Doyel: How about we help Ja Morant get better, instead of piling on?
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Ja Morant had his turn. He did something wrong, something bad – something stupid – and now it’s our turn. We get to lecture him, make fun of him, pretend we’re perfect because it’s a lot safer on this side of the daily dog pile.
In other words: We get to make it harder on Ja Morant.
And we will, because that’s what we do. So far it’s what I’m doing here, though by the time you’re finished you’ll realize just how hard I’m rooting for Morant, the young star of the Memphis Grizzlies, to become their veteran star, aging star, retiring star. But look at some of those first few words:
He did something wrong, something bad – something stupid.
He did, and everyone noticed. I mean, everyone. Do they have Twitter in Thailand? Then they noticed. Is there Facebook in Fiji? Then they noticed. Everyone noticed, and while the Swiss are known for their neutrality, wouldn’t surprise me if there'd been some schadenfreude in Switzerland.
Because we love it when somebody famous screws up. We love it when somebody who has more than us – more money or talent or fame, or in Morant’s case, more everything – gets within range of throwing it all away.
We never seem to notice what happens next. Not with the same energy, anyway. What came next for Ja Morant? Utter humility. Here’s a guy who’d spent the last several years pretending to be hard, trying to be hard – because apparently that’s what he thought an NBA star has to do to keep it 100, as the cool kids say – and then comes out and says the exact opposite.
Not just: “I’m sorry.”
Not just: “I was wrong.”
No, those are low bars, and he skied over them like they were Jakob Poeltl. Ja Morant went farther. He went higher.
He said: “I need help.”
And look how we reacted.
Ja Morant in a club? Me at a car dealer.
We all wear masks. Morant’s wearing one now, literally, a Batman-like mask to protect a nasal fracture he suffered three weeks ago. That was before the young NBA star’s Instagram Live incident with a gun in a Colorado strip club. Count the cliches in that sentence.
Morant was wearing a different kind of mask on March 4 in Glendale, Colo., accessorizing the way he thought a ferocious young NBA star should: with a gun in his waistband. And because it wasn’t enough to reveal the weapon and show a handful of people in a Colorado strip club how hard he really was – because he must’ve gotten the reaction he wanted, and needed more – he pulled out his phone and filmed himself on Instagram Live lifting up his shirt to show the abs and gat underneath.
It was disturbing, it was absolutely not helpful in a country where gun violence is no joke, but as it relates to Morant, this is what he's telling us: His whole tough-guy act is just that. It's an act, a mask to conceal the stress Morant carries.
We all have masks, me included. I put on my mask just the other day – Thursday, actually – when it was time to buy a car. Understand, I hate buying cars. Few people like it, sure, but I hate it. I feel uninformed, intimidated, entering a negotiation I know I’m about to lose. Bought my first car as a college junior in 1991, a Corolla, and paid sticker price. Bought the extra warranty, too. I’m still angry about that. Angry at me, and I’ve channeled that anger into every car negotiation since, trying to become somebody I’m not.
Somebody hard, somebody mean.
Listen to me: Buying a car scares me, and hand to God, I don’t get scared by anything other than the idea of danger to my loved ones. But buying a car terrifies me, and I hate being scared, so this is what I did Thursday:
Went to a Honda dealer south of Indianapolis and put on a mask. The things I said, the looks I gave, the “don’t you dare treat me like an idiot” message I sent with every gesture and syllable? It was embarrassing, and as I dug in deeper and demanded a better deal, they all but kicked me out of there. Seriously, they made a counter-offer, shrugged at my angry response, and let me leave.
About 20 miles away, heading back north on I-65, it occurred to me: They saw right through me. They were so turned off, they said goodbye to me and my money.
To finish this story, quickly: I immediately went to another Honda dealer, confessed to the young salesman how awful I’d just been at another dealership, and asked him to please just work with me and let me get my car and go home. We made a deal I like. Better than the offer my tough-guy nonsense had gotten me south of Indy, actually, which shows a few things, including: You catch more flies with honey than (spit).
Thursday night I called the first salesman, the one south of Indy. Got him coming off the lot. Apologized profusely. Almost started crying, I was so ashamed. Almost crying now, writing this. Then I emailed his bosses and apologized to them.
That was me in my mask, pretending to be something I’m not, being called out for it, and deciding to show just how soft I really am.
The salesman I’d tried (unsuccessfully) to bully accepted my apology with grace I will never deserve. It was Hubler Honda in Taylorsville, if you must know. Someone please give them the business I wasn’t adult enough to give. Others, please go to Indy Honda in Greenwood, where they saw my soft underside and worked with me, rather than ripping me apart.
I hate buying cars a little less now.
Now let’s get back to Ja Morant, and the grace some refuse to show him.
Awful take: Ja 'using mental health as a shield'
We think we’re so understanding now of mental health issues, and granted, we are better. Society is a lot more understanding, in part because – like me, years ago – many of us have experienced mental health distress ourselves, or we’ve seen it in our parents or siblings or children. It’s real, and we know it’s real.
After cosplaying so hard for years, culminating by his performance at the Shotgun Willies strip club in Colorado, Ja Morant said, “I’m sorry.” He said, “I take full responsibility for the decisions that pretty much hurt me to the core.” He said of brandishing a gun, “I don’t condone it or any type of violence.” He said, “I made a bad mistake.”
He said he’s getting help. Said he’s getting counseling. Said he was uncomfortable sitting on the bench after his eight-game NBA suspension, uncomfortable talking with reporters about it Tuesday, even uncomfortable about the reaction he’d get in his own city, Memphis, when he played the next night.
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The reaction to all of this has been mixed, and before go another word, let's be clear: Guns are not cool. Showing a gun is not cool. America has the biggest gun problem in the world, and Ja Morant didn't exactly help things on March 4. Did he help things by apologizing the way he has? Let's hope.
The reaction? A mixture of hopefulness, sure, along with some tut-tutting: Former NBA player Jay Williams saying Morant should’ve been suspended the rest of the season, which is reasonable. Media blowhard Skip Bayless lecturing Morant on which rappers he can and cannot quote anymore, which is not. The New York Post referring to Morant as an “overly indulged reprobate.”
And then this from a Sports Illustrated writer, saying how it’s “grating on my nerves” that Morant is the latest “recognizable name” to use “mental health as a shield.”
Could that be happening, here? Morant hiding behind mental health? Anything’s possible.
But for someone like Ja Morant, who has spent years trying so hard to look hard, to admit he needs help with mental health, to admit to being nervous in front of reporters and even his own home crowd? That’s not using anything as a shield. That’s removing the armor, taking off the mask, and saying:
Here I am. This is the real me. Will you accept me?
Here’s the only take to have, the only story to write, the only answer to give:
Yes. Of course we will.
Find IndyStar columnist Gregg Doyel on Twitter at @GreggDoyelStar or at www.facebook.com/greggdoyelstar.
This article originally appeared on Indianapolis Star: Ja Morant's cry for help after gun incident was strength, not weakness
