I grew up in Temple Terrace. A suburb of Tampa, Florida. My childhood was wonderful. I had loving parents. A big brother who always kept me on my toes. A yellow lab named Charlie who was always by my side. I loved baseball. I loved the Chicago Cubs. I would run home from Elementary School to try and catch the first pitch of a Cubs day game which was always on TV. I loved Harry Caray. I would tape every game that I could on VHS. I liked watching the games constantly. I liked keeping score. Wrigley Field on VHS was magical and all I wanted was more of it. I wore a perfectly fitted Chicago Cubs baseball cap almost every single day from 1989 to 1990. Baseball and the Chicago Cubs were my first true love.
I had Black friends, Mexican friends, Puerto Rican friends, Filipino, and White friends. I wanted to be friends with everyone and was curious about everything and my parents were open to it all. We played basketball, baseball, football, hide 'n seek, manhunt, and dug holes. My neighbor was Jeff King. We would constantly hang out together. His dad made the best cheeseburgers at swim parties. My brother and I loved his cheeseburgers. There was nothing like Mr. King’s cheeseburgers.
My parents were the best. They were always there for me. They were just as confused as I was about a lot of things, but they did the best they could and took everything as it came. My dad loved sports. We watched sports together. He liked boxing, golf, baseball, basketball, and football. He liked the Washington Redskins. So did I. In 1989, the Chicago Cubs made the playoffs and I was obsessed with trying to get them to win by watching them play. Watching every pitch, hit, and catch. The Cubs lost in the playoffs and I wouldn’t get to see Wrigley Field on TV in the World Series. My dad was the best. He only cared about the Cubs because I did. I only cared about the Redskins because he did.
My childhood was perfect.
I loved Michael Jackson. My mom would drive me around in our station wagon and we would play "Thriller" on full volume for the entirety of the ride. I liked the fast songs and the mid tempo songs. "P.Y.T.", "Beat It," and "Billie Jean" were my jams. In the 4th grade my mom took me to see Milli Vanilli. They weren’t really singing but we had a dance party and we didn’t care. My mom bought me a t-shirt. I wish I still had it.
I loved Metallica when I got a little older. My best friend Cliff introduced me to them. We listened to the "Master of Puppets" album constantly and talked about what it would be like to have a girlfriend. The Metallica song "Damage Inc." literally changed the course of my life. My mom would drive me to the CD store and wait patiently in the car while I ran in and looked at all the heavy metal album covers for what seemed like hours. As I would return to the car with a new Metallica album, my mom would always ask me “Did they have what you wanted?”. I love my mom. I love my dad. The best parents ever.
My dad used to take me to the Tampa Bay Buccaneer games when they played at old Tampa Stadium and the team sucked. He would drink beer and yell at Vinny Testaverde. I always laughed at how he would always yell the same things over and over. “Come On! Get your head in the ballgame!”. In the first grade my dad took me to see the Chicago Bears play the Buccaneers. A couple neighbors came along with us and one of my neighbors taught me to play "Paper, Rock, Scissors" in the backseat on the way to the game. I saw Walter Payton play in that game. It was his last season. On the ride home the neighbors that came with us were really drunk and kept joking around. I went to a Buccaneer game once and wore my Herschel Walker Cowboys jersey even though the Cowboys weren’t playing. A drunk guy almost knocked me down while I was walking. My dad scared the shit out of him and told him to go suck grass. It was hilarious and my dad was my hero. He had forearms the size of Glaciers. My dad took us to a spring training game in March of 1987 where the Reds played the Pirates. On the way to the game my dad taught me how to sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame". I always knew the words after that car ride. While we were at the game I couldn’t believe how green the field was and how far the ball would fly off the pros’ bats. My dad took me down closer to the field and we saw Pete Rose. My dad took a picture of him.
My brother loved to skateboard. I remember my dad and a neighbor building us a huge ramp we could ride our skateboards on. I was too scared to go up the entire thing. My brother would set it up and all his friends would come over and skate. My parents bought my brother a skateboard when I was in first grade. That skateboard got stolen and I knew who the kids were that took it. I loved hanging with my brother. He always had so much energy and so much volatility that it was exciting. Everyone liked him and wanted to be around him. Everyone wanted his energy. Of course, my brother didn’t always want me around. Just like any big brother/little brother relationship. My brother always listened to the coolest most dangerous music. His friends always had interesting stories about Mustang 5.0’s, girls, skate parks, and how Bermuda grass felt like pubic hair. His friends had the best jokes. His best friend was Jimmy Boone. When they were in the 5th grade I accidentally gave Jimmy a bloody nose by jumping on top of him in our pool. Jimmy always was good to me. My brother loved hip-hop music. My brother loved the Beastie Boys, Public Enemy, and N.W.A.. He listened to Ill Communication constantly. My brother could dunk a basketball with ease. My friends and I always couldn’t believe how high he could jump. All of my friends idolized my brother. We always felt extremely cool if we could hang out with my brother and his crew. My brother could play basketball like nobody else. He had a rawness to him which everyone would notice and wanted for themselves. I was always proud to call him my brother. I could shoot 3-pointers. He could dunk.
I loved Michael Jordan. Watching Michael Jordan play basketball was a special, almost transcendent experience. It was the closest thing to perfection. The closest thing to my childhood.