Chocolate thunder

My friend Steph says I always write in short sentences, so I decided to one-up her. (Take this, homeskillet) I thought it turned out pretty good. Funky. Contemporary. Kinda hip.
And yes, I did write it...

popsdunk
Originally uploaded by smoove_J.

The big bad Slamma Jamma known as Jimmy Adams, Jr. And people wonder where I get my bball skills from. Wonder no longer...


James Adams. Senior. Jim.
Throw it down, big fella! High-flying. Art-loving. . . . Role player. You know the type: Bench-warming. Hard-working. Hustling. Sweating. Never missed a practice. Voted "most inspirational." Not an impact player, but still made an impact, nonetheless. "I wish I had 10 of him," coaches would say.
Temple University. Just post-Cosby era. 1963, and fros were in vogue. Four-year Bball scholarship. Liked basketball, loved art. Hence, degree in fine arts. The big man on campus. The big man down low. The big man in the paint. The big man was into paint. The Big Aristotle of the time. No, check that. The Big Van Gogh of the time.
Post. Centre. Pivot. On the block. Got his pilot's licence in the 80s, but was a high flyer in the 60s. The pic is proof. A few moves. Turn-around J. George Mikan-era hook shot. The pump-fake. Lil James (me) caught on to that one early. Driveway ball at home, I KILLED my dad. Memories. Good memories. Some would say, revisionist history.
The dunk? Back then? Rare. Black "Friends" fan rare. Rare like a good Vin Diesel movie. Only three Temple Owls could slam. Jim jammed. Slamma Jamma. The warm-up intimidator. One hand. Two hands. Tap the square. Stare down the other team. Intimidation, son. In your face.
Check the kicks. Canvas. Converse. Original old-school. Tight. Hot to death, son. Puffy would be envious. The shorts? . . . I'm just not feeling those. Too tight. Too short. Daisy Dukes short. And what's that around his waist? It's not . . . is it?
"Yes, that is a belt," says senior, who is now, at 60-plus, officially a senior. "It added a certain something, don't you think? And as for the shoes... what can I say? In the sixties, Converse owned the university basketball scene (Nike? What's Nike?) We all got two pairs of shoes each season (not counting practice shoes) and we could have anything we wanted... as long as it was low cut and white. Shoes of colour did not make an appearance until the late seventies (along with Dr. J's fur coat and serious "fro's)."
In the late 70s, I appeared. Coloured. Off-white, really. James (really) junior. James senior? My dad. My pops. He was Big Poppa before Notorious B.I.G. Mon tres grande pere. Kind of pear-shaped now. Six foot, eight inches tall. How wide? My lips are sealed. Jolly Green Giant joviality. Some would say a teddy bear. Inheritor of the Adams good-looks gene. Check the smile. Familiar? Women love him. Men want to be him. "I wish I had 10 of him," envious wives would say.
Basketball rescued him from the ghetto. Basketball = education. Education = success. If he was short, would he be here today? Little guys = dime a dozen. Big guys? Back then? Rare. Rare like a good Vin . . . wait, sorry. Stale, cheesy metaphor. Rare like me dunking at the rec centre now. OK, back to Pops. No height = no scholarship.
But Senior was six-feet tall in sixth grade. The future was looking up. Soon, people were looking up to him.
I do still.
James Adams. Senior. Dunker. Husband. Artist. Father.

JJ Adams, intrepid reporter

The past few years, I've had to endure my sister and sista, calling me from various holiday destinations, or doing some shameless name-dropping.
Like: "Hey, Jake, it's Anya. I'm hanging out in Las Vegas with Cedric the Entertainer and Catherine Zeta-Jones... And oh yeah - I just found $500 on the floor."
Or: "Hey, JJ, it's Steph. Guess where I am? Front row at the Suns game in Phoenix. Kobe Bryant just winked at me."

Well, payback's a mother.

That's right, it's my turn, sisters... Because I am getting flown out - all expenses paid - to HERE. That includes the spa, food, travel, all that jazz. Montreal in May ... it's sure going to be nice.
And I'll make sure I call all ya'll to tell you about it.

Jeff Halvorson, who I've previously written about before (see archive), is going to be posthumously honoured with an award. They want me to travel out there to cover the story for the national newspapers, along with interviewing Wally Buono, Marv Levy and Vince Lombardi, Jr. Those names probably mean nothing to non-football fans, but let me tell you, it's a big deal.

And gosh darn it, people like me...

I did do some serious thinking before accepting this opportunity, as a journalist's integrity is all he has. Once it's gone, you're Dan Rather, and you're appearing on Geraldo. I'm not ready for that folding-chair swinging phase of my career yet. But in this case, I thought it would be acceptable, as the cause is a worthy one, and the stories are of national relevance.

So it's time to brush up on my French. "Allo? Anya? C'est ta frere. Je suis dans Montreal avec beacoups belle amis."
Well, I never did get past Grade 10 french, anyways.