by Mark Titus
Because I was always outnumbered and therefore always had to listen to rap music in the locker room and weight room, I eventually decided to fight back. I burned a handful of country CDs, wrote “Weezy” on all of them (I did some research and learned that Weezy is the nickname of Lil’ Wayne, who was the rapper of choice for most of the guys), and then scattered them around the stereo in the weight room in hopes that someone would mistakenly play one. (Our strength coach wouldn’t let guys change the music once it started because he wanted us focusing on lifting weights instead of the music.) Every now and then it would work, and everyone would be pissed at me because they’d have to listen to Alabama explain the importance of having a fiddle in the band when playing in Texas instead of listening to the Big Tymers explain the importance of “slapping that bitch” and “punching that ho” when trying to get your roll on. My quest to get country music played in our locker room and weight room was an ongoing battle, and the rare occasions when I succeeded were some of the most rewarding moments in my basketball career.
So what does this music battle have to do with Will letting me drop the N-bomb? Well, I failed to mention that Tupac is my one exception to my disdain for rap music, as he just might be my favorite artist from any genre of all time (strange, I know). But my teammates didn’t know this. As far as they could tell, I hated everything about rap music. I successfully kept my love for Tupac under wraps for quite some time, until one day I finally decided to come out of my Tupac closet when Will played “Changes” on the locker room speakers when he and I were the only two guys in the locker room.
I’m like every other white guy in America: “Changes” is my favorite Tupac song and I’ve known all the words since I was 14. So when I heard the first couple notes, I thought it would be funny to surprise Will. I called out his name and walked his way. As I approached him, I furrowed my brow, squinted my eyes to look tough, and then rapped the first verse in as close to Tupac’s voice as I could get.
I completely caught him off guard, and judging from the fact that he was cracking up, he loved every second of it. But things quickly changed when I got to one particular line:
“Cops give a damn about a Negro. Pull the trigga, kill a nigga, he’s a hero.”
As soon as I said “nigga” (without the “-er,” mind you—I’m told that that’s an important detail that shouldn’t be overlooked), Will got up in my face and yelled, “What did you just say?!”
Since I had known that song for so long and had sung it in my car by myself countless times, I was essentially on cruise control and honest to God didn’t even think about the fact that the song had the word “nigga” in it and I was singing to a black guy. Whoops.
I didn’t know Will all that well, so I was convinced he was going to end my life, which explains the terrified look on my face as I stammered, “I … I … I didn’t say anything.”
He wasn’t satisfied with this. “Yes, you did. Now tell me what it was you just said, honky.”
He started smiling, and I realized that he was just screwing with me. But I still didn’t know how to respond, so I said, “I was just singing a song. If you think about it, I was quoting Tupac, so you can’t even get mad really.”
He seemed to agree with this sentiment. “I’m just messing with you. I’m not really mad. But I will be if you don’t say ‘nigga’ again.”
This baffled me. “Wait, you actually want me to say it again?”
He said, “Hell, yeah. I’ve never really heard a white guy say it before. So say it again, cracker.”
I couldn’t help but laugh as I thought about how much the situation felt kinda like that Chevy Chase and Richard Pryor word association sketch from Saturday Night Live in the ’70s. I told Will, “I’m not saying it again. I know what you’re trying to do, but it’s not happening.”
He got serious and said, “For real. I won’t do anything to you. I just want to hear a white boy say it. I think it’s funny. Just say it real quick.”
I sensed that he was telling the truth and really did just want to hear a white guy say it. I scanned the locker room to make sure none of my other teammates were in there and then softly said, “Nig-uh. [I made it a point to go over the top with my exaggeration of the ‘uh’ on the end.] There. You happy?”
Will lost it. As he was wiping the tears from his eyes from laughing so hard, he said, “Man, that was the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. I can’t even get mad at that, it’s so funny. You gotta say that again when the rest of the guys are here.” I told him that I would never do such a thing, but he insisted. “Listen. I’m telling you that I won’t get mad if you say ‘nigga.’ I won’t ever do anything to you. That shit is just too funny to get mad. You gotta say it again tomorrow.”
I looked at him in disbelief and realized that he was dead serious. A black man was insisting that I say “nigga” in front of a group of other large black men. I was obviously thrilled about this unprecedented free pass, but I was also equal parts confused and paranoid that it was a trap. It was like picking up a girl for a first date in high school and as we’re leaving her dad hands me a couple of condoms, winks at me, and tells me to have fun. It can’t be this simple. There has to be another reason why this is happening. I left the locker room thoroughly confused.
The next day Will announced what happened the day before to the entire team in the locker room. This piqued the interest of a few of the black guys on the team, who joined Will in trying to persuade me to repeat the offending word, either because they also thought it was funny or because it would’ve given them an excuse to kick my ass. But despite their best efforts, I adamantly denied that I ever said anything in the first place and never gave in to their request. (I decided that this was probably the best approach.) I kept my mouth shut, got ready for practice, and exhaled a sigh of relief as I walked out of the locker room unscathed.
This saga was far from over, though. Throughout practice, Will continued to harass me by constantly telling me to “just say it real quick” whenever we were standing next to each other on the sidelines, in the middle of drills, and even during the scrimmage at the end of practice. But I stood firm and acted like I didn’t know what he was talking about. By the time practice ended, I had denied his request no less than 15 times. It was obvious that he wouldn’t be satisfied until I finally gave in.
After practice, I was taking my shoes off in the locker room and saw Will head straight for our refrigerator to grab a Gatorade. I asked Will to get me one since we had lockers close to each other and he was going to walk my way anyway. He obliged and when he handed me my Gatorade, something came over me and told me it was time to make my move and end Will’s harassment once and for all. Using my best stereotypical black accent (blackcent?), I casually said, “Thanks, homey, I appreciate it. That’s why you my nigga.”
Will started walking away for a half-second before suddenly realizing what had happened. Once it hit him, he yelled, “Aw hell naw!” and scanned the room to see if anyone else had heard it. But I was too sly. While Will momentarily lost his mind and tried to get everyone’s attention, I calmly walked to the shower and pretended I had no idea what he was talking about. It very well might have been the most smoothly executed moment of my life.
Following this second incident, I realized that Will’s permission came with a catch—I was only allowed to drop the N-bomb in my normal, nasally, white guy voice because he thought it sounded funny that way. His reaction made it clear to me that he was desperate for everyone else on the team to hear me say it, so I made it my mission to drive Will crazy for the rest of my career at Ohio State. Since he insisted on making me uncomfortable, I fought back by saying it when he would be the only one to hear it. Also, since so much of the appeal for him was the fact that I apparently sounded like the world’s biggest geek when I said it, I almost always said it in my most stereotypical black accent from then on.
There was, unfortunately, some collateral damage along the way, as a few of the other black guys on
the team overheard me a time or two (most of them never got too upset because they knew I was just trying to mess with Will), but for the most part my plan worked perfectly. In fact, sometimes it worked so perfectly that Will had no idea I’d said it at all. I’d subtly throw it in somewhere as I said good-bye to him, I’d nonchalantly sing it whenever we listened to Tupac together, and I’d even sometimes mock him to his face by smacking my lips and saying, “Shhhiiiiiiiiit, nigga,” for no reason in particular, just like he always seemed to do. And believe it or not, he often wouldn’t even notice. But even when he did notice, he would usually just try to hold back his laughter and pretend to be mad.
Yes, Will Buford was most certainly my favorite teammate I’ve ever had, and even though to an outsider it might seem like we were playing some sort of offensive and racially insensitive game, the truth is that … well … I guess we were playing an offensive and racially insensitive game. But it’s okay if I was being racist, because Will returned the favor by frequently making fun of white people to me. And everyone knows that combating racism with even more racism always works, so it’s totally fine.
Here’s the thing you have to understand about white guys: with the exception of getting random erections in public and trying to dance, there is nothing on earth that is consistently more awkward for us than the N-word. Despite what you might think, the truth is that a large majority of us don’t have an ounce of racism in our bodies, which is exactly why the N-word is so awkward for us. (If we were racist, we’d just freely use it without regard for anything or anyone.) Some of the best songs, movies, stand-up comedy bits, and just stories in general use the N-word frequently, and while in a perfect world we would love to quote these things to all of our friends, we’re absolutely terrified of being overheard and misunderstood by a black guy.
Hell, even when we aren’t the ones actually saying the N-word, it’s still terrifying for us. Think about it. Have you ever seen/heard a white guy listening to rap music while driving a car? Of course you haven’t, because when we see you pull up next to us, we always quickly turn down our stereo to avoid offending you. Obviously this makes no sense because all we’re doing is listening to music, but the “rules” surrounding the N-word are so confusing for us that they make us do these nonsensical things. So for a black guy to explicitly tell us that it’s okay to say the N-word and we don’t have to be worried about being hated or perceived as racist, it’s a huge relief because it means that a major source of awkwardness and discomfort for us no longer exists.
But with all of that being said, I declined Will’s permission for me to use the N-word whenever I wanted. You see, even though most white guys would’ve taken this open invitation and abused it in the form of playing some sick and twisted game where they see if they can use the N-word in Will’s presence without him realizing it, I’m not like most white guys. I know about the history of the word and the powerful hate behind it that still exists today, and I know that there are a lot of black people who are offended by the word even when other black people are the ones who are using it. I know that racism has been a serious problem in this country since its foundation, and even though things seem to be getting progressively better, we’re still a long way from the racially tolerant society that we should have had centuries ago.
The way I saw it, there was just simply nothing good that could’ve come from me using this word. Besides, it’s not like Will is the representative for all black people in the world. Just because he gave me permission doesn’t mean that the other black guys on the team would’ve been okay with me casually tossing around the most racist and most offensive word in the history of the English language. So when Will said, “Mark, I’ve been giving it a lot of thought and would like to grant you the rare honor of being able to say the N-word in my presence whenever you want,” I had no choice but to respond, “Sorry, Will, but this country has come much too far with our progression of racial tolerance since the end of the Civil War, and especially in the last 20-plus years, for me to just throw that all away now. I would be doing black people a disservice, I would be doing white people a disservice, and most of all, I would be doing the United States of America a disservice if I selfishly accepted your offer. So, I’m sorry, but I have no choice but to decline.”
Like the gentleman he is, Will graciously told me he understood my decision. The maturity and respectfulness displayed in that conversation is just one of the many reasons why I think our relationship should be studied by sociologists and used as the consummate example of what true racial tolerance would look like in a utopian society.
So there you have it. As you can see from just this one example, the 2008–2009 team was certainly full of characters. To go along with Evan and the always entertaining freshman class, I had started my blog in the off-season and taken my “not giving a crap” campaign public, so I felt obligated to amplify my antics in practices and during the games so it would make for more interesting posts. When you also consider that two more vibrant personalities returned from the previous season in the form of Dave Lighty (who consistently had more energy than the rest of the guys on the team combined) and Dallas Lauderdale (who would randomly break into song and dance at any time), it’s easy to see that while it may have been difficult to determine just how successful we would be on the court, one thing was clear—the 2008–2009 season was certainly not going to be a dull one.
TWENTY-FIVE
We opened up the season with a blowout win against Delaware State, which was a game that would’ve been pretty boring if not for the fact that it opened my eyes to just how popular my blog was starting to become. When I checked into the game for the final minute, the OSU student section not only started chanting “trill-ion” over and over as a way of encouraging me to do nothing on the court, but they actually rained boos throughout the arena when I pulled down a rebound just a few seconds later and ruined my trillion. (It was the most heavily booed “rebound” since the 2005 Martin Lawrence movie.)
As cool as it was to see our student section getting behind the Club Trillion movement, it was that much weirder to get heckled for something that I had always been applauded for. It was a lot like that fateful day in junior high when you realized that, after being the envy of all your classmates for years, you were suddenly the biggest loser in school for bragging about having a Charizard card. Everything I had learned about the game of basketball was no longer useful, because the trillion had become more than just a cute observation about my irrelevance—it was now my expected way of life.
After squeaking out a four-point win over Bowling Green in our second game of the year, we annihilated what appeared to be Samford’s women’s team in one of the strangest games I’ve ever seen. The reason I say it was a strange game (and the reason I say we played their women’s team) is because we held Samford to just 22 points, including just six points in the first half, as we cruised to a 59–22 win. To put Samford’s dismal offensive display into perspective, consider this: even though I was in street clothes for the game because the day before I hurt my back lifting weights (or more accurately, trying and failing to lift weights), I still scored the same amount of points as three of Samford’s starters combined. Furthermore, when you combine my points with The Villain’s 16 points, the two of us alone damn near outscored their entire team. And when you combine all of my points, The Villain’s 16 points, and the points scored by my other teammates, we outscored their entire team by 37. So yeah, they kinda sucked.
The Samford win set up our first big game of the year at 22nd-ranked Miami, which was a road trip I was really looking forward to thanks to my perception of Miami as a city full of topless babes, Cuban cigars, and pet detectives who talk out of their butthole. Unfortunately, we stayed in Miami for less than 24 hours (and focused most of those hours toward the game) and had no time whatsoever to hit up South Beach, party with hookers on the Miami football yacht, or even find Nevin Shapiro and convince him to pay for abortions for all of our girlfriends. Not all was l
ost, though. We left Miami with a five-point win, so at least we had something to show for turning down the chance to get wet and wild with all that Miami poon.
We followed that up with two more huge wins, first against seventh-ranked Notre Dame in Indianapolis and then against Butler at home. This string of impressive wins was enough to catapult us to a number-16 ranking, but that wouldn’t last long because we destroyed Jacksonville and Iona the following week to jump up to number 13 in the polls. A win against UNC-Asheville in our next game improved our record to 9–0, which was the best start of any of my four seasons at Ohio State, and set up our last big nonconference game of the season, against West Virginia at home.
West Virginia came into the game unranked, but through intensive scouting we knew that they were among the best in the country at playing team defense, playing unselfishly, drinking moonshine, and kissing their sisters. Compounding the fact that they were a formidable and underrated opponent was the fact that Dave Lighty, our captain and the heart and soul of our team, broke his foot against UNC-Asheville and was out for not only the West Virginia game but also for the rest of the season.
Undaunted, we made the college basketball experts eat their words after they didn’t give us much of a chance. We battled all night like our backs were against a wall and gritted out what was probably the toughest win of the season for us. And by that I mean that West Virginia fisted our anus so badly that even the goatse guy couldn’t believe what he was seeing. When it was all said and done, West Virginia beat us by 28, which was the worst loss I would ever suffer in my collegiate career and was the worst home loss for Ohio State basketball in over 10 years.
