Last night, shit. It all made sense. I was never alone the entire time. That changes everything most importantly me. I love you mom and last night on the center courts heavenly surface we were both reminded of our blessings. Thank you Jesus, I was in fact given a sign, all of us were.
It was one of those mornings that no matter how hung over you were you woke up fresh. The fact you woke up, tomorrow, cemented the pinch, awake, alive. I sprung out of bed without the assistance of an alarm clock hidden benefit of ADHD #13 We were champions. The hung over incurred by a long session drinking, smoking with my team and our brain trust at our old elementary school went too fast. The best of the best, times, they always travel at warp speed.
“Om my god. You and your friends are something else kid. Champions, we'll have to tell your godfather, he's needs some good news. he's not doing so well these days." "I know the headaches. I haven't spoke to him in two years." My Uncle Clayt's stunning collapse from Wall St. his ilness and beloved wifes abandoment of him when he was sick, taking his daughter was something I couldn't handle. And I loved therapy. But that was too much. My only true hero. The guy that loved me the most. The western PA born, Brown, UVA, blue blood, he made it big, all my dreams, my godfather yet he too sufferred from our curse. My hedge and security net against all was not immune. Michael Milken's right hand man my Godfather went down like so many with the decade, never to comeback. I was sure of it. My godfather. I took a deep breath exhaling my cheeks, my old trick that always kick saved my waterfall of emotions. I have no one. ADD benefit XIV, change the record.
"Mama's baby boy. I know, I know. But Santo, wow, that shot, holy toledo.” I loved it, interviews all day starting with the shower and my mother over breakfast. Negative thoughts there would be none. I threw on a shirt and tie, note: Santo always wore a shirt and tie on championship Friday at the Big Guy’s summer camps. Odes were our thing. New traditions, loyalty and armbands all over our bodies. “I love you so fucking much, mwah!” A hug and kiss, and I peddled my old Mongoose through the neighborhood to Hayden.
It was an astonishing site to see 90% of the campers wearing black armbands on their calves. This caused a slight crash to the Big Guy’s system, “Jimmity Crickets, are these guys going to be like remembered? Their not even that good!” He pondered out loud to Coach Sullivan tapping his foot furiosly, letting us have our moment. When Goldy arrived the camp went crazy, he shared his most recent story of driving past the courts this morning en route to Hayden camp, seeing kids at the courts before 9AM now trying to mimic the miracle so many bore witness to just twelve hours ago. I was now convinced something was in the water here in Madison MA. Too many things, secrets and “situations.” My life was and had always been highly abnormal. My team of rug rats won another camp title that Friday my second that summer. The Big Guy loaded my teams and I swept bragging right’s, so many perks from the close bond we’d quickly form this past fall in the once unknown dungeon, wonderful world of the ACE program.
That afternoon I found some “beats” and (Portland trail) BLAZED and drank until I passed out, Hatty, Monster, Scully, Gold, Tick some beats it was wonderful. Monster like many an older past graduate delivered the insidious often mentioned insights that life went downhill with age and responsibility. I laughed questioning my instinct. That would suck. The Young Guns championship should not have been acme rather an warm up before our senior year. Another basketball title, college offers, parties and happiness. But it wouldn’t play out like that. Life never did. And I could never figure it out. And would have bet my life if you told me, that moment would in the short term prove to be with extreme prejudice, it, for us. I'd bet my life. No fucking way dumb ass.
But it was Madison our surroundings were sparkling and coated the cold reality of how vulnerable everyone around my family would always be. It took less than a week for the championship veeneer to wear off and tragedy to once again hit so close to home. To such a young man. My sisters ex-boyfriend. “Frankie! Oh my god! Brook, I’m so sorry.” I thunder bolted back into my kitchen, a Boston Garden of historic melt downs. I could only imagine. I knew that shriek. “Yo what the fuck happened to him?” I talked as quick as I was. Brook seemed not even there even though I was looking right at her beautiful face structured similarly to my own. The one thing we got, high cheek bones. “Holy fucking shit.” Frankie, the last brick house in our neighborhood before Hayden. One of three brothers manning the famed Zamboni at the ice rink of lower Hayden where my sister starred, Frankie, the good kid that loved my sister. The relationship we all loved torn apart by the drugs and dropouts from the guys of 1988. Brooke was culpable. And so was I. It was another one I blocked out. My sister. Frankie never got over that. They were suppossed to be his friends. It was only a few months ago their relationship had ended, before Santo i thought, Brook gone crazy, I'd tell Magic. I couldn't remember myself. Our own timeline of incidents now, even in the short run. The fact stood, it happened.
I remembered the last time I saw him, just last week. We remained cordial even though my sister played rip chord with his heart strings he said "what's up." I was on my way to Hayden. I felt bad, uncomfortable, unaware if I should apoligize on behalf of my sister, sure as hell she'd been in the same position countless times with her younger brother. And they weren't apologies rather plea's. The phrase "I don't give a fuck" was real, it protected me from all however unaware I was piling up an obscene case along with my sister of post traumatic syndrome. It got me through the days. It was my Zanex. A drug I took to be cool. My hyper activity could out leg it. I'd smoke weed and become hyper. I was beg to believe what the psychiatrist's said. What my mother begged with me to comprehend, science, neurons my own limitations and chemical imbalances. I was too naked in family. I was too angry at the white establishment and their willful blindness to the sad legacy of slavery. Unaware of their own limitation and fortuioity that I believed
Word was Frankie had tanked on his motorcycle with the son of the owner of our local Gas station up the street ironically where Brooke’s first relationship started years ago with a generational age divide for the ages.
Frankie was in an accident. And he was in a coma. And it was over. And to this day remains in a vegetated state. My sister would soon coin the phrase, “repression is underrated.” The track was fast, and it was possible, even easy to simply forget and drink. Drink away the pain. The Black Knight, I missed him, he’d been expelled, I’d only spoke to him once since. I re called his older brother, a vegetable in a wheel chair he used to talk to me about him. The star of his family through a straw and a technological break through was finally able to construct a digital sentence to his younger brother black for the first time since his “incident.” “Yo, push me out the fucken window.” And he never did. And Black was fifteen. And this was our life. The hood was crazy. And this town was fucking nuts. Frankie died for all intensive purposes. A part of the Hayden family and my sisters first boyfriend we all adored for all intensive purposes was gone forever. My mentor DES was shattered he loved Frankie, in a sense already lost a brother and had to feel bad about the fact that he was now the one alive, in love with my sister. It hurt us all. And my kitchen and back yard grill and wiffle ball field became a sad place in that last week of August before my senior year. My sister was off to UMASS Amherst in the fall.
I began to buy into the “pill” thing with a little conviction. The dark times you see were only just beginning.