(ThyBlackMan.com) “He aint gonna do nothin’ but two-hand it.”—a childhood friend, sitting next to me watching a Seventy-Sixer game, said that as we watched Dr. J steal a pass and head up the court with the ball many years ago. I’ll get back to that quote later.
As a teenager, I was so heavy into basketball that I treated it like a religion. It was the mid-eighties, and there was no such thing as Air-Jordan. There was just this freshman at Carolina, who dunked on Sidney Lowe and knocked him back into the cheerleaders. Yeah, even before the jumper against my Hoyas. The Association’s image had recently been salvaged by the good ole’ wholesome rivalry between Magic and Bird. Prior to the unacknowledged 
child and the H.I.V. infection, the two friendly combatants were making the NBA fit for public consumption again. Well, at least that’s how the sports reporters tell it. I understand their sentiment.
I mean, when Shaq hit the scene he was America’s favorite big ole’ chocolate dancing, rapping, half-way acting, smiling, Nestle crunch eating bear. Hell, Shaq couldn’t even play basketball. They just parked him under the rim and the refs’ stood by and watched him drive his shoulder into defender’s chest and put two people through the rim. It was a wonderful exhibit, and as much as I’m sure Vaudeville would have benefitted from it, I am twice as sure that Booker T.’s address at the Atlanta Exposition would have been attended by all of one person had there been a tent featuring people paying to run up and try to stop a Shaq dunk. But when Darryl Dawkins was shattering backboards, there was no such love. The NBA players of that era did a great deal to hurt their image. They assumed the role of neo-blacksploitation pimps with full length minks, a scantily clad groupie on either side, and a peculiar habit of placing a knuckle on a nostril and sniffing. The clean wholesome rivalry between Magic and Bird, spilling over from college to the pros, was a god-send for the business of professional basketball. So the question remains, how did the NBA maintain interest from mainstream America (don’t you love code words?) prior to the arrival of the Magic and Bird?
Not everyone in the NBA embraced irresponsible behavior. There are men whom I remember not just as ball players but as good men…as far as my young eyes could see. The NBA featured players like Nate “Tiny” Archibald, “Clyde” Frazier, George “Ice Man” Gervin, Artis “Lamb Chop” Gilmore, Bob Lanier, Sidney Moncrief, Marques Johnson, Kareem (one word), and nearest to my heart, Julius “Dr. J.” Erving. Julius was the dude with the extremely tight red tank-top on with the number 6 on it. He couldn’t get two numbers like everyone else, could he? Like ‘Damn Doc! Look around you!’ But Doc was the man.
Now mind you, I said good men, not perfect. I will never be like the idiots currently telling the world that they don’t “accept” Tiger Wood’s apology for his infidelity. Following them in the bathroom must be a pleasant experience. But that was what caught my attention about Dr. J. He didn’t just dunk on people. He carried himself with class. Doc taught me what finesse is. That is what I wanted to emulate, more so, than the dunks. I never indulged in enough LSD to believe I would someday dunk over top of seven-foot monsters, but Doc made it make sense. He showed us that it is possible to soar over other men.
You see there is a difference between soaring and flying, and there is a vast difference between soaring and bounding off of a wooden floor. Doc soared. He stayed in the air long enough look and be majestic. Everyone likes to talk about the day he jumped from the foul line. Some like to talk about the day he glided from one side of the lane to the other. Many like to talk about the day he cuffed it on Michael Cooper, another classy guy, who I try to forgive for playing for the Lakers. When a jazz-great such as Grover Washington Jr. writes a song for a Dr. J shot (Let it Flow), then the line between man and myth is permanently distorted. But here is the hook. When Doc was using the NBA as a stage to demonstrate his athletic prowess, a lot of us did not have fathers at home. As Ross Perot would ask, are you connecting the dots now? Are you seeing the big picture? Doc helped raise a generation of boys. He is not just one of our favorite ball players because of the high-light reel; we actually love him for who he is as a man. He’s one of our parents. I’m not trying to call the brother old, but he’s something like it. I had a chance to shake Doc’s hand once, and blew it. He came to my college when I was a freshman, but I had just gotten the job of sports editor of the campus paper, and I did not go hear him speak, because I was behind in my work and lost track of the time. I missed that shot. I guess when you are eighteen you take things for granted. I do regret that miss though.
When Malvo and Muhammed were making black history in and around DC in 2002, I was in Los Angeles. I sat in a car waiting for someone to come out of a store. I opened a notebook and scratched something down on paper. I had Dr. J on my mind. I am not sure why, I just did. I am going to share that with you now. Once again, I don’t know what caused me to scratch this in a notebook in 2002:
In recent years, we have mourned the losses of Walter Payton, Ted Williams, Wilt Chamberlain and many others. Each time one of these legendary athletes dies, we see people on television giving tearful testimonials about their lives and character. It may make some people wonder how we can cry just as hard over a dead ballplayer as we do over a dead relative. My belief is that when you remember a famous athlete, you are really remembering a time in your life.
Some of my fondest sports memories are of the very much alive and active Julius Erving. Thinking of Dr. J takes me back to the 1970’s and the South Bronx. Back then, black men still referred to one another as brothers and to black women as sisters. Modern hip-hop was rising from the ashes of gang warfare. The Black Spades is the gang I remember the most. Hip-hop brought more dancing and less fighting until it moved out West. We all know that story.
Back then, during my pre-teen years, I was the purist Yankee fanatic, and not very big on basketball. But as a child, I did like Dr. J. The Yankees were the buzz in New York with Reggie Jackson and Willie Randolph (my first idol) making spectacular plays all the time. Yet in the midst of that, you could not help noticing changes at playgrounds around you. We made the transition from canvas Chuck Taylors to more attractive and durable leather converse all-stars. The shoes actually had a sole that seemed to be made for people to play basketball on. I used to watch older and bigger kids drive to the basket and scream out “Dr. J!” while they were in the air. Just like that, you could see the desire for a better tool. However, the concept of “Dr. J” wasn’t merely about shoes.
Perhaps the dominate media image of the black athlete at that time, was a camera close-up of a large brother with a destroyed afro and three teeth in his mouth, screaming “We numbah WUN! Yeah Baby! Can you dig it? We numbah WUN!”
Dr. J destroyed that image because of his finesse and class. It’s not that he was the first. Bill Russell showed plenty of class. Clyde Frazier showed plenty of class. The difference was that Dr. J took that style and charisma into the air. In doing so, he planted in the hearts and minds of tens of thousands of young boys: the desire to soar, majestically, above other men. Can you dig it?
I salute brother Erving for carrying himself with such class and style. Thanks to him, I know that a true beast can operate under total control. Thank you.
Now……………….…look at your man…now back to me…back at your man…now back to me. The Cobra is now a DIAMOND! Well…not really, but he is a bloggist and the fact that I found that notebook with that scribbled note eight years later makes it a diamond to me.
One day, I came home from work and flopped down on the couch with a brew and clicked on the NBA channel. Former basketball star, Steve Smith, was sitting between two dudes talking about Dr. J. I picked up their conversation mid-stream and they were saying things like “Doc was the class of the NBA.” And my blood ran cold. I was sitting there for five full minutes waiting for them to hit me with the awful punchline. Then, it crawled across the screen. They were celebrating Doc’s 60th birthday! Damn, that’s an old dude!!! Nonetheless, I knew that I had better get a Dr. J blog in before he chokes on a roll at a steak restaurant. I still cannot believe, I found that notebook!
It’s weird how the dunk was once perceived versus how Dr. J changed its perception. Now, I mean no disrespect to DAVID THOMPSON…………………………none at all. Let’s not f— around here. But one day, in Doc’s twilight, a friend of mine and me sat and watched Doc steal a pass and head up-court. “He aint gon’ do nothin’ but two-hand it.” I’m thinking to myself, “Why you lil’ four-foot troll, you can’t even touch the net!” I guess some people just want perfection all the time. I guess some people just can’t be satisfied. But Doc brought that on himself, because he raised the bar so high. But Doc wasn’t perfect. He is sho’ ‘nuff good enough for me tho’. Doc, I love you dog. Really tho’.
You know what’s funny? The whole time Dr. J was playing ball, we never walked around talking about how much money he made. You do the dishes.
Staff Writer; Cobra Caine
You can connect with this brother by visiting the following site; The Charming Mr. Caine.
