Hold It Now, Hit It...

It felt like yesterday when I stood outside the church in New Canaan in the June sun about to graduate from St. Luke’s. Pictures with Lishnoff, the Caden twins, Jerry and Nicole. Four years just blew past. A minute ago I was a freshman in fat laces and mad open because I was cool with dudes like Dezlin and Gault. Shit, I was the Fresh Prince (with no Uncle Phil) before the show. I drifted through prep school. I think I filled out three college applications and had maybe two football offers from Division two schools. I did visit Middlebury and Plymouth State though. I had no shot at Middlebury, just went to party. Lived a lifetime since the Hopkins loss. The game was for a spot in the championship against Brunswick. Cried my eyes out on the fifty-yard line after the final whistle.

I had one good year. That’s it. I was stuck behind Bailey on the depth chart until my senior year. Hubbard and Bailey were the two best tailbacks in the league. Hubbard played for King, he was bigger, more powerful and Bailey faster with gazelle-like grace. They ran like Earl Campbell and Gale Sayers. My sophomore year Hubbard popped one up the middle and was in the open field. He looked at me apologetically then ran me over. I held on to his ankle for like seven maybe ten more yards after contact until he just tripped.

He got up patted my helmet and said, “Nice tackle, little man.”

I sat out my junior year but came back senior year with some shit on my chest.

After I snot blasted Trew in the Oklahoma drill, Coach Moeller said, “Whoa, we got ourselves a football player here.”

Coach Moe took over junior year, the team went from 2-6 to 5-3 and 6-2 my senior year. I started out fourth on the depth chart on some Tebow shit. Guidotti got bit on the hand by his girl’s dog, Pedrick fumbled too much, and some how I got ahead of Trew. All before we played our first pre-season game at a jamboree against Fieldston, Horace Mann, Bridgeport Central, and a few other teams. They called us lunch because we only had twenty-one dressed.

In the pre-game speech Coach Moe pulled a smashed cream puff from a crumpled brown paper bag.

“One of these squads has no respect for us, somebody left this in front of our team bus. Let’s show them what really beats inside our chest.”

We walked quietly to the field, played with reckless physical intensity, got back on the bus and bounced. Coach had all kinds of crazy inspirational pep talks.

Before the first game of the season against South Kent he put his massive hand on my shoulder pad and simply said, “Get ready, Baxter we’re feeding you the ball all day.”

I responded with a workmen-like twenty-five carries for a hundred and five yards & a touchdown. Should’ve had another on a reversed field six-yard run but, Lishnoff got called for a clip. We won 6-0. Had a two hundred yard game against St. Mary's on Homecoming that year too. My game towel had “The Big Payback” written on it. We played them for Homecoming my sophomore year, they housed us 44-0 AND I got blind-sided on a pick-six, knocked the fuck out on the sideline and everything. Should've had 1,000 yards my senior year. Finished with seven hundred plus and I gained most of that with three games to go. Wish I had another year with Coach Moe.

Wished I listened when, Coach Haven’s said, “ You gotta pump before you can primp”.

I should’ve done a fifth year somewhere.

When I was five, Mr. Renzulli took me to see Rippowam play Greenwich High. He was my kindergarten teacher's husband and the equipment manager for Rippowam. I sat in the locker room watched the players tape up, the coach give his pre-game speech and it was my very own NFL Films Presents video. I followed the line marker guys all game. They even made a tackle on my side of the field and we all had to jump out of the way. When your five teenagers look like the pros.

I swear Steve Young was the quarterback for Greenwich that day.

They all looked tough and that’s how I wanted to be. My uniform always looked pretty but I played tough. When I played city youth football for the Norwalk Rebels we’d host a team at the end of the season. We hosted one year then go out there the next though I always seemed to miss travel trips in favor of church functions. We played Jacksonville one year and the kid who stayed with me talked mad trash the whole week. The morning of the game I stubbed my pinky toe on my bed and broke it. I cried while I tapped it up in the bathroom and played the game. Scored two touchdowns, one was a seventy-five yarder on a power sweep. Broke my wrist in a JV game at Rye Country Day, tried to jump over a kid, just taped it up and went back in. Used to love that shit. But one day I didn’t want to play anymore. My Dad said I would regret that I never gave the amount of effort required to honor my gift and I would miss the discipline.

M

RIP, MCA...

I used to listen to that Red Alert & Rap Attack...

I used to listen to that Red Alert & Rap Attack,
I fell in love with all that poetry, I mastered that…
– NaS

He was right. I read liner notes, shout outs, production credits and listened intently on every lyrical journey. I wondered out loud about subliminal disses like if, Rakim threw shots and if, PMD threw ‘em back. I spent Friday and Saturday nights between Kiss and BLS with, Kool DJ Red Alert and Mr. Magic , completely captivated by the Bridge Wars. I remember when I caught Slow and Low on my favorite blue TDK for the first time. I saw Beat Street, Breakin’ and Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo and practiced moves in the garage like there was a draft for the Fresh Fest Tour . I kept extra Boom Box batteries in the freezer. I had, Three Times Dope’s Original Stylin'. I listened to, The Great Adventures of Slick Rick and What More Can I Say every day for a year. Learned about Black Nationalism from, X-Clan and Poor Righteous Teachers. I lost my mind the first time I heard LL’s verse on ‘Rampage’. Like, Will Smith at Bel-Air Academy, my B-Boy dedication was serious.

“Hip Hop is my hobby.”

PJ moved to Sharrod’s seat and waved for me to cool off, “Why you always let him get you tight, son?”

“You right. Fuck that I wanna get back to my list. We covered G Rap, Rakim, Kane and KRS but that’s them dudes right there so I gotta just say their names again. But I gonna make a stop in Houston and pick up, Mr. Scarface your favorite rapper’s favorite rapper cuz I love that gangsta shit. Of course, Redman that nigga is ill and how nobody said, LL. How you gonna leave, LL off ANY list … or, Q-Tip.”

Boo’s grill lit up like the North Star on baby Jesus, “Q-Tip’s that nigga, D.”

“Hell yeah, Boo. Low End Theory is my favorite album. And my last one …”

“Baxter, what the fuck is you talking about?” Sharrod’s face was mad wrinkled, “Them niggas don’t give a fuck about you. Don’t your always late to class ass gotta be somewhere?”

“Why are you still here, Sharrod? Don’t you gotta pray to the west or something? You always trying to play somebody.”

He held his arms wide from his body, “Ain’t nobody trying, Preacher boy…” and I stood up from the table in response, “you ain’t saying nothing, son …”

“YOU ain’t saying nothing …”

PJ stood in between again, “Neither one of y’all saying nothing. So shut the fuck up and listen to my list. Y’all niggas can make out later. Both y’all talking shit after both y’all list like twelve names for your bullshit Rap Pages book report!”

“Nah, you right, P. But I forget to add, 2Pac.”

Sharrod spun back towards the table, “That nigga from Juice? Why, cuz you look like him, D?”

“Damn, Sharrod. That shit don’t make no sense.”

Boo slammed his hand on the table, “Word, son! I told you. That nigga ain’t wanna believe me. You look just like that nigga, D!”

“Whatever, man. I’m talking about, 2Pacalypse Now! The album. That shit was tight. Wasn’t nobody on up on that nigga.”

Sherrod’s face softened, we found our mutual messenger,

“What! Nah, that nigga, Pac is truth, what’s that joint”, he closed his eyes to channel Pac ‘… too many brothers daily heading for tha big penn, niggas commin' out worse offthan when they went in, over tha years I done alot of growin' up, getten drunk thrown' up, cuffed up, then I said I had enough, there must be another route, way out to money and fame, I changed my name and played a different game … ’ that nigga got some shit.”

I gave him a pound, “Yeah, Trapped that’s my shit, yo and Soulja's Story is my other joint, that’s what inspired me to start writing…” My transition was awkward but I wasn’t gonna play myself just because he liked Pac, “What about Nasty NaS on that Main Source shit, ‘Verbal assassin my architect pleases, when I was twelve I went to hell for snuffing Jesus ’ now that shit is ill.”

Our tug of war settled into temporary treaty as he sat and listened, “Or Chuck D because pick one, Yo! Bum Rush the Show, Nation of Millions, Fear of a Black Planet, Apocalypse '91.., shit, all of them were dope. That’s that hardcore, Black Panther shit like that nigga, Paris he make you wanna smack a white dude and shit”, laughter rang off the walls, we sounded like unorganized rebellion but this was our exercise in free will.

“Dr. Dre, Snoop Doggy Dog and the whole, Chronic shit is off the hook. I’m thinking that’s the future.”

M

Surviving the Times...

I woke up early on my born day/I'm twenty years of blessing/
the essence of adolescent leaves my body now I'm fresh
in my physical frame is celebrated cause I made it
one quarter through life some God-ly like thing created
– NaS

I sat on my bunk lost in the irony of half ass painted semi white walls
while voices mumbled through the hallways and trackers clanged in the distance.
Smoke’s smooth Carolina drawl pulled me back from bong memories,
“Donte, I know you feelin’ some kinda way ‘bout being cooped up in here on your twenty-first. You just startin’, baby boy. AND you gettin’ a clean shot at a do over, I’m gonna be thirty on my next birthday I wish I had twenty-one over, boy.”

Smoke was right, I should have been grateful to be alive. But it was hard to locate gratitude while the smell of cow shit marinated the air. I stared at the floor and kicked my chanklas. My twenty-first also included an exam in, Pop Rainbow’s Biblical Interpretation class, which left my soul numb. Some of these guys seriously came to class with Bible verses written on their hands for a quiz but fronted on their GED.

Most kids from St’ Luke’s followed in the traditions of their parent’s Universities. I followed the family rehab legacy. Pop Rainbow had a different, Tony Baxter story for each class. He described in great detail my Father’s bad attitude and violent tendencies as he battled to kick his heroin habit. Last class story was my Dad’s attempt to recreate the Juan Marichal/Johnny Roseboro incident on some dude from, Bayamon. Tony’s legend was a natural fit with the firecracker persona I crafted with the staff.

Four months down and I’d been on discipline at least once a month.

I had about a week left on pots and pans with, Fat John’s crew, every dude in there was fresh off the boat from, Aguadeya. I didn’t speak a lick of Spanish they didn’t speak a bit of English and everyone just talked around me. I felt like a dick. The rumor buzz had the farm as my next job with fresh mounds of cow shit and a shovel.

A mass room reassignment moved me into a five-man with Smoke, Boo, Sharrod, and Mikey. Because it was the oldest set of rooms on the mountain and built right up the hill from the actual original farm our section was refereed to as the Projects. Our room came with a closet scoreboard of previous champion mice catchers but nothing was worst than the swarms of flies so bold they’d shower with you.

Smoke was the oldest and the voice of reason. He never got involved in our petty beefs though he could’ve handled any of us, no problem. Dude was chocolate black with a bald milk-dud head and looked like he still played linebacker, he was about six-two, two thirty-five easy. He cautioned us daily not to get his name caught up in the bullshit. He was up here for a fresh start then back home with his lady and baby son.

Sharrod, on the other hand was regularly on the prowl for confrontation, twenty-three, stipulated by a gun charge and free with it. He rocked rope-chains, rings, and a fly ass watch everyday like he was back in Wyandanch. His street corner steez drove the counselors insane and his belief in Islam made him a consistent debate for old heads that needed to get their Bible game tight. He wasn’t up there for conversion.

Mikey was his main road dog, maybe because they both had the chipped tooth smile or their wild stories about missions to the Crazy Eddie spot or just because they came up to the mountain at the same time.

“Good morning, bitches! And a happy birthday to you, bitch boy,”
Allen shouted in our doorway with a stupid half grin. Smoke didn’t even look at homeboy,
“Why does this white boy think he can come barging in here?”

Allen was a pain in the ass. Normally, I wouldn’t speak ill of the dead but there’s no other way. Originally from Washington State he said he popped his first pill back in the sixth grade around the time his children’s pastor first touched him.
Now, to be fair a lot things out of Allen’s mouth were hard to believe and the bring-it-to-the-cross atmosphere up there made grown men say strange things but you never shit on a dude who says somebody touched him. By sixteen he started to shoot up between his toes. Now that’s some dope-fiend shit for real. He bounced to Seattle after he won the civil case and binged for seven months, which turned him into a superstar drug addict.

He ended up under a bridge by the time his parents caught back up with him. His plan was to get at the fifty G’s put aside for college instead they sent him cross-country to Redemptive Living. A few years after graduation I saw Barry, one of his roommates from the Mountain, he told me they found Allen overdosed in a Turkish bath. Half naked, alone with a needle in his arm like a movie scene. That’s a fucked up way to go out.

M