Shake the snakes, pimp the system

What Happened to the Revolt Black Athlete?

He traded in his Kufi for a New Era

maybe, just maybe he still lurks in the shadows quietly building momentum. maybe he shoots cops, ODs on pills, and borrows piss to pass drug tests in order to shield the man from his true intentions.

but what's that you say? you thought he said he was the man? nah, homie. completely different context. but maybe it's just fiction and all for naught. maybe he has retreated to the recesses of suburbia unwilling to risk life, limb, and liberty to speak out loud like jim brown roared and as tall as lew alcindor stood. maybe the vasectomy of the black male athlete is a parallel to the black male hero figure because they barely have their balls and their words left.

just like a Rochester customer
God blessed the mothers and younger brothers of hustlas
Cause she don't wanna sob at his wake
But he wanna follow in his steps, bend his hat, learn his shakes
Master his swagger in the bathroom mirror, cop a Chevy, steady mob in his place

rendered at a disadvantaged in a disproportionate number of circumstances yet unwilling to chalk up the gap to the status quo. he presses on. unrelenting in his quest for success, progress, and redemption. he knows of the sacrfice. he bears the marks of one hundred whip lashes across his neck and back as he shoves black gloves in his socks for insurance just in case he gets fronted on. just in case heads wasn't ready. because he grunts when he dunks and dances in end zones with a carefree zeal because he knows it is about more than just the score. the victory. the one-up. the come-up. much more than a snapshot of his life.

and they wonder why athletes became role models. they used to hold us down. idolization was fly because the idols were the flyest. yet the kufi is still there. he wears many hats. from fitteds to doo-rags and kangols and skully caps. he is the sheep in wolf's clothing.

With a different face from the one that he use to face his mama
If you look close, You'll see it consist of a smile that hurts, an ice grill, and a trace of trauma
-Lupe Fiasco, "Just Might Be Okay"