In fourth grade, I was playing C.Y.O. basketball in a small gym on a weekday night. My coach's daughter Cindy, who was my age, was hanging upside down on the chin-up bar when her shirt fell over her head. Of course she wasn't wearing a bra, she didn't have boobs then, but after she corrected herself, her face was flush with embarrassment. That moment began a life-long obsession I had with her. One so bad I played the bass clarinet in band to sit near the flutists and be closer to her. One so bad I dropped out of the honors program to increase my chances of getting into one of her classes.
In eighth grade, I made the school basketball team, which was significant because Cindy played volleyball and we shared the same bus home after practice. I used to make her laugh and when I was scolded and moved to the front of the bus for "causing a ruckus," she came up and sat beside me. I had her all to myself for that one fleeting moment.
Don't get me wrong, I was obsessed with basketball, too. I dreamt of making the NBA, where I knew in my heart I could play against Larry, Magic, and Michael. And I knew if I succeeded, Cindy would go for me, but I could not overcome my short, slow white ass and six-inch vertical.
Well, I got part of the equation right.
Cindy was an All-American soccer player, who went to school on a scholarship where she met her future husband, Raja Bell, who had a breakout season this year playing alongside MVP Steve Nash on the Phoenix Suns. He's a handsome man, even got some beefcake shots up on his Web site, and, of course, his single season salary is worth more than the sum of my career. You'd think I'd be green with envy watching him stick the J against Kobe in the playoffs, but man, I'm happy for him. A fan posted this behind-the-scenes picture of Raja and Cindy on his site and said they were a down-to-earth couple with a good sense of humor. I don't doubt it. (BTW clown, it's Cindy, not Sindy.)
Last time I saw Cindy was at our 10-year high-school reunion about four years ago, and I was actually hoping there might still be a chance. Then I saw her ensconced in bling that served like a "Beware of Dog" sign on a ritzy piece of property. I heeded its warning.
If only I had made the NBA. If only I had cashed in on my dreams. If only I wasn't so horribly common and usual, but I can't say things like that less I offend the few people in this world who believe me when I tell them "I'm Rick James, bitch!"
(Like Jake LaMotta.) I don't need no diamond rings and wild hoopster dreams. I got me a girl prettier than the magnolia trees swaying in the Prospect Park breeze. I don't need no hardwood millionaire pose, I got Google posting up my prose. And I don't need to school Kobe Bryant like a puppy dog on a fire hydrant. I play with all-stars I need not mention, although you may recognize some from the last Blogger convention.
In eighth grade, I made the school basketball team, which was significant because Cindy played volleyball and we shared the same bus home after practice. I used to make her laugh and when I was scolded and moved to the front of the bus for "causing a ruckus," she came up and sat beside me. I had her all to myself for that one fleeting moment.
Don't get me wrong, I was obsessed with basketball, too. I dreamt of making the NBA, where I knew in my heart I could play against Larry, Magic, and Michael. And I knew if I succeeded, Cindy would go for me, but I could not overcome my short, slow white ass and six-inch vertical.
Well, I got part of the equation right.
Cindy was an All-American soccer player, who went to school on a scholarship where she met her future husband, Raja Bell, who had a breakout season this year playing alongside MVP Steve Nash on the Phoenix Suns. He's a handsome man, even got some beefcake shots up on his Web site, and, of course, his single season salary is worth more than the sum of my career. You'd think I'd be green with envy watching him stick the J against Kobe in the playoffs, but man, I'm happy for him. A fan posted this behind-the-scenes picture of Raja and Cindy on his site and said they were a down-to-earth couple with a good sense of humor. I don't doubt it. (BTW clown, it's Cindy, not Sindy.)Last time I saw Cindy was at our 10-year high-school reunion about four years ago, and I was actually hoping there might still be a chance. Then I saw her ensconced in bling that served like a "Beware of Dog" sign on a ritzy piece of property. I heeded its warning.
If only I had made the NBA. If only I had cashed in on my dreams. If only I wasn't so horribly common and usual, but I can't say things like that less I offend the few people in this world who believe me when I tell them "I'm Rick James, bitch!"
(Like Jake LaMotta.) I don't need no diamond rings and wild hoopster dreams. I got me a girl prettier than the magnolia trees swaying in the Prospect Park breeze. I don't need no hardwood millionaire pose, I got Google posting up my prose. And I don't need to school Kobe Bryant like a puppy dog on a fire hydrant. I play with all-stars I need not mention, although you may recognize some from the last Blogger convention.