by: Chris Kattan
As you may have noticed, Captain Phillips Kattan has gone awol as of the last two months. Mainly because I’ve realized that blogging is the most unfulfilling industry there ever was intended for the dumpy, misinformed, hype beast shit heads of the world who aren’t actually good at anything. Not to mention the hours spent filing a dissertation over JR Smith fuckery was doing neither my livelihood nor pockets justice, characterizing Miami Heat fans as “Jews from Boca Raton disguised as Cubans ” irrationally resulted in my not getting a job in community relations with the organization itself (true story), and, ultimately, the aforementioned stigmatization made me pack my bags like Chappelle did for Africa. Hence, the site has sucked.
Nevertheless, I’ve never forgotten that had I been in it to win it and refrained from following a career arc comparable to that of Lenny Cooke’s tale of potential superstar turned misguided, obese numbskull, I’d have been King Tut of this bitch; blogosphere on smash, if you will. So, I’ve come with some postponed yet still relevant and rarely delved upon interpretation (i.e. quantum shit) regarding Shabazz and the empty stomach that forever alleviated collegiate hunger…WE ARE THE CHILDREN! LET THEM LEAD THE WAY!
I remember the first dialogue I had about Shabazz’s hunger pains was with Momma Dukes (that’s ebonics for “mother”): “Mind boggling the same kid who used to piss on me in AAU and Hoop Group top 100 clinics at Boston University is a National Champion for the second time, now without doubt the most viable potential 2014 point guard draftee bound for a perennially productive career by way of an elite, translatable pick and roll savvy, prowess in the catch and shoot and a grit reminiscent of his mentor, Will Blalock, solely reserved for the most triumphant of Bostonian. Oh, and he’s on the verge of leading a crusade towards reform of NCAA bylaw because he’s STARVING. Right, Ma?” Response: “Munchkin, you do know Shabazz’s is starving because its his family, not him, that ain’t eating.” A cry for proper compensation buried in figure of speech? Kattan, you fool! I’M STARVING OUT HERE. FUCK UNLIMITED PASTA, B! MY SCOOBY SNACKS AIN’T ACTUALLY RUNNING ON E! CUT THE CHECK AND WE’RE STRAIGHT! I was duped. But not for long, thanks to mom.
Yet, the NCAA–now finally realizing things like this year’s March Madness generating an approximate $9 Million more than what the MLB, NBA and NHL playoffs project combined off of TV add revenue alone would have never elevated the pay-for play discussion to such dire, nationally recognized proportions had it admitted to its inherent corporate nature three years prior and said, “fuck off Title XI, a proposed $2,000 stipend prescribed for Men’s high major Division I athletes only is no where near a threat to amateurism”–again bypasses the literal, only to thrive in the figurative: You’re hungry? Oh my lantern! Give all the breakfast, lunch, dinner and late night Scooby Snacks a child could ever ask for! Yes, that ought to be an act of good will substantive and complementary enough to further the discussion of a guaranteed $120,000, 4 year deal (a scholarship) and the most optimal opportunity any teenager ever had to brand himself as an adequate share, right? A deal that, at first glance, teeters at the spectrum’s end of satisfactory indeed. Nonetheless, when we hardly ever dare to challenge kicking–or at least moderating—the corporate out of amateur athletics; Or probe why its the University’s, not the NCAA’s, responsibility to fund a larger allowance for its student athletes despite the millions the NCAA shares amongst its membered institutions going towards specifically funding the pro-competitive standing of its basketball and football programs, there’s inevitably improper allocated leftovers. But, in short, knowing the basic premise of all the legal bullshit protecting the NCAA’s obligations, neither of those ethical issues will ever be attended to. Society has spawned a monster of an immutable and unlawful enterprise; a monster that much more imposing once High Major Conferences secede, spawn and litigate their own governing body that fucks the purity of sport in its ass for one last, jolly good time.
Ultimately, I’ve ranted to a point of no avail and a conversation even the most incoherent of microbloggers are now fully familiar with. But, hey, at least Shabazz ain’t never going hungry.