#MNR: Throw the Rock, Hide the Hand

#MNR: Throw the Rock, Hide the Hand

I’m from an era in America when things were a bit different from what passes as copesetic today. We kept family business in-house; we didn’t put our personal business in the street. The village helped to raise children, being that in Black America, a lot of us didn’t always have the traditional nuclear family. This help extended past grandparents and uncles/aunties; it also existed within the community. The neighbors could check you, as could trusted teachers and coaches. For many of us, that was the way it went. Sure, our folk were hard on us. At times they were excessive with it. But all in all, I’m thankful for the way I was raised. It wasn’t perfect, but it was effective. It prepared us for the cold world outside our front door. We knew that “America” wasn’t always willing to embrace us-skinned folk with open arms.

Shit talking…let’s talk about it. I want to begin this paragraph by stating that one thing our folk definitely prepared us for in life is shit talking. We actually learned with our ears – auditory education. Coming up, we listened to our mom, pop, grandma, gpa, uncles, aunties dem talk all types of trash at the functions, cookouts, and in the barber shop/hair salon. This was years before we were bold enough to reveal the contents of our own accrued cache of four-letter words, dozens material, cracking [on]/jawning [on]/roasting, and overall trash talk. But we were well prepared because we listened and took meticulous notes. Of course, we made our shit talking debut long before our parents caught wind of our exploits because even though we learned it from their asses, we were wrong to do it ourselves (whatever + 3 sleep emoji). Regardless, we were willing to take that risk. But one thing was always imperative: whatever you dish out, be willing to take in return, and then some. There was no moving of the goal posts. If you talked shit to the next MF, you had to be prepared to take whatever came your way. My brother Robert “St. Louis” “Louie” Glaspy would tell a MF that the only rule was you can’t cry, meaning you can’t get emotional when the shit talking gets heavy. You gotta hold that like a battle rapper has to when her/his opponent is bombing away on their ass with the personals. It’s part of the sport. We always knew and understood this as being the first WRITTEN rule of shit talking. Yup, you know where this is going…

Much like most of us who have a social media presence, I heard about the Kevin Durant/Michael Rapaport situation when it happened. I chose not to even click on it to go in-depth. It wasn’t that it was of no interest to me. It was because I already knew how both parties get down and that there was a possibility that it could quickly go left. KD can be impetuous at times. I’m not knocking him for that because I was still in my feelings when I was his age. I know that mentality all too well. And much like myself, KD is also TTG (IYKYK) whenever someone shoots in his direction on social media. That boy stays clipped up, as he should be. I endorse it. Fuck you. That’s off top. I’m not gonna be the better person. I’m gonna get lower than granite to earth. I’m gonna try my best to make you cry (that was my old mentality; I’ll mostly ignore now). And then there’s Rapaport. Mike’s a pest and formerly a semi-adorable troll. He’s gonna stir the pot. He’s gonna talk his shit. He’s gonna make you take notice. I had no problem with his approach because I always knew him to be able to take what he dished out. But I knew that any type of conflict between these two men could be problematic because of their aforementioned reputations on social media. I also knew that when it comes down to a Black man getting into it with a white man, the brother is going to lose. Sure, Rapaport is Jewish. But he damn sure ain’t Black, so my point stands. But I couldn’t help myself this morning. As soon as I heard that Rapaport was gonna be on Undisputed with Uncle Shay Shay and Skip, I backtracked and did my research. I read how it went down. As I expected, it began over something petty and inconsequential. Mike subbed KD about his seemingly cold-natured postgame interview earlier in the season with Chuck, Kenny, Ernie, and Shaq. He was quick to point out that he didn’t @KDTrey5 (KD’s Twitter handle), but anyone who has a basic understanding of social media knows that a sub will reach its intended recipient damn near as fast as @ing them. So that was a bitch move on Rapaport’s part. He shoulda kept it a bean. You sent a shot at that man, and he clapped back. Cool. It was what it was. But Mike eventually got emotional when KD started bombing on his sensitive ass. Then he committed the ultimate act of fuckery by making the correspondence public. Did I mention that this interaction took place in the DM? Everyone knows that DM are meant to stay private (lmao). But Rapaport decided to put the interaction on front street. Let’s park the mothership there. Let me out right here Gpa George (Clinton).

Michael David Rapaport, you are 51 years of age. You are a Brooklynite. You know good and damn well how this thing goes. You dish it, you take it. Ain’t no hard feelings or tears. If there are, stay your soft ass away from the mean kids table in the cafeteria. YOU HAVE THE CHOICE. When you buy the ticket, you ride the ride. Now, I could go full Ty Monday 115 mode and Baghdad airstrike bomb on your Hostess Twinkie tuchus until there’s nothing left. But you’re two full graduating classes older than me. You graduated high school the year KD was born. Smmfh. Grow up Mr. Softie. You’re pathetic. NOTE TO MY FOLK: leave these people alone (Reynaldo Rey voice on Friday).THEY JUST WANT TO THROW THE ROCK AND HIDE THE HAND. It’s similar to the personal foul penalty for unnecessary roughness (non-QB) in the NFL: 80% of the time it’s the man who reacts that gets the flag. Treat them like children. Ignore them. KD, I hate your squad (truly…it’s all about #KNICKSNATION), but you’ve been my guy since you took the Big 12 hostage. Keep shining, DMV KING. The streets got your back. Fuck a hater. RIP Mr. Reynaldo Rey.

That’s about all I have to say on this Monday. Love to the world. Eastside get the money, long time no cash.

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