The tragic loss of Erica Garner Garner’s own loss of her father made her a woman her family wants remembered as a ‘human: mother, daughter, sister, aunt … She only pursued right, no matter what. No one gave her justice.’

It’s cruelty befitting a Greek tragedy.

A young grief-stricken daughter reluctantly transforms herself into an activist after her father is killed by police during a controversial encounter — a struggle in which the officer chokes the very life from the father, apparently deaf to his repeated gasps of “I can’t breathe.”

Three years pass, the daughter, now an outspoken hero to countless others who have lost loved ones at the hands of police brutality, is a high-profile face for an insistent new police reform movement called Black Lives Matter.

Then, in a twist of fate that mirrors her martyred father’s horrifying demise, the daughter herself is felled by a heart attack brought on by a breath-depriving asthma attack. As if to compound her family’s seemingly endless suffering, the daughter dies during the holidays, Christianity’s celebrated season of miracles, wherein the faithful are offered a path to redemption.

That is the heart-shattering story of Erica Garner. In 2014, the then-23-year-old was thrust into the global spotlight when her father Eric Garner died from an illegal choke hold after resisting arrest by New York police. Eric Garner’s videotaped dying words; “I can’t breathe” became a rallying cry for the anti-police brutality movement, helping to fuel the Black Lives Matter crusade for police reform.

That 2014 choke hold reopened a wound in the African-American community, one that is not God-given, but rather inflicted by law officers who vow to “serve and protect.” In his 2013 book, The Cross and the Lynching Tree, theologian James H. Cone writes: “In the ‘lynching era’… white Christians lynched nearly five thousand black men and women in a manner with obvious echoes of the Roman crucifixion of Jesus. Yet these ‘Christians’ did not see the irony or contradiction in their actions.” Indeed, as Eric Garner’s death proves, there is a crooked and disingenuous through-line between the Crucifixion and the kangaroo-court justice visited upon blacks since the Jim Crow era. Eric Garner’s death, along with those of many other blacks killed in fatal police encounters, was a chilling reminder that state-sanctioned executions are still a frightening component of African-American life.

Into this millenniums-old narrative arrived Erica Garner. The spitting image of her dad, Erica said she even inherited her father’s take-no-guff spirit (“If he had survived what happened to him, he would be out here advocating and doing exactly what I’m doing, if not more,” she once said.) But while she aligned herself with the Black Lives Matter movement, Erica demonstrated a diplomat’s conciliatory grace, carefully framing police brutality as a universal problem that affects everyone. “This is not a black-and-white issue,” she said during a 2014 CNN interview. “This is a national crisis.”

She displayed that same sensibleness when it came to the topic of activism itself. Writing in 2015, Erica urged peace and unity within the police reform movement. “As we activists fight each other, our opposition — from killer cops to corrupt elected officials — upholds this broken system and covers up injustices,” she wrote. “No movement is immune to conflict, but it’s up to every last person on the side of justice to make the decision to move forward together.”

It was Erica’s yin-yang combination of persistence and political savvy that prompted many to post condolences and tributes upon news of her death. Rev. Al Sharpton described her as “a fearless outspoken activist that never stopped fighting for justice for her father,” while Vermont Sen. Bernie Sanders tweeted: “Though Erica didn’t ask to be an activist, she responded to the personal tragedy of seeing her father die while being arrested in New York City by becoming a leading proponent for criminal justice reform and for an end to police brutality.” Her family commented, “When you report this you remember she was human: mother, daughter, sister, aunt … She only pursued right, no matter what. No one gave her justice.”

Nor, it seems, did destiny give Erica a fair shake. The world had a scant three years to know Erica, yet she shined brightly during her short time on the international stage. Her father’s death was such a cause célèbre that many people would have excused her for simply expressing inchoate rage over her dad’s mistreatment at the hands of police. Yet instead of being consumed by anger, Erica became of an insistent voice of reason during one of the most racially sensitive periods in America’s modern history.

Her entry into activism was a veritable trial by fire, a learn-as-you-go experience. “It was something that happened basically overnight,” Erica recently told New York Magazine. “I started out with protests, small little gatherings outside the post office … and then I traveled to different cities to talk about this issue with local communities and elected officials.”

Spurred by grief and indignation — she said she watched the video of her father’s death “over and over again” — Erica helped organize a 2014 “die-in” at the Staten Island location where her dad was killed. There, she and other protesters lay on the cold pavement, creating a haunting tableau vivant in tribute to the scores of citizens injured or killed during police encounters. She continued to lead a series of weekly marches at that same spot, all conducted after 6 p.m. to increase participation from workaday nine-to-fivers. Erica claimed the New York Police Department attempted to dissuade her and others from marching. “They’ve stopped protesters from coming across the water [to march],” she told NBC News. “They’ve followed me in unmarked cars, and even barricaded the Supreme Court steps so people will think [the march] isn’t happening.”

Erica was applying increasing pressure on one of the world’s most assertive law enforcement agencies, the New York City Police Department, which has been consistently dogged by accusations of institutional racism. Evidence has revealed that blacks and Hispanics make up most of the citizens stopped for street interrogations allowed under the department’s stop-and-frisk policies. Since the 1980s, the department has made international headlines for fatal encounters involving blacks, including Eleanor Bumpers, Amadou Diallo, Sean Bell, and countless more. In 2004, the department acknowledged the existence of an intelligence unit designed to perform surveillance on rappers and others involved in the city’s hip-hop scene. This is the police organization Erica fearlessly challenged during her stint as an activist.

But not only was Erica was courageous, she also demonstrated an impressive knack for diplomacy. In a tremendously polarized nation where taking a stand against police brutality often results in accusations of being “anti-police,” Erica’s agitating for justice was no small risk. To have any hope of earning sympathy from her reflexively unsympathetic critics, she suppressed whatever rage she must have been feeling, opting instead to coolly advocate for due process. And when due process failed her family, she continued to press for justice. “People ask, ‘When will you stop marching?’ ” Erica said. “ ‘What do you want from marching?’ He was my father. I will always march.”

Erica’s cause was taken up by pro athletes, including NBA stars LeBron James, Kobe Bryant, Kyrie Irving and more. Eric Garner’s dying sighs of “I can’t breathe” became a galvanizing slogan for the Black Lives Matter movement. Before long, Erica was fielding interview requests and speaking invitations from schools, colleges, churches and social justice organizations. She made television appearances, both nationally and in her native New York. After a grand jury declined to indict the officer involved, the Garner family brought a wrongful-death lawsuit against New York City, winning a $5.9 million settlement.

While Erica may have been soft-spoken, she was fiercely independent. When many blacks threw their support behind Hillary Clinton’s 2016 presidential campaign, Erica raised eyebrows for backing Bernie Sanders, citing the Vermont senator’s long-standing civil rights record. At the time of her death, she was in the process of starting a nonprofit to identify and endorse candidates sympathetic to the cause of police reform.

Like Rodney King — himself a police brutality victim who pleaded for peace amid the havoc of the 1992 Los Angeles riots — Erica never sought to become a civil rights lightning rod. She occasionally let her frustration slip, like in 2017 when she voiced her exasperation with the Department of Justice. (“The DOJ literally gathered my family in one place,” she tweeted, “after we have been waiting for answers for 3 years to say they cant answer S—!”). By all appearances, Erica was catapulted into activism by her father’s death, and was carried along by her own grit and a sense of purpose. “I had no idea what I was doing, but I connected with the right people and went from there,” she said.

By and large, Erica wore the mantle she assumed with powerful restraint. Now, the pain many of us felt after viewing her father’s protest-prompting death is magnified by Erica’s own passing. The hurt we experienced after her dad’s killer was let off the hook is now magnified by the knowledge that Erica’s two kids will grow up without their mother.

The daughter who tirelessly sought justice for her slain father has gone to join him in the afterlife, all too soon.

Remembering pioneering Atlanta journalist Amanda Davis She inspired us with her many years as a TV anchor and her off-camera struggles

I don’t remember the first time I saw Amanda Davis — the Amanda Davis — in the flesh, in the newsroom, but I bet I stopped in my tracks and stared.

I was an adopted “ATL-ien,” by way of New Orleans, who had grown up watching Davis on Fox 5 News in Atlanta. One of my BFFs during my days at Clark Atlanta University (CAU) had the biggest crush on her. He’d gush about her dazzling smile, beautiful eyes and that signature sultry voice that made lots of Atlantans tune in daily. Somehow the death and destruction that fill much of TV news is more palatable when shared by someone who makes you feel like she’s your best friend. That was Amanda.

This week, I join countless fellow fans and black journalists in mourning her unexpected death on Dec. 27 at the age of 62 after she suffered a stroke at Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. She was about to board a flight en route to her stepfather’s funeral. Davis was a Clark College (now CAU) alum, an award-winning journalist and a devoted friend, mother and daughter to many. But it was her backstory that would ultimately make us admire her most.

In the early 2000s, thanks to Sidmel Estes Sumpter, the first woman president of the National Association of Black Journalists, I’d landed a dream job as an associate producer for Good Day Atlanta on Fox 5. By that time, Davis, who’d launched the popular program with Sumpter as executive producer, had moved on to anchoring the evening newscast. But her groundbreaking role at the station and on the morning show, which featured an eclectic mix of hard news with newsmaker and celebrity interviews, was still widely celebrated.

I’d always admired Davis from afar, but my fandom reached new heights when I was invited to a soiree at her grand home in suburban Atlanta. I was touched that she thought to include lesser-known young-uns like me, and I remember feeling excited and a bit intimidated about celebrating the recent promotion of Fox 5 anchor Lisa Rayam in the midst of such pioneering black broadcasters as Brenda Wood, Karyn Greer and Monica Kaufman. My nervousness subsided quickly when they all embraced me, literally and figuratively, during that spirited celebration of “Black Girl Magic.” That night amid greatness ignited in me a deep sense of pride and a profound sense of purpose that would later catapult my own career. I hoped to make the women who’d inspired me proud.

Although I’d always appreciated Davis, as I struggle now with balancing a journalism career and motherhood, I find myself thinking back to the stories I’d heard from Sumpter and fellow Good Day alum Patrick Riley and Michael Watts about how Davis, as a single mother, would bring her beloved daughter to work with her in the wee hours of the morning. Still in her PJs, little Melora would sleep in a vacant office while her mom dazzled Atlantans on air. Then Davis, or a trusted member of the Good Day team, would take Melora to school. The struggle was real, but with dogged determination, Davis displayed the resilience of women, especially black women, with grace and strength.

We would learn in recent years that her ambition came with an even higher price than we knew. A few years ago, a DUI arrest ultimately ended Davis’ 26-year reign at Fox 5. But she didn’t give up and melt into the shame of a very public downfall. She brushed herself off and did what I believe was probably the hardest thing she’s ever had to do — be transparent.

She began speaking publicly about her long-standing struggles with alcoholism and the insecurities she endured as a result of a tumultuous romantic relationship that ended with a painful failed engagement. Davis embodied the phrase “grace under pressure” as she shared her testimony. I, like countless other fans and colleagues, cheered from the sidelines.

Davis landed back in the anchor chair a year ago, this time at Atlanta’s CBS affiliate. I kept up with her success through social media and checked on her through mutual friends. Her own posts in the minutes before her death, interestingly, have helped me to make peace with her untimely departure.

She gleefully posted photos of her Lyft driver, who had picked her up decked out in a festive holiday outfit with a vehicle decorated in similar fashion. Despite the emotional reason for her trip, she was smiling and in great spirits as she recorded herself walking toward the airport, joking about dreading long security lines and having to check her bags. She looked happy and beautiful, in a vibrant red turtleneck, eyeglasses framing her famous face.

It’s still hard to accept, but seeing her so happy and upbeat in what would be the last moments of her life has given me a sense of calm. Davis made it through the lowest of lows and inspired us all in the process. I hope she can rest in peace knowing that her biggest assignment — the lessons she lived to teach us all — was finally complete.

Remembering Mamie ‘Peanut’ Johnson The first woman to pitch in the Negro Leagues dies at 82

Hank Bayliss must have thought he was doing something. The Kansas City Monarchs third baseman was having himself a day running his mouth as he stood opposite of 5-foot-3, 115-pound Mamie Johnson.

He exclaimed that the right-handed pitcher was “no bigger than a peanut.” And he was no better at hitting after talking all that trash. Johnson, a Ridgeway, South Carolina, native, struck him out and turned the jab into her nickname.

She took all of the slights in stride, including when the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League, an all-white league, turned Johnson away. She decided to play three seasons with the Indianapolis Clowns in the Negro Leagues from 1953-55.

“They didn’t let us try out,” Johnson said in a 2003 interview with NPR. “They just looked at us like we were crazy, as if to say, ‘What do you want?’ ”

Johnson, the first woman to pitch in the Negro Leagues and a mentee of Negro Leagues baseball legend and Baseball Hall of Famer Satchel Paige, died on Dec. 19. She was 82. Bob Kendrick, the president of the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum, announced her death. She was the last of the three women who played in the Negro Leagues to die. Toni Stone and Connie Morgan died in 1996.

“It’s a sad day for all of us,” Kendrick said Tuesday. “We lost a member of our family. She was truly a pioneer.

“It’s representative of the inclusive nature of the Negro Leagues, that it created an opportunity for women to do things that they weren’t allowed to do in the rest of the country.”

The Clowns, Hank Aaron’s team before he joined Major League Baseball, recruited Johnson to play on the team. Johnson compiled a 33-8 record in her three seasons with a .270 batting average.

Johnson credited Paige for her unhittable curveball.

“Tell you the truth, I didn’t know of his greatness that much. He was just another ballplayer to me at that particular time,” Johnson told The State (Columbia, South Carolina). “Later on, I found out exactly who he was.

“I got to meet and be with some of the best baseball players that ever picked up a bat, so I’m very proud about that,” Johnson said in an NPR interview.

It took many years for people to see Johnson, who was born in 1935, as a trailblazer. But when she finally started to get her due, it came in droves.

When she was out of season, Johnson attended New York University and eventually received a nursing degree from North Carolina A&T State University. At the conclusion of her career, Johnson focused on raising her son, Charles, and practiced as a nurse for three decades.

The 2002 book A Strong Right Arm, by Michelle Y. Green, is based on Johnson’s story. The White House hosted Johnson in 1999, and that same year, Columbia, South Carolina, Mayor Bob Coble presented Johnson with a proclamation. A decade later, the Library of Congress welcomed her as a guest lecturer for a symposium.

A year before her Library of Congress lecture in 2008, Johnson and other living alumni from the Negro Leagues era were drafted by major league franchises. The Washington Nationals drafted Johnson, as she spent most of her adult life in the nation’s capital. The Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York, has Johnson in two exhibits: one dedicated to members of the Negro Leagues and another for women who have pioneered in the sport.

Ridgeway presented Johnson with a key to her hometown and named a street in her honor. In 2012, Mo’ne Davis, the phenom pitcher for the Little League World Series’ Anderson Monarchs, was introduced to Johnson.

As a child, Johnson had such a passion for pitching that she would forgo her work with the crops to play baseball. Her uncle, Leo “Bones” Belton, taught her how to throw by tossing stones at crows that sat perched on her grandparents’ fence.

“It’s what people do in the country,” Johnson told The State in 2010. “You use what you had.”

Said Kendrick: “We lost a voice with her passing, but her legacy plays on at the Negro Leagues Museum. Hers is a story of hope, a story of perseverance and an example of how to overcome adversity and achieve your dreams.”

Reggie ‘Combat Jack’ Ossé dies at 48 The hip-hop podcaster and attorney succumbs to colon cancer

When Reggie Ossé, immortalized in hip-hop culture as “Combat Jack,” announced via Twitter a week before Halloween that he had colon cancer, I knew. I think we all did.

Jack’s soliloquy ultimately was one of his final intimate moments with a culture now so different without his physical presence. It was his way of fighting while simultaneously coming to grips with what we’ll all encounter one day — our own mortality.

My uncle had colon cancer. He died Jan. 2, 1999. His death, in so many ways, is why my winter holidays can never again be truly festive. His last conversation with me, when I was 12, was in a Richmond, Virginia, hospital. “Treat people with respect and watch the universe pay you back in ways you could never imagine. I’m not scared. I’ve passed that point. I’ve lived my purpose.” I can only imagine Ossé having similar feelings.

Jack, I’d imagine, wasn’t scared in his final hours — the product of being a Brooklyn, New York, native. His thoughts were more than likely with his family, his children in particular. Above anything he meant to the culture, nothing mattered more to him than being a father. Jack being gone at 48 has yet to totally sink in. The wound is fresh and still bleeding. These days, to hear people claim they’re “doing it for the culture” is banal. But with Jack, it was authentic. An attorney who in the mid-’90s represented Jay-Z, Dame Dash, Capone-N-Noreaga and others, he also served as the managing editor of The Source. To many, though, especially within the past decade, he’s been the man who helped revolutionize podcasts and hip-hop’s role within them.

The linchpin of the Ossé’s Loud Speakers Network, and co-hosted by the likes of Dallas Penn, Premium Pete and Just Blaze, The Combat Jack Show podcast was more life lessons than mere interviews. They were glimpses into the minds of culture-shifters, narrated by the culture-shifters themselves. With his beautifully produced Mogul: The Life & Death of Chris Lighty, Ossé brought narrative storytelling to podcast culture. It’s fair to say, too, part of The Combat Jack Show’s DNA resides in many of today’s most successful podcasts and radio shows such as Rap Radar, N.O.R.E.’s Drink Champs and The Breakfast Club. The same can be said of many young journalists/content producers as well — myself included.

The culture that Ossé helped shift, curate and elevate grieves for him. Liquor meets pavement. Smoke fades to air. Tears are shed. Laughs are had. And stories are swapped on social media, on air and in person. All in homage to a man none of us can ever truly repay. You don’t necessarily quantify “influence” by dollars stacked but rather respect given, and shown. Combat Jack was a rich, rich man.

Kevin Durant runs fake Twitter accounts and other news of the week The Week That Was Sept. 18-22

Monday 09.18.17

Denver Broncos linebacker Brandon Marshall was called “garbage” by a Twitter user who confused him with New York Giants wide receiver Brandon Marshall during Monday Night Football; Denver’s Marshall told the fan, “Meet me in the parking lot after the game chump!” Convicted murderer Dylann Roof, who’s really set in this whole white supremacy thing, wants to fire his appellate attorneys because they are his “political and biological enemies”; the lawyers are Jewish and Indian. Texas football coach Tom Herman, after his team’s 27-24 double-overtime loss to USC over the weekend, said he didn’t cry after the game but that there were “some primal screams” in the shower. Former Cleveland Cavaliers guard Kyrie Irving, adding more fuel to the fire that will be Oct. 17, answered, “Why would I?” when asked whether he spoke with then-teammate LeBron James when he demanded a trade over the summer. Former NBA MVP and reigning Finals MVP Kevin Durant, still mad online for some reason, apparently has spoof accounts solely for the purpose of defending himself against detractors on Twitter and accidentally tweeted one of said defenses from his actual personal account.

Tuesday 09.19.17

Oklahoma City Thunder center Enes Kanter, who has been with the team for three seasons and thus missed the team’s controversial move from Seattle, shot back at Durant by tweeting that the Thunder are “the best and most professional organization in the NBA.” In the worst mashup since Pizza Hut and KFC joined in unholy matrimony, Detroit will soon be the home of the first IHOP-Applebee’s joint restaurant. Elton John fan President Donald Trump said the U.S. will have no other choice but to “totally destroy” North Korea and its leader, “Rocket Man.” Charlotte Hornets center Dwight Howard used to call friends during halftime of games to ask about how he was playing. After former Washington Redskins receiver Santana Moss accused teammate Robert Griffin III of celebrating the firing of coach Mike Shanahan in 2013, Griffin shot back by accusing Moss of “subtweeting” him; Moss’ comments were made on the radio, and the retired receiver hasn’t tweeted since 2011. Former Minnesota Timberwolves general manager David Kahn — responsible for drafting point guards Ricky Rubio and Jonny Flynn, neither of whom are still on the team, ahead of Stephen Curry — said New York Knicks forward Michael Beasley has the ability to replace fellow forward Carmelo Anthony if the latter decides to leave the Knicks. Former Chicago Bears defensive back Charles Tillman wants to become a fed. Hip-hop artist Boosie Badazz, when asked why he dissed late rapper Nussie on his recently released track, responded that “even though he’s gone, rest in peace, I still felt like he was a p—y for what he was doing as far as hating on me and what I had going.”

Wednesday 09.20.17

Sen. Pat Roberts (R-Kansas), not great with metaphors, compared Republicans’ last-ditch effort to repeal the Affordable Care Act to being “in the back seat of a convertible being driven by Thelma and Louise, and we’re headed toward the canyon.” Former Milwaukee County Sheriff David Clarke, when asked about his taxpayer-funded $200,000-a-year security costs, told a Milwaukee journalist: “F— you & the horse you rode in on.” It was New York’s Brandon Marshall’s turn to be mixed up with the other Brandon Marshall. Proving definitively that we all look alike, 6-foot-9, 230-pound former NBA player Kenyon Martin said he used to be confused with 6-foot, 200-pound rapper Joe Budden all the time in the early 2000s. NBA Hall of Famer Charles Barkley called current players “poor babies” for wanting more rest between games; Barkley played a full 82-game season just three times in his 16-year career and logged 44,179 total minutes, nearly 6,000 fewer minutes than LeBron James has in 14 seasons. After Hurricane Maria, which has left at least nine people dead throughout the Caribbean, Sabrina the Teenage Witch expressed her sympathy by complaining about the storm ruining her family vacation to a Nickelodeon resort. Washington Wizards forward Markieff Morris, or his twin brother, Marcus — you can never be too sure — is expected to have sports hernia surgery this week. Former NFL player Albert Haynesworth, who in 2011 said, “I couldn’t tell you the last time I dated a black girl. … I don’t even like black girls,” said the mother of his child, who is white, physically assaulted him and called him the N-word during their two-year relationship.

Thursday 09.21.17

Haynesworth, somehow upsetting another subset of the country in the process, responded to the controversy by stating emphatically that “as long as you are a beautiful REAL WOMAN trust me I’m trying to smash!!!” Former White House Press Secretary Sean Spicer said that he never “knowingly” lied while serving in the Trump administration despite saying three days before that he “absolutely” regrets arguing with reporters about the size of Trump’s inauguration crowd. While claiming that they want the best for their kids, American parents have effectively forced General Mills Inc. to reintegrate “artificial colors and flavors” back into Trix cereal. New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady, a prominent cancer researcher, believes that water consumption, not sunscreen, prevents sunburn. Former CIA agent Valerie Plame Wilson tweeted out a story with the headline “America’s Jews are driving America’s wars” before later apologizing because “There is so much there that’s problematic AF [as f—] and I should have recognized it sooner.” The makers of Gatorade sports drink, which also produces electrolyte-infused Propel water, must pay $300,000 to the California Attorney General’s Office for telling video game players to avoid water. A Virginia woman said she shot a state trooper in the arm because “I was high as hell.”

Friday 09.22.17

After North Korea leader Kim Jong Un clapped back at Trump by calling the U.S. president a mentally deranged “dotard,” Trump kept the roast session going by calling Kim a “madman.” As further proof that machine is beating man in the fight for the planet, Walmart wants to deliver groceries to customers even when they’re not home. J.R. “Pipe” Smith, a known wordsmith, said future free agent LeBron James is “going to be wherever the f— he wants to be at.” Denver Broncos starting quarterback Trevor Siemian’s parents are still stuck in the cheap seats during home games despite their son leading the team to a 2-0 start this season. Republican lawmakers may fail to repeal the Affordable Care Act (again) because of Arizona Sen. John McCain (again).

5 reasons to respect Dick Gregory The comedian was an activist for civil rights, women’s rights and nutrition

Comedian Dick Gregory, who died Saturday at 84, was one of the most successful black comedians working at the intersection of comedy and the civil rights struggle.

When Gregory fasted for 70 days in 1981, living off a gallon of water per day, his goal was to raise awareness about civil rights. He put his body on the line in the name of the culture while bringing awareness to food scarcity, health disparities and hunger.

“Years of severe fasting, not for health but for social change, had damaged his vasculature system long ago. He always reminded us, many of his fasts were not about his personal health but an attempt to heal the world,” his son, Christian Gregory, told The Associated Press. Gregory is survived by his wife, Lillian, and 10 children.

Here are five things to remember about the late activist and thought-provoker.

5. he was an athlete

Gregory ran track during high school in his hometown of St. Louis. He earned a track scholarship to Southern Illinois University, Carbondale, where he set school records as a half-miler and miler.

“In high school I was fighting being broke and on relief,” he wrote in his 1963 autobiography. “But in college, I was fighting being Negro.”

His college days were cut short when he was drafted into the Army.

“We thought I was going to be a great athlete, and we were wrong, and I thought I was going to be a great entertainer, and that wasn’t it either. I’m going to be an American citizen. First class,” he once said, according to The Associated Press.

4. He ran for office twice

Gregory ran for mayor of Chicago in 1966 and president in 1968. He received 50,000 write-in votes for president.

3. He made nutrition into an empire

Gregory might just be the greatest of all time in the clean-eating craze. He was ahead of his time, promoting fasting and dieting before it was popular.

Gregory once weighed 350 pounds while smoking four packs of cigarettes and drinking a fifth of Scotch daily. He changed his life and began fasting. He conducted Dick Gregory’s Zero Nutrition Fasting Experiment in 1981 under doctors’ supervision and living off a gallon of water and prayer for 70 days at Dillard University’s Flint-Goodridge Hospital.

The fast prompted his 4-X Fasting Formula. According to yourdictionary.com, his Slim-safe Bahamian Diet products were “sold for $100 million when the special formulation became commercially available in August of 1984. Articles in People and USA Today made the diet a favorite among the general public.”

“Gregory went without solid food for weeks to draw attention to a wide range of causes, including Middle East peace, U.S. hostages in Iran, animal rights, police brutality, the Equal Rights Amendment for women and to support pop singer Michael Jackson when he was charged with sexual molestation in 2004.”

Gregory was diagnosed with lymphoma in 2000 and opted for herbs, exercise and vitamins instead of chemotherapy. The cancer went into remission a few years later.

2. he was the first black performer to sit on the couch of The Tonight Show

“Black folks made me. I’m in a little club making $5 a night three nights a week,” Gregory said during an interview with Reelblack published in November 2015. A gig at the Playboy Club in Chicago helped him move into a career that put him in front of white audiences.

“Where else in the world but America,” he joked, “could I have lived in the worst neighborhoods, attended the worst schools, rode in the back of the bus, and get paid $5,000 a week just for talking about it?”

He once got a call from producers of Tonight Starring Jack Paar. At the time, black performers weren’t invited to sit on the couch. He told Parr he would not accept the invitation unless he could sit on the couch after his stand-up. He became the first black performer to speak with Parr on the couch after his performance.

1. he was a feminist

Gregory marched down Pennsylvania Avenue to the U.S. Capitol with a crowd of more than 100,000 people to push for the ratification of the Equal Rights Amendment.

Television anchor Jim Vance was a hero in black Washington A fixture on the local news for four decades, he died of cancer

Back in the day, Jim Vance used to double-park his cream Mercedes 450 SL outside Roland’s grocery store on Pennsylvania Avenue in Southeast D.C. He’d run in, grab a magazine, some Junior Mints, often a pack of Marlboro Reds, and dap up every soul in the store who recognized him before peeling away.

This was 1979, when local TV news was king and most every American news anchor was white. The nation’s potentates and poseurs ran the country just down the street. But to black Washington, Vance was a hero, anchoring the leading local news show in the nation’s capital for more than four decades.

Young’uns and old heads alike beamed with pride at his accomplishments and what he represented: an elite African-American professional, playing by his rules.

“They thought he was working for them — and he was,” recalled Scott Towle.

Towle was 20, stocking shelves and working as a cashier at Roland’s in 1979. Today, he is another Washingtonian who felt as if he lost a family member when NBC’s WRC-TV announced Vance had died of cancer Saturday morning — just two months after he told viewers about his diagnosis.

“He became the embodiment of black Washington,” said his widow, Kathy McCampbell Vance, whom Vance often credited with saving him from cocaine addiction in the mid-1980s. They were married in 1987. Through separations and an on-and-off-again courtship, she’d been his closest companion for 40 years.

“He lived in Southeast, in a black neighborhood in Capitol Hill, for years,” she added. “Vance was a bootstraps kind of guy. He was just smart. And he had so much personality and charisma.”

If Birth of the Cool belonged to Miles Davis, Vance was the Continuum of Cool. He read the news with a jazzy syncopation, enunciating every sentence just so. In television, a world of harried producers and directors, he moved at the speed of … Jim Vance. If time hadn’t stood still for him, at least the 6 and 11 o’clock newscasts did.

Jim Vance (left) and Doreen Gentzler prepare to return to the live broadcast after a commercial break.

Andre Chung for The Washington Post via Getty Images

I met him in 2005 through sportscaster George Michael, who invited me to be a panelist on his NBC Washington sports shows. Vance was an unabashed local sports fan who formed a close relationship with Hall of Fame NFL coach Joe Gibbs and many of the team’s best players during Washington’s three Super Bowl victories between 1983 and 1992. He pined for the day when the Wizards would hoist the NBA trophy like Wes Unseld’s Bullets did in 1978. Vance was always curious what Gilbert Arenas was really like, why Stephen Strasburg always looked so angry for a man paid millions to play a child’s game and why Dan Snyder kept getting in his own way, “because Lord knows I know what that’s about,” he told me.

When Michael died in 2010, Vance took it hard and delivered a profound eulogy for his friend. “George Michael was the first man to tell me he loved me,” he said. “When I told him that the L-word made me feel uncomfortable, George replied, ‘Get over it.’ ”

Vance grew up in Ardmore, a suburb of Philadelphia. His father, James Howard Vance Jr., drank heavily, dying of cirrhosis when Jim was 9. His mother left him in the care of his grandparents. He blamed his father’s death on himself, once lamenting, “I was convinced I was such a piece of s— that he’d rather die than hang out with me.” He earned a degree in secondary education from Cheyney University, a historically black college where he roomed with Ed Bradley, the longtime 60 Minutes correspondent.

He taught high school English for three years and got a job as a television reporter in Philadelphia through a career placement agency in 1968. With America’s racial cauldron boiling, he was recruited to Washington within a year. By 1972, he would become NBC4’s lead news anchor for much of the next five decades.

Winner of 19 Emmy Awards, Vance went to Vietnam. To South Africa. And to Southeast D.C. He fished with President George H.W. Bush. Former D.C. Mayor Marion Barry sought out Vance first after being arrested in 1990 for smoking crack cocaine.

Vance knew where the mayor had been, because he once put himself through the same hell. He entered the Betty Ford Center in 1984 after many years of free-basing cocaine. But he relapsed upon returning to town.

“This was the pre-crack cocaine era,” Kathy Vance said. “I just think free-basing was so seductive to Vance that it just pulled him in.” At his lowest, Vance stuck the shotgun he used for bird hunting in his mouth one evening out by Great Falls, but he didn’t pull the trigger.

Vance’s sobriety from cocaine, which began in 1985, lasted until he died. He became active in Washington 12-step groups, partnering with longtime advocate and D.C. politico Johnny Allem in 1991 to open the Cardozo Club at 14th and V streets, which catered to some of the city’s poorest in need of a recovery group, and the nonprofit Columbia Recovery Center.

By 1989, he had combined forces with Doreen Gentzler, weatherman Bob Ryan and Michael. Ratings soared. More people in Washington watched NBC4 for the next 20-plus years than all the national cable news networks combined.

Jim Vance takes a phone call in his office.

Andre Chung for The Washington Post via Getty Images

Gunner of Harley-Davidsons, slayer of hundreds of king and sockeye salmon each summer outside of Ketchikan, Alaska, connoisseur of tequila, jazz and the good life, Vance began wearing a golden hoop earring in his left ear in 2006 after the death of his friend Bradley, who had worn one.

“He was such a … man,” said Rock Newman, host of The Rock Newman Show and the former boxing manager for Riddick Bowe. “He was such a cool character. Sinatra-like. When he did my show, he walked in with some beautiful sweater, leather coat over it and jeans on. That’s some cool s—.

“No matter who you were, how much money you had, what color you were, you saw Jim and you smiled. He was a magnet for everybody.”

He also wasn’t afraid to be polarizing. Vance emotionally advocated for Washington’s NFL team to change its name in 2013 in his Vance’s Views forum — even though the team had a business partnership with the station that had dated back decades.

CBS’ James Brown, a D.C. native, credits Vance with pushing him toward broadcasting during a lunch they had in the early 1970s. “I was trying to seek safety in the multitude of counsel, deciding whether I should stick with the corporate route or pursue my passion, broadcasting. He said to go with what I really wanted to do, that nothing would take the place of that. I still remember that, that he was one of those sage voices that took the time to reach out to a literal nobody at the time. And he was like that with everybody.”

Donnie Simpson, the District’s DJ for life, moved from Detroit to Washington 40 years ago. His first radio gig in D.C. was housed in the same building as NBC4.

“When I saw that anchor desk, all those black faces — Jim, Sue Simmons, Martin Wyatt, the sports anchor at the time — and Jim Vance was the lead? All I could think was, damn, this was the Chocolate City. Black folks really do have some standing in this city. And Jim Vance represented that.”

Craig Melvin, a former NBC4 reporter and now an anchor with NBC and MSNBC, recalled that when he was hired at WRC in 2008, he was told, matter-of-factly, “You gotta get Jim Vance to bless you.”

When Melvin finally introduced himself, Vance said, “I know who you are. I know why you’re here. Meet me at this address.” He then slid a small piece of paper across the table with the address on it. “Best steaks in the District. I’ll meet you there between shows at 7:30.”

“I’m fairly nervous, to say the least,” Melvin said. “I get there early because it’s Jim Vance. But there’s no steakhouse. Just an interesting-looking building with an awning.” A brawny doorman brought Melvin to a private room.

“Then he walks in — in a top coat, top hat, lookin’ cool as s—,” Melvin said. “He sits me down in a corner. It’s then I realized where we were.”

Vance had had Melvin meet him at a strip bar called Camelot. “We sat there. We talked over what was, surprisingly, a pretty good steak.”

“I was testing you,” Vance finally said. “A punk would’ve walked in here and turned right around. But you’re my kind of guy.”

Kathy Vance knew the deal.

“He had his flaws, his demons, and they were his undoing,” she said. “But on the other side of that he lived the life he wanted, and he left a lot of good behind.

“The thing I remember is he looked you in the eye when you spoke to him and talked as if he was really, really listening to you — because he was. … He read people. And he responded. He didn’t wait for you to tell him who you were.”

The irony is Jim Vance didn’t know who he was until much later in life. And even when he found out, he still perplexed the ones he loved.

“I think I’ll be asking questions for decades to come about who he really was,” Kathy said.

Jim Vance was 75 years old. He is survived by Kathy, three children from two previous marriages, a daughter-in-law, three grandchildren and everyone who ever saw him grace the television of their family room.

A letter of gratitude to Stuart Scott Scott was beacon of light for the athletes he covered and the North Star for aspiring black sports reporters

“See,” my Uncle John said in the summer of 1998. He pointed toward the television in his Washington, D.C., apartment. “That’s gonna be you one day.” A fluorescent light from his fish tank dimly lit the apartment. My uncle and I were up watching Stuart Scott on SportsCenter. Scott talked about sports the way we talked about sports. Scott wasn’t just relatable. He was us. My uncle said, “I’m gonna be watching you do that.”

I loved the way Uncle John approached life. The way he interacted with people and made them feel comfortable. He never came off lame, or corny. My parents had divorced when I was 2, and John treated me like a son. This was when I had no memory of my biological father and didn’t care to know who he was.


John and I loved sports. He was a Washington fan, and I was a diehard Cowboys fan. The last conversation we ever had was about just that. We both loved Michael Jordan, Shaq and Penny, Ken Griffey Jr. and Barry Bonds. But SportsCenter was our drug of choice. We loved the infectiousness of Linda Cohn; same for Dan Patrick’s and Kenny Mayne’s dry humor. But our favorite combo was Rich Eisen and Stu Scott.

I played basketball as a kid, and my uncle and I decided early on that going pro wasn’t my calling. I was 9, and I purposely moved in the chair so the barber would take a plug out, forcing him to shave my head. Talk about taking “be like Mike” to the extreme — I also purposely got myself sick hoping to mimic Michael Jordan’s “flu game.” My mom was rightfully pissed. She yelled at me — and said I looked more like a light bulb than Jordan. “She’s right,” Uncle John said with a laugh. “Let’s be more like Stu than Mike. That’s our route.”

Me and my Uncle John (circa Sept. 1998).

Courtesy of Justin Tinsley

Uncle John died of colon cancer on Jan. 2, 1999. We were in what used to be known as MCV Campus Hospital at Virginia Commonwealth University in Richmond. It’s unclear how the room was cleared of everyone except for him and me. John alternated between looking out the window and looking at me. It was as if he had prepared his entire life to deliver his own eulogy. I couldn’t talk, for fear of crying. That winter morning remains the single most important moment of my life. I felt childhood end, and adulthood arrive. John knew death waited around the corner: the cruel reality of dying at the age of 42. He seemed at peace. With life. With death. With everything. But he made me make a promise.

“I’m still going to watch you on SportsCenter one day,” he said. “Make sure you keep your promise.”


July 19, 2017, would have been Stuart Scott’s 52nd birthday. He should be here hosting SportsCenter. He should be here presenting teams with their championship trophies. He should be here making JAY-Z 4:44 references on SportsCenter, because that’s who Stuart Orlando Scott was. In the way that Marvin Gaye’s 1970 What’s Going On changed the direction of Motown, in the way Eddie Murphy altered the scope of comedy, in the way Gwen Ifill brought so much authenticity and excellence to her journalism, Stu was just that for ESPN, and for sports media, period. The way he spoke was the way so many athletes wanted and want to be spoken about: with unparalleled charisma and respect.

More importantly, he should still be here as a daily presence for his two daughters, Taelor and Sydni — although, even in death, he remains just that. He should be here congratulating Leah Still, who received the Jimmy V Perseverance Award a year after Stuart did. It’s been three years since most of us last saw Scott, who was transformed into an icon by his landmark and emotionally charged speech at the 2014 ESPYS, when he was honored for his inspiring fight against cancer.

It’s impossible to forget Stu. He brought swagger and rebelliousness to sports broadcasting — and he had more catchphrases than Ric Flair and The Rock. He came up in the same era as did cultural bibles VIBE and The Source, and in the vein of those magazines, Scott helped inject the culture, the cockiness and confidence we loved and cherished, into mainstream consciousness. It didn’t matter if America wasn’t ready for what he had to say and how he had to say it. His generation and the one following, mine, were ready to be heard. In our own voices. In our own skin. Stu did this on television, where the idea of diversity — not only in skin color, but also in train of thought — is ever more complex and necessary.

Scott died Jan. 4, 2015. The very next day I moved to Los Angeles to start my career with ESPN.

And it is absolutely impossible to forget Scott at the ESPN campuses, where his pictures remain on the walls — and even on the set of Jemele Hill and Michael Smith’s The Six, the 6 p.m. SportsCenter with deep roots in Scott’s meteoric rise and impact on the company. It’s impossible to forget about Scott at ESPN, because no one would dare.


Scott died Jan. 4, 2015. The very next day I moved to Los Angeles to start my career with ESPN. The night before I was to get on the first one-way flight of my life, my mother — the same one who told me I looked like a light bulb with a bald head — sat me down. “You may not realize it for years down the line,” she said at our kitchen table, “but this means something. You’ve looked up to this man your entire life. You’ve talked about ESPN your entire life. … It’s destiny.”

Working at The Undefeated, in the year since its launch, has been the most incredible experience of my life. My first television experience was when I went on SportsCenter to talk with Linda Cohn about O.J. Simpson. This type of stuff just doesn’t happen. These blessings are the gifts I fantasized about when watching Stu was as much a part of my routine as was brushing my teeth. I prayed for this while watching my ceiling fan twirl, while begging God for a chance to do something impactful with my life.

But if there are regrets? There’s the fact that The Undefeated never had the chance to work with Stu. There’s the fact that I never got a chance to buy him a beer, and tell him how his tweets to me after the Super Bowl in 2013 meant more than he could have ever realized. I never got the chance to chop it up with him about sports, music and his journey. Or tell him he was as important in the lives of myself and my Uncle John as Jackie Robinson was to generations before.

Or that when I had no memory of an actual biological father, nor any desire to acknowledge his existence, Scott helped to solidify my most critical bond with an older man. Had it not been for Stu being Stu that day in the summer of 1998 — and my uncle, growing more ill by the hour, pointing at his TV, predicting my life’s course and giving me a North Star — there’s no telling where I’d be right now. Not writing this, for damn sure.

‘True Blood’s’ Nelsan Ellis, dead at 39, was a unique and undeniable talent He made Lafayette Reynolds an important character rarely seen on screen

Hooker, you left way too soon.

I imagine that’s what True Blood’s Lafayette Reynolds would say about the untimely death of Nelsan Ellis, the actor who created him. Ellis, a 2004 Juilliard graduate, died of heart failure at age 39, his manager said Saturday.

On True Blood, which aired on HBO from 2008 to 2014, Ellis brought to life one of the most important depictions of queerness on television, in a series that bubbled with crazy camp improbabilities. His short-order cook who moonlighted as a drug and vampire blood dealer was enticing and bawdy, femme and butch, learned and country AF. He was open and unapologetic about his love of sex and the male form while living in the tiny fictional town of Bon Temps, Louisiana — the type of place where it’s not necessarily safe to be gay, or black, and certainly not both at the same time.

Nelsan Ellis portraying character, Lafayette Reynolds in the show HBO show “True Blood.”

HBO

As Lafayette, Ellis expanded the country’s collective imagination of what a queer black man could look, sound and act like, starting just months before California passed Proposition 8, which banned same-sex marriage, and years before President Barack Obama announced an “evolution” in his thinking about gay rights. And for queer black people, he was a reflection of a truth rarely seen on screens big or small, especially after the Logo series Noah’s Arc went off the air in 2006.

“Important” often implies that something is the cultural equivalent of kale: fiber-packed, nutritious, but not exactly fun. For example, Red Tails is arguably an “important” film because it’s about the Tuskegee Airmen. It’s also … not very good.

But in Ellis’ hands, Lafayette would deliver acerbic quips with the expert raise of an eyebrow, succinctly summarizing the pitfalls of patriarchy without making your eyes glaze over. He could just as easily spread his glossed lips into a smile and flutter his fake eyelashes as he could hem up a delinquent customer in a full nelson, a quality that made him eminently GIF-able.

Lafayette existed before Dan Savage launched his It Gets Better project in 2010, a nonprofit aimed at stopping queer kids from committing suicide when their adolescent years seem interminably, hopelessly miserable. And that’s significant. Certainly, it’s important for a suicidal teen to know that life improves as you get older and get away from people and attitudes that fill your life with hate. But Lafayette provided a different, necessary sort of queer hero, shaped in part by the gender-bending provocations of New Orleans sissy bounce queens Big Freedia and Katey Red, a boi that you couldn’t just push around.

My favorite scene of Ellis’ is also one of his most famous. It’s from episode five of the first season of True Blood, when a customer at Merlotte’s, the restaurant where Lafayette works, sends his burger back to the kitchen because, he tells his waitress, he doesn’t want a burger with “AIDS.”

Lafayette, fully and perfectly made up despite sweating over a hot stove, pulls his earrings off and comes swaggering out of the kitchen, head wrapped in his glittery take on Louisiana’s famous tignons. His body is a mass of gender-nonconforming contradictions: From the neck up, he’s practically coquettish, but he’s wearing a tank top that shows off his toned biceps, black Timbs and camo shorts that hang off his butt, held just so by a belt perhaps best described as ghetto fabulous.

Lafayette delivers a read in his signature Louisiana drawl, informed by Ellis’ childhood spent growing up in Bessemer, Alabama: “’Scuse me,” he says. “Who ordered the hamburger wit’ AIDS?”

“I ordered a hamburger deluxe,” the customer responds.

“In this restaurant, a hamburger deluxe come wit’ french fries, lettuce, tomato, mayo — AND AIDS,” Lafayette says, raising his voice. “DO ANYBODY GOT A PROBLEM WIT’ DAT?”

“Yeah,” says the customer. “I’m an American. I got a say in who makes my food.”

“Well, baby, it’s too late for that,” Lafayette retorts. “F—-ts been breeding your cows, raising your chickens, even brewing your beer long before I walked my sexy a– up in this m—–f—–. Everything on yo’ gotdamn table got AIDS.”

Lafayette’s altercation with the customer gets physical. “B—-, you come in my house, YOU GON’ EAT MY FOOD THE WAY I F—ING MAKE IT!” he bellows. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

And just as swiftly, his temper recedes. “Tip your waitress,” he says before sauntering back to the kitchen, every set of eyes in the restaurant on him.

It wasn’t just that Lafayette was a self-affirming queen who didn’t take no mess. He was country and proud of it, providing the sort of regional stamp on queerness that would later set Moonlight apart because it was so steeped in the specifics of Miami and, furthermore, the Pork and Beans of the Liberty Square housing projects. It’s part of what makes Omar Little (Michael K. Williams) such a memorable part of The Wire — his gayness isn’t the defining feature of his character. He’s gay in a way that feels unique to the projects of Baltimore. Similarly, Williams added a regional flair to his depiction of Leonard Pine, one half of the Texas duo Hap and Leonard. Those characters — Moonlight’s Black, Lafayette, Omar and Leonard — offer a counterweight to prevailing tropes of queerness that’s white, polite, well-off, neatly domesticated, sexless and almost always cosmopolitan. When it first aired in 2005, Noah’s Arc in many ways felt like a black response to the overwhelming whiteness of Showtime’s American adaptation of Queer as Folk, another landmark show that challenged what it meant to see gay men on television. Noah’s Arc centered on a group of middle-class gay black men living in Los Angeles. It was a way to say, “Hey, black people live in gentrified gayborhoods and drink cosmopolitans and battle HIV stigma too.”

But characters like Leonard and Lafayette offer depictions of men who are able to make space for themselves in the places they call home, without having to move out of one’s oppressively small hometown.

Nelsan Ellis portraying character, Lafayette Reynolds in the show HBO show “True Blood.”

HBO

And although he’ll long be remembered for Lafayette, Ellis was more than just one character. In his too-brief career, Ellis exhibited a rare elasticity and was famously circumspect about his sexuality. Ellis’ interpretation of Lafayette was so memorable that of course he’d seem right at home as a guest judge on RuPaul’s Drag Race, which he was. Still, Ellis managed to erase all traces of his breakout character in Get On Up, in which he played singer-songwriter and James Brown collaborator Bobby Byrd, and in The Butler, where he played Martin Luther King Jr. By the time he inhabited Mack Burns, a writer obsessed with free jazz in a straight interracial relationship in the 2017 film Little Boxes, Lafayette was nowhere to be found.

Indeed, Ellis found it insulting when entertainment professionals seemed to overlook his Juilliard bona fides by assuming that he wasn’t a character actor.

“I can’t just get upset with regular folk because all they see is the character. But when the industry can’t tell the difference, I’m like, ‘Damn, that’s a little closed-minded,’ ” Ellis told Vibe in a 2010 interview. “… When white people play a character, people expect it to be a character. But black people — we can’t just be character actors, we have to [really] be the things we’re hired for, which is what offends me. I don’t answer that question — ‘Are you gay or not?’ — when it comes down to industry people. But if it’s a regular person asking me, that just says that maybe I’m doing a good job. But when a casting director or an agent asks me that question, it takes on a deeper thing that says, ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this unless you are that.’ ”

Ellis wasn’t alone in that regard. Nine years after the last episode of The Wire aired, Williams is still insisting in interviews that he’s more than just Omar Little, despite a litany of roles, gay and straight, since Omar debuted.

During his short life and career, Ellis opened our eyes to new possibilities: You can be queer and country and happy. You can be black and a character actor. You can, in short, contain multitudes. What a shame that Ellis won’t be around to show us more.

Daily Dose: 6/26/17 BET Awards provide many moments for the culture

Sunday night, settle down to the television, get on the Twitter box and go. That’s pretty much the routine when it comes to awards shows, and last night was no different. The BET Awards did not disappoint, but they did run way long.

Where do we begin? Los Angeles was popping with black star power Sunday night, and because of who it was there were also plenty of blunders that were pretty funny. I kept a running thread on Twitter about the various observations I had, but most importantly, it was a come up and a half for Leslie Jones. The comedian, who had an extremely tough year in terms of personal strife, was showing all the way out as the host and was definitely funny. If you root for black women to succeed, which you should, last night was a victory for us all.

The value of a black life seems to be ever-changing. In the case of Philando Castile, it’s apparently $3 million. That’s the amount that the family of the man murdered in front of his girlfriend and her child reached in a settlement with the city of St. Anthony Village, Minnesota. Reminder: The man who killed him while on duty was acquitted in his case. When you ask why people consider violence against black people to be state-sponsored, this is why. If you live there, your taxes are paying for him to be killed and also for the consequences.

Capitalism is a fickle beast. Because in theory, market forces in certain scenarios will help everyone out. But, unfortunately overall, the system doesn’t work unless poor people exist. So when you try to overcorrect for previous forms of mistreatment like low wages, if you go too far you blow up business models that were not created on that math. Instead of everyone just getting more money, people have to stop working. There’s concern right now that Seattle might have done exactly that.

John McEnroe is a hater. On top of that, he is apparently sexist. It’s 2017, and to sell a book he’s still going on with this notion that for any woman to be given her credit as an athlete, she must be compared with a man. That’s a) complete nonsense and b) COMPLETE NONSENSE. Serena Williams is the best tennis player he’s ever seen, and he’s just scared to say that out loud because it would rattle his whole raison d’etre. Instead, he throws out a number that she might be ranked if she were a man. Breaking: She’s not. And doesn’t need to be.

Free Food

Coffee Break: Look. I love Migos. This is not news. But Everyday Struggle has become a show that, for whatever reason, manages to make news. Between DJ Akademiks and Joe Budden, these two create viral moments that are either wildly embarrassing or extremely effective. You can take what you will from this Migos confrontation.

Snack Time: If you thought the Ball family empire was limited to just basketball and clothes, you’ve got another think coming. It looks like LaVar Ball could actually be close to inking something with the WWE, which is fantastic.

Dessert: Q-Tip put on for his fallen Queens homey, Prodigy, on Beats1. May he rest in peace.