This Book Has Balls Read online

  The thing that was so crazy about the punts at John Jay was that rarely would anybody ever catch the football when it came down. Most of the kids were six to ten years old, and a football that sounds like a gun being shot when it’s kicked coming down full speed at you is scary as shit. It takes a bunch of attempts to get it, and the crowd of kids was always around eight to twelve deep, so you didn’t have many chances.

  Luckily, I had an in with this Jewish punting machine. One Sunday morning in 1977, my dad and I went to the park early on a misty morning. The park was totally empty. Ya snooze, ya lose.

  We threw the ball around first, and then my dad started warming up the golden leg. He began with short punts, maybe twenty to thirty yards, and then medium ones, around forty to forty-five, and then he started launching those bad boys in the sky. Every time the ball hit the ground, it would bounce ten feet back in the air and wobble off. I’d chase it down, close the distance between me and my dad, and throw the ball back to him.

  On one of the next punts, for some reason and without discussion, my dad launched a medium-length rocket into the air. It went crazy high up and thirty-five yards deep, and I got under it. I don’t have a great memory, but I will never forget this moment: I stood under the ball as it came down, cradled my arms, shut my eyes, and waited for it. And out of the fucking blue—Wham!—the ball hit me in the chest and rocked me dead onto the concrete, knocking the wind out of me. My father ran over and said, “Michael, are you okay?” I said, “Yeah, I’m good, I think I can catch it. Can you do it again?”

  He walked back, and all of a sudden, I remember thinking to myself, I’m gonna catch this ball, I know I can catch this ball. “Do a high one, Dad, I’m gonna catch it,” I said, and he did.

  Boom! He kicked the crap out of the ball one more time. It had a thunder blast when it connected with his foot. I watched it go all the way up, pushed my sleeves up, ran a few steps back, got right under this giant rubber Wilson, and, I shit you not, caught the damn ball. It knocked me down again, and my legs swung back over my head, and I remember saying, “I got it, Dad, I got it!” My father ran over to me and said, “Holy shit, how did you do that?” He scooped me off the ground and kept saying “Holy shit, how did you catch that?” It was a huge deal for both of us. Nobody ever caught my dad’s punts, but on that day, I finally did. My father still tells me to this day: “I can’t believe you caught that damn football when you were that young.”

  LaVar Can’t Ball!!!

  LaVar Ball, you’re acting like the next Octomom or Mama June, bro. You’re on some Dance Mom, Housewife, Honey Boo Boo shit. I don’t know where you came from or where you’re headed, but the shit you’re talking needs to stop. You need to get the family together and sort this out. Pull up the chairs, gather round the living room, get the boys all in one room, and talk through it. I don’t even know where you came from, but it’s time to pump the big baller brakes.

  First off, let me be clear: those Ball kids can ball for real. That’s obvious, and I respect their game and wish them well, but in my opinion, LaVar, you’re making it worse for them with every comment that comes out of your mouth. Some of the shit you say is next-level out there, and it has to be for effect, right? Like you’re going for that “Don King in his prime” effect. Right? You say you can beat Michael Jordan in a game of one-on-one? You are sounding crazy on the yard, LaVar. I don’t give a damn if Jordan gained forty more pounds and lived on Big Macs: you couldn’t beat Michael Jordan, Michael Jackson, Mike Tyson, Michael Bublé, or Michael Keaton—who, by the way, gets my vote as best Batman yet—in a game of one-on-one, Horse, Pig, or 21. You’re lost, Duke. You’re saying shit that crazy people say, and it’s not cute. You said your oldest son is better than Steph Curry right now. I’m letting you know he’s not better than Steph, Dell, and, until he proves it, Baby Riley Curry. To quote the great American poet O’Shea Jackson, “Chickity check yourself before you wreck yourself,” LaVar.

  Talking about how you can beat Michael Jordan. Child, please. The one and only video available of you playing ball looks like you hired a casting director to line up the players against you. They looked like a gang of seven-year-olds too scared to guard you, and you still weren’t shit. You were looking real clumsy out there, LaVar. You averaged two motherfucking points a game in college. Take it down a notch.

  You are talking reckless. After your son Lonzo’s UCLA team got bounced from the 2017 NCAA Tournament, where he got outplayed and out-“Balled” by Kentucky kids, you said, “A team can’t win an NCAA Championship with three slow white players”? Really? What about two black guys, a couple of Europeans, and a seven-foot-three Asian phenom? Check Villanova’s roster from 2016. Take a close look, my man. They were like the cast of Friends doing a cameo on Empire.

  You came out with the Big Baller Brand sneaker that costs $495 and looks like a snowshoe fucked a flip-flop. What the fuck kind of hokey-pokey shit are you trying to sell? You’re talking that three-card-monte, double-talk bullshit. You won’t even tell people how much it costs to make those overpriced skips. You know what skips are, right, LaVar? Skips are Payless knockoff versions of the real thing. LaVar, you’re playing yourself out here. Talking about the sneaker is for the culture. What culture are those $495 fugazi-ass Nikes for? You’re faking jacks out here, LaVar. Those sneakers aren’t for the basketball culture, street culture, or the St. Tropez yacht culture. And your Big Baller Brand has a sandal for $220 that doesn’t even exist? A few days after you started selling this foolishness, you were photographed wearing Adidas? GTFOH with this shit.

  Believe me, my sources let me know that there are players in the NBA just waiting for your kid to get into the league so they can welcome him with open arms and pick-and-rolls to put him on his ass because of your antics.

  Lonzo might have to have an “apology from my dad” press conference before he even starts playing, because there are going to be so many players ready to check him on the court it’s going to get uncomfortable. Your son might be moving back to his old bedroom after LeBron busts him with a 275-pound elbow. And I like your kids. This isn’t about them. I think they can play for real. I wish them the best. I’m a father. I would never wish anyone’s kids ill. I don’t want your son to stop having fun playing basketball because his life turned into a media circus before he was twenty-one. I want him to shine out there. But you’ve got to reel it in. You are going to make your kids have to fight your battles. Instead of people talking about what Lonzo can do, they are talking about what he can’t do. A lot of people want to see him fail because of YOU. Is that what real Big Ballers do?

  That Big Baller bullshit looks like you robbed the tour bus of the 1984 Fresh Festival, then knocked over a Nineties haberdashery where Arrested Development worked. Give my man Speech back his gear. Who the hell is going to wear Kool Moe Dee’s sweatshirt in 2018? Big Daddy Kane wants his video clothes back, and he told me that to my face. I don’t get it. The shit looks stuffy and uncomfortable, and I know that’s not Beefy-T you’re working with, so give the Fu Schnickens their shit back and tell Special Ed you’re sorry. I think I also saw a Big Baller onesie, and that just hurt my heart. Plus, it all looks hot as hell, like temperature wise, like the material is made out of winter blankets. Are you making blanket T-shirts? That’s a fair question. I saw you wearing one of your own T-shirts with an additional undershirt to prevent public sweats. I saw it. Then I saw you show up on TV trying to look legitimate rocking an off-the-rack suit. Come on, man! Real Big Ballers only wear custom-made shit. LaVar, take a chill pill.

  I know what it is. I think you really want that reality-show life. You ready for your close-up, LaVar? You’re so obnoxious, Magic Johnson compared you to Kris Kardashian, and Magic never disrespects anyone publicly. You’re acting like you really want a VH1 show. I do know some people at Bravo TV, and I could make a call for you, but while you may think you’re camera ready, I don’t think you know your lines. Think it through and hold your head, Big Baller, before you wind up on
the E! Channel’s next episode of Where Are They Now?

  The Magic of Magic

  Magic Johnson was one of my favorite players growing up, straight up, no doubt about it. I was all about Magic. Six nine, point guard, handling the ball like a magician, and changing the entire idea of what it was to run the point. No one saw the court better, no one was a better leader on the floor, the no-look pass followed by a smile? Are you kidding me? We don’t need to go into the stats and the titles and all that. That would only take away from what I felt about him.

  Everything about Magic’s style on and off the court I loved. I would imitate his walk, mimic his run, and smile for no reason while playing hoops. I’d be in the house slow walking through the living room with that shoulder shake and the short strides with a dash of being pigeon-toed. I wanted to be like Magic, move like Magic, and play like Magic. Who didn’t? I would pull my socks up past my calves like he did, even though my calf didn’t have the muscle to hold the sock up. And when I got older and caught a glimpse of what Magic was like in life, I was even more impressed. I’ve never seen anyone fit their name better. The irony was that they gave him that nickname for his playing, not because they knew how magical he was as a person.

  I went to his basketball camp in Southern California, where three hundred kids came from all over the country to learn the game. Kids from Detroit, Texas, Florida, Alabama, and New York were all there. It was an amazing mix. And it was all basketball all day. We would start the morning out with old-school calisthenics: touching our toes, doing jumping jacks, push-ups, sit-ups, and all the basics. We looked like a bunch of kids in army boot camp. But we took it seriously, and the competition was real. Kids from Detroit had that same attitude as the New Yorkers, the kids from Alabama looked like they grew up pushing lawn mowers across an acre of lawn, and the Texans were on some quiet, confident shit.

  Every day, we’d break off into teams and scrimmage. Those games were intense because Magic was watching, and everyone wanted to be great in front of him. He was walking around the courts, studying us, checking us out, just kind of nodding his head with that slow, cool walk. Some days he had friends like Isiah Thomas and Mark Aguirre come by, which just added to the pressure. I wanted to impress him any time I thought he was looking. If I was in the game and I was on D and I saw Magic looking over, I kicked it into high gear. One of my favorite ballplayers of all time is going watch me play D? You better believe I’m moving my feet faster than they’ve ever moved and I’m keeping my guy in check. “Let’s go, Texas, let’s see what you got.” My giant pale feet never moved so fast. Every time I touched the ball, I was trying to do that Magic dribble: the high dribble while looking around and smiling. I wasn’t even a guard, but I was tall and wanted Magic to think I had handles. Of course, when you dribble high, look around, and smile at fourteen years old, you lose the ball, which happened often. But Magic saw what I was going for.

  We’d finish the day with basic drills: shooting, passing, and ball handling. We looked like the Globetrotters when they would go behind their backs and pass to the guy to the right while looking left. Some of the kids noticed I was imitating Magic all the time. One of them asked, “Mike, why are you walking like you’re sore and tired already? You haven’t done anything yet.” I told him it’s just how I walk. The truth is there was nothing in my game that was reminiscent of Magic’s, except the excitement and love of basketball and the fact that he was tall when he was fourteen.

  The most exciting part about camp for me was the day we each got to take our picture with Magic. Every single kid at camp got in line. There were literally three hundred kids waiting to get their picture taken. Just a long-ass line of sweaty strangers in short shorts and tank tops waiting to meet the Magic man. And then it hit me: Magic Johnson is going to wait for every single kid to come up and take their picture? This could take hours. And it did, but he was patient. I mean beyond patient. Not only was he patient, he seemed like he was enjoying it. Magic genuinely appreciated the fact that these kids came to his camp. He had a real “moment” with every single kid who stepped up. This went on for three hours, and he never complained, he never even said “Hurry up.” He was like Santa Claus at a mall. This was when I realized, “Okay, this isn’t just the greatest player in the world, this might be the greatest person in the world.”

  He could have done a group photo and called it a day. He could have split us into two groups, but he didn’t. He took a picture with every single kid and made them feel special for that moment. Then it was my turn. I stepped up. I was nervous, but I was ready. I had my socks pulled, set my pigeon toes right, leaned over, and walked up slow. He asked me where I was from. I told him New York, and Magic said right away, “Why don’t you have Bernard King socks on?” I said, “You’re my favorite.” He smiled and gave me quick high five, and we took the picture.

  Magic and me in 1984. Please note the socks, and I was even wearing Laker shorts. I’m not just saying this, but when I was around Magic, there was a feeling that he was touched by God or an angel. He had another level of energy. This man was from another dimension. I got some of that Magic dust on me after the picture, and I was set. Camp was amazing, and it only solidified how much I loved the man.

  When Magic announced he had HIV and was retiring from basketball, it felt like I got kicked in the gut. Like the rest of the world, I was devastated. Forget retiring from basketball; I was afraid Magic was going to die. We didn’t know that much about HIV and AIDS back then, so in my mind it was a death sentence. I thought I was watching Magic talk for the last time. I was never going to see Magic again. I didn’t know what was going to happen. I was crying on my couch in my $325-a-month Hollywood apartment watching him on TV. He was standing behind the podium and telling the world he had HIV and that he was retiring from the Lakers. What the hell was happening? I felt powerless and crushed. But there was one thing that stuck out to me while watching this unfold. I noticed the people around Magic wiping their tears and scared to death, heads down on the table, and the only one that was holding it together with his head up was Magic! He had grace and dignity and poise, exactly like he had on the court. He told us he was going to fight this, and he did. By the end of the conference, I was still stunned, but I thought if anyone could handle this, it was Magic. Obviously, like most of the country, it took me some time to adjust to the game without Magic, and it was always on my mind. My favorite player, my favorite person, was taking a long hiatus from the game he loved.

  I saw Magic in a restaurant not too long ago, and once again, just like Santa, people were coming up to him one at a time wanting to take a picture. Kids, adults, elderly people with dogs in tow all headed over to his table to have their moment. It was like a scene from a church where people come up on stage with ailments looking to be saved. Magic was saving the entire restaurant. He didn’t deny anyone. There were a few people I might have sent back. One dude called him Kareem, and Magic shook his hand and took a picture. He didn’t just say hello either. He stood up, shook their hand, said something cool and inspiring, then sat back down to eat. But as soon as he picked up his fork, another person showed up at the table. His turkey chopped salad was getting soggy, and no one cared. It looked crazy over there.

  He had to be tired. Magic is six foot nine, 265 pounds, and he’s standing up and sitting down every forty-five seconds, and every single exchange was 100 percent genuine. I was thinking, Yo, give him a break or pull up a seat, his knees are killing him. Those are championship knees that spent years running full speed. But he kept greeting them. Up and down, like a sore giant, smiling, shaking a hand, kissing a baby, petting a dog, saying something nice. I was just taking notes. I started thinking about myself and how I am when I meet people. I could be better. Don’t get me wrong: I’m always gracious with fans—I love fans—but I don’t remember the last time I stood up to shake a hand. I have a grumpy side, and I don’t love standing. I do most things seated, plus I’m a clean freak. I’m not shaking a hand if it’s flu se
ason. Magic doesn’t give a shit about flu season. When it was over, he finally got some peace and dove back into his meal, and I looked over at him, and right then it hit me: Of course we all love Magic, but maybe not as much as Magic loves us.

  The Beautiful Audacity of Muggsy Bogues

  Why the fuck isn’t Muggsy Bogues giving daily TED Talks? Why is he not on the list of speakers at your motivational seminars? Why is Muggsy Bogues not the next Tony Robbins or Wayne Dyer or that whacked-out new-age mullet-having bleached-toothed weirdo Joel Osteen? I’ll listen to anything Muggsy has to say forever. Why? Because he’s five-foot-fucking-three and he played almost fifteen years in the NBA among the giants! Of course you’re going to listen to Tony Robbins. He’s eight feet tall with baseball glove hands and a head that looks like it was made on Halloween! You’re scared to not listen to him. When he points at you, you shit yourself quickly, then cry. I want to hear what Muggsy Bogues has to say. Do you have any idea of the kind of mind-set someone like that must have? This is someone who looked in the mirror his whole life and saw himself as a Beast. I can only imagine the conversations he was having in grade school when they tried to lock him into typical short-status roles.