HoopsHype.com NBA Blogs - Gabe Muoneke

Greetings to all the people giving well wishes! And wow the fellow Bantus! No shakin’. I no sabi wey d 9ja people go dey plenty. How far? That’s just a Nigerian style greeting, so no accusations of African cursing on the net. Moving on…

I knew in advance this blog’s focus was to give a real life outlook on that D-League experience with aspirations of NBA… Whatever. The thing is I have to force myself to be patient because I have a plethora of stories and what I like to call useless info cascading through my brain. Like when I was almost killed in Algeria with the Nigerian National team, twice! I think the coolest part of that was Ime Udoka catching and quickly dispacthing an Algerian attacker from behind me. (That boy ain’t close to a punk!) Or the day I got cut from Detroit on the day of travel for the first regular season game. (It was not as dissapointing as it was hilarious). But rather let me give the typical NBADL blah… And hopefully transition slickly to the cool basketball stories… pay-shents.

(Feel free to skip to ‘Rhetorical Questions’ for the good stuff and avoid the D-league rantings).

Oh. Right. D-League. Um… Me, 29. Everyone else, 12. That’s just to give an idea how eye-rolling this is for me. I mean, I try. I really do try to be one of the guys but DAYUM! You can’t tell some of these guys nothing. Do you remember I mentioned the two reasons a guy might do this? Do you really believe some of the participants in this basketball “The Price is Right” are doing this for a call up? The funny thing is… Yes! And they play with the wreckless abandon of a bull in a rodeo to show it. You try give a guy some of the knowledge you’ve attained over the years and try to get them to slow down, relax, be smart. Not only is it ignored with utter basketball daftness as if the NBA has lost half its players to heart attacks and are now in need of 6-foot-3 power forward that plays from a three-point stance, sometimes you are met with juvenile insults.

Insults.

Now I’m in the position where it’s a battle not to get perturbed even though I’m not playing for a call up (we’ll discuss that later) so local consequences are of no consequence to me. However, I can’t be dumb. The fact remains, there are those playing for the whopping $3,000 a month that have absolutely nothing to lose. On the other side of the Kobo, I have tons to lose. For me, it is quite literally a million-dollar investment. Overseas teams are just as critical as NBA teams. My father used to warn me all the time, “Ukpanna majue, o zuru ike na ahuo nnunnu.” It means: the grasshopper that won’t stop jumping will find rest in the belly of a bird. And I’m the dad-gum grasshopper. When a brotha get froggy… I can’t jump.

The other day in practice a wired-up (teammate) (I’ll try not to use names when it’s a negative thing. I have no intention to raze, rather inspire with experience) slapped the ball in my face when I stopped play because we were in the wrong spots. “Dude! Chill!” He looked at me and what do you think he said? All he had to say was “my bad.” Needless to say, he didn’t. Sorry is a hard thing to say but when it’s mastered, it’s very dissarming.

CJ Watson is probably the only name that comes to mind when asked, “who doesn’t belong here?” He’s just too damn good. The other name that comes to mind… Ha ha, you guessed it. But not for the reason you might think. Doing this still remains a bit moot in my mind but it’s more along the lines of lifestyle. I’m not a rap junkie. I don’t wear baggy flamboyant clothes. My southern vocab slang is good, real good. But that’s due to years of practice. To this day, it remains fake. I was raised in the United States, though I am Bantu by way of Nigeria. My entire family, from my parents to my wife, is Bantu. I speak five languages and think in all five (a fact I was just made aware of due to Trent Strickland posing the inquiry). And I am an education advocate. In short, I don’t belong. Never have. No matter how hard I try. I’ve done better by just not talking to anyone. Kind of like putting a wolf in a hen house and the head of the farm are the foxes monitoring the wolf and his behavior. It sucks. And the hens know it… So they just peck away and I can’t eat the… I mean the wolf… Sorry, the wolf can’t eat the chickens because he wants the privilege to one day join the pack. So in this case, laying low would be the words of the day.

RETHORICAL QUESTIONS

I think this is the fun part of the blog…

First of all, I’m a weirdo so I have these blanket assesments that are almost always never true… Huh? But they serve the purpose of satisfying my over-analyzation of the most minute details and making e sound smart. (Did I say that outloud?) Here’s one: Almost all questions a human being can ask are rhetorical, because the answer is obvious to someone or the person asking is ignoring the obvious. See? Not totally true but sounds good and makes me feel better. Why is 30 considered so old in the NBA? Why would a multi-million dollar entity feel they need to tell one insignificant person something to jade his/her perception of the situation? Why is this simple game made to seem like rocket science? The list goes on.

Here’s a pointer that will assist in answering all the questions. Don’t believe the hype. I was told I was too old to be considered for an NBA team this year. Yet I can give countless examples of why the people saying that are just answering for convenience. Of course, no one has ever come to the NBA for the first time after a great overseas career at 27-plus years old. And me being the geezer that I am, I see why Charlotte opted for the spry Derek Anderson. Am I saying I am better than Derek Anderson? Who cares? D.A. is an unbelievable asset to Charlotte and he is underpaid. They’re lucky to have him. What I’m saying is; don’t say that. Just say… Uh no. You suck. A lot easier to assess one’s future with the truth. The truth is age really doesn’t matter. What matters is, how many miles do you have on your legs? And how well have you taken care of your body? Seeing as I’ve transtioned to this raw organic diet thing, I see the human body wasn’t made to age quickly.

Skipping right to the way people complicate basketball. I was going yo use Matt Carroll and Ime Udoka as examples of how players are over-analyzed to a point when people can’t even tell that someone is just good. but after seeing what Kelenna Azubuike is doing… I had to use him solo. Geez! Who the hell scouted that guy out of college to justify him being undrafted? Someone tell me if he was a first-round pick doing what he is doing now at this age he wouldn’t be extended a five-year, 60 million contract. That SOB is killin’! I mean everytime I look at the stats he’s got 20-something. Nna maaaaan! Pya ha utali! (He knows what that means).

Or how’s this for complicating the game. Did you see in college basketball they moved all the players up a spot on the lane! Are you kidding me? I mean, seriously, how ass-toundigly absurd is that? Here’s a thought… Call a foul. I bet if you call over the back a few times guys will hate fouling out so much they’ll stop doing it. Thank you, Dalai Lama. I have transcended the constraints of the daft. Sorry, not to be rude. But c’mon…

I think people may have gotten the wrong idea on this blog, though. I’m by no means mad at the NBA. It is what it is. A machine. I love everthing about how the NBA works. And David Stern? I love him. I mean, I love hat dude. When they talk about Warren Buffet and Bill Gates, Mike Dell etcetera… They should include my man. Say what you will but when they offer a class of Stern Tephlon Chemistry 101, I’m there dude. (Did you see how he was talking to Congress when they charged him up about steroids and the NBA? Classic. Dare I say? Brilliant.) Anyway. I can’t be mad at something constant because it doesn’t benefit me. It just hupas because, to date, playing in the NBA (at least for a season or two) was my long-term goal. So the goals have simply transitioned slowly.

As for individuals in the NBA that influenced my positively or negatively, I don’t wish to bash anyone. I think all people are good at heart. I’m sure the guy I talked about in the first blog meant nothing by what he said. And I’m sure if he knew how it affected my play he wouldn’t have done it. For that reason if the outcome is fruitful, I will gleefuly divulge names. If it is not, I just won’t. See, I read other blogs and I rarely see the point. This blog is not, in essence, about me. It would be boring if it were. The point is to inspire. I want someone to inspire me to do something fruitful outside of myself in experiences I can relate to. And believe me, seeing as how I am what my wife calls a quasi-servant, my life/journey as an NBA “eh…not quite” D-Leaguer, everyone can relate to.

Here’s an example. A fan I saw at the Rockets/Lakers game told me something even more surprising than the fact he remembered me, if it’s true. He told me, every player ever to have a 30-plus point game in the history of the Pepsi Pro Summer League signed an NBA contract, until this year. Yep. Yours truly is now the first to do something. That’s just funny. Sorry it is. Ryan Hollins told me something I could barely make out over his laughter. He said I’d either be blackballed or find a career in writing. To that I say, when you’re out with a beauty queen, what’s better? To be blackballed or blueballed? At least the first assures you of the outcome.

The whole thing about basketball guys complicating the obvious is still in my mind, so I leave you with this skit that will be plastered in my mind if I don’t tell it. I call it “El Elefante en la Habitacion que Nadie Quiere Ver.”

Who says: Anyone see that elephant in here?
What retorts: What elephant? I don’t see an elephant. Do you?
How responds: Nah! No. Uh Uh. Nope…Unless of course you do. In which case I do too.
Who: Well… I think I do.
How and What: Phew! Thank God. We thought we were crazy.
What: That thing is huge!
Who: Well, it’s not that big.
What: Well, of course. By huge I meant small.

And so on…

Shalom!

Shelly Clark… That was the guy I said I’d never be like. I met him my first year in the D-League when I was 23 and he was what seemed like 80. I told myself I would never be some old fogey nearing 30 in the D-League trying to get a call up. But here I am, a couple of gut punches and seven years later, playing for the Rio Grande Valley Vipers of the NBADL. Ah ha! But looking for a call up? Because, I mean… Isn’t that what everyone plays in the D-League for? Either a call up or for the money, right? Well, being a Petroleum Engineer grad from the University of Texas-Austin (the best university in America), I asssure you money is not my inspiration. At least not the factor bringing me back to a league I simply never fathomed playing again in.

The funny thing is, a call up is the last thing on my mind. So why the D-League, oh former No. 4 pick of the first NBDL Draft? (If it weren’t so sad it’d be comical). The dangling carrot, mon frere. And I fell for it again. I was in the zone. Making good money with a plan to make more in my country of origin, Nigeria. With the NBA dream behind me and a new tendon connecting my quad to my patella, I had a drawn-out plan to save $1 million, retire from basketball and get into African biz. Hey, I never wanted to be like Mike. I just wanted to get one day in the league to say I did it. I wanted to be like George Weah, or Gaddafi. (OK, maybe the latter was a bad example, but he is an African pimp).

Anyway… Nooooo, I had to listen to the, “Gabe, go for it one more time,” “You just need to play the 3,” “show ‘em you can shoot the ball,” “Lose some weight” blah blah bl… Wait. Never tried losing weight. Never thought it mattered. But after long self deliberation, I turned down 300K-plus contracts (with some help from outside advisors) and chose to take an invitaion to vet’s camp with the Bobcats after losing 50 pounds of muscle to prove how much I was dedicated to being on that team. Do you have any idea how hard it is to lose muscle? I was 271 pounds and 8 percent body fat on May 21. Today I am 228 and less than 5 percent body fat. I got as low as 221 while in Charlotte. It is one of the reasons the NFL is so much different from the NBA. Or I should say the NBA is so much different than every other pro sports league? There is simply no equation for playing in the NBA for those who are not, well, freaks. You know the 7-foot-3 spartans who can dunk with their nostrils? That kind of guys.

For the 6-foot-7 tweeners, I got news for you. Ready? Listen to no one, listen to everyone, play really really really hard and pray for a lot of luck. Because I’ve done it all. Answered every question, perfected every drill, learned to play ambidextrous, and taught myself to shoot the cliche’d pee-pee out of the ball. But sans luck… And your up poo-poo’s creek.

Honestly, though, I have no regrets. And bitterness went out the window with the birth of my son when I was 24. I just have a lot of rhetorical questions. (That means questions for which the answers are obvious.) For example… Why did I tolerate all that I did? I mean… If you don’t know, rookie free agents get treated like the red-headed kid trying to sneak a piece of the drumstick during Thanksgiving. It’s not really a big deal when you’re the youngest as I was in Detroit and Houston. But when you’re 29 and in camp being told how to play by guys six years younger than you when you have played everywhere against every type of competition – not to mention the fact that I played four years of college ball – it tends to get a bit tiresome. Or being yelled at for shooting the ball too much in a preseason – I repeat, preseason game – by a 10-year vet as if you were stealing his lunch money. Is it just me or should he even care? Believe me, for every knucklehead insecure millionaire (well… millionaire?) yelling at the rookie free agent for not passing him the ball with three seconds left on the shot clock, there are tons of vets who either truly want you to achieve your dream or just don’t care.

I have had the pleasure of meeting and associating with people who were incredible individuals and that far outweighs the negatives of losing money and/or the rare occurrence of being looked down on by someone who might be your intellectual minor or just simply your minor. Chauncey “Dome” Billups (gotcha, Chaunce), cooler than a polar bear’s toe nails. Jerry Sloan was so polite I almost wanted him to shout at me. I mean a Hall of Fame coach telling you good morning and using your first name before practice? Byron Scott. I heard he was cocky before I met him and after meeting him… He has every right to be. That man is 45 and looks like he’s 25. He can dunk without flexing a toe and I bet he can outrun every player on the Hornets today. (That is not a knock on the Hornets, but to describe to you the type of person he is. He was the first one in the gym working out. That takes a type of discipline rarely seen. Not to mention he’s a winner, coaching and playing).

Anyway, the list goes on and on. I could talk about just one of the great people I’ve been in contact with in the NBA and it would be a whole blog. So I’ll save them and savor them in future blogs. That’s the best I can do as a “wannabe” on the outside looking in. As for now, I have to get on the road. Houston to Mission, TX is a five-hour drive and we’ve got practice tomorrow… Oops, today. I don’t really consider it practice. It’s more like babysitting now.

Shalom!