I know I never talk about basketball—well, any sport really—but my grandma loved them. And because of her, from season to season, I watched a hell of a lot of it. Baseball, football, and basketball carried us from fall to spring, while Tiger Woods’ golf career and the Williams sisters’ tennis matches filled my summer weekends.

In between sports, we watched cultural arts like river dancing, television series like Mr. Bean, and cinema on HBO—Indian in the Cupboard, The Sandlot, and Angels in the Outfield. She was the coolest person I knew.

She made it clear that watching a sport meant nothing if you didn’t know who was playing—and why them playing mattered in the first place. She’d buy me basketball, baseball, and football cards so I could keep up with the history of the game and each player's career performance.

When it came to basketball, her teams became my teams. That made our teams, over the years: the Bulls, wherever Michael Jordan went, the Detroit Pistons, and LeBron James and the Cavaliers.

The last thing she taught me about sports was how to properly represent your squad: you had to root in style. She had the hardest Bulls caps I’d ever seen—one of the main reasons I appreciate vintage sports memorabilia today. I still remember her trying to get me the LeBron James Nike Air Zoom Generation 1s... but unfortunately, the shoe gods didn’t lean in our favor.

Without her, I wouldn’t know sports or be the flyest nigga on this planet. Moving from the 2000s to the 2010s, I became a victim of the ‘LeBron let me down’ era. As I watched Michael Jordan’s ‘Maybe It’s My Fault’ad, the televised special ‘The Decision,’ and the flopping (a move that would later be adopted by James Harden and the entire league, shifting the rules of the game, turning the NBA into a three-point contest), my King would become a jester. And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, Derrick Rose got injured, and nothing was the same. My grandma would become ill shortly after that bulls season, and my love for the game would faded with her.

But recently, the same reason why I left the game has brought me back. I’ve found revival in the space because of the hate directed at LeBron’s son, who now plays with him on the fucking Lakers. Talk about a father’s dream, the Griffeys of the NBA, a sight my grandmother would have loved to see for sure.

Being in the league for not even a full year, people are expecting so much of him. I know that pressure has to be crazy. To be the son of LeBron James, you were born rich, you have the best of the best: workout, training camp, nutritionist, and blah, blah, blah. Though all of that keeps getting said, most of the hate you received is because you’re plugged. Ain’t that some shit? Everyone on this planet is hustling to live good, to help their families and friends live their best life.

He put the work in. he was drafted at #55 in the second round. but come on man, come on now dog (Boosie Voice)….duh, mother fucka. Isn’t that exactly what the fuck you’re supposed to do? If my dad worked somewhere, he’d better get me a job there. Fuck wrong with them? But as I digress, I’m a LeBron Jr. fan now. So when you see me, put some respect on his name.  Give him a chance to show his genius. Happy belated birthday to Mama, thanks for game, rest in paradise.

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Kevin Carter - The Hood Philosopher