Baller Alert Entertainment & Lifestyle I figure if I am going to just jump into posting lessons on how to score a baller, I might as well bring you all to the beginning to where my obsession with athletes began…
My desire for men of status and high regard wasn’t something that I just decided I wanted one day. My mother was a woman who was into creating the picture perfect family, and she always wanted to paint a picture that made people think the opposite of what her reality really was. My mother was a beautiful Brazilian woman that only needed to walk in a room and exhale to attract men. My mother was the epitome of gorgeous. She stood at five foot two inches, and had the most beautiful complexion I have ever seen on anyone. My mother was a sun kissed caramel color and her long curly jet black hair stretched down to the nape of her back. She had the facial features of a white woman, but when you looked down at the rest of her body, she was indeed shaped like a woman from Brazil. She had the tiniest waist, and her hips expanded outward giving her leverage to carry her plump and round behind. She was a sight for all men. I never really had a relationship with my biological father except for the fact that he was a Haitian. I had on a few occasions tried to develop a relationship with my Daddy, but things always ended on a bad note. The last conversation that I had with my father at the age of 15, my Dad told me that I was a waste of his sperm; I never tried to connect with my father after that, I probably won’t even go to his funeral when he dies.
My mother had a knack for choosing men that were no good for her. After my father my mother met a man who was the captain for the Chicago Police Department. He was a well-known man in our city who had nothing but notable accolades attached to his name, and he was a noted figure in the community. They dated for some time before finally getting married and having a child together. On the outside, our city, family, and friends looked at us as a phenomenal image of a family. We were always going on vacations, had many cars in our driveway, lived in a $2.4 million dollar home that resided in a gated community, and we always had gatherings and functions at our house that was my mother’s way of forcing people to think that we were a big happy family by the way we were living. When the doors to our lives were shut to the onlookers, our beautiful home was actually a utopia for hell. My step-father was a controlling and abusive man, everything that he portrayed to be in our community he was the exact opposite at home. I had on many occasions held my then 3 month old little sister in my arms as my step-father drug my mother around our entire house by her hair. I had heard many nights the screaming and begging for mercy that my mother was resorted to doing in efforts of getting the man that she loved so much to stop beating her. My mother never defended herself nor did she protect me while the pain was being endured. I remember my mother and my step-father got into an argument over something that I am sure was minuet, and this six foot seven 230 pound man picked my mother up by her neck and chocked her until she passed out. I just knew my other family members would now have the chance to see the man who I had so much built up hate and anger towards; they now were going to be able to see just who he really was. My mother covered up and protected this psycho by telling everyone that the reason she was in the hospital for two days was because she had suffered from a bad asthma attack. I never understood why my mother wouldn’t leave him, I mean it wasn’t like she didn’t have her own damn career and she could have definitely got another man instantly who I’m sure would have been well deserving of her love than the man that she actually was with. Not only was my mother the subject to many of his beatings, but I too was a punching bag for my step-father.
I began getting abused by my step-father when I had entered the 6th grade, and once I had hit high school the abuse was on a regular basis. The older I got the more I began to look like my mother. I had the same petite waist, the same glowing brown skin, long curly hair down my back like my mother, and I was curvaceously shaped like her too. The only answer that I could come up with as to why he hated me just as much as my mother was because I reminded him of her, and have two of us around was a problem for him. My step-father on one occasion was upset because a boy called the house looking for me and took the phone and threw it at me hitting me in my head before taking off his belt and hitting me all over my body with the belt buckle. My mother was forced to watch and when she interjected after seeing the bruises forming on my body, he turned the belt on her whooping her right in front of me. I was never an excellent student in school when it came to math, so when I received a “C” on my report card, he grabbed me by my ponytail dragged me downstairs to the kitchen where he took a pair of scissors and cut my entire ponytail saying that I thought I was to pretty for school. The constant abuse made it unbearable to live in the house which should have been my home and safe haven. I soon began hating myself and the only way I thought I could escape the pain was by attempting to commit suicide my senior year in high school. Shortly after I was hospitalized for overdosing on prescriptive medication, people began to question how perfect and happy my family actually was.
I didn’t love myself, and didn’t feel like anyone that was supposed to love me did either. It wasn’t until I started dating my first “real” boyfriend that I felt some form of love from another person. My boyfriend, for the sake of his identity we will call him Gerren, became a huge part of my life and soon became my world. Somehow Jarren filled a void that had been left by the neglect of my mother and the esteem shattering abuse from my step-father. When I was graduating from high school, Gerren was graduating from college; right before Gerren graduated he was entered into the NFL draft where he was picked up by the San Diego Chargers. Gerren’s draft served as an escape for me away from the shitty life I had been accustomed to. My mother fought me moving so far away from my family, but there was absolutely no way in hell I was not going to move to California with Gerren. I had planned to move to Cali and live in pure amazement showing my mother and her husband that despite everything he put me through and everything she allowed me to go through I would still rise and prevail.
I loved supporting and being there for Gerren as he began to rise during his rookie year turning him into a house hold name in San Deigo. Things could not have been better for Gerren and I, he was transforming into a star athlete and I had graduated from the Paul Mitchell School for cosmetology in San Deigo. One thing that I resented about my mother was that everything she did would always involve her husband; I was able to start my own business and establish my own identity aside from being the girlfriend of Gerren Sheilds. With him being a pro athlete I was able to network and obtain my own clients making me a celebrity hairstylist and makeup artist. It seemed as if we were the young bright couple sitting on top of the world. Just as fast as things began to shoot skyward, they all fell just as fast. Gerren was so far into being a celebrity and living his life in the fast lane that he lost sight of everything that he and I had built with each other. Once the endorsements and the millions started rolling in, so did thee entourages and with the entourages came the groupies. Things between Gerren and I turned for the worst when I had been working on a closed set for months doing make-up for a new TV show that was airing on E! This was indeed the breakout job that pretty much launched my career to the place it is now. While I waited on set, I saw tall and thin woman that was of a dark brown complexion. She was armored with what you could definitely tell was a set of purchased breast and a month six month old lace front that was in dire need of re-doing. When she approached me, I automatically assumed she was the next person that I would be doing make-up so I motioned her to sit in my seat. She told me that she needed to talk to me about a personal matter regarding Gerren. When I gave her the go-ahead to speak her mind, she informed me with proof that she and Gerren had been intimate relationship with each other for four plus months. The audacity of this conniving ass bitch to come to my job and embarrass me by telling me she had been sleeping with my man in front of my clients angered the shit out of me. What made the situation even worse was the simple fact that Gerren allowed a woman, who was a known stripper in San Diego, which had absolutely nothing to offer him come in between us and take everything. Not only did she tell me they had been together, but she also pulled out of her purse the at home pregnancy test proving to me that she was pregnant with Gerrens child. I asked her for her phone number and told her that I wanted her to come by the house later.
When I left set, I raced home and immediately began packing all my shit so that I could immediately move. The fact that he had been fucking some bitch raw and coming home and doing the same to me showed me that he had absolutely not a care in the world for me. Gerren came home to me having all my shit packed in a U-haul truck, I had no idea where I was going with my things or where I was putting them, I just knew I was leaving. Gerren questioned and tried his best to figure out why I was leaving, but I wouldn’t say a world; I just kept packing until I saw the mother of his unborn child pull up next to the U-haul truck. She was very confused as to what was going on and her facial expression clearly showed that she was afraid of what she was getting herself into. She and I walked into the house and I called Gerren down stairs where he saw both her and I were standing together. The expression on Gerren’s face was so blank and he just stared at me not saying a thing. We all three stood there in silence waiting for someone to say the first word. I took the house key off of my key ring and handed it to her saying “congratulations on your new baby and welcome to your home”; and I walked out. I am pretty sure I drove around San Diego for four hours crying and processing everything that had just happened. Everything in San Diego reminded me of Gerren and I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay there, so after a month of living in a hotel, I took all my belongings and moved to Los Angeles.
It definitely wasn’t hard for me to pick up where my life left off in San Diego in LA; I had attempted to date what you would call “regular” or “normal” men, but I had been so accustomed to living and being a part of a certain lifestyle that I decided I was going to only date men whose work uniform consisted of a jersey. I loved what I had and I knew what I wanted and I was damn sure that it would be easy for me to get exactly what I wanted. Living that life that is now glamorized on numerous of reality shows is a thrilling high that comes with its ups and downs. Dating a pro ball player is more than hanging out with other wives and girlfriends, drinking wine, and wearing red bottoms. It’s hard work to get here, and it’s even harder work to stay. I have definitely made my share of mistakes on my quest to score and secure a baller; there has been a lot of tears shed, a lot of pain felt, and a slew of stories and experiences that can easily server as lessons and guidelines for those who seek a baller. I have dealt with everything when it comes to these men, abuse, cheating, lies, scandals, and have even been proposed to twice. If I knew then, what I know now I would have easily been able to surpass all the bullshit that I endured before getting in the relationship that I am in now. Love should never be a game, and even though love can be a competition, it’s never really a competition if you know the rules and cancel out your competition. What I’m giving you are the unwritten guidelines that ballers check for when they are looking for wifey. The lessons I learned are now lessons that will help guide you down the successful path of snagging you a baller with the utmost in taste and class.
You can’t play the game fairly, if you don’t have the instructions…
