A Celebration Of Life

1982-Present

"If no one believes in you, anything you do is a positive."---Gilbert Arenas

My Notebook

So I write a lot—but not as much as I would like. Notes. Quotes. Rhymes for poems. They're everywhere. Note pads. Pieces of paper. On the side of newspapers. Notebooks. Torn pieces of boxes. On receipts. Some I try to remember---and ultimately forget. Like the one this morning with something to do with the weather, age and traveling. My thoughts are sort of like experiences in love. It always arrives unannounced. Unexpected. Yet, welcome. The discovery is exciting, followed by cultivation, molding and appreciating the blessings of the moment. You just hope you do the right things. And if you don't, it leaves. And then the hope changes directions. This time you hope this experience wasn't your last and it decides to come back. Anyway, I tend to live in the moment---or that's the idea. A few things you'll always see on me: Chapstick. Cellphone. Brush. A pen in my right pocket, wallet in the left. And when the love visits, time stops. I pull over to the side of the road, parked all crooked in the lot. I don't care. Words scribbled on the back of important papers. On the back of my checkbooks and envelopes. I'd pull a Curtis Jackson and write them on the wall if I had to. I've got about three paragraphs in my head right now that for some reason hasn't found its way to my notebook yet. And I'm afraid it's going to get away from me. And I'm going to resist the urge.  Lately, I've had this really bad habit of writing them on sticky notes and losing them 15 minutes later. It's either feast or famine. The thoughts won't stop or they don't come at all---for weeks. My notebook. My eyes. Same thing. I was once told a person's eyes are like a window. If you know what you're looking for you can see into a person's very soul. My eyes always tell my story---and so does my notebook. My notebook is the truth. I can't help but write from my heart. I can't lie in my notebook. I can't lie when I look into your eyes. Even when they're not welcome my inner feelings escape on to the page. And if you know what you're looking for---if you read between the lines--- you'll see Me.  And it's why most will never let you look into either one. Me? I don't care. Honestly, I haven't cared about much lately. Just the important things. The important people. I've taken bits and pieces from my notebook---different little parts---and tried to put them together. It may not have a direction, but hopefully it finds its place.

So here we go:

So much noise in your head. It's hard to concentrate. Silence helps you locate what you've been looking for. Reasons why I don't speak. Eyes open and you don't see. Repeat with your mouth and you can't speak.

I sneak through the cracks. Notions of osmosis is like the prognosis. A slave to my own emotions.

The hands of time I cannot beat. I can't stop trying. I do not cease. Observe the bags under my eyes. I do not sleep. Heart and soul. A conflict of ideologies and philosophies, like Martin and Stokley. Tussling with violence and peace. An 8-year-old me. 

The greatest secret is convincing the world I do not exist. Play dumb. Live in the pad. Scratched off the list. Humility is a passion. The conflict of a narcissist. No longer can I hide. Reveal what's inside.

Forced winters extort winners like SportsCenter. Hard-headed. I can't or won't sit back, but in fact finds ways to recline. On the pine, awaiting my time. A bigger piece of the pie. I'm the bridge between low and high. Hades and the keys to paradise. The best choice most ever made was getting me out of their lives. My relative was an artist. They killed him and stole his eyes. My family ties. They won't come to me. Lately babies have been running from me. I'm wondering if I'm harboring something evil inside.

My pet peeve is people with pet peeves. I won't accept these deficiencies, so my pet peeve is me. They'd like for you to believe they're perfect. An imperfect person. I want to convince you that I'm worthless. Reevaluate my value and purpose.

My defining moment? There were many. Pick any minute or second. Sitting on my friend's couch with tears forming in my eyes. Thinking my career's going to die. "Don't you fear," said God. "I need you near," said I. And as the years go by, like the Sears in the Chi, I see glimpses of peers in the sky. Confidence is geared so high.

Hopelessness fades and hope stays away. Left is nothing. Ink spills from my veins. I bleed on to the page.

I'm seething and I'm grieving. I'm believing the reason for the treason is I'm seeing Ivory as if I'm Keenan Wayans on the coast. Give me some space so I can face my ghosts. Red cape and the face cloaked in black. And my eyes betray me. That's what I've been told. It's like fresh fallen snow. It seems so beautiful. I wear it on my sleeve and my heart's so cold. I am a tortured soul.  And you're just like me, but I'm still one of a kind. I find the time to release my bind. Immortality. I live forever through these lines.

So there you have it. Scribblings from my notebook. Sometimes it's a mistake. Sometimes it's exactly what it needs to be. In all reality, it's my life. It may not always be what you want it to be. It may not always be pretty. But none of that matters. It's a similarity. It's the difference. It's a lie wrapped in the truth. My notebook, my life, is mine.

---EOB.

Dude Lost It (Congrats Anway. Celts in '08)

1988

"Baseball is made up of very few big and dramatic moments, but rather it's a beautifully put together pattern of countless little subtleties that finally add up to the big moment, and you have to be well-versed in the game to truly appreciate them." ---Paul Richards, Baltimore Orioles manager (1955-61).

He hadn't said a word to us--my sister and I-- the entire trip. The sun was beginning to set. In the middle of a heatwave, the humid air did little to comfort. It was the summer of 1988. The Pan-Am 747 had exploded from terrorist bombs over Scotland, killing all 259 on board. Michael Dukakis, having just won the Democratic nomination, was preparing to face George Herbert Walker Bush for the United States Presidency. Toni Morrison had just written a book named "Beloved." "Driving Miss Daisy" and "Bull Durham" were in the movie theatres. Compact discs had outsold vinyl records for the first time in history and Michael Jackson had just recorded the song "Man in the Mirror." I had survived the third grade and was months away from meeting my first-ever crush, Erin Matthews. But at this moment, there was something else happening. I was just five minutes away from being introduced to a lifelong friend.
We made a right-hand turn into a gravel parking lot. It was 3&2 Baseball Field in Kansas City. The parking lot, placed on a large hill, was packed. At the bottom of the hill, were two baseball fields, where games were being played. The car slowly made its way to the far left-hand side of the parking lot, before my father found a parking spot. He got out of the car and told us to do the same. I had no idea why we were here. I was eager to find out. We made our way down the stairs and approached a baseball field. The game was in the early innings. I spotted my best friend Dale playing.
It was clear now. We're here to see Dale.
My dad took my sister's hand and led her to the stands. I followed. He turned around and stopped me.
"No," he said. "You go to the dugout, right over there. You're playing."Confused, I stood still, as if my feet were stuck in the dirt. My dad pointed to the dugout again."Go on," he said.Cautiously, and maybe a little reluctantly, I made my way to the dugout. There was a darkhaired man with glasses standing by the gate. He noticed me and offered a smirk."We've been waiting on you," he said.He opened the gate and let me in. Moments later, he handed me a jersey. The team's name was W.G. Brown. They were playing against the Raiders. The jersey was orange with white trim and brown lettering. I put on the jersey. On the side, I took a few practice swings. The aluminum bat was so heavy. By the time I finished practicing, the other players were coming back to the dugout for their opportunity to hit. I saw Dale. We exchanged glances and smirks. I didn't play until the last inning. W.G. Brown was down by one run in the bottom of the frame. I stood in the on deck circle,unaware of the entire situation. Surprisingly calm, I stood and watched the tall kid step to the plate. The pitch came. And then it was gone. The tall kid uncorked a sweet stroke, hit the ball and sent it sailing over the left-center field fence for a home run to tie the game.It was now my turn.With one out, I stepped into the batter's box and looked out on to the field. Playing for the Raiders was my friend Rashad. He was their second baseman. We acknowledged each other with a head nod. I dug in and prepared to hit. The first pitch came in tight. I laid off of it. Ball one. The next pitch came barreling in on me. I swung and I missed--bad. The count was 1-1. The pitcher released offering No. 3. It came in fast and hit me in the middle of the ribs. It was as if I'd been stabbed. An intense pain traveled through my upper body and I fell to my knees. After a few moments, I shook off the pain and took my base. I later learned from Rashad that it was no mistake. The Raiders pitcher hit me on purpose."He was mad because the other dude hit that home run off him," Rashad said.In the dugout, I learned the signs quickly. Picking them up wouldn't be a problem. They weren't complicated. I took my lead at first base. Night had fallen. Mosquitoes were swarming around the field. People were screaming from the stands. I saw them, but I only heard silence. I looked at the coach on the third base line. He gave me a sign, indicating he wanted me to steal second base.In those days, I was routinely the fastest person at my school and I loved to show off my speed. This was perfect. On the first pitch, I took off. I raced toward second base and beat the throw easily. I dusted myself off and took a look at my coach again. I was confused. I had no idea what was going to happen next. I didn't know what direction I wanted to go in. The only thing I knew was I wanted to do something good. At my coach's instruction, I took my lead at second base. I didn't know how far off the bag I needed to be. However, the pitcher wasn't paying much attention to me. I was flying under the radar. My coach gave me the steal sign again. Just like the first time, I took off on the first pitch. The throw came in fast, but I beat it again. A few pitches later, everything came full circle. A pitch skipped into the dirt and slipped by the catcher."Go!" my coach yelled. "Run, run! Go score!"I burst into a dead sprint for home plate. Halfway there, the catcher had located the ball at the backstop. He grabbed it and sprinted to meet me at home plate. Two people. Two different goals. I slid head first into home plate (a mistake). He attempted the tag. He missed. I scored. My score proved to be the game-winner. It was the only game W.G. Brown would win the entire season.As I became older two things happened: I lost my speed and baseball became my passion.There was just something about the game which made me feel good. I could get lost in it. I could fall in love with it---and it would love me back. The gates, leading to the field, served as a filter. I'd take my happiness and add it to the joy the game brought me. The worries and pain I might have had that day, I left it at the gate. For three hours a day, I was free.Baseball is a teacher. A lot like The Game, life is a constant, neverending series of adjustments. It's the game within the game. A chess match. There are successes and there are failures. There are highs and there are lows. And at the end, with enough strategy, effort and belief, everything balances out. We are the product of our own hearts and bodies. What lies in the heart will transfer into the body and manifest itself. There's no fooling The Game. Ever wonder why baseball players never seem to be bothered, even in the worst situations? Because they know. We're in a marathon and not a race. Patience will force its lessons upon you. The teacher delivers a lesson in failure. In a game where the best succeed only 30 percent of the time, moments must be seized when presented. The teacher forces you to examine yourself, daily.
I was a teenager. Having lost my speed and gained more muscle, I was able to play my ball the same way I lived my life---all or nothing. I played so hard. I hit for power, taking every swing as if it were my last. I struck out a lot. However, if I made contact, I hit it. A long way. The problem was finding consistent success.
Midway through my junior season, disheartened, I walked away from the batting cage. I had taken 30 pitches that day. I hit one. This was becoming a trend, a two-week long one. Coach Moroye, a young guy who had just moved to KC from Colorado, called out to me. He brought me off the field, outside of the fence and told me to bring my bat with me.
"Show me how you hit," he said.
I took the bat, wrapped my hands around it, left under right and completed my stance.
"Now give me a half swing and stop in the middle," he said.
I did. My arms were extended and my bat was held, suspended in the air. Moroye placed the baseball on the end of the bat.
"Now turn your head to the left," he said.
I did.
"Can you see the ball?"
"No."
"Now turn straight ahead."
I did.
"Can you see the ball now?"
It was still pressed against the barrel of my bat.
"Yeah."
"That's the problem. You're swinging too hard and too undisciplined. When you swing, you're swinging with everything you've got and you're taking your whole body with you. You're out of control," he said. "I've watched you. And you've been doing it for a long time. You're swinging and everything goes. Your hips, your torso and most importantly, your head. And you're wondering why you haven't been hitting. It's because you can't see it. Remain disciplined, move your hands and hips, nothing else. Keep your head steady and your eyes on the ball. Remain focused on the objective, which is the baseball and you'll be fine."
Baseball changed for me, after that day. At times it overwhelmed me. Now it had finally slowed down. When a pitch was delivered, it usually looked like a small white sphere coming at me 200 miles per an hour, striking before I could ever make my first move. Now, I could see it coming. I felt like Ted Williams. It wasn't just a white sphere anymore. I could see the strings, the movement and the ball seemed to take a full two minutes to get to me. I could judge the direction the ball was going and make a quick decision on how and where to hit it. Finally I had a philosophy. I had a plan.
I still follow that plan today. I take every thing one minute---one base---at a time. I'm still adjusting and I'm still searching for the answers to lifelong questions. I'm learning not to fear failure. The odds are against you every day. And more times than not, the odds will win. Your job is to--periodically--- find a way to become the victor and build on it. I'm learning to believe in myself and others. Sometimes it's more of a game of fortune than skill. I know I can't do this alone. I'm going to need the ball to bounce my way from time to time. All I can do is place myself in favorable positions and let fate decide the rest. Today, I still play hard---but more controlled this time around. Instead of swinging blindly, I take the time to slow down, focus, remain disciplined and see myself achieving my goals, however large or small they may be. Like baseball, I never asked to participate. I never asked to be here. However, here is where I am. I have to make the best of it. My life is a series of moves, a long road full of adjustments. The exciting part is not knowing where it's going to end. However, I do know where it began.
It all began in the summer of 1988.

---EOB

A Celebration Of Life

1981-Present

"I feel good enough. It's been a long time coming, but I feel good. And I'm still waiting on the rain to fall. Pour real life down on me. Because I can't hold on to anything this good enough. Am I good enough for you to love me too?"--Amy Lee

One Shining Moment

The University of Kansas Jayhawks, 2008 National Champions

"Don't just wish for good things to happen. Make them happen."--Bill Self

Lights Out

The Devil wore a coat and a skull cap while he watched this one.

The Kansas City Royals made news with a 4-1 victory over the Detroit Tigers Thursday at Commerica Park. With the win, the Royals completed a three-game sweep and started the season with a perfect 3-0 record.

It's a little too late for an April Fool's Day joke.

The Royals for the first time since 2003, are in first place in the American League Central. Their early success would be easy to explain had they just stumbled and found these three wins under the Tigers' couch while they were away from home. The Royals earned these wins. And they looked rather impressive doing it. Thursday Kansas City's Zach Grienke pitched seven innings. He gave up six hits and struck out three. Mark Teahan and Alex Gordon both hit homers. Joakim Soria pitched a perfect ninth inning for the save. Two days ago, Kansas City's Gil Meche battled through six innings, giving up eight hits but only three runs. Tony Pena, Jr. hit a two-out, tie-breaking single in the 11th inning, breaking a 4-all tie. Soria pitched a scoreless 11th inning for the save. Royals 5, Tigers 4. One day ago, Kansas City's Brian Bannister (You'll know his name very soon. One of the most underrated young pitchers in the American League) pitched seven strong innings, giving up zero runs and just two hits. Billy Butler and Jose Guillen each had RBI doubles. Soria struck out the side in the ninth inning. Royals 4, Tigers 0.

Seeing a trend?

For the first three games of the year, the 2008 Royals are the early-90s Atlanta Braves. I kid you not. I'm writing this with a straight face. Not even a hint of a smirk. The top three starters in the Royals' pitching rotation have been effective, to say the least. Kansas City's pitching staff held the Tigers lineup (One predicted to be the best in baseball) to a .206 batting average with 24 strikeouts in 29 innings pitched. The Royals' offense hasn't been stellar, but it's been timely. The middle of the Royals' lineup of Gordon, Guillen, Butler and Teahan has been productive. Gordon's a rising star, Guillen hit 28 homers a year ago, Butler, with a sweet swing, has hit at every level and Teahan hit 31 doubles in 2006. Joey Gathwright, at the top of the lineup, is one of the fastest leadoff men in the American League (And he can jump over cars. Check the tape.) and Mark Grudzielanek is a protypical No. 2 hitter. The Royals also have received three great outings from Soria, their closer. The 23-year-old Soria has been lights out, collecting two saves and posting a 0.00 earned run average in three appearances.

This could be a fluke. Then again, it could be signs of things to come. The Royals could be pretenders playing the role of contenders. However, remember that confidence can take one a long way. Two of the Royals' biggest problems from a year ago, pitching and defense, have been their strengths this year.

The jury is still out. Nobody is ready to holler and throw their hands up just yet. And they shouldn't. Baseball is a 162-game marathon--so far from a race.

The Royals could be that woman in the club. You know, the one who initally looks like Cinderella and to everyone's horror, transforms into one of the step sisters when 3 a.m. hits and the lights come on?

No team has ever fooled a Major League Baseball schedule. There's three things you can count on: Death, taxes and knowing every baseball team is what it is at the end of the year. After 162 games, what you see is what you get and the truth will be told.

Right now the Royals are that woman. They're dancing in the middle of the floor. All eyes are on them. They're IT. The way they play is nothing short of beautiful. The veterans of the spot know the rules. They've seen this before. And they're all skeptical, waiting for the lights to come on. And it very well could happen. Then again, it shouldn't surprise anyone if they find themselves watching the Royals dance all night long.

--EOB.

A Celebration Of Life

1971-Present

"We're gonna keep marching on until we hear that freedom song. And if you think about turning back, I've got the shotgun on your back. And if you think about turning back, I've got the shotgun for your back."---Erykah Badu

Absolutely Nothing (Freestyle)

Books I read teach how to release grief. Got strength in my knees so I'm standing on my feet. Walking for Miles as if I'm Aaron, not Langford, Keith. And these brothas are wanting beef. Got the alarm by my head in case my bed falls asleep. Your time I'm buying and these poems are your receipt. I kind of repeat. My time I'm bidding with these poems. Only pens and your receipt. I like shots to the rim when I'm listening to the beat.
And I can't stop writing freestyles. Stick to my ribs like decals. The lights are dim. I see the rim. I'm on the rebound. And I'm doing things never seen. You're wondering how. Absent-minded brotha. 27 and going senile. Annoyed by the people. Avoiding all these hoes. My girl's from Florida. Told her I'd be her Tim Tebow. The admission. The experience. A three-word sentence. Inherit a gift of value if you're willing to pay the price. Aforementioned eight words. Great moments. Your love life.
Precise flights place me in state like Tennesse with my friend Genevieve . Thoughts like women. It Depends if the center bleeds. My pen is deep, like my voice when I speak. Exercise to write all night when the sinners creep. The truth amongst all lies. So deaf when the pretenders preach. Follow the footsteps. Finger prints. Identities is what the pen'll leave.
Stopped in the street. I greet KCPD when I speed. Common sense intercedes, speaks to me when I sleep. Words and speech run with legs like the centipede. I'll sell you things. Ship them off like Ebay. Sport dreams like Eastbay. Run it back. Instant replay. Arrogance is a trap. Forget to send it back, sort of like your rebate. We play the game, like Keno. Heroes impersonate zeroes. I'm black like Nino--or Brown. Find me like Nemo on the steeple, watching Steve-O on the TiVo. We know colors. Blue. Black. Purple. Green. I'm writing. I'm boxing. Punches like toxic. I'm an animal with the mandible. Your obnoxious esophogus. Minutes beyond the 31st. Expired tags. I ride in that dirty hearse. I might die of thirst, for wanting to be the best. Command respect. Nothing less than the first. When worse becomes worst, I put in work. The pay back like tithes and offering in the church. My girl wears the skirt. Eat the sight up like dessert. I warn her like Kurt. Priceless is her worth. My job has the perks. I observe and converse. I've stolen your time. Money in a purse. So many words devoid of definitively saying something. The pen is the ventriloquist. It does the talking. I'm saying absolutely nothing.
--EOB.

Just When You Think It's Over...

The Words (Freestyle)

Freestyles stick like decals, puts hair on your chest. The word's light shines bright, beating on the forehead like snares when you sweat. Suspended animation. Serpents and Rainbows. A voodoo hex. To who do you confess? Unless it's pressure and suspension. Pays at the finish like the pension. When the mission is to find yourself rinsing your hands of their blood. Scenes. Reflections in the eyes of Caesar's dove. We need that love. And she's that drug. Release that thug. And free your heart. She's the one with cancer and I'm feeling like I'm dying when we are apart. And she's my heart. Feeling like we've come so far. Need to feel her presence. Thinking of She when that songs on repeat in my car. Day dreams treat me like Christopher and Marty Mcfly. I'm another guy when I'm traveling through time. Holding on to my past, in hopes of molding my future. I'm battling with rhymes. If loving her is wrong, then I've gone Soprano. Let me handle the crime. I need to hear her on the other end of the line. She's the one who saw the talent when I sat on the pine. Loyalty meets fate. With that I'll pray she'll be back when she's fine. And my friends say forget her. It's something she never did. So why would I quit on her? Those words I've heard seem so absurd. You don't know what I go through or see what I do. You've never walked in my shoes. I feel like life's a public execution. Release me from my noose. Crucified. A thin line between you and I. Even though it seems wide, like Duke U. and high school. Holding America's promises, like Badu.

And I'm fooled by interpretations of my fate. Changing every day. Portrayed as Two-Face. 1999 and 2k. Wish I could see it clearly. DVD and Blue Ray. From the top to the bottom. The 94 Blue Jays. Every move is a gamble, rules inspired by Teddy Dupay. The masks you wear to hide imperfections of Self, like toupees. The truth's a new day. No time to waste time. My new phrase.

My defensive is offensive. Take my place in the line. Dark passages. Words that send chills down your spine. And I'm reaching a new phase. I'd rather read books and pray. Less time spent on the MySpace page. Gray lines create haze.

And some things don't make cents, like fighting the violence. An intense sequence. Too much noise in my head for silence. Menningitis inflicts the body, like my kindness is a virus. Wish I could leave it all behind. See the Caribbean and be with the pirates. Total package like Jessica Rabbit. Infidelity's ravaged the mind. Inhabitted by a lavish savage. It's words. The very fabric of our emotions.

Words master our lives.

----EOB.

A Place I Call...

That feeling. Saying what’s on my mind, while knowing everything in life can’t and won’t be said. Energy. Unexpected laughter. Memories. Knowing God hasn’t given up on an extremely flawed human being. This moment, right now. A word of wisdom. Opening every morning with a celebratory dance. Ending every day with the same dance. Dry jokes. My Scarface impresssion. The "Funny Guy" scene in Goodfellas. Learning about love. Going backward in order to travel forward. Knowing words do speak louder than actions. Any time someone uses the word "misremembered" in a sentence. Wanting to add that word to my vocabulary. The business.


Tiny Dancer. Downtown Kansas City. Eighty-third street. The Great State of Kansas. Arizona. Freedom. Dennis Green’s "They are who we thought they were" rant. Almost Famous. Reflection Eternal. The David Stein Show. People who surprise me. Her country accent. When He says: "She’ll be OK." Anything worth fighting for. Anything worth crying over. The old-school 1991 Camry. My jump shot. Looking back on how far I’ve come. Calling my friends by their full names. Engaging conversations. One-sentence paragraphs. Beginning my sentences with "At the end of the day" or "At some point in time." The No. 8. July 13th. The year 2005. Drives at 3 a.m. The special people who stay when I try to push them away. Saying "I love you." Saying "I’m sorry." My left arm. My imperfections. Screaming at the top of my lungs. Rappers who say they aren’t rappers. Singers who can’t really sing. Actors who really act. Thinking "crazy" is a compliment. My mom’s decision not to name me Darryl. Struggle. Getting older. The "Golden God" scene. The word "Yo." The journey. The stuff you haven’t seen. Playing dumb. A game-winning shot. Watching a game with my dad. Those moments you can’t get back. Words that rhyme. New people. Old people. Winning. Patience. Ambition. Dreams. My skully. A good speech. Miracles. Poems. All the things I’ve left out. Getting excited for no reason at all. My dad’s work ethic. My mom’s strength. My sister’s sense of humor. Jayden’s smile. Granny’s unconditional love. All of these things being passed down to me.


Six-foot tall women. Sunny days. Cold nights. A good dream. Inspiration. Quiet. Haters. My dream of kicking it on Crenshaw Boulevard. Using 70s slang. My other dream of taking just one jump shot at Rucker Park. Baseball’s lessons in life. The things you already know. Humility. When people ask what I do for a living, telling them: "I’m a drug dealer." Lyrics. Finding the comedy in anything. Telling stories. I’m really not always angry or sad---only when I stand still. Inside jokes. Romancing the thought of falling off of the face of the earth. A fresh hair cut. Realizing I’ve been alive for 27 years. Slowing down. A good book. Columnists. Knowing I know nothing. Ralph Wiley quotes. Nathan McCall’s anger. Talent. That "Something" that burns within me. This change within me. An epiphany. Desire. This piece can never really end. A beat. Creativity. Metaphors. Double entendres. Leaders. Followers. Fading into the background. Sharing. Knowledge.


These things make me. They’re the reason I breathe. Can’t you see it in my face? These things take me to a place.


A place I call home.

---EOB.

In case You Missed It

A Celebration Of Life

1964 - Present

“In L.A., nobody touches you. We're always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something.”--Don Cheadle

W.W.J.D? (What Would Julian Do)

The ball is in your hands. You're racing down the court. All eyes are watching as 15,000 people release a collective gasp. They know something special is about to happen. And then...it happens. Yeah, Julian Wright. We still love you. Place yourself in JuJu's shoes. If this happened to you what would you do?

---EOB.

Poetic Graffiti (Freestyle)

The ending is the beginning. It's easier to finish, or lose it before you win it. My mind is an apartment. And you're the tennant. The currency you pay is your attention when you rent it.
We're pretending that this pen's secreting black magic. Call it voodoo.
God said: "It beehoves you to let me choose you. I'll move you to do everything right. Versatile like JuJu Wright."
My ceiling is as high as the sky.
Believe the hype.
Thieves in the night pose as elitists, defeatists and non-believers. Toss you to the side when they believe they no longer need us. Stomping on your dreams with their Adidas. And bitter cold makes one scratch as if you're attacked by winter's chiggers. The rigors. A clerk checks my $50 bill. Made me feel like Mr. Nigga. Reality hits you with enough force to kill your sister. I review ways to find a way, listening to Blu who signed a deal with Arista. I'm your every man. Ambridextrous. I'll write with either hand. I'll be Ret(tro) like Eric or Perriman. And my cousin rocks the dreads. Likes to make his head rock. Plays music to make your head bob, grab your chest, calling for Beth. Randy or Redd Foxx. We're boys of nature, like Flair and the leg-lock or Fred in Bedrock. I stay up all night to write. I am so nocturnal. Angry flames make me hungry. Never pop the kernels when I burn them. I wear it on my sleeve. I bleed. My heart is external.

Focus on this, like the wall, when you're pausing at the urinal. Life is about so much more than just the booty. To dig deeper should your a duty. I know you're trying to screw me. But I'm not answering your calls. Sue me. There's no ugly found in beauty. Ugly is a trap. And the only beauty is in leaving ugly and never going back. I feel so proud. Legs tired, as if I've been running for miles. Scowls replaced with smiles. Yesterday ain't tomorrow and my time is now. Nobody ever said life was easy. It's never been a breeze. Forgive me for not crying. Can't feel sorry for you. They've never felt sorry me.
And it's been so hard for me. On the verge of rescue. No longer riding the pine. Mountains of doubt emerge and I'm trying to climb. Even my vocabulary's fallen behind. I won't look back, only forward, I have no time to rewind. Something's happening inside. Twenty-seven different ways. The right one I've been trying to find. It's the art. The love. It's yours and it's mine.
It is poetic graffiti.

---EOB.

Lesson In Logic No.24

He left him standing still. Blew by him as if he were the wind and his defender helplessly played the role of the stick in the mud. I reached for my cell phone and sent a quick text to a friend.

It read: "Kobe just killed J.Kidd."

Late in the fourth quarter, in a tight game, against the Dallas Mavericks, a Western Conference foe, Kobe Bryant was isolated against Jason Kidd on the right wing of the court. One-on-one, Kidd shifted his shoulders to the left, giving Bryant an opening. It was all Kobe needed. He took off straight for the basket and blew by Kidd. No cross-over, stutter-step or fake of any sort. He just blew by him---and scored.

But don't blame Kidd. His teammates couldn't do anything with Kobe, either. The Mavericks played him man-to-man, double-teamed him, triple-teamed him and mixed in a zone defense. And Kobe still scored, clutch basket after clutch basket.

The National Basketball Association is full of them. Fake super stars. False basketball prophets. They're up and down just about every roster in the NBA. They're the classic good-stats-on-a-bad-team type of player. Twenty meaningless points and 10 meaningless rebounds a game. Results without production. Style without substance. Their stats look great but their won-loss record fails in comparison. They're a piece, but not the piece. And it's not their fault. Being special isn't just a talent. It's a mentality. And either you have it or you don't.

I've always believed Kobe was the latter.

Not anymore.

Over the last few weeks, something has happened--something profound. And we're all eating our words.

We've heard it before. Many of us have believed it. He's a horrible teammate and an even worse person. He shoots too much and doesn't pass enough. He's selfish. Arrogant. A coward. Heartless. Great player-- easily the most talented in the NBA--but you don't want Kobe on your team.

He doesn't want to win.

For years he's heard the whispers and tried to emerge from the shadows. He's been running from his past. They still haven't forgotten about Colorado, his quarrels with Shaq and public persona. We all saw the three straight championships, the talent which seemed to come natural and the gaudy stats. The bar was set. For 12 long seasons, he's been trying to find his way and live up to what's been expected of him. And for 12 seasons he didn't know how. And we crucified him for it. He's supposed to be a leader. Leaders are supposed to shoot. So Kobe averaged 35 points per a game in 2005-2006 and 31 a season ago.

He shoots too much, is what we said.

Leaders are supposed to get their teammates involved. Leaders are supposed to share. In Game 7 of the first round of the 2006 Western Conference Playoffs, Kobe deferred to his teammates and attempted just three shots in the second half of a loss to the Phoenix Suns.

Now he doesn't shoot enough, we thought.

Kobe allowed himself to get caught in the trap. It's one many of us fall victim to. The trap of trying to please others. And in his attempts to prove them wrong, he became what they said he'd always be. He threw his teammates under the bus, asked for trades and sulked when it didn't happen. He was confused. Sometimes the noise--the voices of others--can be so loud in your head that it's hard to concentrate on what you're supposed to be, who you're supposed to be. And it's easy to forget what you were looking for.

He could have been traded, maybe should have. He could have had a fresh start. But sometimes the most progressive move is remaining still. Sometimes you just have to wait.

And the moment he's waited for is here. Standing at the free throw line with 9.4 seconds remaining in overtime, and the Lakers ahead 105-104, Kobe calmly sank two free throws to ice the game. He had scored 30 of his 52 points in the second half. He was balanced and determined. Kobe had done everything right. He became the deciding factor. No. 24 became the reason. This game had become a microcosm of his life. The team is winning and Kobe's finally at the controls. Dallas called a timeout and as he walked to the bench, you could see it in his eyes. Kobe's got a different walk. He even has a different number. He never knew what he was. He's fought to distance himself from what we've perceived him to be.

Maybe Kobe's figuring it out. Maybe Kobe's refusing to lose. Maybe No. 24's refusing to give in.

Maybe Bryant's become the leader many wanted him to be.

Maybe Kobe no longer cares what you think.

Maybe Kobe finally has IT. Perhaps, right has always been wrong, closing your eyes has become the only way to see and holding your breath is the proper way to breath.

Like the witches in Shakespeare's "Macbeth", life has its own twisted logic, a backwards way of thinking.

Fair is foul, and foul is fair.

--EOB.

Confessions of The Uncool: The Love of The Art

The phone rang.
I reached in my pocket, pulled out my cell phone and studied the Caller ID.
It was Dan.
"Hello?"
"You need to come by the house. I've got something you're going to want to hear."
"What is it?"
"Just come by and see. Whenever you get some time this weekend drop by the house. You're going to dig this."
It's a Saturday afternoon in the middle of the summer. I pull up to the curb in front of Dan's house in downtown Kansas City. There's something about the downtown area that makes anyone feel alive. The city is breathing. People--the blood of the city--keep its heart beating. They're walking the streets. Laughing. Talking. Living. Cars race down the street with music blarring.
And Dan is sitting right there--on the steps of his porch--taking it all in. He briefly watched me approach before standing.
"It's in the house. You've got to hear this."
I follow Dan into the house and we go up a flight of stairs. At the top of the stair case is a small hallway with two rooms. One on the left. Another on the right. We enter the room on the left-hand side. I've been told one can tell a lot about a person by studying their homes. In this room, I noticed something. Dan was a fiend. He was addicted--to The Art.The room was cluttered. There were stacks of records. The Commodores. The Jackson Five. Guns N' Roses. Cds were piled high. Goodie Mob. EPMD. Roy Hargrove. There were DVDs scattered from place to place. With the sound off, a DVD of "The Best of Good Times" was playing on the screen.There were two couches, one on the north and another rested on the west end of the room. I took a seat on the west, Dan the north.
"So I was at the music store the other day, leafing through some things and I come across this album I hadn't seen in years. I didn't know it even existed anymore," Dan said. "Found it in wax. I grabbed it quick, got a little excited. I bring it up to the counter and dude there is like 'What do you know about this?' I tell him I know just enough. I picked it up for about $10."
"What is it?"
"Art of Noise."
"Never heard of them."
Wearing a black baseball cap, Dan shook his head and smiled.
"Well you need to listen to this then," he said.
He reached into a crate of records, selected one and held it as if it were gold. Dan was six years my senior. He was nearing his 30th birthday. Dan had mixed feelings about it, anxious to crossover into another year but afraid of what it might bring. Dan was a mentor in music. He taught me to value different. He helped me find the art in genres outside of my comfort zone. Dive in with an open mind. Learn before I judge. Understand before I dismiss. Leave no stone unturned. Find its beauty and live in the experience that others often miss out on.
"I first heard this when I was 8 years old. This kind of takes me back. I was a little kid back then and now here I am knocking on 30," he said. "It was my birthday--my 8th birthday--and my mama wanted to get me something. So she asks me 'What do you want me to get you for your birthday?'"
Dan laughed to himself.
"I've got this high-pitched voice," he said. "Yeah, a high-pitched voice and I say to my mama 'I want Art of Noise!' She looks at me crazy because she doesn't know who they are. But she gets it anyway. All right, fast-forward to the summer. I'm at a family barbecue, right?"

"Right."

"And they've got the music going. People are dancing, socializing and eating. They've got the music going, rocking some Motown, r&b and funk. I've got my Art of Noise record with me. I make my way through the crowd and I get to my uncle who's working the record player. I look up at him. He looks down at me. I'm like 'Put this on!' It takes me some time to convince him but I finally get him to put it on the player."
While continuing to tell the story, Dan took the record out of its case. He made his way to the record player.
"They're all dancing and then all of a sudden my record comes on. And it's like the movies. Everybody stops on a dime. They're frozen. They're like 'What the hell is this? Turn that off!'"
Dan laughed to himself.
"But anyway, let me put this on," he said.
The needle hits the record and music began to play. Bongos opened and in seconds it was accompanied by the keyboard. They worked together like the Ying and the Yang. But they weren't alone for long. The bells came in, complimenting the aforementioned sounds. With forearms on thighs and heads down, Dan and I are taking it all in. And just when I think it's all the song has to offer, it all stops.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Like The Eye, it returns with more force. A melody formed by different sounds, which ultimately become one. A whisper enters the room. And in moments, the whisper is joined by more voices. I found myself knodding my head and listening. I took a glance at Dan. He was doing the same and watching me for my reaction. We're lost in The Art. Caught in the quiet storm. My eyes return to the floor. I study the carpet. It's brown. Sun rays peek through clouds. Rain stops. And we are immersed in The Moment. It seems as though time has stopped and all that matters is right now. For six minutes and 16 seconds, my mind traveled this globe. My thoughts wandered through time. I saw my past. With an aspiring eye, I witnessed my future and acknowledged the present. Lost in The Art. The not-so-hidden secrets.
When it ended, I looked at Dan. He looked at me. He knew what I was thinking, as if we were sitting in the classroom, reading the same book. Our thoughts were linked as if we were both born on the 23rd hour of the same day. At the same moment, we both spoke.
And we only had one word to say.
Yeeeeeeeaaaahhhh!
---EOB.

A Plea For Pain

Apparitions create memories. They're taunting me. Voices sing sad songs to me. Some times I wonder if something is seriously wrong me. He's warning me. These faces are haunting me. I'm wondering why'd God take them and not me? I remain on the side of my bed on bent knees. I plead: "I'm not afraid to leave. Lord, please. Take me instead of She." And the value of life is realizing that it's worthless if you're not willing to lay it down for another person or a purpose. And if I say I want to leave does that make me suicidal? Progress and footsteps run together. Repeating the same cycle. These dreams tower over heads like the Eiffle. Dark in the hearts with no revival. Recurring nightmares leave them stiffled. Thoughts dancing in my head like recitals. Or battles you've read about in the Bible. Lucifer and Michael. With 10 erased, two await to judge a fate. Every step is followed. Destiny's lone disciples. This life isn't worth living. I spend it on survival. Words never said aren't the enemy. You're wrestling with the rival.

I've committed the unforgivable sin. My punishment without a sentence. Banished to a world within this, revealing a landscape of imperfection without a blemish. Amidst the questions, I'll suffer for you. I'll take the blame. Let me be your Rogue. Transfer your burdens, as I touch your soul.

Give me your pain.



---EOB.

Superman Is In The Building

On Saturday night he was a bird. He was a plane. On any other day he averages 21 points, 14 rebounds and a sickening 2.4 blocks per a game. He's 6-11, 264 pounds. And get this: He's just 22. He's Dwight Howard. And what you just saw wasn't even his best dunk in the Slam Dunk Contest in New Orleans, La. It's amazing that just four years ago there was a debate on whether the Orlando Magic should take Howard or Emeka Okafor with the No.1 pick in the 2004 NBA Draft. He's not Superman. But the man who wears the cape is the cornerstone of his franchise--and the future of the NBA.

--EOB.

Interlude Pt. 1

He's the greatest of all time. His name is Common. Forget everything you've heard. Forget it all, because it's wrong. Rhyme-for-Rhyme, Though-for-Thought, not many can touch him. G.O.A.T. One day I'll explain why. On second thought, maybe I won't have to.

---E.O.B

One Voice Within

I open my eyes, yet I cannot see. I am surrounded with darkness. The air chills my lungs. I am aware of my surroundings. I am in a room. I can touch. I can feel. I can hear. My heart beats.
I am not alone. Someone is here with me. The presence is frightening, yet I remain calm in the darkness of these four walls. Foot steps start. And they stop. The voice has a familiar tone. I speak out.

You've searched for me?
Yes.
And now I have found You.
I was never lost.
Why are You here?
To speak to you.
We have nothing to talk about.
We have plenty. For tonight I will speak and I will listen. And you will do the same. We have much to discuss.
Such as?
Why do you deny Me?
Because I am ashamed.
Or is it that you are afraid?
I am not afraid. But They are.
So you protect Them from Me?
Yes.
Why?
Because They will deny You.
And this makes you a liar. A deceiver.
Yes.
Why lie?
Because I wanted it to be the truth. Forgive me.
I shall. But first, you must forgive Them.
I don't understand.
Do you trust Them?
No.
Why?
Because They have betrayed me.
Do you trust Me?
No.
Why?
Because I have betrayed You.
You have failed Me.
I am not perfect.
And neither are They.
The battle will never be won.
And you're angry?
Yes and I cannot loose it. It is a beast I have learned to control, not conquer.
Why?
Because They gave up on me.
It has made you weak?
Yes.
But you are strong.
Stronger than They'll ever know.
Will you give up on Them?
No.
Do you believe in Them?
Yes, even when They don't believe in me.
Or Themselves?
Yes.
They made you.
And You made me.
Do you believe in Me?
Yes, even when You don't believe in Yourself.
If so, why do you fight Me?
Because I hate You.
Soon, you will learn to love Me.
Yes.
And She tortures you?
Yes.
Why?
It is difficult to say.
What about Her tortures you the most?
The fact that She loves me.
Do you protect Her from Me?
No.
Why?
Because She has searched for You. And I have searched for Her. She has seen You in my eyes. You cannot hide.

Your eyes are a window into your soul.

And a mirror, reflecting Theirs.

She is love.
I am war.
You are hope.
I am despair.
You are a curse.
I am a blessing.
You are everything.
I am nothing.
I am not who you say I am.
And everything I say You're not.
You wanted Me to stay.
Yet, I forced You to leave.

Your death will be defined...

By the way I have lived.

Your emotions have sabotaged Me.

My strength is my weakness. My flaws make me flawless.
You are a leader.
Because I have followed.
And you are...
Just like Them.
Which makes you different.
Help me.
Understand?
Yes.
If I offered My hand, would you take it?
Would You fight for me?
I will fight with you.
With conviction?
Know that when this whole world fails you, I will remain by your side. Depend on Me. Will you take My hand?
Yes.
Will you let Me guide you?
Yes.
I will take you to the light. Soon you will see. You are Me. And I am you. We are one voice within the room.


---EOB.

The Definition of Love

"The hardest thing in life, the hardest thing to do, is to love so hard that you'll love without a selfish heart. The test of one's true passion for another will visit on many occassions over the span of a lifetime. The definition is to love someone so intensely that you will allow your light to fade if it means their's will burn for a lifetime. The true test--if it is required--is to allow one to have a chance at a beginning, even if it means your end. That's true love. That's the hardest thing to do. We worry about what is best for us when what is best for them is the only thing which should matter. We should love that hard. Our love should be that deep. Love is all that matters." ---Me


How deep is your love?


Love hard. Love unselfishly. Be free.

---EOB

A Moment To Reflect.....

...On the one's you're missing right now.

---EOB

So What I Wanted To Tell You Was...

I've really been feeling this song lately. I mean it moves me in a flying-down-the-street-with-the-system-all-the-way-up-while-singing-it-at-the-top-of-your-lungs-until-you're-hoarse-and-not-caring-who-sees-you-type of way. I'm searching for the right thing to say, the right way to explain. But it's impossible. This is a language that is difficult to translate. So for now I'll just tell you I'm feeling it.

And here's the thing: I don't know why.


---EOB

Words Frozen In Time

"The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in a period of moral crisis, maintain their neutrality. There comes a time when silence is betrayal. Proof of these words is beyond doubt."--Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

And then he was murdered, one year after his April, 4, 1967 delivery of the speech "A Time To Break Silence: Declaration of Independence from the Vietnam War." It's not easy to stand alone. Everything about yourself is magnified. And to the untrained eye, something just isn't right. It's a lonely place. This is a more difficult road to travel--one many are afraid to walk. And can you blame them? It's easier to be comfortable. And disappearing into the crowd becomes a way out. With comfort lies complacency.

Complacency is the mortal enemy of all that is progressive.

King was far from comfortable. He was a tortured soul. He was restless. He was an observer, forced to see the deficiencies of the world, and himself. Rocks were being overturned. Eyes were being opened. Voices were heard. And for this, King became Public Enemy No.1. He was called names. Communist. Plots were constructed. William C. Sullivan, Head of U.S. Intelligence, believed he posed a threat to the country. In a memo to Federal Bureau of Investigation Director J. Edgar Hoover, he wrote: "When the true facts concerning (King's) activities are presented, such should be enough...the Negroes will be left without a national leader of sufficiently compelling personality to steer them in the proper direction."

And all this for deciding to stand firmly alone. Could you stand alone? What scares you most? Darkness or light? Your answer tells you exactly what you would have done in King's position.

His words relate to yesterday. However, they are no stranger to today and tomorrow. His words are timeless. But don't take my word for it. Listen for yourself---and do.

---EOB

Don't Let It Die

A young Shawn Carter. A man with nothing but a dream and a little talent to lead the way. A perfect example. Put talent together with immense, inexplicable hunger and what you get is perfection. Remember when you first started? You were fighting for your position in the world. Have you ever been so passionate about something that you're determined to achieve it? You're surrounded by so many things that can mislead you, discourage you and force you to follow the pack of mediocrity. But something holds you back. Something keeps you from falling off the cliff. It's that hunger. It's the dream that one day tomorrow will be better than the day before. It fuels you. You have to make it. You have to succeed. Failure is your enemy. There is no other choice. You feel it in your bones. That hunger. It pumps through your veins, inhabits your mind and lives in your heart. It's in your walk, your talk and the way you see the world. You're at your best. You're peforming at such a high level. You're doing things you didn't know you were capable of doing. You're possessed. Remember that? The difficult thing isn't the beginning. It's the ending. One day you reached that goal. And somewhere you lost that fight, that desire. Now you're slipping. And if you don't catch yourself you'll be right back where you started. Or even worse? You'll fall so far to where your existence is non-existent. Somewhere your determination and ambition died. It's about production. Steps forward. If you're not getting better, you're getting worse. Be afraid to fail. You do have to prove yourself. Everyday. There's the ones who are happy to be there. And there's the ones who want to stay. That's where the separation begins. Today is your last. Treat it as such. And then you have nothing to regret. Never get comfortable. Life and opportunities cannot pass you by.

---EOB.

My Shot

I'm beaten and confused, my feet glued to the floor.I can't move no more. I can't shoot no more. There was a moment people would respect what I used to do on the floor. Always been out-sized. Playing out of my mind. Glide. I was blocking the shots of the 6-4s. Now I stand confused. I just can't shoot no more.

My mind rewinds through time. I climb to the peak of the mountain and I view a playground where moments seemed more simple. Dribble. Shoot. Score. That was it. It's easy to remember when you never forget. I just can't shoot no more. My elders taught me the art. Dad said there's something about it, something about the aura which makes you feel like a man. There's something soothing about moving through the game's obstacles, holding your fate in your hands. The mechanics are simple, leading to a flawless finish. Determination married to communication can replenish the void in your stroke, which unexpectedly diminished. The secret to it all lies within it, draws the period to finish the sentence. The basics rules have always been my tools. Learned it from two individuals who walk far away from the avenue of fools. Your right hand is your release. The other is your guide. The end result was always left to fate. And for a moment, everything I shot seemed to drop. Now it's not. The game's become closer. Another element which thickens the plot.

My mind is inhabited by pertubation. Commotion. Disgusted looks on my face when I see them going through the motions. And the best players never have to think. Maybe that's where I've gone wrong. I've lost my way. And I have no more shoulders to lean on. Forced to find other options, since my shot's gone cold. I've learned to move in the post. Develop the moves few know. Rebound and block shots. A key for the lock. Effort rewinds the clock. I want my mind. Find peace within the game. It made a better man out of me. And I'm afraid of losing the one thing which differiates me from you. So I continue to train. I can rebound. I can pass. I can defend.I can play both ends of the court. But those aren't things I was put here to do. I was put here to shoot. No Pitino. No McHale. But I wait for it to walk through that door.

I continue to train until it returns. What am I to do? I can't shoot. I just can't shoot no more.

---EOB.