The Big O

Except for the fact that it opens the door to Spring, which I fucking hate, February is one of my favorite months because it is Black History month. All of a sudden PBS, HBO and VH1 Classic roll it all out: documentaries about Malcom X, MLK, Joe Louis, Marvin Gaye, that Temptations movie is on a loop, and documentaries about soul music and Motown are all over the place. In other words, shit you wanna be seeing all year long anyways. I'll re-read sections of "Parting the Waters" and "Walking with the Wind", I'll think back to my own first racial experience, and without fail I'm shocked to realize that most of these events happened within shouting distance of my own birth. It can read in history as if it's many lifetimes ago, but in reality it's within my own. Always disorienting.

Anyone who knows me knows I'm a fan of Indiana high school basketball. Years before "Hoosiers", I knew about the 1954 Milan team: I knew who Bobby Plump was, I knew about the 4:20 stall. And I knew that they had beaten Crispus Attucks, which of course featured a sophomore named Oscar Robertson. Attucks would go on to win the next two state championships, in 1955 becoming the first black team to win the title in Indiana.

This month on Starz in Black they've been showing a documentary called "Something to Cheer About." Made in 2002, I did not even know this existed til I landed on it the other night. It is about that Attucks team, and it features grainy b/w footage and old radio clips along with current interviews with the members of that team. The team went 62-1 over two years and won two state championships. According to Indiana tradition, the state champion (of which there was only one, no matter the size of your school, CUE "HOOSIER"S ON YOUR NETFLIX!!!!!!!!!!!!!) was given a fire truck parade through the street of Indiannapolis, feted as heroes. Any young man's dream, for sure. Of course when Attucks won, the powers that be decided you know what, they should have the parade "in your own community." No fire trucks, no Indiannapolis. The players were driven outside of town to hold their party because, and I quote, "They said the blacks are gonna tear up downtown."

In the documentary Oscar is asked about this. Now, this is NBA Hall of Famer Oscar Robertson. He came along before NBA players became bazillionaires, but through basketball he was given an education, and then more money than anyone in his old neighborhood could have dreamed of. He made a ton of money, wears Cosby sweaters and lives in a mansion in the burbs, sitting back and soaking in decades and decades of adulation from boys and men of every color. I'm white, and if I ran into Oscar Robertson and he said to kiss his ass, I'd pucker up. I can only dream of being him, having his life. He's become and elder stateman, a revered landmark in the history of the game.

Yet when asked, Oscar said he would never forgive the white people for what they did to him, to his team. There was no apology in his eyes when he says there's no way he'll ever forgive and forget. The "fuck you" was palpable. There was no mistake. And it really hit me; I was like jesus christ, if Oscar isn't lulled into some sort of warm-milk "oh, everything was always alright, I'm rich now so it don't matter" feeling after all these years, how the fuck bad must if have been? I can read all the books I want, I can see all the documentaries in the world and I can cry during "I Wish It Would Rain" or "Raisin in the Sun", but to act like I can know what it was like a mere generation ago, I am a fool.

One set of blood ago. That's hard to believe.

Despair is heartbreaking. But despair after success, that's telling.