Long Shot by Mike Piazza, Lonnie Wheeler Read Free Book Online Page B

being accepted by a ninth grader! Baseball had never done that for me.
    Shortly thereafter, I heard an AC/DC interview on the radio and taped it, along with some songs (“T.N.T.,” “Highway to Hell,” and a few others), on a little cassette tape recorder. There was no turning back. I must have had a hundred heavy-metal cassettes by the time I was in high school. I’d found the music that suited my personality—brought out my aggressive side. On the way to a game, I’d blast AC/DC, Iron Maiden, Metallica, Slayer, and Twisted Sister, among others, and it would send me into a frenzy.
    A guy I played baseball with was one of the people who stoked my interest in heavy metal. Tony Roberts could really pick it—the baseball and guitar, both. (His sister, Kari, was on our varsity golf team and always played with a plug of Red Man in her mouth.) Tony later performed in a band with Peter Criss—the drummer for Kiss—which was ironic, because I was such a fan that I once had a friend paint my face like Peter Criss’s. We used my mom’s makeup.
    Besides Tony, there were a few kids at school who, during lunchtime, would join me at the black-T-shirt table and discuss Black Sabbath. A hippie girl on my block had an electric guitar, and I’d go over there and fool with it. (Maybe it’s just an excuse, but I think my hands were too big for the guitar.) Then there was Uncle Joe, my mom’s younger brother. He lived with my grandma, had a nice stereo with big speakers, and loved his rock ’n’ roll. Uncle Joe was a Led Zeppelin guy. Also Boston. The Steve Miller Band. He’d stick in “Rockin’ Me,” put a funky hat on my head, and I’d play along with a tennis racquet in front of the mirror.
    I was all-in with the music but wouldn’t describe myself as a Hessian metalhead, per se; more like a combo metalhead/jock, with a tendency toward cut-rate bling. Before rap even came along, I was throwing so many gold chains around my neck that the kids in high school called me Mr. T. There’s actually a picture of me in the yearbook where I’ve got the poofy hair and I’m wearing a concert T-shirt and a pile of chains. And I didn’t stop there. From day to day, I’d put on an Italian horn, a crucifix, my dad’s dog tag, anything shiny. Strange as it sounds, I was kind of taking after myfather in that respect. He was usually sporting a gold chain and a pinky ring, for starters.
    I guess my mom was softened by the fact that I shared my dad’s look and her brother’s interest. Somewhat surprisingly, she allowed me to take the train from Devon through Philly to the Spectrum to see all those eighties groups: Judas Priest, Ratt, Dio, Kiss, Twisted Sister, Bon Jovi. That was both my release and my social life. I rejected a lot of the traditional social protocols at the time—wasn’t a prom and homecoming kind of guy, and definitely wasn’t into the high school hierarchy. On the other hand, I didn’t push the envelope, either. We partied in the Spectrum parking lot and I drank a few beers here and there, but I honestly never felt the need to smoke pot or get involved with any experimental drugs. One time at a Kiss concert, somebody passed me a joint and I took a drag. That was it. I’d been infused with a certain code of conduct, I suppose, that kept me from going too far.
    For one thing, Dad was always preaching about moderation. He was furious when I came home drunk one night. But I’d have to say that it was mostly my mom’s influence that kept me from crossing the line. She was the one who carted five boys to church every Sunday and set the example by practicing her Catholicism on a daily basis.
    It was something of a dichotomy for me, growing up as a dyed-in-the-wool Catholic and loving heavy metal like I did. Some of the more controversial bands, like Iron Maiden and Slayer—I’d guess that I’ve been to nearly a dozen Slayer concerts—were called out by Christian groups, and that wasn’t lost on me. But my purpose