I was watching a documentary on the Dream Team and it sent. Me. Back.
The most poignant thing is remembering a 1992 world without internet and social media.
The rumors were coming once a month. People used common sense. “well, those NBA players are probably going to play for the USA in Barcelona”. And what players. 11 Hall of Fame players.
So I was on my way to my cousin’s cousin’s grandmother house in Brittany. My cousin was blasting Nirvana in the car. I was intensely obsessed with arcade games, especially Capcom’s.
And then we would watch that team destroy everyone and we knew then that it was a one time thing, something special. I remember tearing up at the amount of awesomeness. Don’t forget that no one was black around me. No one.
Watching the ball movement and one of those stars soar to the rim was magnificent. Sad for other teams getting humiliated at the Olympics. Happy for blackness being the coolest shit, again, as usual.
It was a trip. It was a dream.