream of playing pro may have died, I always remained a fan. Let’s get clear about one thing first off the top: I don’t talk stats and I don’t talk data. I’m not gonna try to woo and wow you with all that yippity-yahoo, sugar-dicking statistical fancy-pants bullshit. Any hipster nerd sports geek with a computer can contrive some highfalutin statistics and tell you why one player is more important than another player. If you want stats, read the Encyclopedia Britannica. I don’t do data. I didn’t even stat-check my book until I was threatened with a lawsuit by my publishers.

  What I like to do when it comes to sports is talk shit straight from my gut and let the chips fall where they may. This book is made up of my thoughts, opinions, rants, and heavy shit talking from the bottom of my heart, folks. It’s rough, rugged, and raw dog without a bag. Can you dig it? I knew you could.

  Going forward, you can read this puppy in order or out of order—it’s all the same to me. You can read it in one magnificent and magical sitting, or you can take your time nice and slow and let it sink in. Jump around or read it backward, it doesn’t matter. Just sit back and have a good time, because, ladies and gentlemen, this book has balls.

  Why Lawrence Taylor Is the Greatest Football Player Ever

  Lawrence Taylor is the greatest football player to ever play the game. Period. End of story. I don’t even want to talk about this shit anymore. Yeah, I know Jim Brown ran over everyone in the world before he started acting in whacked-out action movies; I know all about Barry Sanders having the greatest footwork ever, rushing for fifteen thousand yards all while wearing that fucked-up helmet that was too big for his tiny head; and yeah, what I’m about to say kills me, but Tom Brady could be the greatest quarterback ever with his gelled-out Footlocker mannequin hair. There, I said it. But none of them can touch my man LT.

  Lawrence Motherfucking Taylor was in a class all by himself.

  You know why LT is the greatest of all time? Do I really need to spell it out? LT is the best of the best because for much of the time he was playing, he was on CRACK COCAINE!! One hundred eighty-two sacks! Ten Pro Bowls! It’s never going to be duplicated. Four-time Defensive Player of the Year. And a regular user of that “Steal Your VCR Cuz I Have to Get High Again” shit. I’m not talking about performance-“enhancing” drugs here. I’m talking about performance-decreasing drugs. Crack is not what you want to be on while playing pro sports.

  Do you have any idea how hard it is to play on crack? Ask Dwight Gooden! He loved the White Night Pipe, but he couldn’t pitch on the shit. He couldn’t even pitch after a night of heavy drinking. His system was sensitive. Not LT. He was a crack unicorn. If you think I’m exaggerating, then head on out to your nearest shithole neighborhood, find a fucked-up-looking building with someone outside wearing a winter coat in the summertime, buy a rock, smoke that shit, and run down the block. You’re out of breath, right? Guess why? ’Cause you can’t do shit on crack!

  But Lawrence Taylor did. Yeah, he did. This degenerate superhero went to the strip club with mob bosses, fucked three hookers inside the club, drank a bunch of shit champagne with the rest of his fucked-up teammates, said good night, went to the stadium parking lot to sleep in his car before the game, woke up, hit the boulder, then went to the field, said “fuck the team meeting,” and sacked everything in his path! That’s a skill set you can’t even train for. You can run sprints all day, spend your life in the weight room, learn the other team’s offense, but guess what you can’t do? Guess what’s not in the training regimen when you get to the pros? Guess what’s not in the playbook on day one of training camp? Playing on that Pure White Nose Candy! They don’t teach that shit anywhere! They don’t have you doing box jumps and crack hits. It doesn’t work that way, okay? LT had a gift. He had more crack sacks than anyon
e in the history of the game ever. Let’s take a little look here for fun. Here’s how I imagine his true stats.

  1981 NFL AP Defensive Player of the Year—On Crack!

  1981 NFL AP Defensive Rookie of the Year—On Crack Nuggets!

  1982 NFL AP Defensive Player of the Year—On Coke and Rum!

  1986 NFL AP MVP—On tons of Coke and No Sleep!

  1986 NFL PFWA MVP—On Hooker Woo-woo Coke Base Crack!

  1986 NFL Bert Bell Award (Player of the Year)—On Pure-bred Ya-Yo Base Crack with No Sleep Again!

  1986 NFL AP Defensive Player of the Year—On Flame-throwing Coke Flakes Bought from a Man in a Car!

  Pro Football Hall of Fame First Team All-1980s Team—On Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs Crack!

  Pro Football Reference First Team All-1980s—On Hard Rock Blue Flake!

  Yo, fuck playing through a little bit of shoulder pain! Don’t cry to me about playing after your minor back surgery. Talk to me when you can fuck a prostitute, freebase for an hour, hit the pipe, and make First Team All NFL! Try one-hand collar tackling Ron Jaworski’s fat white ass while you’re hyped up on That Black Rock Boulder. Lawrence Taylor was in a class all by himself.

  I know we can argue that Walter Payton could have been the greatest of all time, with lightning speed and who could throw the ball sixty yards, but give Walter that fucking Color Me Badd Coke Street Rock and a pipe and he’s crying on the bench looking in the stands for his mother, who may or may not be there. Let’s see Joe Montana hit some Purple Caps before a game, and guess what he’s not doing? Passing for 4,500-plus yards again! No, he’s not. He’s hanging out by the San Francisco wharf looking for a transvestite and cotton candy! Let me see Tom Brady smoke that Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs shit in the streets and throw for thirty-six touchdowns again. Go ahead, Tom, smoke that Iranian Vagina and see what happens. You can’t, man. You ain’t LT. None of you are. Sorry.

  One of my favorite comedians of all time was Richard Pryor. Pryor used to have this bit where the pipe talked to him. He would say the freebase pipe was calling to him, “Hey, Rich, I’m right over here if you need me, don’t forget.” And then Richard would argue back and forth with the pipe, trying to get the pipe to leave him alone. I can only imagine the relationship LT had with his crack pipe.

  Pipe: Great game, man. Shit, I’m tired. You?

  LT: Nah, I’m really not that tired.

  Pipe: For real?

  LT: Yeah. I’m pretty awake. Come here.

  Pipe: Give me a minute, man. Chasing Aikman around didn’t wear you out?

  LT: I’ll do that in my sleep. Motherfucker’s flat-footed. We’re going out.

  Pipe: Like now?

  LT: Yeah, now. My boys got that strip club on the Upper East Side. It’s gonna be fun. Trust me. All the fellas are going.

  Pipe: You sure you want me to go? I can stay home. HBO’s showing the Roberto Duran fight tonight. I’ll sit right here on the table and chill.

  LT: I’m not going without you. No way.

  Pipe: I don’t want to cramp your style.

  LT: My style? Everyone knows you. If you don’t show, they’ll ask where you are.

  Pipe: Shit. I just wanted one night of rest.

  LT: Rest is for pussies.

  Pipe: Man, I don’t know how you do it.

  LT: I’m gonna grab a change of clothes in case we stay the night.

  Pipe: Damn. Grab some water, then.

  LT: Fuck water.

  Pipe: All right.

  LT: Next week we play Detroit.

  Pipe: Detroit?

  LT: Yeah.

  Pipe: With Gary Danielson?

  LT: Yeah.

  Pipe: Shit, I could probably win that game on my own.

  LT: Quit talking so much and let’s go.

  Pipe: Fuck it. Fill me up.

  Listen, I don’t really like that LT was battling drug addiction. It’s not a joke. But I’m no rehab specialist and I don’t judge. My point is, I really do think Lawrence Taylor was the greatest football player to ever play the game. He operated on a level very few athletes ever get to. And he had that thing, that X factor that doesn’t come from being the fastest, it doesn’t come from being the strongest or the smartest on the team. It comes from some other fucking stratospheric, god-given, way-out-there foreign place. I don’t know. Ask Neil deGrasse Tyson. Whatever it is, Lawrence Taylor had it. And it sure as hell didn’t come from the crack he was smoking, and I’m glad he’s staying out of trouble these days.

  An Open Letter to Tiger Woods

  Dear Mr. Woods,

  Can I just call you Tiger? This letter from me to you is in your best interest, trust me. Consider it to come from the people who love and admire you and have followed your career for many years. This letter is coming from a place of genuine love and concern. It troubles me that you were arrested for a DUI, and this time they said it was pills and not alcohol. I don’t like to hear things like that. Sleeping in your car on the side of the road during a holiday weekend is not something to scoff at and should be looked into heavily. I also noticed things generally go bad for you over holiday weekends. I would find a way to stay home and relax during Memorial Day, Labor Day, Christmas, or Summer Solstice, for that matter. Just chill out when you see a holiday coming. You’re obviously not fit for long weekends. Things can get better for you, though, Tiger, because people still care about you and would love to see you on the comeback trail. All that being said, I truly don’t give a shit about golf. I never liked it and I struggle to come to grips with it when I hear it referred to as a sport. I think it’s just a highly skilled game, and I would be fine if they never showed it again on television. But this letter has nothing to do with golf, my friend. It has to do with you. It has to do with your well-being and what I think might be the answer to your prayers.

  This is a letter to a man who has lost sight of what got him to the mountaintop. I write it on behalf of the men, women, and children who have admired your work for so many years. We want to see you get back to being the BEST you that you can be. The great Tiger we know and love. The young man who won over the hearts and minds of fans all over the world. Yes, it’s time to get back to doing what you do best. Eldrick Tont Woods, it is time to unfold the loaf, put it back on the streets, and FUCK your way back to the Masters!

  Get back to that Grade A, Grade B, and—as we’ve all seen in the past and looked on stunned—Grade C Ass that made you the king! As soon as you took that loaf off the streets, your back went out, your game fell off, Nike said good-bye, and your game went into the shitter. You quit side pussy, and golf quit you. There’s still time. It wasn’t as if you were a bad person, Eldrick.

  You weren’t Pete Rose, gambling and drinking on camera. You weren’t Aaron Hernandez in a gang war, RIP. You were simply dropping your pants all over America’s wonderful landscape, because you weren’t happy at home! I say break out the fucking black book and let the Hooters staff know that Eldrick Woods is back for some chicken tenders and a side of fat country ass!

  Some players were better on steroids, some were better on speed, and you were the greatest golfer on planet Earth while tapping mediocre Midwest snapper. At this point, Mr. Woods, you’re only hurting yourself by playing the good-guy role. So, get out of the house, call up Applebee’s and Perkins twenty-four-hour joints, and tell that chubby divorced mother of three, “I’m sorry about the hiatus, but the Tiger is back and he wants his pole smoked in public and thanks for the extra side of bacon!” You deserve it. You changed the landscape of that shit game of golf !

  When you were on that “late night let’s fuck standing up” shit, you won four Masters. When you had that “Put it in your mouth while I’m eating a quesadilla”–type shit, you won three US Opens. But on your “Say No to Strange Campaign” you shit the bed. This is not how you go out. The men and women of this great country support you and want to see you back on top. We know you’re a fuckin’ animal, Tiger, and everyone accepts it. You hear me? You won fourteen majors all
while your loaf was in the hands of strangers! It was beautiful to witness. PGA Player of the Year eleven times while that porn star had your balls in her mouth. The writing is on the wall!

  Listen, I’m sure it wasn’t great having the world learn you were that balls-to-the-wall buck-wild. I’m sure it felt weird having that much loaf exposure all at once. But you won championships when it was out, you lost when it was in, and, all in all, you did it your way. The Black Sinatra strikes again. Now let’s get back to winning with that style you made your own.