The Voice of Reason: A V.I.P. Pass to Enlightenment Read Online Free PDF

things were. When I got to high school, I constantly heard people talking about crazy parties, and I thought they were nuts. The only type of party I knew about was the one where you showed up with your parents, gave some kid you barely knew a birthday present, ate some cake, and went home. Every time I heard someone mention a crazy party, I thought to myself, “I wonder whose birthday it was?” I had no idea that a group of my peers were going out into an abandoned field, lighting a huge bonfire, and plucking beers from a massive cooler.
    Even if I had been invited to these parties, which I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have gone. My life was defined by wrestling. It’s where I got my excitement. I happened to live in the nicest place in all of Oregon (seriously, West Linn wins awards for its pulchritude), but when it came time to wrestle, I was transported to Northeast Portland. At the time, Northeast Portland was nationally infamous because it was home to two of the most violent, notorious street gangs, the Crips and the Bloods.
    Back in the day, Portland judges didn’t just drop the hammer on criminals and send them to jail for life. If a judge looked across the courtroom at you and saw even a hint of goodness in your eyes, he would often give you an option. If you were an adult, he would give you the choice of going to prison or joining the military. If you were a juvenile, he gave you the choice of going to a detention center or reporting at five-thirty every afternoon to Coach Roy Pittman’s wrestling practice.

     
    As a result, I spent my youth wrestling with hardcore gangbangers. I was one of the few white kids in practice, but I never thought anything of it because it had been my life since the age of nine. The Crips wore blue and the Bloods wore red, but they were not allowed to wear their colors in the training room, so I never knew a rivalry existed between them. I never even knew any of them were in gangs because when you were on Coach Pittman’s mats, you didn’t get a drink of water or tie your shoes, let alone talk. At the end of practice, the Crips would leave through one door and the Bloods through another. I didn’t even think anything might be amiss when I started routinely going to funerals. I had all sorts of teammates die, teammates who I looked up to, who were national champions and Olympians. I just thought it was all a part of growing up.
    But for every boy we lost, ten more were saved, which is why I truly wish there were a lot more men like Coach Pittman around. The world would be a better place, and there would be a lot fewer kids in prison, or in the grave.
    In addition to changing the lives of hundreds of youths, Coach Pittman was also a very interesting guy. Unlike most coaches, he had never wrestled in a single match. He didn’t even own a singlet. Despite having never wrestled, he was the best darn coach on the planet. Why? Because he was a master motivator, and even more important, he was consistent . He never missed a practice, not once. And he expected us to be at practice every single day, including Christmas Eve. The only day he allowed off was Christmas Day.
    I remember him showing up to practice one Friday night all dressed up. He arrived in his Corvette with a do-rag on and a beautiful woman in tow. He had asked Anthony Amado, who had placed fourth in the Olympics, to fill in for him so he could go on his date, but apparently he didn’t fully trust Anthony and wanted to make sure practice got off to a good start. Just as Coach Pittman was about to leave, he saw something he didn’t like. “I need more , Anthony,” he shouted. Immediately Anthony changed the warm-up, but Coach must have found it still unsatisfactory because he flung off his do-rag, and the next thing you know, he’s on the wrestling floor. His jacket comes off. Then he disappears for a moment and comes back dressed in his workout clothes. It doesn’t take more than ten minutes before he is fully immersed in