Hmm, this month has worked out pretty well. I've gone from being a fairly obscure shooting guard--perhaps best-known for my back tattoo featuring my name and uniform number adorned with dollar signs and bullet holes--to a national sports figure with a sizzling beef against one of the NBA's best players and one of hip-hop's biggest stars, backed only by a teenage anthem creator and a little-known D.C. rapper.

I've thrown an off-the-wall '80s-themed birthday party, received write-ups on the sites of The New Republic, New York Magazine and Entertainment Weekly, found my way onto a list of the five hardest foulers of the postseason, slashed my neck on national television, earned a $25,000 fine for being menacing, promised to boycott a club and become one of the most hated and scorned figures in Cleveland sports. Cool!

But something's missing. Something to make absolutely sure I never land that mainstream endorsement deal. Some crowning gesture--ridiculously, brazenly dark and disturbing-- that perfectly sums up what I've done this month: turned myself into a comic-book villain, a prototypical WWE heel, a man you might hate but simply can't ignore.

Hold up, I've got it! What if I wear a Michael Vick jersey and an Atlanta Falcons cap during my arrival at our Cleveland hotel before Game 5?

Go ahead, try to think of a better crowning gesture than this one.

UPDATE: Here's DeShawn's explanation.

(Awful images via Comcast SportsyNet.)

By Dan Steinberg  |  April 29, 2008; 11:07 PM ET
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