White People Hit and Miss During All-Star Weekend

Too young for SpongeBob

As I sit here waiting for Kevin Love to triumphantly redeem the athletically oppressed Caucasian race and wondering in vain why Kenny Chesney is analyzing Tennessee football on my ESPN, I can’t help but think what a topsy-turvy sports affair this weekend’s been with its [over] emphasis on two such diametrically opposed entities.

And, really, I can’t take my eyes of Chesney. Cognitive dissonance, thy name is Balding Gay Country Music Star Talking SEC Sports on Daytona Sunday.

Now as a matter of principle, I’m generally opposed to auto racing and its penchant for circuitous, um, circles, poor sportsmanship, shameless commercialism, sibling tag-teaming, ridiculous drafting rules, and – speaking of ridiculous drafts – Miller Lite.

But, God bless you, 20-year-old Rugrats-enthusiast Trevor Bayne.

If you were one of the poor souls who missed Daytona’s final enthralling laps Sunday, you passed on one of those so-inspiring-it’s-hokey, glued-to-your-sofa moments of wonder that makes sports the celebration of human achievement other entertainment rarely offers. And if you think I’m blowing smoke up Holt’s ass with my lofty prose… YOU DIDN’T SEE DAYTONA.

Bayne, a stock racing wunderkind from Knoxville (shoutout to SC’s Twitter family!) who was born the same year as my baby sister, held off veteran a-holes Tony Stewart and Carl Edward, among others, to win Nascar’s Super Bowl in only his second career race. The kid didn’t even have a full-time gig going into this year (though I suspect that’s about to change).

What transpired in the minutes after the checkered flag was something akin to a white-ified version of Rod Tidwell’s transcendent Monday Night Football catch: nobody believed what just happened actually happened, including the guy it happened to.

And, of course, Darrell Waltrip made my day by so gleefully crying out the only sports cliche that athletes-turned-announcers-turned-fans can think to utter in these situations:

CINDERELLA’S SLIPPER REALLY DOES FIT!

I’ll begrudgingly admit to goosebumps – a fitting final tribute to my 2011 NASCAR season.

The Rest of NASCAR Season

While the white folks of Great American Race fame really pulled out all the stops to make Sunday an unequivocal success, I can’t say the same thing for their ballin’ counterparts.

Yes, I’m talkin’ bout J-Bieb, the celebrity all-star game MVP, who beat out a jobbed, three-raining Scottie Pippen with his bangs-ian appeal to teenage girls (who evidently watch all-star celebrity basketball). Here’s what I don’t get about Bieber: sure he’s cute, sure he pulls his weight in an overly-sexualized-for-2-tweens music video, sure he can crossover Common. But don’t these teenyboppers realize his future’s at a crossroads: that either he’ll stop growing and be 5’8″ forever OR, more probably, his balls will drop and he’ll be this incredibly awkward former teen-idol with a bulging adam’s apple, receding hairline and the shooting form of Shawn Marion?

Kill me now.

WHAT AM I MISSING!? Cognitive dissonance, thy name is the child star. Seriously, though, <3 u, J-Biebs.

Other observations from the all-star celeb dickaround: Our Secretary of Education can ball. Not like, “Oh, sure, I played a little Chi-town pick-up with Rahm Emanuel when I was younger” ball. Like “I was the captain of the Harvard basketball team and I’m seriously thinking about going all ’87 ‘Nique on Michael Rappaport if he doesn’t move his fat, sorry-acting ass out the lane” ball. Arne Duncan’s no-look, behind-the-back pass to a cutting Tamika Catchings was the best thing I saw all weekend (and by a wide margin).

Which brings me to the Wags of My Finger. You know how there’s that one guy in the full-court, five-on-five who’s always trying just a little bit too hard? Two words: Lil’ Romeo. The rapper-turned-USC BBall scholarship recipient (allegedly) made a fool of himself in the only way a 5’10″, over-caffeinated, over-testesteroned career case in nepotism with a superiority complex and MAD HOPZ can.

Miller was the guy calling for alley-oops. In a celeb game. On 10-foot rims.

Watching Pippen’s reaction was priceless. Not only did he continue to drain 3 after 3 in the kids’ grill (come back, Pip!), but he treated Lil’ Miller as would the 70-year-old Polisci professor who knows he’s being bullshitted by the freshman brown-noser who spent his summer reading Jihad vs. McWorld.

Yawn. Child’s play.

Speaking of, let’s get rid of the dunk contest. Like right now. We’ve exhausted every idea and we’ve done so at the expense of the contest’s legacy. Vince Carter didn’t need a car to jump over. The Doctor didn’t need two baskets. MJ and ‘Nique didn’t need three balls.

We’ve traded fluidity for spectacle, creativity for church choirs (true story). The ’80s treated dunking as in-air ballet. This is trench warfare. I’ve seen enough. And in fact, the second best dunk I witnessed all-weekend – behind Demar Derozan’s whirling, reverse-tomahawk 180 – was round-mound DeJaun Blair’s throw-it-to-myself thunder slam that nearly took down the Stapler during the Rookie-Sophomore challenge.

The contest is a joke. The judges are a joke. And the fact that 12-year-old boys – the only people besides me and Bryan that watch this garbage – get to choose the winner is the greatest joke ever told. Blake Griffin could’ve farted in a can for his final dunk and still outpolled Javale McGee among the pre-pubescent X-boxer demo.

I conclude with observations of equal import. First, Kobe displayed ups Sunday night I didn’t know he still had. I’ve read his weekend interviews. He’s not worried about his team in the least, and – lest we forget – he’s a 5-time champion. I like the Lakers to right this ship and have a huge second half.

And finally, white Russian (not the drink) Mikhail Prohkorov made a strong case for “greatest statement these ears have ever heard,” so I will transcribe it in closing.

On his weekend rendezvous with ‘Melo: “It was a fantastic meeting, trust me. No words, live music, excellent atmosphere. We looked into each other’s eyes. Just real man talk.”

Let that simmer.

- Robbie