Taking My Talents to Tuscaloosa
Betting on sports is fun. Betting on yourself is "funner."
One of my favorite moments of celebrity egotism comes from The Decision, the 2010 TV thriller in which LeBron James declared his intent to leave his hometown Cleveland Cavaliers. At the end of the hour-long PR disaster, the basketball phenom informed eager viewers that, “This fall, I’m going to take my talents to South Beach and join the Miami Heat.”
For the following 14 years, NBA fans have parodied The Decision, substituting South Beach with their own cities’ attractions.
Would LeBron have taken those talents to the Miller or Pabst breweries if he’d signed with Milwaukee? How about Houston’s crawfish shacks, or Michigan’s auto assemblies? In Philly, could LeBron have even pronounced the name of our picturesque Schuylkill River?
When I committed to earn my BA at Eckerd College, with its smaller, quainter “South Beach,” LeBron’s words played non-stop in my head. Now, after a lengthy graduate application process, I’m proud to finally contribute a proper Decision spoof of my own:
This fall, I’ll be taking my talents to Tuscaloosa and join the University of Alabama’s creative writing program.
After 7 years in Florida, I made a pact never to return to the American South. It was too humid. The politicians were veritable devils. I was tired of billboards interrogating me over “Heaven or Hell?” as though every highway was a less-than-reputable website with relentless popup ads.
I should’ve known that I’d jinxed myself when I first began my grad school applications. Like moving to the Bible Belt, I’d originally declared that an MFA degree was useless. It was an excuse to prolong academia and avoid the so-called “real world.” If I needed the classroom to find time to write, then I’d surely never become a writer.
Those words came from a disgruntled college senior — a soon-to-be graduate fearful of his ability to write around a 9 to 5. Five years later, what I have to say to him is this: Been there, done that.
Sometimes I fantasize about time-traveling to the past. I’d find my college senior self sitting by the seawall at Eckerd, and slap the Yuengling out of his hand.
“Look at all we’ve done!” I’d say. “Are you happy now, Young Mike? Can we go get that MFA yet? Also, at your earliest convenience, could you please empty your tutoring and tour guide savings into a bet on the Toronto Raptors? It sounds like a long shot, I know... But trust me.”
I also catch myself imagining Future Mike returning to the present day. Only, instead of slapping me, he shakes my hand. Future Mike — with his rat tail and cargo pants, which will obviously be back in style — congratulates me on taking the long odds on a gamble much steeper than any sports book: betting on myself.
Becoming a published author is difficult. Becoming a successful one is inconceivable. But so were the chances of me getting into Alabama, and look at me now: house hunting in Tuscaloosa of all places.
So, even if the odds are slim — slimmer than a Raptors victory in 2019 — I choose to imagine the cargo-panted, rat-tailed 30-year-old Mike advising me that the long shot is worth it. Even if the books aren’t published. Even if I’m not some overnight success.
And that, yes, I should deposit my final paycheck this summer into a bet on… who, exactly?
Wait, Future Mike, let me grab a pen! I need to write this down…
Wow. Time flies, huh?
Last week, I visited LA’s Arts District to see one of my favorite bands, an indie folk group from Kentucky called Bendigo Fletcher. This was my second time seeing them. The first came less than a year after moving here, when the challenges of my cross-country relocation were abundant.
My beloved grandmother had died. My new job was kicking my ass. Life was a pain.
How poetic of Fate, that cunning comedian, to place me back in the audience of that same band right after I committed to relocate out of LA. It was a full circle moment, watching for the second time as they sang the lyrics to their song “No Smoke.”
When I can pay attention to the books I read /
I know I'm in the right psychology. [...]
And there when I was looking for a fever to catch /
A new job, a steady girl, some wheels for the west.
Wow, I thought, they’re singing about me! I also read books! I also moved west!
Yes, I’d had a few beers… But the point still stands: after two years in LA, I’d achieved the lofty goals I’d set when I first caught that fever in Florida. I’d found my wheels for the west, my new job, and my “steady girl” in Maddee, who was on her own quest for a master’s degree.
And what an honor it’s been to witness my favorite person pursue her dreams and graduate after years of hard work. I’d be lying if I said watching her journey firsthand hadn’t influenced my decision at least a little bit. Plus, it’s a sound investment on my part, assuring I have an architect by my side moving forward. Soon she’ll be fully capable of constructing my dream writer’s nook in the woods. I pray it comes with a mini bar, a jacuzzi, and a cat tower for Glove Box. (Who, I also only found because of my wheels for the west, for better or worse.)
If nothing else, seeing that folk band from Kentucky scream and holler pleasantly reminded me that the American South contains plenty of positives as well. Perhaps I’ll learn to play the banjo, and start making jugs of moonshine. Or maybe I’ll learn to play the jug, and start making banjoes!
So, dear reader… (And Past Mike, too.) My answer is yes. I’m taking my talents to Tuscaloosa. I’ve earned the right to pursue an MFA. I know from experience that a big move can be worth it despite the challenges.
If Future Mike could put down his Future Beer (and solve the complex intricacies of space-time), I’d greatly appreciate his confirmation that this, too, will be worth it.
But I think I already know the answer.
Now, about those betting slips…
Shouts out to…
The LA Book Festival.
Merriam-Webster, for permission to use “funner.”