March 25th, 1996
Team owners and officials,
Well, we held on as long as we could, but the dream is dead. We gave it the ol’ college try, didn’t we? ‘Course, I spent mosta my college days gamblin’ like a Korean, and the International Caucasian Basketball League was the gamble to end ‘em all, I suppose. ‘Cept for a couple months back when I bet several of our players in a high stakes game of Pai Gow poker. Hope them fellas like fixin’ septic tanks.
A’yep, league’s over. Signed the papers today to put our hides into liquidation. I already made a deal with a company called Petz N Such outta Nevada for them to use what’s left of our team jerseys to make clothin’ for cats. The financials was just out of whack. I was takin’ a goddamned bath, and I don’t mean the preferable kind with a jug of Mr. Bubble and the calmin’ tones of the Waiting to Exhale soundtrack.
I knew the market was dryin’ up when the only folks comin’ out to the games was the patients from the looney bin we sent them free tickets to. Say what you will about ‘em, but they was big spenders at the merch stand. That is, when they wasn’t freakin’ out and causin’ incidents. Then even the crazies stopped comin’. The seats was completely empty, and against my best efforts at smoke an’ mirras, I’m sure y’all noticed that it was just me and a blow-up doll on all them Kiss Cams.
I was down to my last dishonestly-acquired credit card. That’s when I came up with the fine idea of “fast-forwardin’” right to the championship game. Works for videos, why not sports leagues!
Now I’m gonna admit to havin’ a tiny-sized ulterior motive for creatin’ this ICBA. As a youngster, dependin’ on the sport, I was considered too portly, slow or ugly to play. I wanted this basketball league to be Caucasians-only so’s that pasty, uncoordinated folk much like myself could have a shot at soarin’ to the stars, and so I could live vicarious-like through those poor excuses for athaletes. Well, leave it to God’s children to stuff that one down the toilet-hole.
What I’m tryin’ to get at is: those Utah State Bible College Golden Elk was too damn good! I guess when you take a bunch of ornery Christians, stick ‘im in a state where everybody and their seven children worship Joe Whatsishead and teach ‘em to dunk, you get yourself a talented baskyball team.
Now I pray to the Holy Heavens as much as any righteous man, usually when some unsavory Chinese bookie’s got an oyster knife to my throat. But the Elk took it too danged far, followin’ every national anthem with a twenty-minute sermon from that “hip” Christian preacher Daddy Long Legs. Who cares if you used to be a pro wrestla, let’s play some ball!
Sports and religion don’t mix, folks. Whether it’s a preachy baseball slugga who dedicates every home run to Jesus, or some cokehead linebacker who uses the good book as his own personal get-outta-jail-free card, it sucks a fat one. Getcha peanut butter outta my chocolate! My chocolate was fine how it was!
Granted, that team dragged in a decent crowd, and they was the only thing keepin’ our asses afloat. But if there’s one thing that rankled this West Texas idiot more than the way they wore their religion on their sleeve like a pair of Rocky and Bullwinkle cufflinks, it was them outclassin’ the rest of the boys with their “work ethic” and “positive community contributions”. Hell, their hundred-year-old dinie-saur of a coach Norm “The Crusader” Quaglund blew a kidney when I showed up pickled drunk to their shoot-around with the local children’s hospital and started pickin’ fights! Goddamn Utah prude.
Facin’ them in the championship game was the Opa-Locka Phantoms, with their 5-42 record and status as the only other team that had not bowed to public pressure and folded they team. Now that town ain’t had much to cheer about since the high school voted to disband its varsity football team in favor of puttin’ a Taco Bell in the cafeteria. And wouldn’t you know it, but that deadbeat ‘burg loaded up six school buses with their rowdiest degenerates – of all colors ‘n creeds, I may add – and hauled ass to the Beehive State.
Now add them to the Golden Elk’s scripture-fueled fanbase, and a surprise new contingent of Inta’net skinheads who found out about the game through some newsgroup called talk.nationalist.jackboots. Long story short?
The bitch sold out. Five thousand fans ready for some classic, all-white ICBA basketball.
The Golden Elk o’course jumped out to an eighty-point lead, and held onta it as the game neared its close. Made me damned lucky we stuck that “next point wins” provision in the rulebook to try and attract the street ball crowd. I thought it would put those Phantoms and their angry, vulgar fans outta their misery. But when I was done at the scorer’s table, I saw that bastard Norm Quaglund already beginnin’ the celebration, and figured if I was gonna take my shot at him, it was now or later. So I scooped up the game ball, waited for him to turn my way, and plastered it straight between his two beady blinkers!
He went down, seizin’ like a dog with a tick, and the ball sailed high into the rafters, clankin’ around and such, and dropped right through Utah’s net. That’s whatcha call a two-fer!
The Phantom fans poured onta the court to rejoice with they championship team. The Golden Elk fans poured onta the court to beat the tar outta yours truly. And the skinheads poured onta the court ‘cause they could sense that they was probably gonna get a chance to bust some skulls. And did they ever.
I managed to slip away and jam the championship trophy under the backseat of my 1986 Chevy Celebrity, but as I took one final look inside, I spied somethin’ beautiful. Christians fightin’ skinheads, black folk fightin’ white, killin’ each other with whatever weapons they could get their hateful hands on, and united in their insatiable lust for blood. I’d be lyin’ if I said a tear didn’t trickle out my eyeball.
After payin’ for damages to the arena (court-ordered) and Mr. Quaglund’s funeral (my choice), the league was hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt and had no choice but to shutter it for good. But it taught this old hound a powerful lesson: sports shouldn’t be about segregatin’ folks based on the nature of their skin. The best sports of all are about the excitement of seein’ folks get covered in their own juice and pummeled within an inch of their lives (and beyond, when the sit’i’ation calls for it).
That’s why, in closin’ the book on the ICBA, I’m also pennin’ the openin’ chapta of a new one – a new league! I’m callin’ it the IFC: Interracial Fightin’ Championship. Go ahead and find a problem with that, Al Sharpton.
This is normally the part where my lawyer and ICBA business manager David Fincher would provide y’all with the League Tidbits. But he moved to Switzyland and ain’t returnin’ my phone calls no more, the ungrateful sod. So instead, here’s my final words to you, my loyal owners, the ones who made this all possible:
Live a lot. Love a lot. Dream a whole lot. Take out alotta loans, if you can swing ‘em. And if you can’t, what are they gonna do – take money you don’t have?
The roulette wheel ain’t always gonna spin your way, but whatcha can do is walk out of the casino with your head held high, drapin’ your jacket over the spot on your pants where you wet yaself.
Good luck to alla y’all in your future endeavas, and remember: don’t double-dribble!
Commissioner J.R. “Red” Yellow