Who Art Thou, Metta World Peace?

This article is a combustion of inspiration after watching a Metta World Peace Interview. The way the man looks like he’d kill you with a clown mask on is paralyzing. When he smiles it’s seductive and fake, and full of hate. I feel sorry for him. 

We grew up on the black top bouncing basketballs and talking bras. 

One Summer, three friends stole packs of cigarettes and smoked them behind the sullen Catholic church. That year, Cody blew up condoms and paraded them around Cayucos school en route to a year’s worth of detention.

I proved my manhood by snatching three tootsie rolls out of the penny container. Neither Graham, Roscoe nor Brian were impressed at all. In fact they used my vapid thievery as a marker of mockery when one of them was immorally underachieving.

Tyler and Drew never got in on the conversation. I suppose they were more interested in talking to the Fauchier twins, waxing their surfboards and perfecting their kissing skills behind the rusty maintenance shed.

Thinking now, the comparisons make more sense as follows: I — Anthony Mason, Graham — Keith Van Horn in his latter years, Mike Logan — some unnamed role player out of the Big Ten like Brian Cardinal, David Harmon — Brent Barry and Miles Davis — Delino Deshields. 

Even then I’m overshooting the comparisons. WNBA anyone? Who wants to be the knocked up Chamique Holdsclaw?

Troy is a turned hippie travelling the world and David a military marksman. What happened to Roscoe post-Albertson’s I’ll never really know, but Miles is dropping mad rhymes in Los Angeles and Tyler is a kick ass window cleaner.

The Point is we all grew up and found our way into some odd rut of life. And yet still, the child in me continues to compare my friends to superior athletes.

Drew Brause, though grossly disinterested in this sort of a thing, Portuguese not African-American, short and thin not 6’8″ and built like a brick. A surfer not a drug dealer, average wage earner not astronomical millionaire, from a small surfing town not the hood, having never watched a man being stabbed to death with a table leg, is comparable somehow and in some way in my mind to Meta World Peace.

And though I’m certain Drew would never wear a clown mask and murder a man for drug money, the two have similar facial features, both a mocking sense of a humor, and killer ( literally) physicality on the floor. 

For a 5′ eeeeee 8″(?) Drew would knock a “big man” on his ass, throw a mean John Stockton elbow, draw the foul and finish. Drew was the man who made you, yes YOU, want to stab him after the game.

He was that good. And thankfully innocent off the court. Well…