They call me Cyclone Maxwell because I hit the court like a combination of a cyclone and Vernon “Mad Max” Maxwell. Yeah, you remember him, Houston’s bad boy in 1993-94 amongst the nicer crowd of Hakeem Olajuwon, Kenny Smith, and Otis Thorpe. Mad Max raised everyone’s eyebrows—and their game.
I hail from the industrial Midwest, where basketball reigned in the late 1980s and 1990s with the Detroit Pistons and the Chicago Bulls. I watched every single Bulls game in their heyday during the 90s, whether on primetime or on the local Fox affiliate, hoping for them to lose.
Basketball runs through my blood. I learnt how to play on the streets and in the grungy local gym affectionately known as “The Pit.” I used to dish so many assists and snipe so many lazy passes that I was known as Muggsy Bogues. I rocked a NY Knicks Starter coat defiantly in the madly pro-Chicago city, enduring taunts and the occasional scuffle.
Basketball was my life then. I still relate to the game on an intimate level. The void left often in basketball commentary needs filling. I’m stepping up to the scorers’ table to dip my hands in chalk, and I’ll let my proverbial pen do the talking.