Shelf Life: 'Keepin' It Real' real-life look at pro basketball

I've just been christened the Sun's books and magazines columnist -- I still ache where they broke the champagne bottle over my bow -- so first things first. Allow me to mark my territory: In this space I'll cover books of all species; popular magazines; little-known journals; pretty much anything that rises above the level of product labels and USA Today. Here you'll find a nonstop word-o-rama of news, views, previews, reviews, interviews -- whatever seems right.

Now for the usual disclaimers, caveats, full-disclosure clauses and declarations of wobbly principle. This won't be an English class; don't expect overviews of William Faulkner or promotional campaigns on behalf of the classics. You already know you should be reading that stuff (but probably aren't), and, anyway, I try to live in the now. Do expect a heaping helping of local authors, as well as news of local bookish events. However, this column can't be -- and doesn't wish to be -- exclusively local. Don't expect advertisements for my shelf; I'll try not to parade my enthusiasms to the exclusion of all else. Do expect to encounter my enthusiasms.

Like, say, pro basketball.

'Real' man

If, unlike me, you're a reader of the sports stories in Philadelphia Magazine, or, very much like me, a close scrutinizer of the honorable-mentions lists in the annual "Best American Sportswriting" anthology, you're familiar with writer Larry Platt.

His latest effort is "Keepin' It Real," a slimmish (287 page) account of the 1997-98 NBA season through the eyes of five players: Charles Barkley, Chris Webber, Jerry Stackhouse, Matt Maloney and Vernon Maxwell.

Because sports is a microcosm of society, or a metaphor for life, or the organizing principle of the universe, or, anyway, something larger than guys playing ball -- I'll have to straighten that out with George Will sometime -- Platt's book is also about more than basketball. It's about race. Culture clash. Hip-hop attitude vs. shocked white guys. Millionaire black athletes trying to maintain their 'hood credentials -- that is, keepin' it real.

Like the rest of pop culture, sports has been altered by the ascendence of Hip-Hop Nation. In basketball it manifests itself as a schism between hardwood traditionalists -- older players, coaches, fans and sportswriters still in thrall to Michael, Magic and Larry -- and the new generation of brash, in-yo-face "playas."

It's as visible as the difference between Michael Jordan and Alan Iverson. Jordan: embodies hard-working hoops virtues; is black but deracinated enough to appeal to all races; symbol of all that was once right with the game. Iverson: bratty, tattooed, out for himself; embraces playground aesthetic and gangsta style; symbol of all that is now wrong with the game.

Much of Platt's book is a critique of the sports media that serves up such black-and-white (Barkley calls them "the flies"). Having already written magazine pieces about four of his starting five, Platt knew the full picture wasn't emerging. "I was struck by the gulf that exists between who they really were and their cartoonish public images," he said recently from his Philly apartment. "I knew there was a deeper truth." But it gets lost in the cultural dissonance between the generally white, generally older sports punditocracy -- writer Mike Lupica and announcer Bill Raftery come in for particularly sharp criticism -- and the mostly black youngsters they cover.

The media, Platt contends, rarely attempt to understand, let alone provide, any context for, say, Webber's on-court antics or off-court problems. Instead, they hand-wring over the evils of gangsta style and the declining respect for the game.

"Those sort of generalizations imply a bias that comes out of a generational divide rather than reasoned criticism," Platt said, offering a sound corrective measure: "There should be term limits for pundits."

The heart of the book is Vernon Maxwell. As his story unfolds, he's evolving from gangsta wild man to, well, something more mainstream. By book's end he's in a Houston jail cell, doing time on a trivial marijuana charge -- a painful holdover from his past -- but he's clearly facing down his demons, one at a time.

"I'm glad you can see that," Platt said. "Some people still can't get past his inventive language" -- Maxwell's every other word is "mutha" something -- "and they think he's just a thug. But I see him as a complex character."

Clearly, Platt lends his subjects a sympathetic ear -- too sympathetic, some will complain. He sticks up for his homies, always there to supply the mitigating circumstances the rest of the media ignore. "I tried not to sugarcoat their missteps," he said. "But I did start at a different starting point." Remember, the playas are young, have in many cases gone from poverty to sudden wealth, and succeed or fail on a national stage. It's a lot to ask a kid to cope with. "When I was 22, I couldn't do my own laundry!" Platt said.

Platt doesn't think the league's bitter labor strife will work against his book. "I expected there to be a bigger backlash than there is," he said. "League attendance is down only 4 percent. We basically lost the two months no one cares about." Jordan's departure, he added, has thrown the league's championship rings and superstar status excitingly up for grabs. "In some ways, I'm more optimistic than when I wrote the book."

The interview winding down, I complimented Platt on an outstanding profile he'd once written of stoic former boxer Tex Cobb. "Hold on, hold on," he barked. A voice came over the line -- a deep, gravely purr, if you can imagine such a sound. It said, "Howdy, white boy."

Tex Cobb himself! "How're you?" I stammered.

"My arms are up, I'm still swingin'," he rumbled amiably. After a few minutes of -- on my part, anyway -- dumbstruck conversation, he said, "Well, I'll give you back to (euphemism for man lacking a penis) here."

"He stopped by my apartment five minutes before you called," Platt said.

With Cobb in the background suddenly sounding like he was coughing up a hairball, I asked Platt if he had another book in the pipe. No. "Right now I'm shamelessly hawking this book, writing some magazine pieces and listening to Tex Cobb choke to death."

Because we here at Shelf Life are warm, caring people, I suggested a Heimlich maneuver. "If he needs mouth to mouth," Platt said loudly, clearly pitching his voice over his shoulder, "he's gonna die!"

"Har har har," Cobb bellowed, "Har har har." Tex Cobb gagging in your apartment: Can you keep it more real than that?

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