- Employee was reported for spending 2+ hours/day on social media. Person who told was described as a "whistleblower." Is there a threshold? 10 hours ago
- RT @mr_jasonjones: Guess what, Isaiah Thomas isn't around to blame for this one. 10 hours ago
- And D. Wade shot 2-3 from 3s. Much to my surprise, but not my chagrin. I'll save my chagrin for other shit. 10 hours ago
- I get the sense that Kyrie's super duper happy to have LBJ there. 10 hours ago
- Didn't realize Caldwell Pope shot 3-19. And Augustin got more minutes than Jennings. Change is coming Detroit, change is coming. 10 hours ago
Just messing around, getting triple doubles
NBA Biographical Sketch #9: Malik Sealy
February 14, 2014Posted by on
Ohh, Malik Sealy. Black skinned with occasionally unkempt hair, pride of the Bronx with lanky arms dangling. 6’8” with wiry muscles that stretched across the wings of the court. Built like a skinnier, darker Scottie Pippen. I know him as much for his city roots, for his St. Johns tenure as I do for his pro game. He was pure NYC like Felipe Lopez, Chris Mullin, Mark Jackson and Johnnies orange of the Lou Carnesecca days. He was Bronx-born, St. Johns raised and Minnesota died. I can’t expand on his basketball career without acknowledging that he was killed at 30 in car wreck in Minnesota of all places – a world away from the borough that raised him.
His pro journey was a split between the sun-faded highways of Los Angeles as a Clipper and a trans-Midwestern expedition with stops in Indiana, Detroit, and finally Minnesota. He was a mediocre shooter from distance who started less than half of his games as a pro. He was a steady pro of the supporting variety, a glue guy who averaged a hair over 10ppg for his career. When I think of a comparable modern-day player, it’s coincidence that another Minnesota player comes to mind. Corey Brewer is similarly productive, but with a completely different style and set of histrionics.
But as I’ve written this, I struggle to separate Sealy’s life from his tragic death. It’s an unfair memory that taints what would ideally be a fond, lighthearted memory with a few softball jokes. But what’s there to joke about when a 30-year-old man had his life taken by a drunk driver?