Black Men Can't Jump

Black Men Can’t Jump

If you can’t walk the walk, talk the trash.

Most of the guys I associate with don’t stay off their couches long enough to engage in anything more strenuous than grabbing the occasional imported beer. I am not one of these men. I live and die to play basketball. Call me anytime, night or day, rain or shine, if you use a game of basketball as your bait consider me hooked. I don’t just show up either. I show up to play. If you happen to be watching courtside you just might be fooled. To put it mildly, I am an awful basketball player.
I may be coming down a bit hard on myself because basketball ability, like most things falls under the huge umbrella that is Einstein’s theory of relativity. Put me on a courts with a bunch of mentally challenged midgets and I’m a superstar, but with true ballers, not so much.
Whenever I play with white guys who don’t know me they automatically assume that because I’m a black man I must be basketball’s Second Coming, here to bring them to basketball’s promised land. This has got to be some undocumented sort of racism. Being thrown an alley-oop from center court, I’m expected to air it out like Lebron James, and jam it home. Unfortunately I have a hard time jumping over a piece of paper. You may be asking yourselves, “Why would this moron put up with such abuse? Why not choose another sport, like table tennis or Yahtzee?” Call me a self-loathing simpleton. The real reason I play is to excursive my verbal gymnastics.
What I lack in athleticism I more than make up for it in mouth. I’m not above saying something rude about your receding hairline, or poking fun about your vast waistline. These little quips are usually enough to take the average player out of his or her game. If theses tactics fail me, however, my next assault will be on his or masculinity, or her lack of femininity, with a comment about his affinity for pink pashminas and her love of the women’s locker room. I’ve been know to ask you to take it easy on me because I have damaged knees, only to blow by you seconds later on my way to the hoop. Of course, I usually blow the wide-open lay-up.
The point is even though I’ve already told you that I am probably the worst baller ever, with that said; I’m still better than you. So before you start suffering from a serious bout of a superiority complex, know that I’ll treat you like a redheaded stepchild burning at the beach or getting beaten at the beach. Or at the very least, I’ll say I will.