As young black boys in Alief, Tex., my friends and I often spent afternoons imagining ourselves scoring the game-winning touchdown at the end of the Super Bowl. Each time we went through it, the final play would become more outlandish.
We knew we could be champions because the ones we watched on TV looked just like us. And we had already learned that to escape to a better life, we needed to be wearing a jersey. The jersey became a cape; our talents on the field became the superpowers we were recognized for.
We were black boys. And to be born a black boy is to be born into athletics. Black fathers are often disappointed if their sons aren’t good at sports. Not excelling at sports as a black boy meant not being cool — even weirder, it meant not really being black. When you’re growing up as a black boy, it feels like the world tosses you a ball and says, Good luck. Go get ’em, Champ.
The superpowers we felt wearing a jersey were real: We could leap defenders in a single bound to catch the ball, run faster than a speeding bullet down the sideline, lift 400-pound offensive tackles with our super-strength. Passed down generation to generation, from black boy to black boy, those jerseys empowered us. We all believed we were the chosen ones who could do the impossible, what we saw so many before us fail to do: make it to the National Football League. Eventually, I did.
But most of the black boys I spent my afternoons with, playing in imaginary Super Bowls, weren’t at the lockers next to mine. Most of the black boys who picture themselves winning this Sunday’s game will never play in a real one.
And that’s fine: Playing in the NFL isn’t really — and shouldn’t have to be — every black boy’s dream. But black boys don’t always know that their dreams off the field matter. They need the space to see other, diverse possibilities for themselves. Black boys shouldn’t have to feel that being good at sports is the only way to be cool — or to be valued by the world.
A jersey isn’t the only cape a black boy can wear.
The stats prove I was the exception: Less than 2 percent of college football or basketball players go on to play in the NFL or the National Basketball Association. Just 8 out of every 10,000 high school football players get drafted by an NFL team. But for too many black boys, that’s still the only path to success that seems feasible. At the 65 universities in the biggest NCAA sports conferences, black men are 2.4 percent of undergraduate students but 55 percent of the football players and 56 percent of the basketball players.
Growing up, our athletic talents created a hierarchy for how we were viewed in the neighborhood. Colleges, newspapers, magazines and websites even ranked us according to ability. The better you were at sports, the more respect and love you got. We were celebrated as athletes, and that felt good — every kid wants to be celebrated — so we all competed to become the best.
Parents saw our potential and pushed us to keep trying. If you were an average player, they’d take time to set up practice drills to help you improve. If you were good, the entire community invested in you — coming to games, talking about you in the barbershop. Even your friends saw you differently: There was hope for you, but not for them. The neighborhood held you to a higher standard than the other kids. You became the chosen one. You’re the one who’s gonna make it. If you were average at school, though, almost no one pushed you to become a better student. No one set up drills to take your academics from good to great. Grades mattered only when they kept you from playing. A C-minus and an A-plus were exactly the same, because they both meant you were eligible to stay on the team.
In college, too, you’re an athlete first, a student second. Coaches steer you into majors at which they think you can succeed — defining “success” as maintaining eligibility — and toward courses that don’t pull you away from your athletic responsibilities. As black boys, you go to college to try to get to the league, not to try to get a degree.
More at link
https://www.washingtonpost.com/news...-bigger/?utm_term=.86c953b4f20c&noredirect=on
We knew we could be champions because the ones we watched on TV looked just like us. And we had already learned that to escape to a better life, we needed to be wearing a jersey. The jersey became a cape; our talents on the field became the superpowers we were recognized for.
We were black boys. And to be born a black boy is to be born into athletics. Black fathers are often disappointed if their sons aren’t good at sports. Not excelling at sports as a black boy meant not being cool — even weirder, it meant not really being black. When you’re growing up as a black boy, it feels like the world tosses you a ball and says, Good luck. Go get ’em, Champ.
The superpowers we felt wearing a jersey were real: We could leap defenders in a single bound to catch the ball, run faster than a speeding bullet down the sideline, lift 400-pound offensive tackles with our super-strength. Passed down generation to generation, from black boy to black boy, those jerseys empowered us. We all believed we were the chosen ones who could do the impossible, what we saw so many before us fail to do: make it to the National Football League. Eventually, I did.
But most of the black boys I spent my afternoons with, playing in imaginary Super Bowls, weren’t at the lockers next to mine. Most of the black boys who picture themselves winning this Sunday’s game will never play in a real one.
And that’s fine: Playing in the NFL isn’t really — and shouldn’t have to be — every black boy’s dream. But black boys don’t always know that their dreams off the field matter. They need the space to see other, diverse possibilities for themselves. Black boys shouldn’t have to feel that being good at sports is the only way to be cool — or to be valued by the world.
A jersey isn’t the only cape a black boy can wear.
The stats prove I was the exception: Less than 2 percent of college football or basketball players go on to play in the NFL or the National Basketball Association. Just 8 out of every 10,000 high school football players get drafted by an NFL team. But for too many black boys, that’s still the only path to success that seems feasible. At the 65 universities in the biggest NCAA sports conferences, black men are 2.4 percent of undergraduate students but 55 percent of the football players and 56 percent of the basketball players.
Growing up, our athletic talents created a hierarchy for how we were viewed in the neighborhood. Colleges, newspapers, magazines and websites even ranked us according to ability. The better you were at sports, the more respect and love you got. We were celebrated as athletes, and that felt good — every kid wants to be celebrated — so we all competed to become the best.
Parents saw our potential and pushed us to keep trying. If you were an average player, they’d take time to set up practice drills to help you improve. If you were good, the entire community invested in you — coming to games, talking about you in the barbershop. Even your friends saw you differently: There was hope for you, but not for them. The neighborhood held you to a higher standard than the other kids. You became the chosen one. You’re the one who’s gonna make it. If you were average at school, though, almost no one pushed you to become a better student. No one set up drills to take your academics from good to great. Grades mattered only when they kept you from playing. A C-minus and an A-plus were exactly the same, because they both meant you were eligible to stay on the team.
In college, too, you’re an athlete first, a student second. Coaches steer you into majors at which they think you can succeed — defining “success” as maintaining eligibility — and toward courses that don’t pull you away from your athletic responsibilities. As black boys, you go to college to try to get to the league, not to try to get a degree.
More at link
https://www.washingtonpost.com/news...-bigger/?utm_term=.86c953b4f20c&noredirect=on
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