I Ain't Scared of You (8 page)

Now, these niggas got to have the long shirt, the long shorts. Out there playin' in they pajamas, and still ain't got game.

*  *  * 

We had style. We was hooping with our naturals. That's what they trying to do today: they trying to wear naturals, but they afros ain't shaped. Our shit used to be shaped.

And when we played, we played defense. It was physical. I was physical before physical came out. That's how your game got better. Especially on the playground, man, when you started bumping and grinding. If a cat elbowed you, it was “Hey, man, watch your 'bow.”

Then the arguing would start. “You 'bowed me!”

“You 'bowed me! I ain't gon' let you move!”

“You 'bowed me in the chest, I ain't say a got-damned thang, nigga!”

“Nigga, I'm just telling you.”

That's how it was, that was trash talking on the courts. You know you 'bowed a cat. When you came back down, he 'bowed you back. It was fair game. You know, if a brother pushed you off, it was all good.

Now, they fight about any damned thing. But the thing is, they
don't
fight—not for real.

Don't nobody hit nobody.

I done seen more misses in a humbug in the NBA than ever in my life. I remember when Alonzo Mourning got into the fight with Larry Johnson during the Heat-Knicks playoff game a few years ago. Everybody all upset—and they just wailin'.

And ain't nobody hitting no damned body.

Tracey McGrady got into a fight in the playoffs with some guy. He pushed the guy, then swung and missed him by two feet. Then them two niggas gon' fall down and start rolling on the ground, tryin' to wrestle.

Shit, I'd rather watch the WWF.

And baseball? These ballplayers today ain't shit. A motherfucker steal 20 bases, they call him a “threat.” Lou Brock stole 100 bases, man! These motherfuckers don't even steal 50. Or if you hit
20 home runs and 73 RBIs, motherfuckers are like, “Man, you gotta pitch
around
that sum'bitch!”

If it's not that, then it's going too far the other way. Some of these sorry motherfuckers today got 90 home runs, 204 RBIs. What are they doing? Pitching underhanded to these motherfuckas?

I want to say something to the young athletes who may be readin' this book:

Whatever you do, don't play for the Chicago Bulls!

Fuck the Bulls.

That fat muh'fucka Reinsdorf broke up one of the best teams ever. They did Phil Jackson wrong. Did Mike wrong. No way Phil should be in Los Angeles, or Michael Jordan a fuckin' Washington Wizard.

If I was a young player and the Bulls drafted me, I'd never play for them. Draft me, I'd go back to school on they ass. And if I can't re-enroll, nigga, I'll join the Army.

Fuck the Bulls.

I was watchin' the basketball finals between Philadelphia and LA. I like that muh'fuckin' Iverson, man. He got heart, same way Jordan did. And the other teams do him like Jordan. They knock him around and shit, foul him even when he ain't got the ball.

The Detroit Pistons used to do Jordan like that all the time. They used to beat Jordan's ass. They took that nigga to the bridge every time he touched the ball! They ain't give a fuck who was open.

One time they tackled his ass. All of them just rushed him. He shot the ball, made it, but he couldn't even shoot the free throw. Rodman had stepped on his fingers. Isaiah beat him. Mahorn threw him down. Laimbeer sat on him. And Vinne Johnson's ugly ass was lookin' at him.

Aw, man, Detroit was rough.

*  *  * 

I like Shaq's game, too. People are always sayin', “Well, he just does that because he's big.”

So? Shaq can't help it that he's big. He's playin' like a big strong muh'fucka is supposed to play: Knock the fuck outta ya. 'Bow you in the mouth. Make you bite ya tongue. Put yo' eye out.

He's lettin' you know: Any time you put your hands on me, I'm coming around with my fist balled.

They say all he do is dunk. So what? You be under that basket Shaq gon' bust yo' got-damn lip.

Pete Rose, now that was one tough sum'bitch. That's the kinda ballplayer I like. That sum'bitch, he was no joke. Charlie Hustle. He know he had to be the one to start that sliding head first, diving on your stomach.

I dug Pete Rose—and I fucked myself up trying to do that shit.

I was playin' in a softball game, and caught myself tryin' to steal second. Burned my chest
up
trying to dive on my got-damn stomach.

You ever seen a black muh'fucka with a pink chest?

I burnt
all
the skin off my ass. I said, “From now on, tag me out.”

I'm not diving no muthafuckin' more. I'm out. Shit, game after that, I was running to third base. The ball got there. I was undecided as to whether I was gonna slide. Before he could even tag me, I says, “I'm out.” Slide? Fuck that!

Man, skin was all off this sum'bitch. I'm sitting there that night, pouring peroxide onto my chest. Man, all this shit on my chest was all white, like snow. Tryin' to slide, watchin' Pete Rose.

Now tell me he don't belong in the Hall of Fame.

These sportscasters today get on my nerves, too. I mean, I know it's what the audience wants, all this hip hop, but these sportscasters just go overboard. A muh'fucka hit a jumpshot on ESPN and it's, “Oops, upside ya head—bang, bang, ya dead.”

Muh'fucka, sit yo' ass down.

*  *  * 

I'm not jealous by nature. I'm just not. I don't have envy toward anybody for shit they got. I'm focused on me. And most of my life, I was always like that.

Except for when it came to that got-damn Marvin Gaye.

Man, Marvin Gaye. I was jealous of Marvin Gaye. I have to really be honest. I was jealous of Marvin Gaye. Because Marvin had what I wanted. I wished I had the charisma, the magic that he had with his fans. And I was an aspiring entertainer then.

Marvin Gaye would come out on stage: “Hey, what's happening?” They said he was a sissy, all that shit—but that mutha-fucka was smooth, man. “Hey, what's happening? Distant love . . .”

Aw, man. You be sitting there, trying to hold tight, all the women be screaming. You all mad, but you tryin' not to let nobody see it. You got yo' face all frowned up and shit.

See, back then, we hid our jealousy. You'd be jealous as hell, you be doing just rocking in your seat, poppin' your fingers, actin' like you into it, but you frownin' like a muh'fucka.

Your girl be going, “Ohhh! Ahhhh!”

You mad as hell, but you keep snapping your fingers and grittin' your teeth and you go, “Yeah, he jammin'.”

Then Marvin hit that note.
“Wooo-Hoooooooooo!”
He be holdin' that shit! His process be sticking out a little bit!

And he be high than a motherfucker! Marvin Gaye used to be
hi-iiiiiiigh.

And yo' jealous ass, that's the only thing you can say about him, so you turn to your girl and be like: “Man, he fucked up!” And hope that just scared somebody.

Your girl just say, “That's all right, but he jammin', though!
Go 'head on, Marvin, with yo' high ass!”

That make you even madder.

“Hmph. He probably on some . . . some her'on!”
Trying to make it
harder than what it is: “Look at him, he look like he about to fall out! Fucker!”

That's when Marvin'd say, “I'm going to sing one more for y'all.”

Your girlfriend:
“Sing one more, Marvin!”

Here you go: “Why don't you go up there with the mutha-fucka then, you know? Why don't you let him to take your ass home?”

“Aw, everytime we go out you starting some bullshit. You be jealous!”

I
was
jealous, man.

*  *  * 

It was the same thing with Michael Jackson. He was nice-looking when he was a boy. All of the Jackson family, they were a nice-looking family. And every brother was jealous of the Jackson 5. You's a damn lie. You was, too.

The Jackson 5 would come out, be jammin' like a sum'bitch.

And I'd have that same jealous face. You know that look mixed with a smile and a frown? Niggas be listening to Jeffrey Osborne, muh'fuckas like that. “Oh, they bad!” And you have that face, tryin' to smile like you ain't jealous, talkin' through your teeth, like, “Yeah, heh-heh. They bad. They bad.”

Knowin' you jealous as hell.

Back in the day, they had lyrics. They sang about something. They didn't just talk about themselves. They started with love songs. It was, “Baby, I miss you. I need you back.” With the bands and the instruments, it was entertaining.

When you went to a show and you saw Earth, Wind & Fire! People be sitting there, talking, “Blah-blah . . . When the show gon' start? . . . Blah-blah.” Then that curtain came up! The music started! It was smoke and shit, powder'd be flying over your head.

If you was smokin' a joint, you'd be done fell out.

See, that was fun. Wasn't nobody shooting and shit, man. You were entertained. When you heard that music! Oh, man!

You got you some pussy that night!

You got you some
good
pussy that night. After the show, you went and got some chicken and got a room. And she gave you some pussy. Now we call that sympathy pussy.

They lookin' at each other. Then she just flop over on you, don't say a word, and motherfucker start tongue-kissin' and shit.

Muh'fuckas fuckin' to music today don't even kiss or get intimate no more. They leave the show, go get a room, and when they fuck, they fuck with their clothes on! They just pull out, pull one leg out the pants. Shirt still be on and shit. You see deodorant stains under their arms.

That's the difference between today and back then.

When they come out nowadays, most performers don't even entertain. They sing two, three songs, and it's, “Good night, good night!” and then they break the microphone.
Pow!

You be sitting there: “This bitch ain't shit.”

And they be lip-syncing, too. And the next thing you know, the record start skipping. “Hello, baby! Baby-baby-baby-baby . . .”

You be sitting up there: “That sumbitch hoarse, she must be high or something. She ain't singing!”

Old entertainers, man. I'll give you a perfect example. I was on a show and on the bill was also the Intruders. I was young when they were out, with that song “I'll Always Love My Mama.” They could jam.

One night, I'm doing the show, and I was backstage with them. The lead singer was real sick. Sick as a dog. Throwin' up and shit. And they was doing their little steps and singing:
“Whodoopwhodoo-dooo . . .”
They steppin' and spinnin' and doin' their whole routine. And I mean, they were
doing
that shit, right? And as soon as they marched off stage, the lead singer bent over and—
blwwwwaaappp—
just threw up right there on the spot.

Man, and I ain't lyin', that muh'fucka just spit, wiped his mouth off, and was right back in line as they came back on that muh'fucka!

He ain't miss a beat. He just went back on,
“Doo-doop! Doo-doop! Doo-doop!”
They was doing that shit, right? and they started marching off again. The lead singer was still doing his thing, stepped, spun around in his little, circle,
“Doo-doo! Doo-doo, doo-doo!”

I said, “Man!” Now, that was how the old school used to do it. They were real entertainers, and they gave you a show no matter what.

I know rap is the hot thang right now, but I'm a jazz man. I am not a rap person. I ain't knocking rap. But you get your average black kid and white kid, they don't want to be a doctor, lawyer, chemist. All of them, when I do a seminar and ask, “What do you want to be?” say they want to be a rapper.

Because they think it's easy. Because you ain't got to be great, all you got to do is pick out a song and talk over it. And they see what cats get. Cats get four or five million dollars, man, riding around in a Bentley with braids and gym shoes.

You don't drive no fucking Bentley with gym shoes on, okay? If you're going to be a millionaire, you got to
act
like a millionaire. You don't come out in no Bentley or no Rolls, man, with your scarf on your head and your hair braided and your tongue pierced and in no gym shoes. I'm sorry, that ain't no put-down, I'm just putting you where you belong.

That ain't nothing but some nigga shit.

Get you a Lexus or something because you messing up the traditions, man.

You a millionaire got-damnit; you're supposed to walk like a millionaire! Man, when you come out the door, you're supposed to be clean from head to toe. Naw, I'm sorry. You give a millionaire a whole new name. You keeping it real? That ain't real, dog. That's ghetto like a muthafucka.

A millionaire, you can smell him when he leaves the room. You got to put some C-L on your A-S-S, man.

Music when I was coming up, man, those were the good old days. I used to go see the Ohio Players:
“Aw, girl. If you want to listen to what people say behind my back . . . You'll be making love to me, alright! . . .
Gimme me an L and an O got a V and an E . . .”
They'd be jamming. Parliament. Bootsy. That was funkin'.

And they gave a
show.
Bootsy had the binocular glasses on, the knickerbockers, the big-ass shoes with the curve on the toe. And the smoke and fire. Rick James, Earth, Wind and Fire—that was entertainment.

They were creative with the songs. The way music is today, you got the bottom and the top. Right now it's at the bottom. There's no creativity now because the new jacks just take old shit and reuse that.

Kids don't know. They trip me out. They hear a new song on the radio, and they they be like, “Oh, that's ‘Elbow!' He got a new one out?”