I just can’t wait for Agassi and his wheaties.
At the heart of any lasting athletic legacy is fulfilled expectation: knowing Michael Jordan is going to hit the shot in the waning seconds of the fourth quarter, knowing Tiger Woods will hold off a surging opponent on the back nine of a major and knowing Joe Montana will lead his team on one final march to the end zone.
As Jameer Nelson’s disappointed eyes fell to the floor, his hands enveloping his indisputably adorable son, Jameer Jr., while eight high schoolers climbed the stage and walked to the podium, adorned in their new team’s hat, drafted above the Naismith Player of the Year, the “future” of the NBA climbed into the warm womb of potential with the ominous specter of miscarriage hanging overhead.
Deep within the American psyche, somewhere in the diluted definition of our national identity, lives the underdog. Born of our roots, with a triumphant revolution and a declaration of equality, the underdog exists in the foundation of American culture.