Dear Mom,

The last time I was home we watched an episode of Beyond the Glory, a special tribute to mothers. Three of the four athletes featured were Isiah Thomas, Deion Sanders and Karl Malone. It was filled with those delicious urban catchphrases like crack-infested neighborhood, gang turf and welfare. Since we didn't live in that environment, you asked me if I thought you had as much "character" as the black mothers did on that program.

Of course you do.

You worked your ass off putting yourself through college. Your character didn’t come from beating a crack habit, it came from beating that racist English professor who refused to read your papers, choosing to write the word "rubbish" across them instead. To get a degree, you had to overcome the widespread belief that black women had no place in higher education -- and the equally widespread belief that when it came to expressing yourself in writing, a different perspective was the wrong perspective.

But there are some things you neglected to teach me along the way, the kinds of things that have led to confusion for people who encounter black men like me on a regular basis. (Oh, and by the way, this goes for Grant Hill’s mom, Jamal Anderson’s mom, Kobe Bryant’s mom, and Ki-Jana Carter’s mom too.)

Why didn’t you tell me that black athletes aren’t supposed to be clean-cut, articulate, and well-mannered? You never told me that in order to gain credibility in this business, I had to be a menacing, broken-English-speaking malcontent whose self-esteem is tethered to what he can do on the field. I always thought I was entitled to the same education as the white kids around me. You never told me my true “birthright” as a black man. You know: extreme poverty, lack of education, and general hopelessness.

Instead, all I had was a house full of literature and a mother who, whenever I made the mistake of saying I was bored, would say, "read a book." And speaking of books, why did you leave that copy of Paul Robeson Speaks out in the open? I grew up thinking it was perfectly normal for a black man to be a Rhodes scholar, Shakespearean actor, and All-America football player. Hell, I grew up thinking I could be some kind of Renaissance man.

And why did you and Dad approve of that college? You never told me a real black athlete is one who chooses a football factory, does just enough to stay eligible and hopes to make it to the pros. And if he doesn’t make it, he’s supposed to be, at worst, a low-rent drug dealer, or at best, some parking attendant who walks with a limp and who white people pity as the guy who couldn’t get a break.

Because of moms like you, people in the sports world are confused by the way guys like me interact with women. They just aren’t sure what they’re seeing. Because of you, I take women seriously. People expect me to be a one-dimensional sexual predator who meets a ho’, beats a ho’, gets a ho’ pregnant, and dismisses a ho’. Intimacy? That’s supposedly a foreign concept for the black and athletically gifted types. You never told me the natural order of the sports world could be thrown off its axis simply because someone like myself, who used to hit people for a living, has the ability to both show and tell a woman he loves her.

And speaking of proper appetites, everyone knows the middle- and upper-class black athlete isn’t supposed to be as hungry as his project counterpart. I mean, Kobe was raised upper class, speaks three languages, and scored something like eight million on his SAT. He already has two rings, wants another, and the other day, when he drove to the hole like it was 4th-and-1, and flushed it over Tim Duncan, he looked like he wanted to take over the world. Wait a minute, what was I talking about?

Oh yeah. Because of mothers like you, there are far too many "nice black men" invading the ranks of professional sports. And nice young men, like Ki-Jana Carter, are supposed to lack the fire to claw their way back into the league after injuries have left their careers for dead. But Kathy Carter gave her son the ability to channel his hunger without sacrificing his dignity. Same goes for Zenobia Anderson as her son Jamal has vowed to return from his second knee operation.

And, I’m sure Grant Hill, as he attempts to prove himself after two major injuries, has gathered strength from his mother, Janet. But what’s up with her going to Wellesley, and rooming with Hillary Clinton? Everyone knows black women have no place in higher education. Well, maybe you do. But I guess you’re an exception. Maybe I’m an exception too.

You showed me how to fiercely be myself, no matter what the cost. That’s actually turned out pretty well. And because of it, I’ll let the other stuff slide, and let's just call it even.

Happy Mother's Day,
Alan

Alan Grant, a former NFL defensive back, writes football for ESPN The Magazine. E-mail him at alan.grant@espnmag.com.