So, Delonte West’s birthday. Yeah, that day always makes me stop and think. It’s not just another date on the calendar for me. I actually make it a point to kinda… reflect. It’s become a bit of a yearly practice for me, if you can call it that.
I don’t just mean a quick “Oh, happy birthday” thought. Nah. I deliberately take a few moments. Sometimes I’ll pull up some old highlights, remember the guy who could really play, the one with that quirky energy on the court. Then, inevitably, my mind drifts to all the other stuff, the tough times he’s been through, the stuff that played out so publicly. It’s a whole process, you know? Going from the highs to the lows, trying to see the whole person, not just the headlines or the memes.
Why do I even bother doing this? It’s not like I know the guy personally. Well, it’s because of something that happened a while back. It really changed how I look at these kinds of stories.
My Own Wake-Up Call
There was this guy in my old neighborhood. Let’s call him Mike. Super talented artist, always cheerful, always willing to help someone out. Then, things started to get weird. He lost his job, his behavior became erratic. People started whispering. You know how it is. Small town, big gossip. He’d be out at odd hours, talking to himself. It got bad. Real bad.
I remember folks crossing the street to avoid him. People who used to praise his art were now locking their doors a little tighter. The same folks who’d ask him for favors suddenly didn’t know his name. It was brutal to watch. Here was a human being, clearly struggling, and he just became invisible, or worse, a caricature.
At first, I confess, I was a bit like the others. Kept my distance. Worried, maybe a little scared. But then, one day, I saw him sitting on a park bench, just staring into space, looking completely broken. And something just snapped in me. I thought, “This ain’t right. This just ain’t right.”
So, my “practice” started small. I just went over and said hi. Asked him how he was doing. Didn’t push, didn’t pry. Just treated him like a person. We talked for a bit, mostly about nothing. But for those few minutes, I saw a flicker of the old Mike. It wasn’t much, but it was something. I kept doing it. Sometimes he’d talk, sometimes he wouldn’t. But I showed up.
Long story short, with some quiet support from a few of us who decided to stop judging and start listening, Mike eventually got some help. It was a long road. A really, really long road. And he never quite got back to who he was before, but he found a new kind of normal. He started drawing again, small stuff at first.
That whole experience, man, it drilled something into me. It taught me how easy it is to write someone off when they’re down. How quick we are to forget their good parts when the bad stuff gets loud. How vital just a little bit of consistent, non-judgmental human connection can be.
So, yeah, when Delonte West’s birthday rolls around, I don’t just see the struggles or the jokes people make. I actively try to remember the player, the person, and the incredible pressure and battles he’s faced. My little ritual, my “practice,” is to send out a good thought, a wish for peace, and to remind myself that everyone’s fighting a battle we might not see. It’s the least I can do, after what I learned from Mike. It’s about not forgetting the humanity in the midst of the chaos. And that, for me, is a practice worth keeping up.