I hated being paddled, of course, and it didn’t teach me a thing. It seemed to happen to me on a weekly basis through the fifth grade. Every time, I’d walk out of the principal’s office the same as I went in: defiant and angry but newly determined not to ruin my mom’s sanity with my poor behavior.
At home my mom was able to exercise more control over me. She didn’t want me to leave the apartment when she was at work or sleeping off her shift, so I spent my afternoons and evenings watching TV and playing Super Mario Bros. She’d usually sleep on the couch in the living room so she’d hear me if I tried to sneak out. But sometimes I got past her anyway. Her long shifts at the plant were draining, so she slept pretty hard. And I knew what time she usually woke up, so I would make sure I was back inside well before then. If I got my clothes dirty while I was playing outside, I’d have to hide them until wash day.
Every so often, though, I’d get nailed. When that happened, she’d tear a switch off a tree and come after me. Imagine a nine-or ten-year-old crying and running down the street from his mom. It was so embarrassing. She couldn’t catch me, but eventually I had to return home, and that’s when it would get really ugly. I’d try to stay out of her way back at the apartment, but inside she was able to catch me. I’d hold my hands over my butt to cushion the blows.
Afterward, she’d always come back to make up with me and try to explain why she’d punished me. “I love you very much, mijo, and I want you to do well in life. You have to listen to me. I’m your mother.”
Still, I felt sad when I’d look out the window at my friends playing in the apartment parking lot. If someone outside would fall or do something funny, I’d laugh out loud. If my mom was awake, I’d stand in front of the door and sigh loudly, hoping she’d get the hint that I wanted to go out. If that didn’t work, I’d have myself a good long pout.
Sometimes my friends noticed me watching them from the window. I’d signal them to knock on the door, hoping they might have some luck with my mom. I’d strategically place myself out of range of the door so my mom wouldn’t think I’d had anything to do with the plan. And sometimes she said yes when one of my friends asked, “Can Jose come out and play?”
Actually, over the years friends had been a bit hard to come by. I was one of the very few Latino kids in a largely African-American community. It was a relief when I met Juan Bautista when we were sixth graders at Beryl Henry Upper Elementary School. Juan was born in the United States, but he had lived most of his life in Mexico, where his dad, a preacher, had a congregation. Juan didn’t speak English, and the other students picked on him, yelling things like “Go back to Mexico!”
As two of only five Hispanic kids in our class, Juan and I eventually became allies. Juan—or Mucho, as he was called—was used to getting beaten up, but once we became friends, I became his protector. I knew how it felt to be isolated and teased.
Around this time, my mom met Sergio, a slight Mexican man. From the very beginning I wasn’t a fan. Sergio slouched like a question mark and smacked his lips when he ate. He was mostly bald with a few sparse threads of long black hair sprouting east and west. What I disliked most was that he was loud, always saying things he thought were hilarious but I didn’t find funny at all.
But my mom was still getting over Hector, and she really wanted us to be part of a family, so it wasn’t long before she and Sergio got married and we moved into his house. The two of us never clicked, although I tried hard to keep my feelings from my mother. But I was delighted when, only eight months later, my mom told me they were splitting up. I guess they didn’t click much, either.
She and I moved into a trailer home, and once again it was just the two of us.
Financially, we were a big family. My mom wasn’t just supporting the two of us on her salary: She was still sending a monthly allowance to support my sister and grandmother in El Salvador. “Overtime” was her middle name.
My mom was open with me about our finances. She’d show me her paycheck and we’d look at the bills together. That way I’d see with my own eyes what was left over. It made me feel like I understood our situation. She always made sure I had five outfits, one for every day of the school week, because she didn’t want me to get teased for wearing the same clothes.
If there were things that we wanted beyond the basics, we’d shop at stores where we could put stuff on layaway. I never tried to push my mom into buying something we couldn’t afford, but if we had the cash, she’d lay it out for me. She didn’t say no to me very often, and if she did, she’d explain that she didn’t have the money at the moment but that once she’d saved it, we’d return for the item.
Once, though, my desire for something we couldn’t afford got the better of me. I was obsessed for a short time with pencils decorated with NFL logos. A store called Fred’s sold packs of them for a couple of bucks apiece. One day when I was there with my mom, I decided to steal some. I knew it was wrong, but I snuck away and, with my heart pounding, I opened up a package of these pencils and stuffed some into my waistband. Who would look down a kid’s pants for stolen merchandise?
It was a great plan, until those pencils began to work their way down my pants leg as I walked through the store. Finally they dropped out. A store employee grabbed me and marched me over to my mom. She was angry, I was ashamed, and it only took this one instance to demonstrate to me that stealing wasn’t the way to get the things you wanted. I vowed to myself that as soon as I was old enough, I’d get a job to help my mother with the bills and earn the things I wanted instead of taking them.
But it wasn’t all virtue that motivated me. I had recently discovered the very best reason to have a little bit of spending money in your pocket—girls.
My mom warned me about them.
“Be careful,” she said. “They might trick you. Don’t fall into their trap.”
“No, Mama, I won’t,” I’d assure her.
Even so, I got my first girlfriend at age eleven. By seventh grade, I had figured out that my looks were attracting attention. The kids at Yerger Middle School seemed to notice me before I even opened my mouth. Girls claimed to like me even if I’d never spoken to them. They’d write notes and “accidentally” drop them near me so I could read them. Our home phone would ring on Friday nights, and when I answered I’d get an earful of anonymous giggling on the other end. Even my buddies joined in, dutifully relaying messages that this girl or that one liked me. I recognized this as an asset, so I began to work very hard on cultivating my pretty-boy image.
One day I was standing in the cafeteria at lunch, talking with a girl. I liked her, but she was looking at someone else.
“Wow,” she said, flicking a glance at a kid walking by. “He looks good.”
“What’s so hot about him?” I asked. He looked pretty ordinary to me.
“He looks more mature,” she answered. “Clean.”
That’s all she said, but it got me thinking. I decided to start taking care of myself. Every morning I painstakingly ironed my jeans so they had a sharp crease down the middle of each leg. I would pair them with a Ralph Lauren or Nautica polo shirt in aqua or yellow. And then to top it off, a spray of my cologne, Cool Water. Giving myself a final inspection in the bathroom mirror, I’d spritz on a little more for the finishing touch. Not bad for a twelve-year-old.
For me, it was all about attention and being “that guy,” the guy everyone watched. Looking back, I think that craving had a lot to do with how lonely I was. My mom did her best, but since it was just the two of us and her hours were so crazy, I missed having someone around to keep me company—a brother or sister, a father, a grandparent. Hell, even a dog would’ve been great.
So I approached looking good and being popular like it was a part-time job. At school I’d rush to the bathroom at every break to put a little water on my hands and touch them to my hair to keep the shine. Then I would stand there on a corner of the campus, prop up a leg, and talk to my friends. Girls would walk by and smile. I’d grin back.
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I didn’t realize those ambitions were hollow, and that someday they would all go up in smoke. I even fantasized about what it’d be like to get into an accident so I could find out how many people really cared. Maybe a strange thought for a kid and interesting in its prophecy.
“Be careful who you surround yourself with,” my mom would remind me. “Everyone is your friend on the surface, but only a few are your friend at the root. People will come into your life and say all the right things, but you must be cautious.”
It was as if she had a crystal ball.
Sometimes my efforts backfired. Certain girls would develop a crush on me, but if I didn’t respond in kind this inspired hurt feelings. A couple of times these girls would ask an older brother or cousin for help.
I usually walked home from school with a bunch of my friends, but since my place was the farthest away, I walked the last four or five blocks alone. One afternoon I was strolling along when a group of older guys approached me.
“Hey,” one of them said. “I hear you think you’re too good for my cousin.”
I couldn’t believe it: I was going to get my ass kicked by grown men just because I didn’t want to date their cousin. I hurried away without responding. After that, I started taking a different route home.
But soon enough they ambushed me. There were three of them in a car, and they drove up next to me.
“Hey, punk!” they shouted. “Remember us?”
I put my head down and kept on walking.
“Don’t you hear us talking to you?”
They hopped out and surrounded me, pushing me back and forth like a pinball. Then they began to punch me. They knocked me down, and I curled into a ball, my backpack facing upward like a turtle shell.
When they finally stopped, I jumped up and ran the rest of the way home. I didn’t tell my mom what had happened, but in no time she extracted the story. As usual, she had a suggestion for me.
“What do you think a tiger does when he gets chased and cornered?” she asked me. If I was ever threatened or in danger, she said, I needed to fight back if I wanted to survive.
CHAPTER FOUR
Football Dreams
I was only ten years old when I played my first football game with a neighborhood team in Hope. I had been introduced to the great game of football by Alejandra’s three sons back in Bossier City before we moved. It had been a huge thrill when the boys let me grab the ball and run from them. It was enough to fuel my appetite for the game, despite the fact that other kids were bigger and faster.
When I finally joined the team in Hope in fifth grade, I didn’t have any clue about the rules beyond tackling, blocking, and scoring. I couldn’t have cared less where the coach put me as long as I was on the field. What I couldn’t know then was that the major elements of the game—strategy, tactics, exploiting the opponents’ weaknesses, and gaining territory—were skills that would come to mean life or death to me years later.
During my second game, I found myself face-to-face with a behemoth player on the opposing team. He was the same age as me, but he looked like he’d already conquered puberty. Hell, he looked like he could probably drive and vote. He ran the ball. My position was safety, sometimes considered the most challenging spot on the defense side. It was my job to stop him, but I was afraid to get in his way.
In the game’s last moments, our coach yelled for a time-out.
“Listen up, team. I don’t care if you don’t want to hit this guy. You have to give it a try!”
He looked straight at me. I gulped.
We broke from the huddle. During the next play, the giant ran down the sideline right at me. I was the only obstacle between him and the end zone. It’s now or never, I thought. I dove right into him and knocked him down. I couldn’t believe I’d done it. I bounced up in celebration, ignoring how much that tackle had actually hurt.
From that moment, I knew I wanted to play this game forever. The admiration I saw in the other kids’ eyes was a kind of validation I hadn’t previously experienced. The inherent physicality of the game indulged the rough, tough, edgy side of me. Perhaps most important, it made me part of something, when I’d never been a part of anything before.
By the time I started at Hope High School, I had visions of football stardom dancing in my head. Our team, the Bobcats, led by head coach Kevin Stamp and assistant coach Gene Stubber, had a great record.
Trouble was, I was still kind of small for a football player. Practice after practice, it seemed my role was just to serve as a tackling dummy for the bigger and more talented players. During games, I barely set foot on the field unless our team was winning big. Initially, that didn’t bother me; all I really cared about was being part of this team.
Maybe a little too much. I started fooling around in the classroom, getting into trouble again. After practice I stopped going straight home as my mom expected. My mom really didn’t get the allure of football or understand the rules. She called it “a game where a bunch of chickens with their heads cut off run after a ball.” So if I wasn’t going to do what I was supposed to do, she was going to take it away.
She called Coach Stubber, a veteran educator and a laid-back country guy, and told him she was going to remove me from the team. Luckily, Coach thought I was the kind of person who could focus when I needed to, that I wasn’t just a cutup. By taking away football, my mom would create a vacuum of free time for me which, he pointed out to her, could beget even bigger problems. Coach told her he’d try to wear me out at practice so I wouldn’t have energy to get into trouble. I might just go home and tend to my homework and my chores.
Even though she thought the game was silly, she understood how much it meant to me and took Coach’s words to heart. She allowed me to continue playing. Every afternoon I’d go to practice, get pummeled, and go home, bruised and aching. I had never felt such complete happiness. And to her credit, whenever she could, my mom was in the bleachers for my games, clapping, throwing her arms in the air, screaming my name.
As a sophomore I managed to gain a toehold on the field. I’d grown a little and learned a lot about the game, and the coaches seemed a little more amenable to subbing me in. I loved the challenge of stepping up and making the play, winning the praise of the head coach, Kevin Stamp.
Coach Stamp always wore a baseball cap and the kind of short-shorts that would make you cringe today. He had an extra-strong but indistinguishable accent and an ever-present wad of snuff in his cheek. I managed to become one of his favorites by finding ways to catch his attention via my play both on the field and off. I was the jokester: clowning around, messing with the other players, playing pranks. He got a kick out of it when we’d mock his accent.
My two best friends, Jacob and Jeris, were Caucasian and African-American, so Stamp and Stubber began to call the three of us “the Multicultural Idiots.” They thought that was pretty funny.
Around the middle of the season I was called into Coach Stamp’s office. The hair bristled on the back of my neck.
“Your counselor sent me your midterm grades,” he told me. “They’re pretty bad.”
I stared at him, clenching my jaw, wondering what was coming next.
“You won’t be able to finish out the season.”
It was true that I rarely studied, that I blew off homework when it was inconvenient—which was pretty much all the time, as far as I was concerned. I hadn’t figured out that I needed to sustain a decent grade point average to maintain player eligibility. All that really had mattered was putting on my pads, lacing up my cleats, and practicing with my buddies.
And despite my mother’s desire for me to succeed, she hadn’t stressed academics, either. She’d really known only one thing in her life: work. Her own priorities were putting food on the table and a roof over our heads while keeping me safe. My mother never got to have an education and here I was taking mine for granted.
I stood in front of the coach’s desk begging him to give me the chance to bring up my grades
so I could continue playing. I vowed to do better. But his tone was cold, and his response never wavered. I was heartbroken.
The following Friday at school—game day—everyone asked me why I wasn’t wearing my jersey. I was full of excuses, mumbling something about an injury, a swollen elbow or a trick ankle. I couldn’t tell the truth because I didn’t want people to think I was dumb.
I felt the prickle of shame even more acutely around my mom. She was the last person I wanted to disappoint and I skirted the truth with her as well. I don’t recall what lie I told her, but it was probably something along the lines of “Since I’m only a sophomore, the coach is making me sit out.” Despite being banned from participating, I continued to attend the games—if only to watch from the bleachers along with the parents, siblings, and other students. Relegated to spectator status felt like an added layer of disgrace to my punishment. I couldn’t let this happen to me ever again.
That winter and spring I managed to bring up my grades. In class I stopped sitting in the very last row, where the screwups congregated. I stayed after school for extra help, and I actually did my part of the work when we did group projects. I was going to get back on that team no matter what.
Although I had always been more of a role player rather than a star, I started to think earnestly about making it to the pros. I envisioned making a better life for me and my mom. I imagined other boys wearing my jersey—as I’d worn the jerseys of professional players as a kid. I was going to be the next big thing. I would make all these spectacular plays and have thousands—potentially millions—of people cheering for me.
Ever since I played my first game at ten years old, I had stoked this fantasy, and now it evolved into a goal. At that point, I never dreamed of anything else. Honestly, it’s not like I had many options. Since football was something I knew, I came to believe it was my destiny.
Full of Heart: My Story of Survival, Strength, and Spirit Page 3
