and really start living life. That day when my parents dropped me off, after we said our good-byes, I wasnât just trying to push away my sadness when I walked back to the dorm and started asking about parties. I was ready to let loose. And thatâs exactly what I did, full throttle. I was burning the candle at both ends, something that would eventually catch up with me toward the end of my sophomore year.
Of course, basketball came first. Everything I did revolved around my obligations to the team, our practice schedule, our games. At the time, though, I wasnât taking into account how important it was to rest and recharge whenever I could. I was nineteen years old, and in a new place where I could flop into bed after a long night, pull myself up a few hours later, go to classes, and still have a strong practice. I had been raised by a man who wouldnât let me ride my bike anywhere except in circles around our cul-de-sac, so I couldnât resist the urgeâit felt like a necessity, reallyâto put down the windows of my Dodge Magnum and cruise the highway to somewhere else, anywhere else, usually with one or two friends with me. Thatâs how I ended up spending a lot of my free weekends as a freshman. When we didnât have a game or practice, you could often find me in Austin (I spent a lot of time on Sixth Street) or Dallas, partying at the clubs. It didnât matter that both cities are about a two-hundred-mile round trip from Waco. Even during the week, I would go out around campus.
Looking back now, I realize I was rebelling against my dad, doing everything opposite of how he would want. Whenever he visited me in Waco, one of the first things he would do is check the miles on the Dodge. He would lean into the front seat and write down the odometer number on some small piece of paper he carried around in his wallet, then compare the new number with the one above it, from his previous visit. Sometimes between visits, he would call me and ask, âHow many miles are on the car?â And I would have to walk out to the parking garage and check the odometer. If the number was higher than he expected, he would say, âYou drove five hundred miles in a few days?â I would try to give him a lower number, just to avoid the conversation, but it was hard to know how many miles had been on the car the last time he checked. And I wasnât about to start keeping track of it myself. That would just make me paranoid like him.
One time on my way into Austin, I accidentally went through a toll without paying, and my dad received a notice in the mail. He called me and asked where I had been that weekend. I told him I hung out with my teammate Shanay. She was from the Austin area, but I clearly made it sound like we had spent the weekend in Waco. He pounced on me right away. âI know youâre lying,â he said. âYou were in Austin. I got a notice about the toll.â I tried to talk my way out of it by saying I meant all along that we were in Austin, and that he just hadnât heard me right. But he was annoyed I lied, and I was annoyed he was still trying to monitor my whereabouts, using the only weapon at his disposal: the odometer on the Dodge Magnum.
Another time I went down to Galveston with some friends, for the gay pride parade, because I had never been to a pride event before. I went home to Houston, parked the Dodge at the house of a good friend from high school, then rode with some other folks. My dad called while we were walking along the beach. He knew I had come to HoustonâI wasnât sneaking aroundâso when he called and asked what I was doing, I told him the truth, that I had gone down to Galveston for the pride festivities. Well, apparently that was the wrong answer, too, because he started in on me again. He said, âWhere the hell is my car?â And when I told him where I had left it, he just got madder. âWhat if I needed to service
Of course, basketball came first. Everything I did revolved around my obligations to the team, our practice schedule, our games. At the time, though, I wasnât taking into account how important it was to rest and recharge whenever I could. I was nineteen years old, and in a new place where I could flop into bed after a long night, pull myself up a few hours later, go to classes, and still have a strong practice. I had been raised by a man who wouldnât let me ride my bike anywhere except in circles around our cul-de-sac, so I couldnât resist the urgeâit felt like a necessity, reallyâto put down the windows of my Dodge Magnum and cruise the highway to somewhere else, anywhere else, usually with one or two friends with me. Thatâs how I ended up spending a lot of my free weekends as a freshman. When we didnât have a game or practice, you could often find me in Austin (I spent a lot of time on Sixth Street) or Dallas, partying at the clubs. It didnât matter that both cities are about a two-hundred-mile round trip from Waco. Even during the week, I would go out around campus.
Looking back now, I realize I was rebelling against my dad, doing everything opposite of how he would want. Whenever he visited me in Waco, one of the first things he would do is check the miles on the Dodge. He would lean into the front seat and write down the odometer number on some small piece of paper he carried around in his wallet, then compare the new number with the one above it, from his previous visit. Sometimes between visits, he would call me and ask, âHow many miles are on the car?â And I would have to walk out to the parking garage and check the odometer. If the number was higher than he expected, he would say, âYou drove five hundred miles in a few days?â I would try to give him a lower number, just to avoid the conversation, but it was hard to know how many miles had been on the car the last time he checked. And I wasnât about to start keeping track of it myself. That would just make me paranoid like him.
One time on my way into Austin, I accidentally went through a toll without paying, and my dad received a notice in the mail. He called me and asked where I had been that weekend. I told him I hung out with my teammate Shanay. She was from the Austin area, but I clearly made it sound like we had spent the weekend in Waco. He pounced on me right away. âI know youâre lying,â he said. âYou were in Austin. I got a notice about the toll.â I tried to talk my way out of it by saying I meant all along that we were in Austin, and that he just hadnât heard me right. But he was annoyed I lied, and I was annoyed he was still trying to monitor my whereabouts, using the only weapon at his disposal: the odometer on the Dodge Magnum.
Another time I went down to Galveston with some friends, for the gay pride parade, because I had never been to a pride event before. I went home to Houston, parked the Dodge at the house of a good friend from high school, then rode with some other folks. My dad called while we were walking along the beach. He knew I had come to HoustonâI wasnât sneaking aroundâso when he called and asked what I was doing, I told him the truth, that I had gone down to Galveston for the pride festivities. Well, apparently that was the wrong answer, too, because he started in on me again. He said, âWhere the hell is my car?â And when I told him where I had left it, he just got madder. âWhat if I needed to service
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