Hot:

And I can feel it coming in the air tonight…

The cassette player hissed and clicked between electronic beats. Pyung lit a cigarette and killed the headlights. The stars lit up the road ahead. I eased back into my seat and listened.

We had walked around the Lower East Side all night, looking for a bar that only cared how old we looked. Didn’t find one.

Barry’s parents were home that weekend. No basement poker. No weed, no tequila, no fucked up stories about muling drugs across the border from his sister.

Between semesters, between jobs, between adolescence and adulthood, we wandered the streets in silence. Then, without any plans or discussion, we got in Pyung’s car and just drove.

“How far to DC?” he asked.

“About 250 miles.”

“We can get there by four.”

We were born with wanderlust. From Korea to Chicago to Virginia to New Jersey – all before I was twelve – home was never anything but a concept to me. Pyung’s history was the same. We never had to deliberate much when it came to road trips. We counted gas money and hit the road.

Washington DC this time, Boston the next, maybe Baltimore after that. The destination wasn’t important. Ten hours of music and conversation inside the bubble of a Camaro; the world slipping by at our pace.

Nothing could touch us in that car. There was no future, no past, no pressures, no worries, no obligations, no categories, just a web of roads anchored to nothing.

The empty highway and the rushing asphalt; the gentle rock of the suspension and the building music flooded our senses and washed away the uncertainty that comes with accepting manhood.

Reagan and his cowboy diplomacy, the threat of a nuclear war with the Soviet Union, El Salvador and the Middle East had led to post apocalyptic depictions of a looming future. We would inherit this.

And I’ve been waiting for this moment for all my life… oh Lord… oh Lord…

The veil of night kept it hidden, the darkened lanes and reflecting lines gave us direction from moment to moment. Nothing to commit to, nothing to hold us.

We got to Georgetown and slept for a few hours in the car. Breakfast at an Ihop before the sun came up. A joint in the parking lot and then hours touring through The Smithsonian. It was a way to focus on something besides our lives and all the expectations of family.

There’s always something liberating about being away. It’s amplified when you get there on a whim. For a few hours we were free.

We stocked up on soda, munchies and headed back at dusk.

“You going to Barry’s for Christmas?” asked Pyung.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

We lit up cigarettes and watched the sun go down. The road was crowded on the way back. No portent, no possibilities, just the familiar trappings of home waiting for us.

Back to school, back to our lives, back to being ourselves. But the wanderlust was still there – smoldering, waiting for oxygen, waiting for the next time.

Pyung turned on the cassette player. And I can feel it coming in the air tonight…

Hot:

“The Korean War was not technically a war,” said Mr. Harrison in his usual Ben Stein drone. “It was a police action. The effort to push back the Chinese-backed forces was led by, who? …who? …who?”

His daily impression of a Tourette’s owl made me twitch. It made everyone twitch. “MacArthur!” Mercifully, someone was able to finally free themselves from Mr. Harrison’s paralyzing cadence.

“Right, General Douglas MacArthur… MacArthur,” he said, scrawling the answer on the blackboard. “Now, had we not gone into Korea, it is generally believed that the Soviet form of government known as… what? …what? …what?”

Communism? MacArthur? Wait… we? Yes, American history. I’m sitting in a New Jersey classroom. But it feels strange somehow – for me to think it. We?

English may as well be my first language. I grew up on Mighty Mouse, Sesame Street and The Little Rascals; Cocoa-Cola, Chef Boyardee and McDonald’s; The Cubs, The Bears and The Bulls. I get it, Mr. Harrison.

But – we?

Mr. Wein, he taught us about Native Americans in seventh grade. We learned about slavery and the 29th amendment; about the railroads and Viet Nam. I can’t say we to that.

I’ll pay my taxes, stay out of jail and defend these borders but I’m not going to be a cheerleader. I’m going to say we fucked up as many times as I’m going to say we were awesome. It’s only fair.

I’ll slide into it eventually. This place will become my home. After all, Nikes and Pentiums – like so many things American – are made in Korea aren’t they? But for now Home is still back there, halfway around the world.

I still can’t say, we. Not yet. For now, you are they. And we are altogether.

Goo goo ga-joob, Mr. Harrison.

Hot:

Frank Lim fell backward, onto his book bag. Blood trailed down the left side of his chin. His glasses landed a few feet away, at Maggie’s feet.

Why didn’t you put down your book bag? Why did you keep your glasses on? Did you really think you’d be walking away from this? Did you really think Georgie would back down?

Georgie taunted him, “Get up, chink. Use some karate on me. Chop-suey my ass.”

Guys from the football team, the wrestling team, laughed and cheered.

“Kick his ass, Georgie!” “Fuck that chink up!”

One of the guys on the wrestling team, Jimmy, the one that sparred with me over the summer, walked over to me. “You’re not gonna do anything stupid, are you?”

Stand up for Frank? I’m not jumping in to protect every Asian kid who catches a beating. This isn’t an after-school special, Jimmy.

Things have changed. We’re graduating soon. I don’t need a rep anymore. I don’t have to survive like this anymore. And neither does he.

Besides, you weren’t just minding your own business. You called Georgie out. You called him out because Georgie still has to shop in the big boy’s department; because Georgie never talks and does whatever the wrestling team tells him to do. Because he’s on the slow side.

But you picked the wrong kid, Frank. Georgie’s an orphan and he needs his wrestling family. He’s not going to let you embarrass him in front of his family. You have no idea what you walked into.

Frank’s little sister picked up his book bag and Maggie gently gathered his glasses. Frank scrambled to his feet. He spat and wiped and postured. “I wasn’t ready! You… you fucking… cheated!”

In that silence – just before the erupting laughter – I cringed for both of us.

Cheating, Frank? I know you want to tear down the world right now. You want to punch through the sky and rip open the earth. You want to hunt down everyone that shit on you and make them eat it. But you’re just not built to do this.

Maybe you could have gotten away with it. Maybe you could have sent Georgie away with a look, a bluff. But he saw you flinch – long before you gave him the finger. He saw you flinch when Eddie had you on top of the jungle gym back in sixth grade.

“Come on down, I dare you! Come down and see what happens!” He taunted you for an hour with that. And all you did was cry while everyone laughed. I laughed too.

“Cheated? Are you fucking serious?” taunted Dean, the captain of the wrestling team – always aggressive, always on guard, always ready for a fight. Even he cringed. Even his steroid-soaked conscience registered pity for Frank’s desperate grope at dignity.

“How fucking gay are you?” “Look out, Georgie’s going to jail cuz he cheated!”

The laughter fueled Frank’s embarrassment and sent him into a rage. He picked up a loose brick and screamed something in Cantonese.

I didn’t understand what he was saying, but I heard the shame in it. The shame of isolation; the shame of being present and absent at the same time; blending into the furniture at parties – when you actually get invited to one; never speaking up in class for fear of being pegged as a freak; of going around people and getting out of the way. The shame of being afraid to stand up for yourself.

“Uh oh, look whose cheatin’ now,” someone said.

Tears, spit, snot, spasmodic gasps – he was a staggering tower of awkward fury. He waved the brick, threatened to use it.

Dean twitched. So did I.

Georgie feigned with his leg. Frank went for the fake. A single punch ended it.

Frank curled up on the concrete and sobbed – his neck glistening with blood and sweat. A few stayed behind to help Frank to his feet, after the jocks had their celebration and finally left.

I stayed behind. Watching. Maggie looked scared. Everyone else around Frank looked exhausted. Whipped. As if they had all been beaten to the ground with him.

What made you finally snap, Frank? MIT is around the corner. You only had to hold on for a few more weeks. Was it the jungle gym? Is it because we still tell that story when you’re not around?

Was it Maggie? When they walked by, and taunted you, did she feel sorry for you? Maybe she put a hand on your arm and said, “Let’s go.”

I know that pity, Frank. It makes you feel less than human.

Maggie looked at me. Why didn’t you do something? She asked without saying.

Why didn’t I do something? Because of the way you’re looking at me now – like I’m some cop that looked the other way. I’m not going with Frank into the world, Maggie. You are.

Don’t pity him. Be proud of him. He doesn’t really care how Georgie and the rest of us look at him, Maggie. It’s the way you look at him that defines him as a man.

I’ll still tell the jungle gym story. But only as the opening. I’ll finish it with how Frank stood up to the wrestling team – and walked away with the girl.

Hot:

“Watch, watch, Sang.”

I’m watching, Mrs. Scott, but all I see are men standing and falling down in the middle of a muddy field. What kind of game is this? Don’t those guys in stripes know how annoying their whistles are? Do they have to blow them so much?

Why are we sitting on these cold splintered benches in the middle of a Chicago winter? My nose is frozen. I can’t smell the hot chocolate you handed me. And it’s not hot anymore.

“The one holding the ball is called the quarterback. He’s in charge,” said Adam.

That’s a ball? Aren’t balls round? Don’t you bounce them? Kick them? That’s not a ball, Adam. That’s a weird looking potato.

Is it snowing?

“Defense! Defense!” yelled Adam.

What are you yelling about, Adam? Why are these men hitting each other? Why do they keep falling to the ground? Why is the field so big when they’re just playing in the middle? Why are there two giant yellow Ys on both sides of the field?

You said I would like this, but so far I can’t understand what there is to like.

What the hell is clipping? Offsides? Did someone get a bad haircut? Why is the quarterback fondling that big fat guy in front of him? Do you not see that?

“Let’s see how the rookie does,” said Mrs. Scott.

“Who is he?” asked Adam.

“Payton. He’s number 34,” said the man sitting next to us.

He looks really small compared to the other men, Adam. Are they going to hit him too?

What’s he doing? What’s he… did he just knock that giant guy over with his head? He just jumped over that guy! Did you see that, Adam?

“Why are they chasing him?” I asked.

“Because he has the ball,” said Adam.

He has the ball. He’s attacking the defense with his helmet, his body, his legs and his heart. He’s breaking tackles, pushing through and digging in.

They spun him around, but he’s on his feet. He’s running from sideline to sideline more than he is getting up field. Sometimes you have to go around the long way I guess.

He’s always going to be doing that, isn’t he? Running through, around and over. Grinding out 30 yards to gain 4, bouncing up after they slam him into the turf as if to say, “I’m not afraid. You can’t hurt me. Even if you can, I won’t let you know it.”

“He’s loose! He’s loose!” yelled the man next to us. His son got up and cheered.

It’s not about standing up and falling down is it, Adam? It’s about pounding the wall until a piece breaks off; it’s about staying with it until something gives.

And when it does, a man cuts free and flies down the field with the rest of us on his back – everything that was in his way piled up behind him.

I feel it, Sam. I feel it in my chest and in my gut. I want to grab the ball and run through the crowd. And when someone gets in my way, I’ll spin and juke and plow my way through – they can grab air, get a mouthful of my vapor trail. It’s my ball. They can get their own.

I never told you this, but I followed Walter Payton’s career for the next 14 years. In 1998, I was designing the collateral material for a trade show that was to take place at McCormick Place. Walter Payton was going to be the Keynote Speaker. I was going to be at the show.

I took out my officially licensed number 34 Bears jersey and bought a brand new Sharpie for the occasion. Unfortunately, Mr. Payton backed out of the engagement a week before the show.

I was disappointed, of course, but more curious than anything else. The organizers for the show were understandably angry, but I insisted that there had to be a good reason for his abrupt cancellation.

A few weeks later, a live press conference was held. Walter Payton had contracted a rare and aggressive form of liver disease. His prognosis was dire.

I was sure he’d pull through. I was sure he would bounce back from it, the way he had always bounced up from the grass; bounced off defensive linemen; from the relentless pounding he had taken over the course of 14 brutal seasons. But he didn’t. Not this time.

I heard the news and wondered where you were, Adam. I wondered if you felt as sad as I did. I remembered that first game we went to; that first taste of what was to come. I remembered, and spent a silent moment alone.

Thank you, Adam. Thank you, Mrs. Scott. I couldn’t have asked for a better introduction to football, and to one of its greatest players.

I’ll always remember that day.