some Chicago bullshit. not that overseas ball shit. (you know the friend who’s dating the guy who is still following his street dreams overseas but hitting her up for a flight back to the States. Girl, don’t do it.)
well, this is not that. not at all. this is michael jordan level. three seconds on the shot clock. all eyes on you. #tupac
i was michael jordan (in my own head, thank you very much) for a few months, maybe a couple of years. career going well. relationship looking promising. finished up grad school. check. check. check. i was balling. crossing ninjas over. i felt like i had arrived. i lucked up.
and that was the first problem. that’s where i went wrong. cuz luck LUCK has never been my kind of luck. my luck is not hit the lotto kind of luck. it’s more like i ate a fish filet sandwich after the party and my stomach survived the night.
and yet, knowing that, i decided to try my luck.
three seconds on the shot clock. all eyes are on you. you shoot your shot and miss! suddenly, the crowd that was once cheering for you is looking at you as if you were the bummest bum walking the planet. trade!
well, it’s clear. i’m no michael jordan. i can’t win a championship to save my life. i’m more carmelo anthony. lots of potential but can’t win for shit.
now here we are holding a press conference announcing my trade to the bum league. the league of leftovers. the singles. the “i haven’t met the right person” people. the ‘i don’t have a commitment bone in my body’ mofo’s. the ‘something must be wrong with them’ team. yep, sign me up. looks like i belong here.
after three years of what seemed like i’d finally joined a team that was heading to the championship, we lost. i lost. picture this: muggsy bogues running the ball down the court and shaq’s sweaty, disrespectful ass smacking the ball out his hand as muggsy’s entire face runs right into shaq’s sack.
that’s me. i’m muggsy. on my way back to baltimore to do a documentary about my life in high school.
no championship. no marriage. no 30 for 30 story on our love and life together.
maybe this love thing isn’t me or for me. i thought i did it right. i practiced (we dated), i warmed up (we became best friends) and we made it through some really good seasons. yet, the championship got away from me. well, to be honest it was taken from me. or even worse, handed to someone else.
he cheated. passed her the ball and she dunked that shit. then landed on her feet and winked at me.
and the worse part is every one begins to check your stats. she’s 33, no kids, never been engaged or married, professionally successful BUT she’s had multiple failed relationships, acquiring a double chin, several grays, a fufu and the list goes on.
“she’s definitely a lesbian or confused or her cat is dry or she just can’t keep a man or she just can’t pick the right man.”
and i know, it’s not about what people think. i guess, i was finally at a place where i was sold. my family was sold. his family was sold. i was home. i was content. i was on board. i was ready. and it saddened me that my family, his family, our friends were just as saddened and disappointed to learn it was over. there would be no champaign showers.
i’m not pressed for marriage or kids. but i was in love with him and looking forward to what came with that. it felt right. it felt complete.
and now. i’m back at square one. trying to figure out this next chapter. trying to figure out who i am in this world again as an individual. as a party of one.
i’m not sure who i want to be. i’m just certain that at this moment i don’t want to be me. back at square one. and to me, that is some bullshit.