After scrupulously analyzing the 2008 Summer Olympics, there are a number of interesting conclusions that may raise some eyebrows. Of course, to the untrained eye, these things would probably go unnoticed. These include the following:
-Americans are good at swimming.
-Jamaicans are good at running.
-Chinese people are really good at making things look cool when the government orders them to do so.
-Beach volleyball players look really nice.
-Jimmy Page has still got it.
-Canadian divers have unusually large bulges in their speedos.
To this end, the Olympics were definitely fun to watch. (My daughter Maddelyn calls them "my lympics") It's kind of strange; I'm not very nationally orientated; I don't know any of these athletes; I haven't followed their career's or even follow the sport for that matter. Yet, I still find myself pulling for this or that person. I don't know where it comes from, but it's there.
-Americans are good at swimming.
-Jamaicans are good at running.
-Chinese people are really good at making things look cool when the government orders them to do so.
-Beach volleyball players look really nice.
-Jimmy Page has still got it.
-Canadian divers have unusually large bulges in their speedos.
To this end, the Olympics were definitely fun to watch. (My daughter Maddelyn calls them "my lympics") It's kind of strange; I'm not very nationally orientated; I don't know any of these athletes; I haven't followed their career's or even follow the sport for that matter. Yet, I still find myself pulling for this or that person. I don't know where it comes from, but it's there. Anyway, as I watch all these athletes, they remind me of machines. That is to say, they train so hard and regimented, that they can perform whatever it is they're doing like a "well oiled machine," as the saying goes. While the whole thing is certainly entertaining, I think it also demonstrates the death of art and originality in sports; machines can't have style.
What i'm talking about, of course, is the 'shuck and jive'. I've always felt that this art form has been going to the wayside; a lost art, if you will. This is no more apparent than in the olympics. And just in case there's any doubt to that, I want you to think good and hard about the men's gymnastic floor routine. If there's a place where the ol' shuck and jive should pop up, this would be the place. Just imagine: dancin' and flippin' around half ballet half drunkin boxer like; that would be a floor exercise with some real style. Instead, what do we get? A bunch of mechanical flips and a really weird handstand, you know, like arms going diagonal and all pointy toes. And then after some flippy tumble, there'll be this little hop of sorts, with arms out and a pointy toe. This is suposed to be style? All those sorry lads have such bulges here and there, like arms and things, that there is absolutely no fluency and grace. The best in the world? ppphhhffffaaa!!! There's some lip music for ya!
Let me tell you a story:
"ten-yeeeaarrrsss ago, I fell iiinnn love with an Irissshhh girl, (she took my heart), and then she went and . . . ."
oh wait, wrong story . . .
Here's what I meant to say:
The legend of the 'shuck and jive' is both mysterious and beautiful. It is one, for all I know, that is only preserved through the oral histories of people who probably don't have both oars in the water, if you know what I mean. And so this said history was past down to me through endless inquiry of the subject; the mystery. And as oral histories are prone to do, sometimes the point is not so much to preserve the concrete truth, but to hold on to the essence of the tale. Kind of like the Ojibwa living on the back of a giant turtle after a duck or some such animal dove down really deep to get some dirt and plants. Or like ripping a rib bone out some guy made of dust to make some girl. My point is, while the details of the legend of the shuck and jive might fall out foggy, you can sure bet that its essense with stay in tact.
Some time ago, when I was chatting up with some real bigwigs on the forum wishoops (which has now expanded to wissports), I kept coming across these references of the 'shuck and jive' You know, like "wow, he was sure shuckin' it last night . . . didn't have the jive going though" Or like "yeah, he really showed some shuckin' and jivin' in that game" And I was all like "what's with this?" being all new and brand at this sort of talk. Well let me tell you, if you're ever in a similar situation, don't ever inquire directly to the experts, because let me tell you, they really let me have it, let me tell you. They were all like "hey man!! what's with all these questions bro?" And "don't you be throwin' out the ol' shuck and jive without proper credentials!!!" And things like "who do you think you are? Florice Nightly?" (I'm not really sure that last comment had anything to do with the shuck and jive, but it sure sounds like an insult . . .)
Finally, at long last, this really cool like screen name called "butterstuff" let me in on a little secret. At first he was messing around talking about Shucking, as in corn, and Jive, as in a dance. But then the real story opened up.
As the story goes, it was down in the Louisiana Bayou where the shuck and jive was first discovered. Of course, south of the Mason Dixie Line, it was referred to as the “jive and shuck.” The fellow’s name was McGee, who was always called “quick-foot” McGee. For most of his childhood, he lived with his mother in a small shack in an area that was just called “the swamps.” His mother’s name was “Grandma Moses,” which was also a nickname, but more because of her looks than biblical wisdom.
Anyways, it was here that quick-foot McGee invented the game of “swamp-ball,” which entailed half hick-like breakdancing, half taunting full-grown gators. McGee used the “jive and shuck” whenever things looked a little hairy, that is to say, surrounded by full-grown gators. One day, Coach Picket from the local college basketball team ventured out to see the spectacle, and he asked McGee if he would be willing to try basketball. It came quite natural.
Despite his leanness (he was 6’1, and only weighed 130 pounds), McGee quickly came to command the floor; it was an exhibition. His passing, for example, was so unorthodox that in the first game he broke three of his teammates noses with what people started to call a “Geeshot.” After that, his teammates all wore those clear facemasks and mouth-guards.
McGee immediately became a local hero. In fact, the town board saw if fit to change the mascot from the Muskrats to the “Louisiana Swamp Boys.” But it really wasn’t McGee’s stats or team wins that attracted people to the games. Undoubtedly, it was McGee’s fusion of the “shuck and jive” into the game of basketball. As McGee would head down the court, usually triple-teamed, it was the marvel of his ability to get to the rim. No dunking of course. This, he felt, detracted from the art of the finish. Finger rolls and floaters were his forte. What at first seemed a blur of arms and legs, spectators began to recognize different artistic graces. They could now identify when McGee would shuck a weak-side spin into a left-handed stutter jive.
Sadly, it was during the Louisiana Swamp Boys post season run that tragedy struck quick-foot McGee. It was second quarter in the semi’s. McGee snatched a long rebound and took off. But this time, at about mid-court, McGee had a flinch of concentration. This brief moment of focus caused confusion with his natural tendencies as McGee’s body started his “shuck” mid “jive”. McGee tore 3 ACL’s, dislocated his knee, and broke his collarbone (the collarbone injury coming from landing square on his neck). As the crowd watched in horror, first responders tried untangling the mess. He would live, but his shuckin’ and jivin’ days were over. Despite this, quick-foot McGee will always remain a legend, influencing the likes of “Pistol Pete” and “Dr. J.”
Fast forward. So what now? Nowadays we’ve got a bunch a machines showing us how talented they are. How fun is that? We have all but forgotten the need to include art into the world of sports. Coaches stifle any sign of shuckin’ or jivin’ just because it looks weird, fans yell “use the backboard!!”, and recruiters look for 6’8” galutes. Shame.
Long live quick-foot McGee and the shuck and jive!
As the story goes, it was down in the Louisiana Bayou where the shuck and jive was first discovered. Of course, south of the Mason Dixie Line, it was referred to as the “jive and shuck.” The fellow’s name was McGee, who was always called “quick-foot” McGee. For most of his childhood, he lived with his mother in a small shack in an area that was just called “the swamps.” His mother’s name was “Grandma Moses,” which was also a nickname, but more because of her looks than biblical wisdom.
Anyways, it was here that quick-foot McGee invented the game of “swamp-ball,” which entailed half hick-like breakdancing, half taunting full-grown gators. McGee used the “jive and shuck” whenever things looked a little hairy, that is to say, surrounded by full-grown gators. One day, Coach Picket from the local college basketball team ventured out to see the spectacle, and he asked McGee if he would be willing to try basketball. It came quite natural.
Despite his leanness (he was 6’1, and only weighed 130 pounds), McGee quickly came to command the floor; it was an exhibition. His passing, for example, was so unorthodox that in the first game he broke three of his teammates noses with what people started to call a “Geeshot.” After that, his teammates all wore those clear facemasks and mouth-guards.
McGee immediately became a local hero. In fact, the town board saw if fit to change the mascot from the Muskrats to the “Louisiana Swamp Boys.” But it really wasn’t McGee’s stats or team wins that attracted people to the games. Undoubtedly, it was McGee’s fusion of the “shuck and jive” into the game of basketball. As McGee would head down the court, usually triple-teamed, it was the marvel of his ability to get to the rim. No dunking of course. This, he felt, detracted from the art of the finish. Finger rolls and floaters were his forte. What at first seemed a blur of arms and legs, spectators began to recognize different artistic graces. They could now identify when McGee would shuck a weak-side spin into a left-handed stutter jive.
Sadly, it was during the Louisiana Swamp Boys post season run that tragedy struck quick-foot McGee. It was second quarter in the semi’s. McGee snatched a long rebound and took off. But this time, at about mid-court, McGee had a flinch of concentration. This brief moment of focus caused confusion with his natural tendencies as McGee’s body started his “shuck” mid “jive”. McGee tore 3 ACL’s, dislocated his knee, and broke his collarbone (the collarbone injury coming from landing square on his neck). As the crowd watched in horror, first responders tried untangling the mess. He would live, but his shuckin’ and jivin’ days were over. Despite this, quick-foot McGee will always remain a legend, influencing the likes of “Pistol Pete” and “Dr. J.”
Fast forward. So what now? Nowadays we’ve got a bunch a machines showing us how talented they are. How fun is that? We have all but forgotten the need to include art into the world of sports. Coaches stifle any sign of shuckin’ or jivin’ just because it looks weird, fans yell “use the backboard!!”, and recruiters look for 6’8” galutes. Shame.
Long live quick-foot McGee and the shuck and jive!
