He was really spiraling downward. Beer-30 was anything but helpful. “Why, why, fuck…man, why?” His father told him, “you have to stop asking ‘why.’” Things kept falling apart, and drinking didn’t explain it as things fell apart before drinking was even a thing in his life, though the drinking certainly didn’t help. Gas to an already troublesome fire, it was.

“Why” was the question of his life. When he stepped outside to give his old man a break, the cold air of night nipped his face and made him blink. He was that little blonde boy once again. It was a beautiful summer day and he was wiping blood off his face to laughter. A football rested in the grass nearby. Gushing nosebleeds always look worse than they are, and at least his nose wasn’t broken. The laughter was disturbing, though. He asked the other kids, “why?”

“You’re gay if you have to ask.”

“We don’t want you here and you won’t take a hint!”

“Fags bend over, and that’s what you do.”

He held in the tears and sniffled. They “awed” in mockery. “But I want to play, and I can catch,” he explained.

“You’re a retard, Walker. Go draw some dumb pictures or something.”

“My sister plays better ball than you.”

“I can play,” he said as he brushed his bloody hands on the grass.

“You could be Jerry Rice and I wouldn’t throw to you.”

“Maybe his nose.”

The laughter resumed.

He retrieved his bike from the chain-link fence and rode off to nowhere in particular. In the distance one of the kids shouted, “see you later, faggot!” Somewhere on West Maple a car pulled up and the driver greeted him. It was one of his grandfather’s friends whose name he could never remember. Tears were streaming down the boy’s face as the older gentleman asked if he was okay. The boy nodded. It was still a thing in the 1990’s to take someone at their word so the driver took the cue and said, “tell your grandpa I said hi.” The boy gave the best smile he could and waved.

The night returned and the man was back to 35. People had been telling him “why” and he refused—for decades—to listen. But more important is something his old man said on a different occasion later. Another binge was underway and one of the man’s signature binge behaviors was a shadowy spiral downward, then on a dime, a miraculous perk up where he’d announce to everyone, “we’re gonna win.” “We will win.” “Win!” A lot of people thought this to be the complete and utter implosion of this poor fellow, and yet it was his dad who heard this and looked at him straight in the eyes and said, “you’ve already won.”

And that’s the truth. Hugs, warmth, and love are now the order of the day. Anyone, and especially the ugly folks of the past, can have a hug. The Black Community has a mantra that expresses this sentiment precisely, “forgive, yes! Forget, never!” What would life be without a hard ride to make victory worth aiming for?