Hoops, Rap, and Everything Black 7 | DADDY
Welcome back to Hoops, Rap, and Everything Black. I hope everybody’s had a great holiday season and is carrying some positive momentum as we head into the new year.
The main column today is a raw excerpt from my way-in-the-future memoir—a reflection on my pops, who I lost when I was 7. He’s been on my heart lately, and I felt led to share this bit.
But first, I highlight my favorite reads from the year and revisit one of my favorite SLAM stories.
My Favorite Reads From 2024
This year, my love for books was reignited. I didn’t quite reach my goal of one book a month, but I still read more books this year than I read in the past five years. (You gotta start somewhere.) I absolutely love reading; it’s one of my favorite hobbies in the world. I’ve always read A LOT of articles and short stories, but this year, I re-added books into the fold, in particular, fiction. Here are my favorite reads from the year (in no order):
The Heaven & Earth Grocery Store — James McBride
The Color of Water — James McBride
Deacon King Kong — James McBride
Shoe Dog — Phil Knight
Miracle at St. Anna — James McBride
Good Lord Bird — James McBride
Going Deep: 20 Classic Sports Stories — Gary Smith
Dorian Finney-Smith to LA
Dorian Finney-Smith, Photo: Marcus Stevens via SLAM
In the wake of the news that Dorian Finney-Smith was traded from the Brooklyn Nets to the Los Angeles Lakers, it’s worth revisiting this interview I did with him last December for SLAM; it’s one of my favorites I’ve done. [Read More]
Daddy
It was standing room only, but thankfully my seat was reserved. A budding hip-hop artist would kill to perform in front of a crowd that resembled this one. Multiple hundreds of people showed up from different parts of the world to experience the celebration. So much so that local news reporters on assignment made way to ask us what was happening. People of all ages and backgrounds packed the church in support of one man and his loved ones. Few pastors have seen a Sunday service with this kind of turnout. Better yet, I’m willing to bet there were people in attendance, both believers and nonbelievers, who haven’t been to church since. This was the type of event that could bring even the most distant strangers together, the same way a concert does. And while music was an essential part of this event, this wasn’t a concert. Far from it. We were celebrating my dad, Daddy. The reason we were celebrating was his short-lived, 35-year-old life transitioning to a place much better than here after someone ran a stop sign and hit Daddy while he was on his beloved gold Suzuki motorcycle. A busted blood vessel in his stomach, and just like that, he was gone.
My recollection of Daddy’s funeral is fragmented; I was only 7. But the parts that I do remember are cemented in my memory bank forever. My dad’s body was prepared for the open casket with a sort of meticulousness that reflected his attention to detail. He sported a clean-cut semi-hi-top fade and was dressed in a sharp Black tuxedo. Other than Easter, just a month prior, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Daddy dressed this formally. I made my way down the aisle and approached my dad, feeling his flesh one last time. I pinched his cheeks the same way I do my infant cousins now. Daddy’s lifeless face was cold, but feeling him warmed my spirits. But I was emotionally drained; I fell asleep shortly after sitting down in my reserved seat.
Next thing I remember is waking up toward the end of the service. They had just made a final call for his immediate family to approach the casket and share one last moment with Daddy. Half-dazed, I stood up and made my way to the aisle. I didn’t make it to Daddy, though. They didn’t see me stand up. They closed the casket, and that was it, I’d never see his face again. At least not in its physical form.
As a 7-year-old boy, there was no way for me to anticipate how this event would change my life.Now, as a 30-year-old man, I’m just beginning to fully grasp the concept of losing a father so young. Not just a father, but a dad. Not just a dad, but the best dad.
Back then, I often cried myself to sleep because I missed Daddy. Today, those recollections result in sleepless nights instead. Tears still come every now and then, but are much fewer and farther between. Not because I miss him less; in fact, it’s quite the opposite. I miss him now more than I ever did. And I presume that the effects of my dad’s physical absence will only continue to intensify. It’s not that I need the wisdom of an old man bestowed upon me—after all, Daddy didn’t make it to the point of an old man with greys. What I miss most is the rawest and realest insight of a young Black man in Amerikkka with the world ahead of him. A young Black man who must have struggled with many of the things I struggle with today. A young Black man I’m named after.
Back then, I missed Daddy at my basketball games. I missed Daddy at parent-teacher conferences. I missed trips to The Wiz to cop the latest rap albums. I missed going shopping for the latest kicks. I missed telling him about my first girlfriend. I missed Daddy when it was time to talk about the birds and the bees. I missed wearing matching tan leather Avirex jackets and Timberlands. I missed riding on the back of his gold Suzuki bike and wearing his cooler Black modular helmet while he settled for the less cool silver half-helmet. I missed him letting me sit in the passenger seat as he cued up our favorite song, Wifey by Next. I missed the firsthand experience of a dad loving his adolescent son.
Nowadays, I miss conversations about sustaining financial stability. I miss insight on how to deal with temptation as a man. I miss debates about who’s the best rapper of all time. I miss him sharing my success. I miss him giving me a father’s salute when their son stumbles upon a good woman and makes the most important decision he could make by making her his wife. I miss him at my wedding. I miss conversations about his shortcomings and regrets. I miss a dad’s perspective about overcoming doubt. I’m missing something from him that I can’t replace anywhere else—invaluable information that any man could share, but nowhere as substantive if it were to come from the man who created you.
Daddy’s time here on earth may have run out, but his presence continues to shine bright. I still look up to my dad. I’m a reflection of him—my love for rap, fresh seafood, and the flyest kicks all stem from my dad. As I quietly approached the same age my father was when he died, replacing his place as the best dad to ever live is the least I could strive for. It’s the least I could do to honor the unwavering love he showered me with. His future grandkids might not be able to shake his hand or hear his voice, but best believe they’ll know him.
Real niggas don’t die.
If you made it all the way to the bottom of this, thank you for spending some time with me and giving me some space on your busy schedule. This is the last newsletter of 2024, and I couldn’t be more excited for what’s on the horizon in 2025. Please subscribe if you haven’t already, and be sure to follow me on all your favorite social platforms. The links are below. If I don’t talk to you before Wednesday, I pray you have a blessed start to the new year! Hit me with any feedback, comments, thoughts, etc.
Peace,
Curtis “Trey” Rowser III
