Elitorial: Living and dying by the jumpshot

T wo-thirds of all African-American males between the ages of 13 and 18 believe that they can earn a living as professional athletes, according to a study done earlier this year by Northeastern University's Center for the Study of Sport in Society. This is a stunning statistic, considering that the actual chances of a high school athlete ever playing at the professional level is 10,000 to 1.

In his new book, Darwin's Athletes, John Hoberman, a historian at the University of Texas, argues that a growing obsession with professional sports among young African-American males is destroying black America. His arguments come at an appropriate time as more and more young blacks are setting their sights at the pro level. The root of the problem, he writes, is that "Black athleticism has complicated the identity problems of black Americans by making athletes the most prominent symbols of African-American achievement."

This season, Major League Baseball celebrates the 50th anniversary of Jackie Robinson's groundbreaking entry into the previously all-white league. Today, two in five players in the majors are black. In the NFL, over 67 percent of all players are African-American, and last year in the NBA, over 80 percent of the league was black. In each of the leagues, the most dominant players and biggest names--Ken Griffey, Jr., Emmitt Smith, and Michael Jordan--are all African-American.

Three years ago, the highly acclaimed documentary Hoop Dreams followed the lives of two inner-city Chicago high school students, Arthur Agee and William Gates. It chronicled their struggle to make it into college, which they hoped would set them up for a possible career in the NBA. To the two young men, basketball was the only ticket out of the doom that they believed awaited them in the ghetto.

Now, many don't even bother to go to college. In 1995, Kevin Garnett skipped higher education altogether and declared himself eligible for the NBA draft. He became forward for the Minnesota Timberwolves and recently turned down a multi-year contract that would have made him the second-highest paid player in professional basketball. What most people don't realize is that even if Garnett wanted to play college ball following his graduation from Chicago's Farragut Career Academy High School, he wouldn't have been able to; his grades and ACT scores were much too low to grant him eligibility.

Garnett has started a disturbing trend. In 1996, Philadelphia's Kobe Bryant was drafted by the Los Angeles Lakers straight from high school. And in this year's draft, Zion Christian Academy's Tracy McGrady was selected as the ninth overall pick by the Toronto Raptors. A handful of current high school seniors, many pushed on by greedy agents, have expressed interest in doing the same.

Garnett has fared remarkably well in the NBA and has managed to silence many of the critics who once insisted that in a year or two, he would be out of the league and on the streets. But if this trend continues--and there is little to indicate otherwise--good (not just great) high school players will enter the NBA. A good portion might be drafted, perhaps at a later round than either Garnett, Bryant, and McGrady were taken. But surely some won't make it in the league for more than a year--and without a college degree, they will eventually fall hard.

Perhaps the NBA can change all this with new draft regulations. But the solution is far more complex than anything Commissioner David Stern can do before the next draft comes along.

For Garnett, Bryant, and McGrady, a life other than basketball was never an option. They grew up where basketball was the only thing, where the real social winners were the ones who could pass like Magic, drive like Mike, and drain a three like Isiah. They would live and die by their jumpshot.

As Hoberman argues, there was once a time when professional athletics was truly one of the few means of economic mobility for African-Americans. Jackie Robinson attracted a following of blacks across the nation because he could compete against whites and win. Those days are over. Opportunities in professions outside of sports for African-Americans, though still too limited, have never been greater.

During a weekend in Chicago this summer, I spent an entire afternoon in Niketown, a gigantic three-story sneaker shop. A 30-foot Air Jordan soars above the entrance. When I look at the young boy standing next to me wearing Jordan's jersey and a black hat that reads simply "23," it's not that I hope he doesn't dream about one day being Michael Jordan.

I just hope that it's not his only dream.

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