Drill Sergeant Randall eyed me up and down as I got to the front of the line, as if he were seeing me for the first time. He took a look at my name tag and said, "Hawks," almost as if he was asking a question. Yup, he had no idea who I was. That was by design. My biggest goal upon arriving at basic training was following the advice that I had gotten about how to handle basic training. Just blend in. I lived it. Never being first, never being last. Volunteer? Why, so I can take on extra duty and become a familiar face to the drill sergeants? Nah, I'm good. Drill Sergeant Randall continued, "Oh yeah, you gon fuck this up." I was used to be yelled at, but the confidence in which he said it, followed by the smirk on his face, threw me.
He was taking genuine pleasure in the fact that I appeared nervous and obviously had no idea what the fuck I was doing. It was our first day of handling weapons, in this case an M16 rifle. I had never shot a gun before, much less cleared one. Clearing a gun is when you take it to an aluminum barrel, stick the barrel inside, and perform a "check" to basically insure that no ammo was left in the gun when you left the firing range. Immediately after he said that, I very much fucked it up and went back to the end of the line.
DS Randall was a badass motherfucker, simply put. He was about 5'9, 200 pounds of pure black muscle. He was strong. He was fast. And he made it very clear that it was not his fucking choice to be a drill sergeant. He was used to being a team leader of an infantry unit, a combat veteran. He seemed the type that lived for the action and here he was with a bunch of dumbass 18 year old privates that didn't know how to clear a fucking gun. Which is what makes this story so funny. I swear, a sports analogy is coming.
So there's this kid in my platoon, Hicks. He can't do ONE SITUP. I swear to God. Not one. It's honestly impressive. How are you able to perform daily tasks? What if you slip and fall on your back? Are you just stuck there forever, like when you flip a turtle on its shell? Anyway, we're getting smoked in the bay one day. Nothing out of the ordinary. And DS Randall sees that Hicks can't do a situp. In basic training, there is no television, but that doesn't mean there isn't high quality drama. We're all getting smoked, sweating our asses off, when we see out of the corner of our eye DS Randall making a b-line towards Hicks. My buddies and I exchange looks. A subtle smile is all and we know we're in for a show.
DS Randall honestly tried to help the kid, to our surprise. He got down on his knees and coached him on using his core. Hicks just couldn't get it. He tried and tried and tried and then- "Motherfucker," DS Randall exclaims, "DID YOU JUST FEED ME A SHIT BISCUIT." Hicks had farted right in his face. Loudly. We are not allowed to laugh, but we're all fucking dying. "THE MOTHERFUCKER JUST FED ME A SHIT BISCUIT." We're howling. He just had 'shit biscuit' right up his sleeve, no hesitation in his vocabulary whatsoever. It was fart and then BOOM, shit biscuit. I'd never heard it before and I haven't heard it since. And it's not likely I'll forget it. I suppose you'd have to know DS Randall for that to be as funny as it was. He got right up and just walked the fuck out.
SO. What is my great sports analogy here? Honestly I just wanted to tell that story. But really, there is a metaphor involved. Here it goes: LeBron James is not gonna sign the 5 year supermax extension the Cavs can offer him. There has been a lot of talk that James could re-sign because of this unique provision, designated for special franchise players, like James obviously is. The deal would make him the highest paid player in NBA history, and some argue, is something that James has coveted his entire career. Not so fast.
Just last off-season, James was entering the second year of a two year contract with the Cavs, the first time that he would be locked up for the upcoming season. And what does Dan Gilbert do? He lets his highly respected general manager, David Griffin, walk away from the club, where Gilbert and rookie GM Koby Altman assume roster management. They ignore James' requests to allow him an opportunity to mend his relationship with Kyrie Irving. Then, they trade Irving with the focal piece of the trade being a draft pick that will obviously do them no good for the upcoming playoff run. James is forced to put the team on his back, reminiscent of the 2007 Cavs, and they come up way short against an inferior opponent.
James fears that the moment he locks himself into a long term contract, Gilbert is gonna bend over, spread his cheeks wider than an NFL goalpost, and deliver a big ol' shit biscuit right to his face. Just by trying to help the organization, as DS Randall had gone out of his way to try and help Hicks. By trying to help the organization, he would be relinquishing his upper hand to an ownership group that has thrived on its dysfunction and done nothing to learn the benefit of the doubt. Leap of faith? Sure, right into a swimming pool of piranhas. "Oh, you need help, LeBron? We're kind of way over the cap, here, let's just try out Mo Williams for the third time." Boom. Shit biscuit.
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