Guns frighten me. The reaction — unchanged for my entire remembered life — is more visceral than political. The first childhood nightmare I can recall involved a gun. To this day, when I see a gun — whether attached to a law enforcement officer or to a random guy strolling through Overton Park — I want to put as much distance as possible between my body and that hunk of metal. Now that Tennessee allows citizens to wander around with loaded handguns, without so much as filing for a permit, I see a lot of guns.
That’s the emotional bias I bring to the spectacle of Grizzlies star Ja Morant shooting his dazzling career in the foot.
Merely six months ago, this very magazine named Morant and his team our 2022 Memphians of the Year, for their outsized impact on a city in need of heroes. I don’t mind telling you that by early March, when Morant appeared on Instagram Live brandishing a handgun in a strip club, we breathed a sigh of relief that our cover story had appeared before the point guard’s fall from grace. What if, we asked ourselves, he had gone live in that club during the 10 days or so between when we turn over files to our printer and when we deliver finished magazines? (Welcome to the minds of print-media editors.)
After the strip club incident, Morant checked himself into a treatment facility in Florida to receive counseling for his emotional issues, which I would guess are very real. But, as you will recall, he spent mere days at that facility, during which he found time for an on-camera, closely choreographed interview with ESPN and a meeting with NBA commissioner Adam Silver. Have you, your family, or your close friends ever spent time in a treatment facility for mental health concerns, like anger, depression, or addiction? Were meetings with media, or with your boss’s boss’s boss, on the schedule? Didn’t think so.
We’ve also learned, in recent months, of a day last summer when Morant allegedly brandished a gun at, and repeatedly punched, a teenager playing pickup basketball at the star’s home court. The teenager sued, and Morant has filed a countersuit. Whatever the outcome, it’s not a good look.
Most recently, of course, just days before we finished this issue of the magazine, Morant was back in the headlines for … what else? Flashing a gun. Again. On social media. Again. This time, he was on a buddy’s Instagram Live feed, but no matter. There’s Morant, and there’s a handgun. In Tennessee, he wasn’t even breaking the law. But that’s not the point, is it? By his own account this March, Morant needs to cool it with the hijinks: “So, you know, my job now is, like I said, being more responsible, smarter, and don’t cause any [more off-court controversy] anymore.” To appear on a live feed showing off a handgun, after all he’s cost himself and his teammates (including the $39 million contract bump he could have realized, had he made the All-NBA teams this year, and surely he would have, were it not for the distractions) … it’s mind-bogglingly stupid. It’s self-sabotage of epic proportions. All of which could have been avoided simply by not going live. I’m obviously not encouraging anyone to fool around with guns — but I didn’t actually have to know that Morant still sometimes does.
I’m more immediately freaked out, to be honest, by the guy ahead of me in the checkout line with a handgun on his belt. I’m more freaked out by our state legislators who see fit to allow, nay, encourage this state’s citizens to arm themselves like guns are about to be discontinued AND war is coming. I’m frightened of guns, but I’m not frightened of Morant. What I am is sad.
Morant plays with the name ‘Memphis’ emblazoned on his chest, and the city has embraced him over his years here. Kids and adults alike sport ‘12’ jerseys, and waited eagerly for Nike’s Ja 1 sneaker to be released earlier this year. But does he love Memphis back? Before the Memphian of the Year designation, this magazine earlier approached him about a solo cover story; he declined, through his representatives, offering no particular reason. Just couldn’t be bothered. You can’t convince me that someone who spends the amount of time that Morant apparently spends in nightclubs can’t make time for a 45-minute interview.
When we were trying to persuade Morant’s people to persuade Morant, we proposed that he stand alongside Ja Raffe, the young giraffe that the Memphis Zoo named for him, to the athlete’s delight. Even Ja Raffe wasn’t enough to convince him. And then the Zoo traded Raffe to Utah’s Hogle Zoo — because the giraffe competed too heavily for attention in Memphis, which can lead to fighting among the herd. The trade felt, at first, like an unfortunate plot twist. Now … I don’t know.