Hugs From My Mom

Graland Country Day School.

Graland. Country. Day School.

I hated that place.

It’s pronounced GREY-lind and yeah it rhymes with GAY-lind but I won’t use that slur because it’s cheap and easy and also Graland was anything but gay. It was competitive and mean and conservative and boring and definitely not gay.

It was in my new city, Denver, not my old city, Philadelphia. It was full of nasty WASPS, not compassionate Quakers. It was 4th grade when shit got real, not 3rd grade when everything was still for fun.

And I hated it.

Graland covers two square blocks in a rich residential neighborhood in central Denver known as Hilltop from which there are unobstructed views of the snow-capped Rockies. The campus includes a manicured soccer field, a giant gymnasium, a lush, grassy quad, and glass-walled buildings with state-of-the-art science labs, soft carpet, and lots of white kids who play lacrosse and would never rape anyone.

One kid I really hated was a 9-year-old boy named Cameron Arnold who had beautiful, sandy blonde hair like River Phoenix. One time Cameron and I made a $1 bet and I won. The next day he laughed in my face as he gave me 100 pennies in a blue, finger-sized duffel bag. Another time he pushed me down really hard. I slammed my head on the edge of a locker and cried until my mom picked me up from school. I don't think Cameron liked Graland either because he killed himself when he was 12.

In the mornings before school as I waited at the front door for the carpool to pick me up, I would sit sadly on the floor, cross-legged, with my neon green JanSport backpack and our dog, Cleo. I cried while Cleo let me pet her and, through tears of anxiety, begged my mom to let me stay home. She would hug me and I'd wail, "I just wish I could be a dog!"

I hated 4th grade at Graland so much that I quickly convinced myself I was the most awesome kid there. I was from the East Coast. I was cosmopolitan. I'd lived in Israel for a year. I'd already had a girlfriend.

And when we moved to Colorado in 1985, I was sure that I already knew way more than everyone about everything. The Nuggets were good but I knew the Celtics were better because I’d watched them beat up on my beloved '76ers for years. In February of '86, the Celtics were in Denver to play the Nuggets and I bet all of my friends the Celtics would win. I also gave them a 15-point spread. I don’t remember much from my childhood but I remember Kevin McHale missing an easy lay-up before the buzzer with the Celtics up by 14. I cried when the game ended and, through tears of rage, begged my mom to give me $20 so I could pay off my debts. My friends laughed in my face the next day and though I knew the bet I'd made had been my mistake, I blamed them for it.

Whatever. At least I was the best athlete in 4th grade. Sure, that swarthy kid Michael Noel could run way faster than me and yeah that chubby kid Peter Zinn could maybe throw a football a little farther than me and yeah I guess that boy with the soft hair who all the girls liked Kevin Hannigan sometimes beat me in tetherball but I still told myself I was the top dog, especially when it came to tennis.

Graland had this weird thing where school let out at 12:30 every Friday. When the weather was decent, we'd walk away from Hilltop and its tree-lined streets, huge front yards, and three-story homes; across Colorado Blvd and its stop lights, Pontiac Firebirds, and billboard ads for upstanding gentlemen's clubs such as Shotgun Willie's; towards Cherry Creek and its apartment buildings, gas stations, and delicatessens; and into Gates Tennis Center and its stocked vending machines, cold water fountains, and 24 cheap, public, outdoor tennis courts.

Every time we walked into Gates, I felt I had something to prove. That tall kid Adam Wheeler had pretty good groundstrokes and that angry Jew Gary Goldberg was a hell of a competitor and that awkward ginger Justin Dobrow also took private lessons but, like I already said, I had to be the best at tennis.

No one could beat me. Well, no one deserved to beat me. My brother was good at tennis. My mom paid for private lessons. I played tournaments. I won tournaments. I could hit slice and topspin.

And I wanted it so bad. Maybe too bad. I needed to win at everything. H-O-R-S-E against my brothers. Monopoly against my parents. And definitely tennis against anyone and everyone. Urban legend has it that one time I was playing a tournament at swanky Cherry Chills Country Club in South Denver and started cursing and throwing my racquet in the middle of a match. My mom threw some change on the court and screamed, "Take the bus home!"

I don't remember that happening but I do remember what happened one fateful Friday afternoon at Gates Tennis Center.

I was losing. Or maybe it was close. Or maybe I'd already lost. And I was mad. Really mad.

The racquet I played with at the time was a Prince Precision Graphite, a $95 gift from my mom. For you tennis junkies out there, this racquet is not be confused with the OG Prince Graphite or the white Prince Precision Comp. It was grey with blue stripes and, dude, it was the coolest, most slick racquet I could have ever imagined. I felt superior just holding it in my hand.

And I treated it like absolute shit. I banged it on the ground. I tossed it in the air. I threw it at the fence. And on that fun-filled Friday, I destroyed it.

I have no idea who I was playing or what the score was but Adam was probably pissing me off with those loopy groundstrokes or Gary was being a crafty little Jew or Justin was refusing to miss but I lost a point and, as hard as I could, slammed my racquet on the ground.

And then I slammed it again.

And then I slammed it again.

And then I looked up and I was right next to one of those giant white light poles and, as hard as I could, I slammed that motherloving Prince Precision Graphite into it.

And it cracked.

I don’t know why I was so mad. Maybe it was because Cameron had bullied me. Maybe it was because I lost more than I won in tetherball. Maybe it was because I was a new kid in a new school, desperately trying to conquer a new environment and constantly failing.

Regardless, when I looked down and saw that crack, my first and only thought was: Oh my god, she's gonna kill me.

My mom. My sweet mom. My hug-giving, debt-paying, change-throwing mom. I was scared she was gonna be mad. I was scared I'd disappointed her. I was scared she'd never let me play tennis again.

Neither she nor I remembers what happened after that. I'm sure she was pissed and that I was humiliated. I'm sure she bought me a new racquet and that I got over my shame pretty quickly. I'm sure I continued to pretend I was the best and try to prove to everyone I was the best and freak out when I wasn't the best.

I thought I hated Graland but I was just an angry kid. I thought I was better than everyone in 4th grade but I was just an arrogant little prick. I thought winning was all I needed but I just needed hugs from my mom.