PFA Award: Cristina Ronaldo > Snoop Drog

Cristina Ronaldo took home the double last night, winning the PFA Young Player of the Year and the Player of the Year awards. Though wholly lacking in testosterone and class, Cristina is in spectacular form this year but I still hoped the awards would go to Didier Drogba and Cesc Fabregas.

Cesc really had no chance but I kinda thought Drogba might. He had a storming season at the Bridge, saving Chel$ki’s arses on numerous occasions. Cristina’s brilliance notwithstanding shouldn’t Drogba’s season-saving efforts count more than what is accomplished by a prancing nancy that plays for the New York Yankees of the EPL?

The answer to that 100% serious question is yes. As such, Drogba’s failure to take home the Player of the Year award must be unrelated to a supposedly brilliant season by Cristina and more to do with something tragic like this:

“CHELSEA’S DIDIER DROGBA looks set to be a hit-man off the pitch — with his own rap album.

The Premiership’s top scorer will release the SNOOP DOGG-style tracks under the alias DROGBACITE.” (The Sun, of course)

No one in their right mind would knowingly vote for a raplete, least of all one who chooses to identify himself with a name that sounds like the bacteria eating away at Al Davis’ brain. Oh well.

My real issue is this: When will the tragicomedy of professional athletes plying their trades as rappers come to an end? Haven’t we all suffered enough? Having enough money to find a decent producer that can pump out some semi-catchy tracks shouldn’t give one license to try to be Jay-Z but let’s pretend that it does. How does one get the urge to cut a rap album or even a track?

I understand how it works when you’re trying to rap your way out of poverty.. when your only lyrical fodder is guns, violence, and the tragic circumstances of your life. But when you’re a professional athlete sitting on millions upon millions and, quite often, with championships to your name, how does the mood strike? Are you sitting in your Cribs-esque home (or dorm room), watching the three girls you just banged walk past your MVP trophy and think to yourself, “Damn. Being me owns. I oughta rap about it and tell everybody how hard I am.” Is that how it works? Or is it just an extension of the theory that all singers want to be actors, all actors want to be Hamlet, and all comedians want to write novels? Whatever it is, it has to stop.

If you played any of these efforts at a party, your guests would mock you and leave in disgust.

Chicago Bears Shufflin Crew: Super Bowl Shuffle, nominated for a Grammy

’86 Oakland Raiders Music Video

Deion Sanders: Prime Time

Shaquille O’Neal: Shaq Diesel, Shaq Fu: Da Return, Kazaam soundtrack…

Kobe Bryant: Visions (with Tyra Banks singing the hook on the single K.O.B.E., sounded like a weak, latter day Will Smith)

Clint Dempsey: Don’t Tread

Tony Parker: TP

Terrell Owens: Eagles’ Diss Rap

Mike Ditka: that Grabowski crap where he wore those Zubaz pants

University of Michigan’s Measly Penny Crew

University of Miami’s 7th Flo Crew

UConn basketball’s Ed Nelson: Pickup Truck

Ron Artest: My World

Allen Iverson: Non-Fiction (homophobic anthem sung by A.I.’s alter-ego “Jewelz”)

Roy Jones, Jr.: Round One: the Album, Body Head Bangerz Vol. 1

Jason Kidd, Gary Payton, Dana Barros, JR Rider, et al: Basketball’s Best Kept Secret

Ricky Watters: Eye of a Hawk

Chris Webber: Too Much Drama

Macho Man Randy Savage: Be A Man (rags on Hulk Hogan in a Rob Zombie sort of way)

Hulk Hogan: posing as or living vicariously through Brooke Hogan; I can’t figure it out

Multiple WWF/WWE compilation albums

Didier Drogba: Drogbacite

I’m all for exploring one’s talents but at no time in the history of rapletes has any one of these blokes had a sodding lick of it that didn’t involve hand-eye coordination. Now, if Tony Parker or Shaquille O’Neal or Clint Dempsey wanted to take up professional juggling or hacky sack, that would make perfect sense but rapping?

The fair majority of rap requires absolutely no talent. Anyone armed with a 3rd grade vocabulary and a pair of Timberlands can be one of millions paid to repeat asinine phrases like “skeet skeet skeet,” “till the sweat drips off my balls,” and “slap her with a dick.”

But rap done properly – the type where the voice is used as a rhythmic instrument instead of thuggish grunting and inane rambling for a club – actually requires talent, intelligence, and skill. So if you’re a professional athlete, why subject yourself to the humiliation? Why be the guy music critics compare to a latter day, watered down Will Smith? Part of being a pro is having an ego the size of Wyoming but if you have a modicum of pride, why add yourself to the millions of faux-thug tools whose lyrical skill is based in telling you exactly why they’re fly and precisely why you’re not (the answer is:”I’m hot ’cause I’m fly; You ain’t ’cause you’re not”), and if asked not to use a verse that includes some Chronic 2001 cliche, their brains might explode?

It makes no sense to me.