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<!--EZCODE BOLD START--><strong>Feeding a Family</strong><!--EZCODE BOLD END--><br>
<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--><em>an article by Samr<br>
11/13/04</em><!--EZCODE ITALIC END--><br>
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It’s amazing what a few million dollars can do to people. Every player had his <!--EZCODE ITALIC START--><em>Behind the Glory</em><!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->-esque struggles that will never be mentioned. They played basketball because the alternative was drugs, gangs, and a demimonde that could only lead to a life in prison. They played basketball because it led to the NBA, the light at the end of their tunnel. Basketball would give them a roof over their heads, toys for their kids, and food for their families. Their salary was paid in respect and high fives, not decimal points and zeros. And they played harder, with more passion, with more hunger, and with more love of the game than they ever had.<br>
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It’s amazing how important a college education is, and yet how easily it can be brushed aside. Kids sit on their couches as scouts from Duke, North Carolina, Wake Forest, Cincinnati, Arizona, Kentucky, and Syracuse tell them how great they are, how they are one-of-a-kind, and how they will help their team achieve ultimate success. Their divorced parent sat on an adjacent couch leaning forward in eager anticipation of their child receiving a higher education, and a diploma with from a real university. They wanted to see their son walk the stage, not in an All-Star game, but in a college graduation ceremony. The parent knew something the kid did not- that even if they were one of the lucky ones to make it on an NBA roster, the chances were not good that they would become a contributor. If they did become a contributor, they would face an endless possibility of career-ending injuries, assuming they weren’t already plagued with a case of left patella tendonitis. They’d be better off building their life around their daily lottery ticket than they would the hope that they would land a luxurious NBA contract. They paid for college with the late nights spent at the local blacktop, dribbling the basketball until their palms became as tough as the ground on which they were standing. They paid for college by getting beat, time and time again by taller, faster, and more athletic foes. They paid for college by forcing themselves to work on their shot, perfect their cross-over, and fly higher than they ever thought possible. So they went to college, and they were good. They were very good. And they entered the draft, with 2 free years of college remaining. <br>
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It’s amazing that they don’t require every early-entry draft candidate to take an eye exam. It’s amazing that they can be so near-sighted that they only see the several hundred thousand dollar rookie contract and not the multi-million dollar eventual payoff or long-term security that a diploma can provide them with. Instead, the lure of an immediate payoff draws them out of the perfect situation they dreamed about as kids. So now they’re in the NBA, with a rookie contract, and a paycheck of at least 3 years (assuming they get drafted in the first round). Most NBA players do not make it beyond this point. Either they slowly out on one of the NBA’s 30 benches, or they bounce to Europe, which signs anything with a vertical leap over 20 inches. Even fewer of the players that take this route end up making it back into the NBA, but some do. They do so by putting in the same heart, effort, and willingness to change and grow that allowed them to flourish on the local blacktop as youth. <br>
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But some do make it. These are the ones that took the road less traveled. They allowed themselves to be coached, to be open to criticism, and they grew into stars. When their rookie contract expires, they are either thrown into free agency, or they are signed to a contract extension. For millions. They have enough money to put a roof over their heads, clothes on their chests, and food in their stomachs. They make in 96 minutes of basketball what their single parent made in a year’s worth of unappreciated, unnoticed work. So instead of giving back to the neighborhood park which taught them to be tough, the family members that provided them with a foundation from which to fly, and the community that welcomed them as rookies with open arms and cheers of encouragement, they complain. They complain that 12 million is an insult. They complain that their team did not sign enough free agents to make them happy. They complain that the team owner was not willing to pay almost a hundred million of his own money to retain their friend. They complain that their team is not winning. They complain that their teammates aren’t giving them enough passes. They complain that their every whim and whimper isn’t met with an open check book, and a willingness to please them that transcends any dollar amount. <br>
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All these teams are preaching that their players are “getting in touch with the community.” Well I’m afraid that the well-dressed elementary school children from the affluent side of town aren’t the kids that need direction and words of wisdom. They need to go to the poor side of town, and watch the kids who’ve never seen an NBA game on a legally acquired TV play basketball. Watch them play, not for diamond rings, expensive cars, steak dinners, and private jets, but for pride. For respect. And for their future. Then they need to take these kids, sit them down, and talk to them. It would be an enlightening experience. For both sides. <br>
<p></p><i>Edited by: <A HREF=http://p204.ezboard.com/bsanantoniospurs62937.showUserPublicProfile?gid=samr@sanantoniospurs62937>Samr</A> at: 11/14/04 2:30 pm<br></i>
2003 
