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THE RETURN OF THE REAL…
Zach and the new MC Ry$er break down the first half of the NBA Season!
For the past two years, Zach has been hosting episodes of “After Hours at the Burgundy Room” – a podcast centered around the famous Hollywood bar. Download the premiere episode today!
In 1983, when I was eight-years-old, I almost played on a youth soccer team called “Anderson’s Muffler Divers.”
Until all the moms of our players put a stop to the whole thing.
Back in Tucson, Arizona in the early 1980’s – local businesses were petitioned to lend their names and sponsorship to our youth soccer teams. The small eight team league was composed of roughly 100 kids aging from 7-10-years-old. If you sponsored a team, you chose the name. Some businesses had teams every year – like the “Windsor Real Estate Falcons,” “The Century 21 Strikers” and the Eegee’s Sandwich Shop Cosmos.” I was placed on the “I Can’t Believe it’s Yogurt Eagles” before they pulled their sponsorship and left my neighborhood team without a name or financial backer just before the 1983 season started.
Enter Ron Anderson.
Ron Anderson was in his mid 30’s and was the proud owner of “Anderson’s Mufflers” on Tanque Verde Road. His feathered hair, tight coach’s shorts and high socks made him quite a looker around the little league banquets and kid’s pool parties held in our tiny neighborhood. His moustache was a dirty brown and his Aviator sunglasses were just cool enough to make him appear more Magnum P.I. and less “Dad from Family Ties.”
Ron Anderson’s son David was in my 3rd grade class. He was undoubtedly the best soccer player on our team – and was known for scoring four goals in a game the previous season. He had a BMX bike that we all envied and was training his hardest at becoming a car mechanic – so as to take over his dad’s business. His parents were still married, but the rumors had been circling for a while that Ron had a girlfriend on the side up in Tempe, where he often attended car conventions. Aside from that, they were a middle class working family with enough money to get by in Reagan-era America.
When Ron was approached about sponsoring our team, he jumped at the opportunity.
“I’m excited to have a team picture of the boys up in the shop,” he commented to my father. “Always good for business.”
Ron was in. However, he had his own idea of what to call the team.
“I’ll deliver the uniforms a week before our first game,” he said. “You’re gonna love the name I came up with.
Meanwhile, we all wondered what our team was going to be called. Some kids pined for “The Jedis.” Others wanted to be called “The Assassins” or “The Rappers.” None of were expecting what Ron Anderson had in mind.
“We were all a little taken aback by his choice,” my dad recollected a few days ago, nearly 33 years after Ron had delivered his news. “We certainly didn’t think it was appropriate for 8-year-olds to be on a team with that name.”
I laughed. I recalled the warm Thursday evening after practice when Ron opened up a box of uniforms for all of us to see. Like most kids, we scrambled to get our favorite numbers. (I was always #3 – you know, because of Babe Ruth) and we held up our jerseys with pride. Pride that would soon turn to confusion and bemusement.
“Anderson’s Muffler Divers?” My buddy Todd said.
“What’s a Muffler Diver?” Our goalie Jeff asked.
I watched our coach’s face sink. He knew something we didn’t and he took Ron on a long walk around the practice field.
From 100 yards away, we heard some arguing and yelling. We were able to make out “It’s my team and I’ll call them what I want to!”
Meanwhile, some kids were on their way home with jerseys in hand. My dad picked me up and I showed him my jersey.
“We’re called the ‘Muffler Divers!” I said.
“Oh Jesus,” He responded.
My mom had a similar reaction. She got on the phone with a bunch of other moms, including my best friend Trey’s mom, Candy, who demanded that a team meeting be held the next evening.
All this time, my friends and I had no idea what was going on. No internet, no cool older brothers to offer advice and no way of figuring this out… Until Jeff’s cousin from Florida told him that the phrase came from the actor Cheech’s license plate in the Cheech and Chong Movie Up in Smoke.
The next day, someone was able to get a VHS copy of Up in Smoke from the local video store. I was not allowed to watch it, but the talk at school the next day was that the movie was about smoking pot. A lot of pot. And that Cheech had a license plate that said “MUF DVR.” We were all still confused. What did this all mean? The VHS tape was eventually confiscated by my friend Trey’s mom.
“In one week, my son went from a gifted student to asking me about smoking pot and what a ‘muff diver’ was,” Trey’s mom said.
“Ron Anderson is a pig,” my mom chimed in.
“We need a new sponsor immediately,” Jeff’s mom demanded.
On the Friday before our game, a 6th grader named Ricky rounded us up on the playground and enlightened us to what a “muff diver” actually was. Of course, we were all grossed out by it, but the damage had been done. Our innocent thoughts had turned dirty for one week, and for the next decade or so, all of my friends had a pretty good laugh about Ron Anderson’s failed attempt at corrupting the youth of southern Arizona soccer. Trey sent me this t-shirt a few years ago…
Before our game on Saturday, Ron Anderson’s sponsorship was pulled. His son David remained on our team, mainly because he was our best player, but Ron was banned from all games and practices. Sadly, in the short amount of time it took us to hear that we had lost Anderson’s Mufflers as our sponsor, we were forced to design our own jerseys using magic marker and white t-shirts. We became the “Cloud Road Assassins.”
A few days later, Roger Dowd, a local business owner, offered up his store as our sponsor. We were re-named “Roger’s Boutique Blasters” and away we went. We finished in second place in the league that year.
Anderson’s Mufflers is now a gas station. Ron Anderson is apparently up in the Phoenix area and as hard as I have tried to track down his son David, I can’t seem to find him on social media. Anderson’s Muffler Divers never became a team, but it did manage to show us what a tight knit community of parents could accomplish when they are forced to protect their children.
In the meantime, my son just got the word that he finds out what his youth basketball team is going to be called next week…
As long as it’s not “Ted’s Clam Slammers,” I think I’ll be fine with whatever they choose…
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I have been a hip-hop fan since the time I was given the first RUN-DMC cassette for my birthday in 1984. I dove into rap music full-fledged and became a true wannabe emcee once the Beastie Boys made white, Jewish rappers cool a couple of years later. I have every great hip-hop classic on vinyl. I stream the newest stuff that comes out within 24 hours of its release and I still get excited when I hear that De La Soul is touring or that there is a Wordstarhiphop video of a “weave snatch” at Drake’s latest pool party.
So, imagine my elation when my boss at my job asked me to work with a one-time super famous gangsta rapper for our website… and even gave me a budget to approach him with.
For the sake of this piece – (and for my safety as a human being) – let’s call this rapper “SEISMIC.” Seismic is one of those rap stars who had a lot of hits in the 90’s, but is now out of the music game altogether. Gangsta rap is all but extinct and even though Seismic has appeared on a few reality shows in the past few years, including one where he attempted to become a professional dog-walker that never aired, I was a lifelong fan and couldn’t wait to work with him.
“What should we get Seismic to do for us?” I asked my boss.
“I think it would be funny to have him read the children’s book Goodnight Moon,” my boss suggested.
The idea was approved and through a connection, I was able to obtain Seismic’s manager’s information. He went strictly by the name “Dope Green.” I dialed up his phone on a Monday morning, hoping to close the deal by the end of the week.
“Who dis?” A terse voice greeted me with.
“Hi, my name is Zach Selwyn from TBS Digital,” I said.
“We already got cable,” the voice said.
“No, no… I’m from TBS – I’m calling about hiring Seismic to do some web stuff for us? Is this Dope Green?”
“Oh shit. Hole up.”
I waited on the other end of the phone for what seemed like an eternity. I was obviously muted, because all I heard was silence. For eight minutes. Finally, Dope Green returned.
“What’s the deal?” He said. I don’t wanna do any talking over the phone, can you come through to our spot? We in a small warehouse by the Burbank Airport…”
I was beginning to feel like I was a molly dealer who had to drive to deliver pills to some video set. I asked my boss if I could leave to go meet Seismic and his crew. He said no.
I told Dope Green that I was not able to leave the office.
“Shit. Let me call you back from my burner phone then.”
A few minutes later, a blocked number rang up my cell phone and I explained that we wanted Seismic to read Goodnight Moon to camera. The entire process would not take more than a minute and we had real money to offer him. Five thousand dollars.
Dope Green laughed.
“You from TBS? Like the network? And you tryin’ to pull off Seismic for five G’s?” He said. “Seismic don’t do shit for less that 50 thousand… And we need crisp hunneds – in a bag. That’s how we do business,” he said.
50 K? To read a children’s book on camera? For a rapper who hadn’t had a hit since Tupac was alive? As excited as I was to work with Seismic, I had no choice but to turn down his demands.
“Sorry, Mr. Green, but 50 grand is way out of our budget,” I replied.
“Go call Ja Rule then,” he said. And hung up.
I started sweating. Not because I was nervous that I wasn’t going to get my job finished, but because I truly felt like there was a chance that Seismic’s manager was going to send some lead pipe carrying mother-fuckers after me. I went back to my boss and asked if we could sweeten the pot a little bit to get him to read the book.
“I guess we could double it,” my boss said.
“What about the ‘crisp hunneds,’” I asked. Can I go to the bank and cash a check or something?
“Are you kidding? Tell him we need a 1099 or W-2. There is no way we’re going to pay him cash in a paper bag… get real, man.”
I went back to Dope Green and informed him that the paper bag idea was out. And that we could get him a little more money, but not Seismic’s going rate. I offered 10K.
Dope Green actually said we could try to work something out. BUT, Seismic had some demands. First, he wanted a development deal with the network. Second, he would have full creative control over his original TV show idea, including handling the directing, casting and production of the 13-episode comedy he had in his head. It was Empire meets Friday. A comedy about an aging rapper (Think Chris Tucker as a Warren G. type) on the road trying to get paid. I asked what some of the storylines would be.
“It’s a rapper trying to deal with thirsty hoes, his baby mamas, his bitch ex-wife and a bunch of kids and shit.”
I never got to meet Seismic. When I informed Mr. Green that I had no power in getting TBS to pony up a development deal for him and his TV idea, he told me that I could forget about getting anyone to read Goodnight Moon. Let alone, a rapper as dope as Seismic. The deal was done.
I walked into my boss’ office and told him that deal had gone away. He was disappointed and shook his head, telling me that I should come up with an alternative personality that could read Goodnight Moon for our website.
“I bet Sisqo is available,” I offered.
My boss laughed and turned me down.
I went back to my desk and put on some RUN-D.M.C…
*Get ready for the podcast launch of “Missi and Zach Might Bang!” Follow on Twitter & Instagram! Instagram @mightbang Twitter @mightbang1
Zach wrote and produced this piece for TBS Digital starring the Sklar Brothers.
My wife recently began complaining about a mysterious “putrid foot stench” emanating from the closet in my 10-year-old son’s room. After ripping down the stuffed animals I had used to disguise my stash spot, she came upon the source of the funky smells that had started making their way throughout our entire house… She found the shelf where I had been storing all of my son’s old basketball shoes.
My dad got him a tiny pair of Air Jordan XIII’s when he was a baby, which he wore once. His first nice pair of Nikes was a 2010 Air Jordan 2 in the “candy blue” shade, which he wore for about a year. Then, at eight, he scored a slightly worn pair of Lebron Soldiers before moving up to the blue, white and gold Under Armour Steph Curry 2’s. When his foot got too big for those, I treated him to the latest Kyrie Irving Nikes, which he recently outgrew. When we went to a Clippers game, Raymond Felton handed him a pair of his game-worn sweaty shoes (which only ripened with time) and I recently passed him the size 23 XXL Shaquille O’Neal shoe I once drunkenly bought at a silent auction a few years back for $200.00. (Luckily this shoe lives in a glass case).
Since his birth, I have managed to save 11 pairs of outgrown basketball shoes, along with his game worn Felton’s and the Shaq shoe – hoping that one day they might be worth a fortune and possibly cover a few college tuition payments.
However, my plan didn’t exactly win over the entire household.
“Who the hell saves smelly basketball shoes?” My wife asked.
“Trust me, someday they’re gonna be worth a lot of money… People ALWAYS want basketball shoes.”
“Right,” she argued. “Because Nikes with dog shit on the bottom fetches a high price on ebay these days.”
I knew she wouldn’t understand why I was doing this, so I had to tell her the story of my own personal basketball shoe heartbreak…
In 1985, I begged my mom for a pair of the first pair of Royal Blue Nike Air Jordan shoes. The minute I outgrew them, about six months later, my mom sold them to the used clothing store Buffalo Exchange in Tucson for about $3.00. Since my foot was growing at a rapid rate (I had a size 13 by 8th grade) my mom refused to buy me any more expensive basketball footwear until my foot stopped growing.
So, between those amazing blue Air Jordans – and my eventual 1989 Nike Air Flights, I was stuck playing ball in K-Swiss, a $15 pair of Cons and even a horrendous pair of high-top Ponys.
Today, if my mother had saved those original black and blue Air Jordans, they’d probably be worth over $5,000. Instead, they are probably in some desert landfill somewhere, long ago discarded as trash, when it reality, they are some of the rarest collector’s items in the sneaker game today.
If you have ever driven by a store like Undefeated on Fairfax Boulevard and seen a line snaking around the corner for 300 yards, you have seen the pop culture phenomenon of sneaker collecting first hand. “Sneakerheads” are people who collect, admire, re-sell and worship sneakers – going so far as to be able to recognize knock-offs from the real deal by the tiniest angle of the tread on the bottom of a pair. The sneaker collecting business is mainly relegated to basketball and skateboarding shoes and some kicks have fetched upwards of 25 grand on ebay and other high-end marketplaces. Shoes like my original blue Air Jordans are in rarified air amongst the sneaker nerds of the world.
Back in 1985, of course, nobody knew this. Kids were busy collecting comic books and baseball cards, not old shoes. My baseball cards are not worth the cardboard they were printed on. My comic books? Let’s just say I saved the wrong ones. (Anyone want to buy a Thundercats #1?) If you were lucky enough to collect basketball cards in the early to mid 80’s, there is a chance you may have a valuable rookie card if you have, say, a Jordan or a Charles Barkley. In reality, most of my friends back then liked basketball, but would have rather owned nine Wally Joyner rookies than a 1984 Sir Charles. So, if you were the kid who collected basketball shoes, you weren’t considered smart, you were considered a hoarder… or just certifiably insane.
“Mom, don’t throw those away!” My son yelled when he saw the stacks of shoes sitting in the “sell back” pile that we bring to a used clothing shop on Larchmont every month.
“Oh no, daddy hasn’t got YOU believing in this now too, does he?”
“They could be worth a lot of money!” He cried.
My son gathered his shoes up and walked them back towards his room where he stashed them. I was impressed. He was becoming my little 10-year-old Imelda Marcos.
As my wife watched him, she gave me a death stare and shook her head.
“Look,” she said. “Maybe you should teach him to save something that nobody has thought about saving yet.”
“Like what, Crocs?”
My wife laughed.
“Just something that doesn’t… smell like a feral squirrel crawled into our house and died.”
My wife and I went upstairs and talked to our son about his unique collection of used, sweaty basketball shoes. After some deliberation, it was decided that I would be selling a few select shoes on ebay for him – and that we would put the profits towards some new kicks. His choices were the latest Chris Paul’s, the Kevin Durant KD 9’s or the Russell Westbrook “half boot-half basketball shoe” model that looked like something off of a Bell Biv Devoe album cover from the 90’s.
He adamantly demanded that we not buy him those “Wack-ass James Harden Lunch lady shoes.”
The first shoe I listed on my ebay was his first pair of baby Air Jordan XIII’s. I put an offer up to “Buy it Now” for $50.00.
They sold in 30 minutes…
*Zach Selwyn still owns a pair of Nike Greg Oden shoes from 2008.