I May Be Wrong But I Doubt It Read Online Free PDF Page B

mood. But sometimes, I’d get a call from the Make-A-Wish Foundation—there would be people, sometimes kids, who wanted to meet me before they died. And the foundation would call on a game day and say, “There’s a kid dying here whose last wish is to see you. Can you just come and see him?” I’d get there and sometimes the kid would be comatose. One day, a kid woke up for a split second and smiled at me. I was told he’d been hanging on. The mom and dad called me later and said, “I don’t know what you did to him, but those few moments were wonderful.” And I cried all the way to the game, just cried my eyes out.
    Ultimately, I couldn’t do that anymore on game days. I was too emotional. I couldn’t concentrate at all. I’d be wondering about that kid, whether there was something that could be done to comfort him.
    It’s very scary. It’s uplifting, too, but so scary. Terminal illness is just . . .
man.
To think “I can brighten this kid’s life, if only for a few minutes” is kind of overwhelming. And if you can’t get some perspective from that, then you’re hopeless.
I’m bitching because my breakfast is cold?

Mom and Grandma
    My grandmother has always been the rock of the family. She’s really strong, assertive, aggressive. I’ve always been just like my grandmother, stubborn and strong-willed. I’m 100 percent like her. My grandmother was the father-figure in our family since my father wasn’t there. She took charge of all the important situations, made the difficult decisions. She handled all the discipline. The funny thing is, my mother is just the opposite. She’s really passive. My mother is overly sensitive and easily offended. Her personality is very, very different from mine and from my grandmother’s. Because of that, whatever grandma said, that was it. It wasn’t up for a vote. There was no debate. I don’t know how many whippings I had. Let’s just say they were numerous. My grandmother would use a switch to whip us, a stretch of Hot Wheels track, anything.
    Grandma worked at a meat-packing factory, and it was hard work. Mom was a maid. There was nothing glamorous about it.
    And we bootlegged. We sold alcohol. That’s the way we made ends meet: selling alcohol. It was hard raising three young boys, with no husband and father. John is seven years younger than me, Darryl is four years younger. How much money can you make working in a meat-packing factory? Or working as a maid? So we sold alcohol. The house was like a casino on the weekend. Guys would come on Friday and drink and gamble until Sunday.
    One of the fascinating things about growing up poor in those projects was that a guy who fit the description of being a bum, a guy who drank all the time and didn’t amount to much, would most likely be protective of you. Back then, some of those guys who were drunks or bums would be the first to tell you, “Hey man, don’t screw it up!” I don’t think that’s the case anymore. The culture has changed. But back then, the guys who didn’t amount to anything were very supportive. They would go out of their way to keep you out of trouble. They knew full well which kids might have a chance to make something of their lives if they stayed out of trouble, if they stayed away from drinking and drugs and crime. They’d tell you, “No, we ain’t havin’ that; you’re getting out of here. Put that alcohol down.” It’s true. They might have screwed up their lives, and some of it might have been beyond their control depending on how much education they had or what kind of job they could get. But they didn’t want to see the cycle continue. I think a lot of those guys knew how difficult it was to turn your life around if you got started in the wrong direction. And they didn’t want to see that hopelessness continue. That can be some depressing stuff. But at least they wanted you to do well. They didn’t begrudge you the chance to make life better for yourself or your family.