I <3 Hart
You might not know him yet but this is a guest post from a guy who isn't afraid to let it all hang out. Here it is.
I came from the internet, just like the rest of them. I came mostly because of the W’s, the kind of ephemeral letter that flickers like a scoreboard lightbulb in Crisler, the one that always seems to surge with a crackle of electricity as the clock reads zeroes and drives out the bleak emptiness of the losses. I came when I saw Mike Hart, but let’s not dwell on that. The haze of a malleable past where “what ifs” become certain realities lends itself to, if anything, an epically long-winded run-on of creative diarrhea, so that less than cohesive memories strung together like the diamond weave of a basketball net with collegiate adulations will seem to imply there’s deeper meaning.
There’s technically no more time but let’s call for more time.
It was years after the facts if facts even exist but nothing matters anyway. I never knew the Fab Five- nobody really knew them before Jalen Rose appeared on the ESPN scene. Jalen appeared amongst the legions of button-down, over-the-top talking heads and he belonged. The ease of appearing so at ease left me wondering when the background wall of noise, the crescendo of the unanswered allegations and shades of spectres would rise again.
But his self-serving documentary fought back, slashing and hacking as a Crusader against the perceptions of an infamous team that set into motion an avalanche on its alma mater, and stopping to pillage and have its way with the mindful rebuttals of nothing to show. It happened, and it always had.
The tattered remains of dishonorable seasons enchanted, enhanced, and crammed with the semblance of stylish fashionable vogue. Base race arguments whirl as a miasmic harbinger to change, blotting the past til the mutable message emerges at last- we did something great.
It’s like someone saying “So tell me who the Fab Five was” last year. The sun vanishes and I no longer feel the shame and dissatisfaction of achievements left unattained or see the tarnish to the program, and my eyes close and my mind calms, the laudations emerge. Jalen is still half-buzzed by the side of the road and laughing at how easy it was.
This isn’t what you expected. You expected a dextrous homage to a diminutive tailback, legs churning like pistons in a cyclone of mixed metaphor. It’s like being in a movie theater with your popcorn when you were a kid, eyes wide open with that tingling sensation as you sat too close to the screen in an impossibly dark world of possibilities, but leaving with the buttery aftertaste of reality.
They were, and always have been, regardless of origin they might be, if only for a nanosecond, aimlessly disjointed words and commas.
This guy used to write stuff like this before Uncle Tom shut him down. He met Steve Fisher once but Fisher denies it to this day.