What Lebron James and Dwyane Wade can learn from "Watch the Throne"

When the clock struck midnight to usher in August 8, I downloaded Kanye West and Jay-Z's "Watch the Throne." Two of my favorite artists, two of the most talented musicians of this era, collaborating together for an entire CD. Sign me up. But after watching the 2010-11 NBA season, I should have known that the recipe --- two world-class stars joining forces on the same team --- called for disappointment.

On paper, Kanye and Jay-Z equal the best rapper duo ever. You can easily argue that Jay Z is rap's G.O.A.T., and even maturing in the same era as Jay-Z, Kanye is the most talented hip-hop artist of this generation, though I doubt anyone would call him the generation's best rapper. Put them together, and you form a duo capable of blowing up tall buildings with a dozen bars, causing fire hazards in dance clubs with a single beat, or producing music that cures diseases and gives angels wings. But the world-class rappers are also two of the most egotistical beings in the world, and those egos lit a torch to what could have been one of the best albums ever.

Operating at their best, Kanye and Jay-Z are introspective, bright, and offer the world-view of wise mentors. Think Jay-Z's "Song Cry" (I can understand why you want a divorce now/ Though I can't let you know it, pride won't let me show it/Pretend to be heroic, that's just one to grow with/ But deep inside a nigga so sick) or Kanye's "Family Business" (All my niggas from the Chi, that's my family dog/ And my niggas ain't my guys, they my family dog/ I feel like one day you'll understand me dog/ You can still love your man and be manly dog). Their best songs mean something, tell tales we can relate to, discuss problems we have experienced to a certain extent, or describe an aspect of life that's real, if not always tangible or easy to articulate. Sadly, too few songs on "Watch the Throne" evoke situations we can relate to. Jay-Z and Kanye instead spent most of the album trying to tell us they're better than we are, and, while doing so, doomed the album's incredible potential.

"Watch the Throne" might as well have been an hour of Lebron James telling us, "At the end of the day, all of the people that were rooting for me to fail, tomorrow they'll have to wake up and have the same life that [they had] before they woke up today. They got the same personal problems they had today and I'm going to continue to live the way I want to live and continue to do the things I want to do." There were brief interlude's to the album's ego-driven message, of course -- "A New Day," in particular, travels to the inner sanctums of the duo's mind, sharing the lessons they'll teach their sons, and "Murder to Excellence" begins as an intelligent discussion of inner-city violence before the duo digresses into a discussion of how Kanye and Jay-Z have escaped the threats of the inner-city and now spend all day driving Maybachs and buying Gucci apparel and, what goes unspoken, fornicating with beautiful women.

Mostly, Kanye and Jay-Z just want to tell us they live on a different planet than we do, that they have more expensive clothes than we do and drive nicer cars, that they can afford beautiful vacations and have met the President of the United States of America. Meanwhile, Kanye and Jay-Z forget that what made them better than we are in the first place was an ability to make music that relates to the average man, rather than the man driving Maybachs and waving $100 bills at the valet driver, the ability to make music that sounds great to the ear but also means something substantial. I expect Gucci Mane to rhyme (or not rhyme, depending on his mood) about cars and clothes and materialistic possessions. I expect Kanye West and Jay-Z to provide something more meaningful.

Maybe the album's title should have alerted us to the ego-driven bars we would soon listen to. Watch the throne. View me from your perch below me. I am the king, you are the commoners, and you should watch me and feel lucky you get the opportunity to do so. Gag. Puke. Dry heave. I WANT MORE FAMILY BUSINESS AND SONG CRY!!!

The title was Ye and Jay's version of the Miami Heat's pre-championship championship celebration, their proclamation, "Not one. Not two. Not three, not four, not five, not six, not seven. And when I say that, I really believe it." The difference, of course, is that Lebron and Dwyane Wade play a team sport in which a title is presumably a player's ultimate goal, and they were predicting championships they had not yet (and still have not) won. Jay-Z and Kanye make music, where titles are individual awards and, well, titles are also money and Maybachs and meetings with the President --- in their minds (and maybe they're right), they have already won all those titles.

"Watch the Throne" was more like a victory lap than an honest attempt at making great music. It was Jay-Z and Kanye telling us, "We don't even have to try. We can just look into our garages and rap about whatever we see, and our album will still go platinum." At least, I hope it wasn't an honest attempt at making great music. Because if it was, two of rap's best ever have pushed themselves off the throne and now lay with the commoners, in a place they never should have fallen to.

Lebron and Dwyane Wade failed in different ways than their musical counterparts, but both duos fell far short of their potential, at least in their initial collaboration. Kanye and Jay-Z displayed more teamwork -- both portrayed a similar vision for the album, both seemed okay with rhyming mostly about money and cars and fame and social standing, real music be damned. They were entwined in failure, almost seemed resigned to it, whereas Miami's duo took turns trying to lead the Heat to a title. Lebron faded in the Finals, but we should not forget that he carried the team there. Dwyane Wade tried to carry Lebron and the Heat on his back against Dallas, but we should not forget that he could not, nor should we forget the back seat Lebron pushed Wade into in the previous rounds. Or maybe we should forget all of that, and just remember that the Heat lost, they lost without any glory, they found out how my Dirk tastes, and they presumably (and finally) realized the need to earn the titles they predicted last summer, the titles Wade and Lebron thought would arrive at their doorstep without any hint of a fight, as if dropped by a stork.

Kanye and Jay-Z believe they already won many (mythical) titles, and they seem content parading their spoils around town, telling everyone who will listen about their gorgeous whips, beautiful clothes and extended trips to Paris. Lebron and Wade can keep doing that --- writing their own version of "Watch the Throne," hosting pre-championship championship celebrations, and being content with what they've accomplished during their careers --- or they can start making real music.

It's time for the NBA's Terrific Two to make a choice --- Watch the Throne, or Family Business?

The White Pickup Basketball Player

He's 20 years old, built like a steak knife, angular but strong, with high cheek bones and a military buzz cut, and he's shooting hoops in Baltimore, Maryland, at an indoor gym where he knows nobody and nobody knows him.

He plays college basketball. Division III, but still. He can play. His shots mostly swish. He practices moves with precision. Jab step right, sweep through left, finger roll at the rim. One dribble left, spin move right, pull-up jumper from the free throw line. In and out to the right, behind the back to the left, use the bucket to shield an imaginary defender, lay it in high off the glass with a little English.

He is 6'1, 195 lbs, with 7% body fat. He's not an All-American and he can't quite dunk, but wearing a cut-off T-shirt that says "Five Star Camp All-Star team" and reveals arms familiar with the weight room, he looks the part of a player. Except that he's white, and he's not particularly tall.

Other players come in. They are all black. He watches them play. They are young, or old, or bad, or out of shape, or some combination of the previous characteristics. None of them could play college basketball, he knows, as he watches shaky handles and suspect jump shots and guts protruding from shirts. But they are black, he is white, and this is pickup basketball.

They ask him to play. He says yes. Two of the better players, he suspects, are selected as captains. Two youngsters get chosen. Then a couple old guys. Then three players who couldn't hit a layup if the hoop was the size of Glen Davis's appetite. Finally, the last pick is made. You can guess who.

At first, nobody will pass him the ball. He rebounds an opponent's miss, dribbles upcourt, pulls up for three. Swish. A murmur comes from both teams. Maybe this white boy can play. He steals an opponent's pass, leads a two-on-one fast break, makes a bounce pass to his teammate for an easy layup.

His teammates start to look for him. He keeps making his shots. Not all of them, but enough for his opponents to get mad.

"Get a fucking hand up."

"I've got him."

"Got him, my ass. He just hit three fucking shots in a row."

He hits three more shots, too. And a few more. The game is to 21, and he scores 12 points, dishes out a few assists. His opponents switch his defender twice, the ultimate sign of respect. He would be proud, but these players are not good. He knows that. He just wants to get a workout in, practice some moves against defenders, and maybe, just maybe, prove that he should not have been the last pick.

The game ends after he hits a runner in the lane. He walks to the wall and sits down, grabs his bottle of water.

"You play like Steve Nash, man," one of the youngsters tells him. Always Steve Nash, or Peja Stojakovic, or J.J. Redick, or some other NBA player capable of getting a sunburn. "Do you play somewhere?"

"I play a little college ball. Nowhere you'll see on ESPN."

The two teams run the game back. This time he's the centerpiece from play one. The other team double-teams him. His own team lets him run the show. Last pick, huh? Against these guys?

Soon he will be at a new gym, in a new city, and a new group of players will ask him if he wants to play. He'll say yes, he'll get chosen later than he should, and then he'll get to proving himself, and if he does a good enough job somebody will compare him to an NBA player, and the player will always be white.

Twilight tennis

(Irving Levine serves before his match with Fran Calarese.
Photo credit to Michael Beswick, The Republican.)

Fran Calarese’s cheering section was colorful for a tennis tournament.

There was a 65- or 70-year old woman who imparted wisdom at every opportunity.

“Hit it where he ain’t, Fran.”

There was a man who smiled when Fran’s winner struck the line, who frowned at Fran’s unforced errors, who rarely said a word but reacted to every point during Calarese’s match, every deuce, every serve, every game point.

There was a jovial guy who spent most of the match chatting with anyone inside shouting distance and didn’t care much for tennis.

“I just wanted Fran to know I was here for him.”

And there was a woman who verbally assaulted the line judge at every chance.

“That was out? C’mon! That was in by a good three inches.”

Loud, spirited, diverse. This cheering section was different than most but similar to many. And it was rooting for a 90-year old man.

Thirty minutes before he will begin the 90+ finals at the Clem Easton Super Seniors tennis tournament, Fran Calarese and I sit at a plastic table. The finals is the only round in the 90+ division – I suppose it’s difficult to find more than two 90-year olds with accurate serves, forehands that repeat themselves successfully, and the endurance to play two or three sets in 90-degree heat. A local boy, err, a local participant, Calarese has just driven twelve miles to the match in Longmeadow, MA from his Wilbraham, MA home. He sits down next to me with a smile on his face, a smile that immediately takes twenty years from his appearance.

Curious about the path that led Calarese to the Clem Easton Super Senior tennis tournament, I ask about him. He tells me he began playing tennis in 1942, after serving in World War II. He played in Longmeadow, my hometown, in a league that met two or three times per week. Longmeadow is where he honed his groundstrokes, where he fell in love with the game he never thought he would still play seventy years later.

Our conversation turns to Calarese’s personal life, and he tells me about his wife. The two were married for 52 years. He still misses her. At one point, he tells me the couple spent fifty of their married years living in Longmeadow. A few minutes later, he tells me they moved around more than an army family.

“But let me tell you about my father,” he begins.

Fran Calarese’s father took a boat from Italy to the United States, searching for opportunities for himself and his new fiancée. He lived in the United States for a year until he found the right job, then returned to Italy to bring his fiancée into their new life.

“My father did everything,” says Fran Calarese.

Mostly, Fran remembers his father’s garden. And his father’s wine collection. And the grapes his father grew. And the four or five miles his father walked each day to attend work. Fran’s father worked at the Draper Corporation, a loom manufacturing company in Hopedale, MA.

“He made pots in weaving machines,” Fran explains.

By making pots, Fran’s father supported nine children. After his fiancée, who by then had become his wife, passed away at age 43, Fran raised the children all by himself.

“He did everything,” Fran repeats. “Everything.”

Everything includes passing down his good genes to Fran, Fran’s four brothers and Fran’s four sisters. At 90 years old, Fran tells me, he is the youngest of his father’s nine children. All, Fran says, are still alive.

My grandfather needs a walker to travel ten feet to the bathroom, but Fran Calarese is readying himself to play a three-set tennis match at The Field Club, a Longmeadow country club known for its well-groomed clay courts and high-quality tennis. If he wins, Calarese will become the Clem Easton champion for the third time in his career. He won the tournament years ago in the 80+ division and the 85+ division. But if he wins the tournament for his third time, Calarese will have pulled off a major upset.

In thirty minutes, Calarese will compete against Irving Levine, a senior tennis circuit legend. During his career, Levine has earned more #1 tennis rankings in New England than any other player. He has represented the United States senior national team in international competition multiple times and, in 1996, he started the New England Senior Tennis Foundation with $250,000 of his own money. Also an international-level table tennis player, Levine once played table tennis at midcourt during halftime of a Celtics game at the Boston Garden. Eighty-nine years old himself but playing in the 90+ division due to a technicality (any player who turns 90 years old during the calendar year is considered 90 for the sake of the tournament), Levine has not yet retired from his job as the president of Copley Fund, Inc., a company he founded in 1978, thirteen years after he sold the country’s largest ladies handbag manufacturer for a small fortune. Levine’s wife, or at least the woman I believe is his wife, looks considerably younger than Levine, which is marvelous because Levine looks considerably younger than any 89-year old should.

Levine was born in New York, raised in New Bedford, and lived in Fall River for years, but now calls Rehoboth, MA, home. When I hear about Levine’s Fall River connections, my mind instantly thinks of “Fall Rivers Dreams,” the book written by Bill Reynolds about the falling city, its high school basketball team, and a young stud with a limitless future named Chris Herren. I ask Levine if he is familiar with Reynolds’ book.

“Oh, of course,” he replies. “Bill once wrote a piece about me, back during my table tennis days. I told him it was the best piece he ever wrote. The New York Times published a piece about table tennis during that same time period, and Reynolds’ was better.”

Levine will play the tournament with a broken finger and a three-dimensional tattoo on his chest. He will wrap the finger in a splint and complain about it infrequently. And the tattoo? Not long before the Clem Easton tournament, Levine fell during a match and landed on the butt end of a tennis racket. His chest is now molded in the shape of a Wilson tennis racket’s handle, and will probably remain that way forever.

Forever. It’s a word that actually seems possible while looking at two of the world’s spryest 90-year olds. The two competitors don’t quite have a bounce in their steps, but they move freely and uninhibited by wheelchairs, crutches, or any other device most 90-year olds need for support.

Early in the first set, Levine serves and Calarese slices a backhand back to the other side of the net. The backhand slice, delivered with the gentle touch of a brand new teddy bear, is Calarese’s favorite shot.

“Most seniors can’t handle that drop shot,” says one local tennis aficionado. “But Irving Levine isn’t most seniors.”

Their match isn’t as beautiful as Rafael Nadal vs. Roger Federer, but in entirely different ways, it’s just as compelling. There is no Wimbledon championship on the line, no national television coverage and no million-dollar tournament purse. I am the only newspaper reporter at the match, and just one local news station has sent a camera crew to film highlights and make a small report. Still, there is a buzz at the Field Club courts. Observers know they will not see points with twelve or thirteen rallies, 130-MPH serves, or forehands that almost look like they could shatter the net. But the observers also realize something else: it’s more rare to see men equaling a combined 179 years of age compete against each other in a sport meant for young legs.

The match quickly becomes lopsided. Levine and Calarese have played each other several times during the past twenty years and Calarese has never won. Today will not change that drought; David will not slay Goliath this time. Goliath is too mobile around the court, too strong with his groundstrokes, too calculated in his motions. Calarese hits some beautiful shots – one two-handed backhand paints the back baseline and leaves Levine muttering to himself. But Levine is a better player.

A few times during the match, Calarese forgets whether he is serving or returning. He also forgets the score on numerous occasions, and occasionally tries to serve from the left side rather than the right. These slight miscues, which should be expected – he’s 90 years old, after all – are my first indications that Calarese’s memory might not be entirely reliable. I think back to his wife, his father, his siblings, and hope everything he told me, the life he remembers, is true.

A few times, Calarese threatens to steal a game. But Levine is too good; he controls every aspect of the match as if he is a puppeteer. Calarese is a good sport even in defeat, but he gets frustrated with himself. His drop shots hit the net too frequently. Some of his groundstrokes miss, sometimes even after Levine has inadvertently left Calarese with an open court and an easy winner. More than a few times, Calarese shakes his head in disgust after an easy shot bounds somewhere he does not want it to.

“Hit it where he ain’t, Fran,” Calarese’s loudest cheerer shouts. “That’s all you’ve gotta do.”

Calarese is trying. He has earned so many tennis trophies that he recently had to throw most of them away, but he is playing Irving Levine now, and Irving Levine isn’t most seniors. Maybe if Calarese was entirely healthy, he could threaten Levine or even beat him. But after a recent, scary fall, a doctor told Calarese to stop playing on hard courts.

“Little does he know, I do,” Calarese said. But still, his body won’t follow his commands like it used to.

Levine wins the match, 6-0, 6-0. The two familiar competitors shake hands and clutch each other at the net, sharing some stories, reminiscing about all their matches, congratulating each other for a match well played. Then Levine walks to his bag, takes a sip of water, and undoes his finger splint. Meanwhile, Calarese traipses to his spot on the bench and looks at his racket like it just slapped him in the face.

“I wish I could have played better,” he whispers.

Then Calarese’s cheering section surrounds him. His friends slap him on the back and grab him delicately by the shoulders.

“You played great, Fran,” I hear. “That Levine’s a phenomenal player, but you played him close. Some of those backhands you hit were gorgeous, just gorgeous.”

Calarese smiles, and then he lets his racket drop to the ground.

I am a little embarrassed because it speaks poorly to my green reporting skills, but I need to ask Fran Calarese a few more questions for clarification. Somehow, even though he stressed his father’s importance, I forgot to ask his father’s name. So I wait until his cheering section finally disperses, then I ask Fran Calarese a question I should have asked earlier.

“I think it was Alfons,” he tells me. “A-l-f-o-n-s. But it might have an ‘e’ on the end. Or an ‘o.’ On second thought, maybe you should look it up.”

“I will,” I tell him. “Thanks for offering me a wonderful gift today. I enjoyed watching you play.”

He smiles and looks at me earnestly. “If only I could have played better.”

Then we part ways.

I return home to research Alfons Calarese, or Alfonse, or Alfonso, or whatever it may be. My quick Google search offers only one relevant hit. It is an obituary from November 29, 2005, the obituary of a 95-year old man named Joseph T. Calarese.

“Son of the late Alfonso and Alberta (Leo) Calarese,” the obituary reads. Joseph T. Calarese died at a nursing home in Newport, Rhode Island, but he was born in Milford, MA, the town next to Hopedale, which is where Francis Calarese’s father worked for so many years at the Draper Corporation. Joseph was survived by his daughter, her husband, two brothers and three sisters. One of the sisters, according to the obituary, resides in Hopedale. One of the brothers is named Francis Calarese, and at the time of Joseph’s death, according to the obituary, Francis lived in Longmeadow, MA.

In the article I write for the newspaper, I do not mention that Fran’s siblings were all still alive. I no longer believe it to be true, so I can’t put it into print, even if it makes for interesting reading.

At some point, unless the obituary was a coincidence, one of the oddest coincidences, Fran Calarese forgot about his brother’s death. If there were originally nine siblings, like Fran told me, the obituary indicates that there were five left after Joseph passed away. And that was six years ago. Maybe more of Fran’s siblings have passed away since. Maybe not. Maybe the obituary is just a coincidence. But it can’t be, right?

Thirsty, I grab a glass of water and ponder everything. I think about growing old, and Fran’s sweet backhand slice, and family, and Alfonso, who walked four or five miles to work every day. I think about the cheering section that accompanied Fran to his match, and how they supported Fran when he lost, and how they induced him to smile even after a tough match. I think about Joseph T. Calarese, whose brother (barring wild coincidence) forgot about his death. I think about Irving Levine, who beat Fran Calarese six-love, six-love even with a broken finger and a Wilson tennis racket tattooed into his chest. And I think about how it would feel to forget about my own brother’s death.

It beats not forgetting, I decide.

I remember something Calarese told me earlier.

“Who knows what life has in store for you when you reach your eighties and nineties,” he said. “Some of us are just lucky.”

Then I think about Fran’s final words to me.

“If only I had played better.”

But if he had, how much would have changed?