In the 6th grade, I somehow know a few kids from little league baseball. Our Elementary schools have merged and on day one, I meet someone who introduces me to the rest of the class.
I get home and my dad tells me that my Uncle John is coming over for a haircut, but before he arrives, he'll cut mine first.
I love these nights.
There's going to be hot wings and hockey, two of my favorite things, I think.
I sit down in the barber chair and the cape is pulled over me. Once my dad is finished, he lets me know, and I head to the bathroom to check it out.
Suddenly, I see it the change, “it's hideous." I yell out.
My father apologetically shuts down. His father died when he was 9 years old, and here I was at age 11, yelling about a kind gesture he did.
Puberty was beginning to strike and I was going from this shy kid to someone that would hit his growth spurt first in his class.
Like it happened overnight, the momentum would be a blessing and a curse. It took me to levels of high intensity and fighting became a form of life.