Author’s note: OK, it’s high time this was posted, even though you the reader won’t be able to see what all is described here until November thanks to this author’s CP-timey procrastination on pulling the trigger
(and your boy Lebron tanking to Orlando).
Regular NBA watchers should be well aware of this already, especially those who grew up in the hood…because TNT’s NBA broadcasts have a streak of ghetto to them you couldn’t possibly overlook. Only the NBA on BET could bring it more ghetto if they existed, but they probably wouldn’t execute it as well.
Think of your uncles or the homies talking hoops over some O.E.
or Hennessy, with all the knee-slappin’ shuckin’ and jivin’ you’d see in a barbershop. Charles Barkley (whose magic could be the subject of a SGPL post all by himself) basically serves to deliver the greasy *sshole lines like any good ghetto dozens player with capability to make any one in the crew look or feel stupid at any given moment…and EJ, Kenny, and whoever might be the optional fourth guy at the desk has well-timed responses to keep the wheel turning.
Though these TV channels all force their male talent to wear blazers/suits on camera, these guys have no problem wearing Air Force Ones, a ghetto favorite, on the set (not often visible behind the desk of course).
And while the actual calling of the games keeps it corporate by comparison, sideline reporter Craig Sager rocks getups that Steve Harvey, Cedric the Entertainer, and Bishop Magic Don Juan would envy.
But the feature segments and other bits of their coverage are comedy gold:
-Barkley’s face super-imposed on all kinds of photos and videos (usually on fat bodies or the ridiculous halftime performers)
-Players’ faces super-imposed on random fishing photos (along with people known to be from the city of the eliminated franchise)
-And I know someone out there remembers “Who He Play For?”
From pre-game to post-game, the gang on TNT show excellent chemistry throughout, break down basketball beautifully, and have fun. The ESPN/ABC studio teams only wish they were this fun to watch. Maybe if Stuart Scott was his 1996 self…