Sports MCs Soul @ Suppertime

Sports MCs Soul at Suppertime

By Michael – Louis Ingram, Editor 


(first presented July 25, 2008)


PHILADELPHIA — Good evening, rhythm children. We are back and in the home stretch of another edition of “Hunnycomb’s Hyde Out” here at BASN Radio.


As we are about to wrap this up here, know that at the top of the hour, stay tuned for my good brother, Finley Pinkard, “On the One,” jammin’ from nine ’til midnight; followed by the Professor, Fred Whitted, with “BBQ N’ Beer” from midnight to 3 a.m..

We covered a lotta ground tonight as the disharmonious tones emanating from the orifice of Brett Favre, the Green Bay Packers, cats with cell phones, all that.

And as I’m contemplating all this, I’m thinking about some of the cats who play the same position as Favre; who, in less than five years, saw their futures fade into the ozone.

People like Aaron Brooks, Daunte Culpepper, Byron Leftwich, Brad Smith, Shaun King, Randall Cunningham getting snubbed by the Hall of Fame; I’m still waiting for the low-life, afterbirth, no-one business being born muthafuckas who babbled their rationale for Cunningham not being included as a first-ballot selection.

Fuck the fact he’s Black — if we go with the premise that a three-time MVP (the same as Mr. Favre, who everyone concedes is a first-ballot HOF shoo-in) doesn’t deserve entrance in Canton’s hallowed hall, then who the fuck does?

But the Cunningham battle will be fought at a later date. My take is on the cats that are here who can still play.

And we’re not even gonna go there on Brother Michael Vick yet — that’s a whole ‘nother show. We love you, brother — just know we didn’t forget you.

I know if Shaun King were white, he’d still be in the league. Hell, getting Tampa Bay to the playoffs in your rookie season would’ve warranted at least an eight-to-10-year career holding clipboards somewhere.

But he got fucked in Tampa Bay, and even Stevie Wonder could see that shit.

Anyway, the draft didn’t provide much relief for the Brothas either. Cats like Dennis Dixon, Andre Woodson, Josh Johnson get jerked after having smoke blown up their asses about being first-round, or at least Day One picks;

But what must it feel like to be at the top, then cast out with no real reason having to do with health or injury?

As we close out this evening, mull that one over the old medulla oblongata, as we play out a hyperbolicsyllabicsesquedalymistic Golden Oldie for this last record as I continue to sip my Blueberry Tea…

Go safe because we want you to get from point A to point B and back to A; okay.

“Field of Screens”

(sung to the tune of and apologies to Jimmy Ruffin’s ‘What Becomes of the Brokenheated.’)

C 2008 – Soul Tree Records (Lyrics: M. Ingram)

As I scan a field of bombs and screens;

Over center I see many things

But Super Bowls are just an illusion  – Front office chaos and confusion

What becomes of the Black and Started

Who had game that’s now discarded

I know it’s right to find NFL is out their mind


The roots of drives grow all around But my O – line comes a tumblin’ down

Every day blitzes grow a little stronger I can’t stand these sacks much longer!

I start to scramble Search for daylight Beaten and stressed No receiver in sight

Hoping and praying my teammates do care

Please have someone block someone somewhere!

What becomes of the Black and Started

Who had game that’s now discarded

I know it’s right to find White QB’s are on their mind

Boo me

I’m searching though I don’t succeed

Some teams don’t find winning’s a real need

Games are lost, ‘blame the Black guy’ is pending

All that’s left is a real fucked up ending!

Now what becomes of the Black and Started

Who had game that’s now discarded

I know it’s right to find NFL is out their mind

I’ll be searching everywhere Just to find clipboard to share

I’ll be looking every day but White guys not as good will play

They want me to hit my knees So they can tell me, “Negro, please!”

I’ll be searching everywhere (fade)

This is BASN Radio…Beyond All Stereotypes…Naturally!

always outnumbered – never outgunned.


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