I live it, write it down & watch it blow up...

Saturday May 29, 1993.

Game three Knicks and Bulls in the Eastern Conference Finals. The Knicks were up two games to none on the mighty back-to-back champs. 2-0! Held court at home and didn’t let them steal shit.

It was just about game time and we all had game faces on our section was mob deep with Boo, PJ, Tiny and every other New York cat in full shit-talk mode to the Chicago heads. And then Hugh rolls up in the spot with a Bernard King jersey tucked into his plaid shorts, house shoes, tube socks pulled up mad high and his ever-present Mr. Nice Guy-shit eater smile.

“Talked with your pops the other day, talking about his Knicks of course. That man loves the Knicks.”

Everyone knew Hugh used to be a cop and all the rules still applied so I answered him loud, dismissive and sarcastic. “Yeah, I know, Buddy.”

He picked up on my vibe and was eager to push my buttons in public so he got real close to my face, “He went to games one and two. Did you know that, smart guy?

His public display of aggression caught me off guard and scattered my thoughts, I lost my wind for a second and answered meekly, “No. I didn’t.”

His shit eater grin got wider, “Took your sister too. How about that? ”

“He took Tanieshia?” All those years I witnessed mediocre basketball with my Dad in the Garden and Tanieshia got the playoffs. My Dad knew he owed her for the Mets debacle.

“Yeah, he said he never heard the Garden so loud. The sea of white from the playoff towels, just some high caliber stuff. I’m surprised he didn’t mention it to you.”

Bob Fennimore a friend of my Father worked for WOR-TV back when the Knicks played on Channel 9. It felt like we were season ticket holders we went to so many games at the Garden.

“Nah, he didn’t mention it.” I tried to sound casual but it hurt to miss the games and it hurt more that I had to hear it from Hugh.

“Maybe he didn’t want you to feel left out and here I am blabbing away. Pretty insensitive of me, huh?

“How am I supposed to answer that, Hugh?”

He waved his long, ugly finger in my face, “Carefully. I remember when you used to go to all the games with your Dad. Now you’re here, with me”

We used to have floor seats behind the basket. Back when they were red. They became lavender seats when Dave Checketts and Pat Riley took over. We used to go when it was Red Holzmen before it was Hubie Brown before it was Rick Patino and the Bomb Squad. Holzmen was my Dad’s dude. Ray Williams, Michael Ray Richardson, Truck Robinson, Sly Williams, Rory Sparrow, Marvin Webster, Bill Cartwright. We were was raised on the Classic Roundball Revised logo with the Garden sound system on full blast ‘We are New York and we know basketball, we will win it all, cause we’re the New York Knicks.’

I was also a full-fledged tongue-out-the-mouth-long shorts-black ankle socks-Air Jordan posters all over the wall-kind of dude too. To be a Knick fan and a Jordan lover is pure self-hate. In case you wanted to know the last time the Knicks won the championship I was one. The Yankees and Giants have taken our team/fan relationship to its zenith. The Knicks have continually delivered heartbreak and disillusionment. But in the ‘92-‘93 season we believed in Pat Riley. They were 60-22, the number one seed and on a collision course with the Bulls who had knocked us out the playoffs three of the last four years. And just like Jordan had to go through Bird’s Celtics and Isaiah’s Pistons we knew all roads went through his Bulls. And of course in game three the Knicks shit the bed. The Bulls toyed with them. Just embarrassed and frustrated the Knicks. Of course John Starks got ejected when he went after Jordan. Like he could really even touch the franchise. The Knicks had TWENTY turnovers for the game! The Bulls scored sixty-two in the first half! Outside of Ewing’s twenty-one points nobody stepped up. It was tough to sit through. Most of the New York section had turned on the Knicks before the end of the third quarter.

“They suck ass, yo!” “What! I told you the Knicks suck, kid. Ewing is a dunking dummy, yo.”

I was quick to bring the glass half full perspective, “It’s all good. We’re still up two games to one. All we need to do is steal one on their floor.”

“You hear this nigga? D, you swear you suiting up next game.” “Word. Talking all that ‘we’ shit. You ain’t on the team, nigga.”

I just knew the Knicks would be fine, “Whatever. That’s fan speak. But y’all no team loyalty having niggas don’t know nothing about that.” But then I got all outside of myself, “All I know is I garuentee they’ll win out, wanna bet because you don’t know what the fuck you talking about anyway.”

In game three the Knicks lost by twenty, lost by ten in game four, lost by three in game five, and by eight in game six. Game five by far was the worst! All six-foot-eleven of Charles Smith’s-I can’t-understand-why-he-didn’t-just-dunk-it-ass got his shot blocked repeatedly and lost about nine pints of blood from the fouls committed on each attempt as the refs swallowed their whistles. It still remains in the top five worst sports Moments of my life.

M

Back in the Day...

“Back in the day, when I was young, I’m not a kid anymore
But some days I sit and wish I was a kid again” – Ahmad


While mostly unsupervised in the City we did some crazy stuff like toss bricks from rooftops so it only made me braver when we moved back to Norwalk. I was sure Jean had wore herself out when she pulled single mother duty because I got beat with the belt just about everyday. I still caught her wrath when we moved back to 18A even though she said she turned me over to my Father.

It’s true I was prone to mischief and proud to have defended my self-proclaimed Slick Man of the Year title seven years straight. We’d break the locks at S&S candy factory behind our complex, shoplifted from Jet Variety at least once a week and stole wooden coffee stirrers from Duchess and Dairy Queen then set them on fire in the woods next to the park.

We did everything in that park.

Dodge ball, basketball, tennis ball, touch football, tag, freeze tag, hide & seek, Mother may I, and red light-green light 123. Name it we played it.

One summer day we had the dodge ball game in full swing and the cutest redbone I had ever seen came over and asked if she could play. She had the Shirley Temple curls and I was in love.

“You can be on my side, I’m Donte you can throw and catch right?”

My hands and face were all sweaty and my shorts stuck to my ass under the summer humidity. We took our dodge ball very seriously actually we took every game of anything very seriously. Like when I got mad at Terry Verno and traded him for Allen Jones in between plays on some George Steinbrenner shit.

She waved her hand in my face, “I can throw and catch thanks but I wanna be on my cousin’s side.”

I felt mad played while I watched her skip over to her cousin and my volatile immaturity exploded.

“That’s all right. I’ll show you muthafuckas who the fuck runs this fucking
park. Go head throw that shit, nigga you throw like a bitch. Ahhhhh! Your ass is out! SIT THE FUCK DOWN!!! I’m a fuck all y’all up!”

“Time out, time out.” She ran towards me with hands up and a nauseas look.

“Hold up! Don’t throw the ball at me, I have time out!”

“What? Why you calling time out? I was fucking y’all up …”

“Can you stop cursing? Why are you playing like that? The game isn’t even fun when you’re talking like that …”

“Bitch! This is my block! If you don’t like the way I’m fucking talking then get the fuck outta my park, bitch!”

Her neck rolled with mad attitude and she sucked her teeth mad loud.

“Your Momma’s a bitch! I’m telling my uncle.”

She was out the park and across the street before I could respond.

“What! Tell your fucking uncle! I don’t care about that nigga, he ain’t my Daddy.”

After she left the park I yelled louder and cursed more with the glow of victory while we played like three more epic dodge ball games. Later that afternoon when I came home from the park, Mr. Robinson, also known as Deacon Robinson and the cute redbone were seated with my mother in our living room. Apparently his niece who was there for the summer went to the park to play and some wild boy cursed her out. My Mother leapt like predator to prey as soon as I walked in the door.

“You like calling young ladies, bitches? Motherfucker? You know what that is, Donte?”

The salty sound each profane word made as it fell out of my Mother’s mouth forced a nervous snort and giggle. Rage and embarrassment grabbed her face.

“Oh, so you think this is funny, you got some jokes, Mr. Nasty-mouth, do you? Well, I’ll give you something to laugh about …”

I tried to dip her reach with a drop step. “No! Mom! It’s just weird to hear you say those words …” But she was too quick and had me by the collar of my shirt.

“EXACXLY! Because you don’t hear that in this house but if you want to act a fool, I’m a beat you like a fool …”

“Mom! No!

‘Take your pants off …”

“Mom! There sitting right there, SHE’S sitting right there.”

I didn’t dare look towards the couch. I was so scared I thought I’d burst into flames.

“Oh! Now you worried about offending the young lady? Take your pants OFF!”

“We’re going to leave now, Sister Baxter …”

Mercifully he didn’t wait for her reply as the door closed on the rest of his sentence.

M

Just Another Day...

I wasn’t prepared to think heavily about why I wanted to join. I needed to join a ministry seemed reason enough, which is what I wrote along with a bullshit sentence or two about how it was wrong for me to hide my light under a bushel. Mostly I wanted to find a place to spit my new shit because gun-talk still captured my imagination so most of my lyrics begged for the parental advisory sticker. Boo pushed me to write more honestly.

“Leave that whack shit alone, D. You ain’t shooting nobody, be you, my nigga. Talk about the shit you know. That other shit is glass, son.”

Boo was easily on my list of top five-never-got-a-deal-MC’s. The kid was born to rhyme. He always had his marble notebook, hard at work on his next rhyme, an inspirational work ethic and an ill spit game, he could’ve been on Hot 97 everyday that’s my word. He was the first dude I ever heard talk about Gospel Hip Hop said we could change the whole game. He had a name for the group, talked about heads we could connect with when we got out and had at least a dozen ideas for our Unsigned Hype demo. Boo put together the first Gospel Hip Hop boy band. Vic grabbed his clipboard and leaned against the table.

“Aight, you three are together, correct? Who are you and what ya got for us.”

“Aight, we PT. The Prodigal Tribe, I’m Boo, that’s PJ and D. We all was raised in church, raised on the Word, and know God has a calling, plan and purpose over our lives. But we went our own way like the Prodigal Son we know street life and have a perspective hood niggas understand. We ain’t super Christians and shit but we know church so dudes can’t run game. We’re a tribe of prodigals. Our name also gives props to, A Tribe Called Quest one of our favorite groups. I mean, I don’t know what else to say I just believe Hip Hop is my calling and rhyming is a gift from God. We don’t have no beats or anything so we just gonna spit it A cappella.“

“Good start. I like your conviction, you can go right in a row, show us what ya got.”

Boo was pure with it, words dropped in place and his words made you feel like you was there with him. I knew his and P’s rhymes better than I knew my own. I was the number one fan of our group.

“Aight, aight, check it, check it, check it, raised knee deep in these slum streets/wit hate warming my heart beat and blazed to the dome piece/living daily wit the pain of my church scars/beat into dreaming failure/saw my Dad leaning left wit the paraphernalia /Mommaz screaming get the fuck out and her pastor's praising her/saying her prayers, fasting & love is wasting her away not saving ya/bx nigga chin up & chest out have my zoo bang & job corp niggas stomp you ass out...”

I knew if I could get to the second bar I’d be all right and the rest would flow. The last thing I wanted to do was mess up and be on some let me start over, that shit would’ve been whack.

“Spaced out on buddah blunts mind trashed from sips of Hennessy/I pack the daily gat and cause ruckus to check the enemy/uhh, what, check it/A nigga like D zigs wit more presence than thick strippers at stags/laughing at you funny Sheppard’s mostly dressing in drag/you lame spiritual Dads/pontificating wit mental pics of her cleavage and ass/politricking on members who only spending that cash/building funds while you store front rent/bunch of clown niggas steady stacking that cash/ smack you wit the offering plate & stick my foot in ya ass...”

P was the closer his shit cut to the heart and inspired me to write more honestly.

“Woke up to a world so cold and lonely/twisted from spago & coke dustings/trying to remember me from before/broke Moms heart but hate pop dukes/wishing craftmatic you know the thirty gun salute/nigga sniffed the coach, TV & child support loot/looking for something higher to swallow this hollow within my soul/last prayer to God was a bargain for total control …”

Vic was in the moment and bobbed to the beat in his head, he looked over at his co-laborers who nodded back in silent agreement.

“I’m feeling that right there. Y’all got some fire. Not gonna lie to you though we’re gonna have to edit some stuff at first but y’all stay with it and we might have something.”

I’m not gonna front I was mad open and had a moment where I felt understood and accepted.

“We’ll post names on the main board tomorrow after lunch.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

Boo grabbed Vic’s hand and held it up high like we just won, American Idol. He almost tripped over the row of stacked chairs as we left the room with a buzz ready to relive every moment.

“How y’all think that shit went? I’m mad amped right now, my niggas, we starting this shit from the underground up!”

“Don’t get more underground than this.”

“You know what, D? Mom-dukes always says don’t despise humble beginnings. So what y’all wanna do, where y’all wanna take this? What’s up with your spot, P?”

“Nah, got two new roommates. Some holy roller fish niggas who just put the pipe down yesterday and shit.”

The buzz off the auditions still had me geeked. As we walked I jumped on tabletops, jumped over every big ass rock in the path and was an asshole to everyone we passed.

“Fuck that! I’ve heard enough light unto my path bullshit for one day, how about the downstairs lounge. It’s always on ghost town status.”

“Nah, D, that’s because them fucking rats is strong down there. Them shits will be sitting with us.”

After hours was the coolest time on the Mountain. Cats played dominos, ping-pong, read letters from home and talked Scripture. Rooms filled with laughter and debate and shine boxes and push-ups. Tranquil old men schooled irritated youth on the chessboards and everyone glowed with the victory of another day’s sobriety.

M

Hold It Now, Hit It...

It felt like yesterday when I stood outside the church in New Canaan in the June sun about to graduate from St. Luke’s. Pictures with Lishnoff, the Caden twins, Jerry and Nicole. Four years just blew past. A minute ago I was a freshman in fat laces and mad open because I was cool with dudes like Dezlin and Gault. Shit, I was the Fresh Prince (with no Uncle Phil) before the show. I drifted through prep school. I think I filled out three college applications and had maybe two football offers from Division two schools. I did visit Middlebury and Plymouth State though. I had no shot at Middlebury, just went to party. Lived a lifetime since the Hopkins loss. The game was for a spot in the championship against Brunswick. Cried my eyes out on the fifty-yard line after the final whistle.

I had one good year. That’s it. I was stuck behind Bailey on the depth chart until my senior year. Hubbard and Bailey were the two best tailbacks in the league. Hubbard played for King, he was bigger, more powerful and Bailey faster with gazelle-like grace. They ran like Earl Campbell and Gale Sayers. My sophomore year Hubbard popped one up the middle and was in the open field. He looked at me apologetically then ran me over. I held on to his ankle for like seven maybe ten more yards after contact until he just tripped.

He got up patted my helmet and said, “Nice tackle, little man.”

I sat out my junior year but came back senior year with some shit on my chest.

After I snot blasted Trew in the Oklahoma drill, Coach Moeller said, “Whoa, we got ourselves a football player here.”

Coach Moe took over junior year, the team went from 2-6 to 5-3 and 6-2 my senior year. I started out fourth on the depth chart on some Tebow shit. Guidotti got bit on the hand by his girl’s dog, Pedrick fumbled too much, and some how I got ahead of Trew. All before we played our first pre-season game at a jamboree against Fieldston, Horace Mann, Bridgeport Central, and a few other teams. They called us lunch because we only had twenty-one dressed.

In the pre-game speech Coach Moe pulled a smashed cream puff from a crumpled brown paper bag.

“One of these squads has no respect for us, somebody left this in front of our team bus. Let’s show them what really beats inside our chest.”

We walked quietly to the field, played with reckless physical intensity, got back on the bus and bounced. Coach had all kinds of crazy inspirational pep talks.

Before the first game of the season against South Kent he put his massive hand on my shoulder pad and simply said, “Get ready, Baxter we’re feeding you the ball all day.”

I responded with a workmen-like twenty-five carries for a hundred and five yards & a touchdown. Should’ve had another on a reversed field six-yard run but, Lishnoff got called for a clip. We won 6-0. Had a two hundred yard game against St. Mary's on Homecoming that year too. My game towel had “The Big Payback” written on it. We played them for Homecoming my sophomore year, they housed us 44-0 AND I got blind-sided on a pick-six, knocked the fuck out on the sideline and everything. Should've had 1,000 yards my senior year. Finished with seven hundred plus and I gained most of that with three games to go. Wish I had another year with Coach Moe.

Wished I listened when, Coach Haven’s said, “ You gotta pump before you can primp”.

I should’ve done a fifth year somewhere.

When I was five, Mr. Renzulli took me to see Rippowam play Greenwich High. He was my kindergarten teacher's husband and the equipment manager for Rippowam. I sat in the locker room watched the players tape up, the coach give his pre-game speech and it was my very own NFL Films Presents video. I followed the line marker guys all game. They even made a tackle on my side of the field and we all had to jump out of the way. When your five teenagers look like the pros.

I swear Steve Young was the quarterback for Greenwich that day.

They all looked tough and that’s how I wanted to be. My uniform always looked pretty but I played tough. When I played city youth football for the Norwalk Rebels we’d host a team at the end of the season. We hosted one year then go out there the next though I always seemed to miss travel trips in favor of church functions. We played Jacksonville one year and the kid who stayed with me talked mad trash the whole week. The morning of the game I stubbed my pinky toe on my bed and broke it. I cried while I tapped it up in the bathroom and played the game. Scored two touchdowns, one was a seventy-five yarder on a power sweep. Broke my wrist in a JV game at Rye Country Day, tried to jump over a kid, just taped it up and went back in. Used to love that shit. But one day I didn’t want to play anymore. My Dad said I would regret that I never gave the amount of effort required to honor my gift and I would miss the discipline.

M

RIP, MCA...