Every dope boy I’ve ever known said they had a plan. “I’ma get these packs off and then buy a barbershop.” You could replace barbershop with rib shack, carwash, or takeout spot depending on the day and the people in the conversation. Nipsey Hussle’s life was taken little more than a week ago now, and the impact of his death has resonated far greater than his jamming ass music.

I believe his death has resonated because his Dope Boy Dream came true. The dream came true and people felt that on a visceral level. However, the happily ever after was cut short. The streets still wouldn’t let him be great, and if Naybahood Nip can get clipped in his own hood in front of a business built with his own hands, then is the Dope Boy Dream really just pie in the sky? Hov said, “I know how this movie ends, but still I play, starring role in Hovito’s (Carlito’s) way.” We rooted for Nip and now it feels like, yet again just when one of us breaks out, the crabs in the barrel pull us back in..

It’s easy to downplay Dope Boy Dreams. They sound crazy outlandish sometimes. Oh so you gonna survive rivals and industrious police to sell enough dope to fund an enterprise? (Insert Martin Lawrence smirk). But like any fable told around weed cyphers or blunt rolling tables, there is truth in the legend. Master P did it; except his start up money was bequeathed to him by his grandfather. No shade. Jay, Dame, and Biggs did it. J Prince did it. So the Dope Boy Dream isn’t all just corner boy El Dorado fantasy..

Still, Nip’s dream was different. His version of the Dream wasn’t just about building a company to fund his and his family’s lives and escaping the maelstrom of street crime and gang violence. He was trying to build economic engines that would provide for entire communities, and judging by the name of his final album, I think he thought he was hella close to pulling it off. The Victory Lap album was Nip’s last offering to the world, and it is probably his best work. Listening to the album after his death and voraciously devouring interviews and articles about the man provided some insight into how Nip’s Dope Boy Dream manifested and persists.

Nipsey Hussle’s Album “Victory Lap” was released in 2018.

Victory Lap Track 11 – Grinding All My Life

Dope Boy Dreams have their genesis in the minds of young people often living in poverty and calculating the long odds of social ascension. Venture capitalists aren’t showing up to pitch meetings in churches, Boys and Girls Clubs, or traphouses. So the Dope Boy Dream is essentially a plan to raise capital. Nipsey‘s version was a family affair with the up and coming Hussle following in the entrepreneurial footsteps of his older brother “Black” Sam.

It was Black Sam who after a series of incarcerations, decided to lease a retail space in the same strip mall that the brothers had spent years hustling in front of. Crenshaw Boulevard and Slauson Ave, where the strip mall is located is in the heart of Nip’s neighborhood. They called their first attempt at business ownership Slauson Tees and it quickly became a neighborhood hotspot. The store attracted visitors and customers and Nip and company began to see the Dream grow legs and stand on its own. They began to see a way out of the constant grind of hustling and dodging county

Then Black Sam got booked, again, and the family lost the Slauson Tees store. However, when he came home, the brothers made it a point to purchase a different space in the same plaza. They had laid claim to the plaza and began leasing more bays. It was beginning to come full circle. It had been just a hangout, but it was now becoming an economic oasis in the middle of a dessert of broken dreams and poverty. In a documentary about the birth of the business, Nip said, “I can’t count how many fights I got into in this parking lot. Can’t count how many times we got shot at in this parking lot. It became our hangout, and so now to be back here, not as a customer or a nigga loitering, but as an owner is a beautiful thing. We wasn’t out here grinding for nothing.”

Victory Lap Track 5 – Dedication

It’s a well-known fact that most small-businesses in communities of color are not owned by people of color. Nip and his brothers decided leasing in the community wasn’t enough. They decided to buy the entire complex and lease bays and storefronts out to small businesses. They purposed to hire felons who had come home from prison with few options. Whether it be sweeping up, taking trash out or running the cash register, the goal was to provide a way, no matter how small.

Wait, I just realized that we’ve been talking about the Dope Boy Dream but not how NIp was tied to the dope game. Black Sam was in and out of county jail during the early years of the Dope Boy Dream. The brothers were hustlers in the truest since. Need a shirt? They got you. Need some new music? They got you. Need a couple ounces of weed or powder cocaine? They got that too.

For most entrepreneurs, failure equates to lost money and maybe a tarnished reputation, maybe. The consequences of failure for the Dope Boy Dream include lost freedom and a giant pause on whatever potential future was hanging on the horizon. Nip watched Black Sam move in and out of LA County jail and did a stint himself. Every time they went in, they lost the momentum they had built up. Every time Sam got out, they had to restart. Finally, Nip said there has to be a better way.

“We got the game from the OGs, but they gave us the game of  a different era. They kind of accidently mislead us. The police and courts created a thing called the Gang Enhancement. Say you get into a fight and break a dude’s nose? That’s assault with bodily harm, maybe a couple months max, but with the Gang Enhancement, they add about ten years to your sheet. So typical gangbanging shit, start putting the homies away for major time. It got to a point where we had to look at the OGs like hold up. We gotta rethink this,” Nip said in an interview with Hot 97.

In response, he doubled down on the hustle. The goal was to go legit and break the cycle of crime and jail. If you’re acquainted with Dope Boy Dreams, then by this point of the story you’re probably rooting for the antihero. Rap videos and pop culture would have you believe that all the ill gotten proceeds from a life of crime go to fuel rampant debauchery and misogynistic fantasies. The truth however, is that that dirty money pays mortgages, car notes, healthcare bills, and most everything else in life that requires monetary remuneration.

To see a Dope Boy go legit is to see a clean revenue stream built. A Dope Boy gone legit has beaten the system, and what person of color isn’t rooting for someone to pull a Tron and beat the game?

Victory Lap Track 6 – Blue Laces 2 

There’s another element to consider when pondering why the culture reacted to Nip’s death the way it did. Nip was a CRIP, and a well respected CRIP at that. To survive the crucible of LA gang culture and build a sustainable business is a herculean task. Nip was the only member of his family to claim CRIP and his affiliation with the street gang put much respect on his name.

It’s hard to talk about LA gang culture from the outside looking in. I, like most people I think, see gangs through the lenses of after school specials and cautionary tales preached to middle school assemblies. Yet, to hear Nip and others talk about these violent fraternities, is to hear a community in pain.

“When you’re outside and doing things to get money, it’s almost inevitable (getting involved in gang life). You end up with two choices; get with it or get the fuck out the way,” He said. The CRIPS began as a community empowerment organization aiming to protect neighborhood residents from overly militarized police and oppression. However, time and circumstance has morphed the CRIPs and Bloods and others into violent criminal syndicates.

I believe Nipsey’s respect in LA stems not from a history of violence and flashy crime. Rather, Nip’s respect comes from a community understanding the usually inevitable pitfalls of the life and the supreme unlikelihood of what he accomplished in business and music. He was an exemplar of what is possible and a radical outlier at the same damn time.

On Blue Laces Nip rapped,“Third generation, South Central , Gang bangers, and lived long enough to see it changing .”

That last bar is the one that has so many people messed up. He lived just long enough to see it changing. Just long enough to have his business thriving. Just long enough to create a classic album. Just long enough to be an inspiration.

Every time I think about it, all I can do is steal Florida Evans’s classic exclamation of grief. “Damn, Damn, Damn James!”

Victory Lap Track 13 – Loaded Bases

They’re going to hold Nipsey’s memorial service in the Staples Center. Memes are circulating that implore people to seek out and find the Nipsey’s at work in their own neighborhoods. The entire hip hop industry and community (minus Kodak Black) have rallied to support Hussle and his hustles. His aim was to put people in positions to succeed. He got taken out of the game but he left the bases loaded.

It’s eerie that his first major album was titled Victory Lap. It wasn’t a debut. It was a declaration. Nigga I made it! Niga we made it! It also made the point that putting an album out wasn’t the race. The race was surviving LA. The race was thriving in his own community as it revitalized around him. The race was to become a reputable business owner and contributor to the culture. This jamming ass album was just a cherry on top.

People of color relate to Nip’s story, and his passing hurt total strangers because his story is one told a million times. Nipsey was Carlito if Benny Blanco ain’t catch him slipping on the subway platform.

Christopher Mattox (@ChampionLyfe) is the host of Light Skinned Opinions, and has lots of words of the day. Find his podcast here: https://www.fivereasonssports.com/south-florida-podcasts/light-skinned-opinions/

Now that the emotion has subsided and the tears have all mostly dried up, can we maybe take a second to give that Budweiser ad the side-eye it so rightfully deserved?

You’ve seen the video by now. Dwyane Wade swapping “jerseys” with people whose lives he’s touched. Victims of gun violence. Poverty. Addiction. It’s powerful. It’s emotional. And for the first three minutes and fifty-five seconds, Budweiser navigates these harrowing tales beautifully, artfully, and produces what can arguably be described as a perfect tribute. Maybe the best athlete tribute ever. As you stare at the screen, tears literally pour down your face.

And then some shithead, corporate shill, Darren Rovell clone in marketing decides that what this heartfelt video needs is a fucking slogan.

Look, I get that sometimes the message isn’t gonna come from the ideal place. (Over at Deadspin, Laura Wagner presents a much more cynical—and maybe even more accurate—look at it.) We’ve reached a point where brands and life are sort of intertwined and we’ve accepted that companies are trying to sell us something at every turn. It’s depressing, but it’s life. Hell, the president of the United States uses his platform as a world leader to peddle hats. But on the most basic of levels, on the ground floor of expectations, is it too much to ask that a company practice subtlety? That they not slap a branded hashtag across real life fucking tragedy?

Heres a victim of systemic racism. Here’s a woman whose house burned down in a fire. Here’s a teenager whose brother was murdered in a horrific act of violence. Cheers! Don’t forget to buy some beer!

And if you wanna be particularly grossed out, try and wrap your mind around Budweiser using Dwyane Wade’s mom, whose life was practically destroyed by substance abuse, to hawk an addictive substance notable for destroying lives.

Again, capitalism is going to give you problematic messengers. That part is what it is. But when the message is being delivered on real tragedy, on lives ruined, on the casket of a child… maybe don’t brand it like it’s a talking frog. Maybe just put “Thank You” with your little logo under it and trust that we know who you are and what you want us to buy. Maybe, just maybe, brand the story of a kid being murdered in a school shooting with even an ounce of fucking tact.

Or maybe I’m expecting too much of a beer company.

Editor’s Note: This story was originally published on April 30, 2016 (via MiamiHeatBeat.com).

My son was born in 2003. I didn’t know him in 2003, and I didn’t meet him until 2010, but he is my son. He doesn’t share my last name. He doesn’t carry my blood. But I dare you or anybody else to tell me he isn’t my son.

If you didn’t know us or know our history, you probably would think he was my son. We share facial features. He is light-skinned, with a broad nose. His eyes are sleepy like mine. And I haven’t met a stranger yet that questioned our lineage.

His younger brother? It’s even easier. We both like superheroes and we both like Legos. I see him, with his behavioral opportunities and his anxiety issues, as a kindred spirit. I don’t think there is a human being on this Earth better equipped to lead him through a troublesome childhood into adulthood than me.

I’ve been there. The awkwardness, the relentless anxiety – these are the things that formed me.

But my older boy? His older brother? What am I to do with a sixth grader that already stands 5-foot-8 and wears a size 11 shoe?

A superb athlete with the speed and guile that has caught the attention of every coach and league coordinator that he’s played for. I don’t know that life. In sixth grade, I barely stood 5-foot tall. I was almost 200 pounds and my athleticism had escaped me.

What do I have in common with this young man that looks to me for guidance?

Basketball. This is what we have. This is what binds the two of us outside of our similar features. Not the ability to play, no, he is far better than I am already. He has the ball handling skills, coordination, and jump shot that I’ve never had. He’s never beat me one-on-one, though. I won’t let that happen.

But what I lack in skill, I make up for in old man strength. The day he beats me will be a hallmark for him as it should be. I don’t understand fathers who let their kids win. Especially, not at something they want to be great at – but that’s another conversation for another time.

This story is about Dwyane Wade.

My older son’s favorite basketball player is Dwyane Wade. While his friends adore LeBron James and Stephen Curry, my son is defiant in his love for that washed-up fossil.

Why? Because I’ve told him for six years that Wade is amazing. And he trusts me, because he loves me, so he loves Dwyane.

The entire time I’ve known my son, LeBron has loomed large over the Heat franchise. He doesn’t remember Wade leading the Heat in 2006 or Wade winning a scoring title.

He knows Wade as a sidekick; Lebron’s buddy. But despite that, Dwyane is his guy. This past Christmas, his only request was a Dwyane Wade jersey. I’ve heard him get teased by his contemporaries about it, but he ignores it. His dad’s favorite player wears number 3 for the Heat, and you can eff off about it.

So, on Friday night, as I called my son into the living room to watch the end of Game 6 between Charlotte and Miami, I watched as his unwavering loyalty was rewarded. He finally got to see Dwyane Wade, on the biggest stage, without the crutch of another Hall of Famer.

He finally had the chance to see Wade at the end of a tough possession, with three minutes to go, hit a long 3-point shot. The kind of shot Wade has made a career off of, but my son has seen precious little of.

I watched his eyes light up. Wade hit a “Steph Curry” shot. The kind of shot he could take to school as witness of his favorite player’s greatness.

As much as I was focused on a Heat win, it was even more fun to watch my son see Wade in all of his glory. There were no analytics experts in his ear telling him Wade’s shooting percentage from three. There were no Twitter coaches designing fantasy plays in his way.

There was just a young man and his idol. There was our bond. We were two fans – father and son – sharing a moment.

With fifty seconds left, Wade hits a step back 3-pointer to put the Heat up by 5. My son’s mouth is open, he can’t believe it. We share a high five and a chest bump. It’s lit.

Dwyane Wade was a clutch mothereffer vs Hornets down 3-2 pic.twitter.com/JvUeEmCqnc

— 73 and no ring (@LeBlew3v1Lead) March 9, 2017

In this moment, there are no advanced or clutch stats. There is only a young man, his father, and hero ball in the most flattering sense of the term.

Because we were all young once, no? Many of us were introduced to basketball and sports by our fathers. They told tales of the greats.

To this day, my favorite player of all time is Magic Johnson. Why? Because I saw him play at his peak? No, because my father told me tales of his greatness.

This is why we love sports. This is why my son and I love basketball. The uncommon feats of a mortal man that defy the odds and the numbers. An appreciation of a man’s greatness that can be passed down through generations.

But Friday night, we moved beyond stories. We moved beyond tales of 2006 and YouTube videos of 2009. My son saw firsthand what greatness was and what made this sport, and all of sports, so great.

It's wild to think about how incredible prime Wade was.

— Tweetgood Mac (@SnottieDrippen) April 30, 2016

He saw Charlotte pull within three points with 30 seconds left. He saw Wade take a fade-away, mid-range jumper that would make a mathematician sick. He saw Wade make the shot, fall to the floor, and get up as defiant as ever.

He saw Kemba Walker beat Udonis Haslem on a drive to the basket. He saw his hero chase Walker down and slap his layup off of the backboard with 15 seconds left, sealing a crucial Game 6 win.

He saw the clock go down to zero, and the Miami Heat survive to force a Game 7 on Sunday.

He turned around to me and said, “I can’t believe Dwyane Wade did that.”

He couldn’t believe the stories from his father were true.

Dwyane:

Before I start…. this is not a post for pity.

It’s out of deep appreciation, for the impact you made on my life, and in the lives of other kids like me.

Growing up, life hadn’t always been easy. Having been born with a heart condition that eventually led to two open heart surgeries, on separate occasions of course, played a role I guess.

Throughout childhood, my parents went through an ugly divorce that lasted more than a decade. It was in during this time when I needed a distraction, badly.

You were my distraction.

When I needed something to keep my mind otherwise occupied, I knew I could turn a Heat game on and, for 48 minutes, all my problems would disappear. Every time I watched, I knew you would do something I had never seen before. And when you did, I would go in to my closet, throw on my Wade jersey and try to do it myself in my driveway.

The awe and joy you brought me as a kid are remarkable in retrospect. I’ll never forget being in front of my TV with my parents; it was 2006, game 6. My first time being so close to peak sports fandom: watching your favorite team win the championship. I can close my eyes and relive that exact moment. Jason Terry taking a shot and missing, you getting the rebound and throwing the ball in the air. The Miami Heat were champions. Then you gave me that joy twice more in 2012 and 2013.

That joy occasionally came with consequences though.

March 9th, 2009, the night before the FCAT. I’m sure most of those who also went to school in Florida have some downright awful memories about the FCAT— for those who aren’t Florida natives, it was a standardized test we took in school to determine if we would move on to the next grade.

Anyways…my brother and I were up late that night watching the game. Deep into the second overtime, we knew we would regret doing so. Then, with time expiring, you got a steal and hit the game winner. You ran to the scorer’s table and introduced your iconic “This is my House” pose.

Come the next morning,  I was extremely exhausted and had to take the FCAT. Admittedly, I didn’t do as well as I hoped, which may or may not have to do with my choices…  I don’t think my mom knows about this story, so if you’re reading this mom, I’m sorry but I had to!

You were always an inspiration for me; in 5th grade during Black History month, we had to go to school dressed as our favorite African-American influencer and write a report on that person. Of course, I chose you. I arrived at school that day in black basketball shorts, my white # 3 jersey and some converse. I took pride in showing off to my classmates and their parents just how much you had influenced me.

Flashing forward to 2015, I was in Miami sleeping at my uncle’s house. The next day I was having my second heart surgery. My mind was racing the whole night. The Heat were in Los Angeles that same night and, despite my impending surgery early the next morning, I needed a distraction.  I stayed up late watching that game. And it was a comforting moment, something that made all my thoughts and fears go away; watching you play whenever I needed relief from something serious kind of became my routine at this point.

The next year on July 6th, 2016, I was in the Netherlands visiting my grandparents. Because of the time difference or jetlag, maybe both, I woke up at 3AM. I checked my phone and saw a “WOJ bomb” on my phone. It read that you were informing the Bulls your intentions to sign with them. After 13 great seasons, you were actually leaving. I felt upset, saddened too. I mean, I was happy you were finally being appreciated and moving on to greater things within the league. But it felt like my childhood was over.

Afterward, I just started to watch basketball differently; lost my connection to the players.

Then it happened, on February 18 of 2018. I was at a Chick-Fil-A with my girlfriend and a notification popped up on my phone— “The Cleveland Cavaliers are trading Dwyane Wade to the Miami Heat.” I was so hyped, nearly to the point of tears. I said to my girlfriend, “Wade is home!!!”

I think she got a little weirded out.

But that’s OK. You needed to have connection to understand. And so many of us did, not just me. College students, hundreds of miles away from Miami, started talking about it. We were young again. Or younger.

In a time when you didn’t need to, you came back to give us one more chance to show you our love and gratitude. So, thank you Dwyane, thank you for giving us this one last dance. Thank you for the memories, thank you for what you did to the community, thank you for getting me through some dark times and thank you for my childhood.

Wade County isn’t something that ends at the city limits, Wade County is a generation of kids who fell in love with their favorite sport because of their hero.

Thank you, Flash.

— Dutch

Michael “Dutch” Sonbeek, based in Pembroke Pines, contributes to Fantasy On 5, Swings and Mishes and a host of other things on the Five Reasons Sports Network.