Adjusting to a new life
Buffalo Bills running back Marshawn Lynch sees the looks, hears the whispers. His pencil-thin dreads with the bronze-colored tips, his gold-rimmed teeth and tattoos and broken English -- not exactly the costume of a societal role model.
But if you know anything about the Oakland street culture that produced Lynch, you'll know he's the poster boy for everything cool, which trumps professionalism all day every day. A product of the Hyphy Movement -- the Bay Area's energetic imprint on this era of hip-hop -- Lynch keeps a scowl, prefers a white T-shirt and uses the phrase "what it do?" as a greeting.
Try asking him to change his tune.
"I'll shake my dreads and show my grill," Marshawn Lynch said with all the defiance he could muster. "I get judged on my appearance a lot. It's been that way for a long time. I don't get caught up in how people view me. It's just me. I've been living this way for 21 years. Why should I change now?"
It illustrates the quandary faced by many athletes from the ghetto: assimilate or reject.
Major professional sports are filled with young men who were raised in a street culture where Air Force Ones are regarded as dress shoes, the N-word is a term of endearment and self-worth is derived from what you wear and drive. They have been indoctrinated with morals based on unique concepts of loyalty, respect and rebellion. But, being professional athletes, or even big-time college athletes, they're expected to adopt mainstream culture. Immediately.
They are told to give up weed, which was their rite of passage. They are told to walk away from certain friends, who were their allies in poverty. They are told to abandon guns, never mind they trust firearms more than they do the police.
Surviving some of America's roughest neighborhoods is often followed by the difficult task of transitioning out of the 'hood life in which they were immersed. As evidenced by the number of athletes who get in trouble, many fail at this transition or learn some hard lessons in the process.
Forget about being role models. Some of these athletes are still trying to learn their roles in a new class.
"It's a very tough transition. That's all they know," said sports agent Calvin Andrews, a Richmond native who established a respected AAU program in Oakland before representing NBA players such as Carmelo Anthony and Drew Gooden. "We assume that when you're making millions of dollars and in the spotlight, you understand what that's all about. But (they) still have the mentality of where they come from. You don't understand marketing. You don't understand public perception. You don't understand accounting. So you go to your comfort zone -- your homies, the things you did before."
It has become commonplace to chastise athletes for run-ins with the law, drug use, a lack of professionalism and hip-hop attire -- behavior many feel are tainting big-time sports. But those familiar with the reality of many of these athletes' origins have a hard time piling on, even at the risk of being perceived as condoning such behavior -- which partly explains why millions supported Atlanta Falcons star Michael Vick despite his dogfighting ties.
It makes sense that so many athletes would possess guns when one considers the violence to which they've been exposed. FBI statistics released last month show the murder rate climbed 4.9 percent in urban counties during the first half of 2007.
It makes sense that numerous athletes get in trouble with the law when one factors in the rate at which inner-city products are incarcerated. In September, the U.S. Census Bureau released data showing there were three times more African-Americans in jail than in dorm rooms in 2006.
It makes sense that marijuana usage is so prevalent in professional sports inasmuch as drugs are a staple of inner-city life. The Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Association, part of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, conducted a survey charting drug use. The results, titled the "National Survey on Drug Use and Health," was released in June and stated that for 2006, 9.8 percent of African-Americans age 12 and older had used illicit drugs in the month before being surveyed. By comparison, 8.5 percent of their white counterparts had done the same, as had 6.9 percent of Hispanics and 3.6 percent of Asians.
Patrick Christopher, a shooting guard on Cal's men's basketball team, knows the statistics. He spent his adolescence trying to not become one, which is why, he said, he can't help but have compassion for those who didn't avoid it.
Christopher grew up in the Los Angeles area, in the city that inspired the Eazy-E lyrics "Straight outta Compton, is a brotha that'll smother yo' mother, and make ya sister think I love her. Dangerous, (expletive) raising hell, and if I ever get caught, I'll make bail."
Yeah, that's Christopher's hometown. He had it much better than many of his friends, being raised in a stable household featuring both parents and having the positive example of Detroit Pistons forward TayShaun Prince, his god-brother who grew up across the street. Still, Christopher wasn't sheltered from the bleak surroundings, growing up around Crips. To this day, he said he won't wear Blood colors in his neighborhood. His red Yankees hat knows only Northern California sun.
"I don't like to make excuses or anything, but sometimes circumstances are a little tougher for some people," Christopher said. "Then when you (add) those circumstances (to) being an athlete, it makes it harder. But that's the life that athletes choose. You take the good and the bad."
They certainly take the good and the bad when it comes to friends, something many consider the most notable flaw of troubled athletes. The inability to sever ties with negative influences has been the downfall of many professional players.
It was Vick's friends and co-defendants -- Tony Taylor, Purnell Peace and Quanis Phillips -- who set up and ran the dogfighting operation for which Vick is now serving time. Pro Bowl defensive back Adam "Pacman" Jones, currently suspended by the NFL for repeated run-ins with the law, faced serious charges when one of his cohorts allegedly shot a strip club security guard.
But cutting loose bad acquaintances isn't as easy as it sounds. Warriors point guard Baron Davis, a South Central Los Angeles native, said it took time to whittle down his circle. And, even then, he didn't cut out every undesirable.
He shouldn't be tight with Tremaine Ross, some would say.
"My homeboy Terminator," Davis said, using Ross' nickname, "he came up even rougher than I did. A lot rougher. He had an opportunity to play junior college and college ball but got tied into the wrong crowd. Now he's running his business and staying out of trouble, and that's the most important thing."
Ross knew Davis way before Davis was a star point guard in the NBA, back when Davis was bumming 50 cents off classmates at the upscale Crossroads High School in Santa Monica. Because of their history, Davis wouldn't be able to look himself in the mirror had he ditched Ross. Call it right or wrong, but the culture in which he was raised doesn't work like that. Nonetheless, the price to pay for not severing ties can be steep.
Anthony -- the Denver Nuggets star who keeps his cornrows though a clean cut might help his image -- became the target of criticism in 2004, just over a year after he was drafted, when he appeared in a DVD in which men threatened "snitches." But all he was doing, Anthony contended, was shooting the breeze with people he knew from his old neighborhood in Baltimore. Anthony went on to denounce the street code of "stop snitching" and lent his appeal to the governor's anti-violence initiative. Lesson learned.
But how long does it take to grasp new ideologies? To correct misplaced loyalties? To break bad habits and worse relationships? Maybe longer than most think.
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