Mike's a pretty independent guy. He doesn't much care what everybody else thinks: he's going to wear the clothes he wants to wear, dye his fucking hair, pose in a girly magazine. Well, he doesn't care to the extent that anyone really can. Of course, he worries about how he looks, if people like him. It's just not as consuming as it could be. Too often, too many kids get sucked into the hype. The industry starts spitting out carbon copies of guys with manicured nails, collared shirt, designer jeans, bed head hair--open any magazine to find a guy like that. Mike could be the poster boy for all that crap, but he also genuinely likes it. I've never seen a guy so into his own hair. Well, that wasn't flamingly, openly gay.

Anyway, I see too many other kids doing all this stupid crap to impress somebody else and complaining the whole time. Mike likes his loofahs and his face creams and stupid hair junk, and he's willing to take a lot of flak for it, because he does like it. He's not doing it for anybody else.

So I guess it's kinda surprising for a guy who is that indifferent, that independent, a kid who kinda took it upon himself to grow up, to have had people take care of him his entire life. I know what I said before--he's a mature little fucker. Observent, respectful, learning things on his own, surrogate-mother never having to tell him when to wash up for dinner. He liked that independence, that freedom to discover things for himself, and also, I think the situation just presented itself--he had to learn or sink. But it's not as if he just said "fuck off" and went off on his own. For all his independence, he's always wanted, always needed a safety net. First his mom, then his host mom, then his agent, his surrogate mom/dog walker/maid, Kerry, then his business manager. Throw in some coaches and older vets and the kid's never had to venture into anything alone.

He's done a lot of things by himself, but he's always surrounded himself with people who at least gave the appearance of guiding his hand, taking care of him.

Mike said it himself--his agent showed up for his contract, and after, he didn't see him again for another five years. So why was he still around? And his surrogate mom? Did Mike really need her around to make him ice cream sundaes? I know, I thought he was fucking her too, but she really just walked the dogs and made him dessert.

I think, though, that there was a difference between the people who loved him and the people he paid. I mean, obviously, but... It may have been all a guise, his host mom playing mother, Kerry clucking over his on-ice problems, becaue he never really needed it, but at least it was fucking real. It came from the right place. I think about the last few years, what happened, his father's comment on Mike's new cynicism and...

Look, it fucking sucks when people swindle you. But goddammit, how do you not see it coming? How does it keep happening to you time and time again? When will you finally fucking recognize that you're a fucking millionaire and people like money?

And there I go again. It’s so hard not to blame someone. This situation can’t be faultless, blameless. A little goes around to everyone or none goes around at all, I suppose.

It’s strange. The things money makes possible. It can open most any door. Get you a house built in a week. Buy you a warm place to put it. Changes people—the way you look at them, the way they look at you. Something as simple as that, and more.

It’s a powerful thing and nobody ever likes to think they’re that easily swayed by the woo of money. I’d never change. It’ll never change me. I’m still the same person.

It’s laughable, really. How could something that powerful not change you? It’s not always a horrible thing either. It just is. Change is what it is; I don’t see why people should apologize when money changes them. It’s bound to happen: time, an earthquake, ice on the sidewalk…money’s the least of things that can change people. It’s not Jeckyl and Hyde; it’s more subtle than that.

Mike's slide was subtle too, which is maybe why nobody noticed it. I can't get mad at his mom for not noticing. No more really than I can get mad at myself. Looking back, it's easy to see the signs, it's easy to criticize. But when you're there, when you're in the moment, when you want nothing more than your friend to get better, you'll see things that aren't there. You'll see him getting better. You'll brush off the signs, you'll ignore the things you know you shouldn't. When you want that much, it's easy.

I hate myself some times for choosing the easier road. For choosing to ignore the voice itching at the back of my head because I didn't want a confrontation, because I didn't want to believe that maybe my best friend wasn't okay.

I hate myself because I'm convinced that I saw all those signs and made a concerted effort to ignore them. That probably wasn't the case. I think too highly of myself. I make too much out of the fact that I was a psych major. I never finished college, you know. But, surely, his best friend should have seen it coming. Must have.

Only I didn't.

6

There I go again, blaming other people. But really, they deserve it.

I suppose it's not really anybody's fault. But that's so much harder to deal with. So what the fuck does that mean? It just fucking happened? It was ordained? Whoops, shit happens?

It was easy for everyone to blame Mike. A lot of his friends did--your fault, dude; can't you just shake yourself out of this funk?; SNAP THE FUCK OUT OF IT! I was one of those friends. That's the problem with situations like this. It's too easy to start delving out the blame.

I just wanted him to get over it. I just wanted him to stop taking things so seriously. I just wanted my fucking friend back. Instead, he retreated inside himself and I could blame him for just being so fucking stupid and stubborn, but it was just as easy to look at the people around him. How could you fuck him over, Bob? John, why did you do that? Why didn't you call him back, Bill? How could you break his fucking heart? How could all you just stand around and let this happen? Mom, how could you not see this coming?

Yeah, I call his mom that. It's natural after all these years.

Mike's always been a momma's boy. I don't mean that in the crude way kids in junior high school used to throw that around. He cares about his mother, and maybe PR has upped her role in his life (Hi, Mom's Corner!), but, really, it's just that she's family. He loves and trusts his mom, and his dad, and his sisters so completely. It's odd, to me, to never have had doubt, to never have hesistated. When I was young thing's used to be like that, all status quo, but when I got older, when the heavy weight that was Bobby Hull's son settled on my shoulders, it caught me by surprise, the questions that I had. Learning to love my father wholly had been just that. Mike, sometimes, takes for granted how implicit, how ingrained already, that was for him.

His parents could probably be his best friends if not for me. He knows them well, he knows his mother's a bit more fragile and maybe that's why he's so outwardly concerned about her.

When she had surgery on her heart, it fucking destroyed him. He was ten years old again, whispering, "I don't want to lose my mom," and I couldn't help but think that maybe he wouldn't have been as upset if it had happened years before. Not that when he was younger he didn't appreciate his mother; only that after that summer with the cup, his idea of the world had shrunk down to a handful of people. When your family's that fucking small, it's frightening to think it could become even smaller.

He took a minature elephant with him to the hospital. You know about the elephants, right?

Did you ever visit his house? Did you see his collection? He's got about 30 of these little figurines. Elephants, with their trunks lifted up for good luck. Not any of those really nice looking figurines you find in stores and give to your daughters. Nuh-uh. I'm talking about those garish ugly ones that your Aunt Fran with the blue hair has hanging out with her plastic fruit, or that you find at the flea market. Real ugly mother fuckers.

They're his prized possessions.

He collected a lot of things for his house: the wood across the ceiling is from an old barn in Italy, same as the tile--direct import, he's probably has little bits of chapels and villas interspersed into all the architecture. He's a complete idiot when it comes to his heritage. Renting The Godfather, drinking Italian wine, and eating spaghetti and meatballs because he's so fucking Italian.

I digress though, because all those paintings, all that furniture, he buys it, and it's everything that he wants to be, but he loves those fucking elephants.

He's collected them from all over the world. His world, though, has mostly consisted of Cabo, the US and Canada. Hasn't spent much time in Russia searching for elephants in the snow.

He used to leave them all over his house. One in every room, hidden behind a vase, on an end table, on top of the refrigerator. He wasn't a superstitious freak or anything. They were just there. The weird thing about those elephants was that they were everywhere Mike wasn't.

I slow down on winding, curvy roads when I spot a cross. It's not that they're markers of a particularly treacherous road, though they are, but I catch myself thinking about the kinds of people who were once there, once alive, and the try to figure out what they were like by the things left behind. A photograph sometimes, and usually flowers, and every now and then a baseball cap or a rosary or a teddy bear.

I think about the things in Mike's old house. Everything a reflection of the image he wants to project--just this huge vast space of Italian, cultured crap and a rug or pool table here or there just so everyone knows he's still a bachelor who can't decorate. And I think about those elephants: their presence conveying absence. Tiny little artifacts, and I'm a cuter Indiana Jones (but, sadly, without the fucking leather whip) trying to figure out why this ancient civilization left these ugly elephants behind. Little artifacts talking about what used to be there, what isn't now--who isn't now.

Stupid white and pink and, just, so mother fucking ugly, and everything about them screaming about what isn't there; markers of absence, and I'm pretty sure there's a word for all that awareness.

Loneliness.

5

It's funny because his game did get good. Carried us that second half of the season, and into the playoffs. I like to think that if things had ended differently, I'd still be in Dallas. I'd be there and Hitch would be gone and so would his backwards way of thinking and I'd probably already be in second place because I know Mo would constantly be feeding me pucks.

Granted, a lot of things would probably be different had I stayed.

I suppose it strange that I'm waxing poetic and talking about how great it would be in Dallas, yet I just turned them down and now I'm in Phoenix. But, I mean... that's now. Things would've been great had I stayed. But they're different now. Because I left.

You know, after Mike won his cup, he wept like a fucking baby. I had a big cheshire cat grin painted on my face for weeks, and he wept like a fucking baby. Lots of guys do, it's not a big thing. And Mike, well, he cries a lot. Cried after his 1000th point, cried after some kid stole his favorite toy and pushed him down. It's kinda hilarious because he's painted as this metrosexual. Because he cares about his appearance, he cares about relationships, he's not afraid to cry, and it's not a threat to his own personal masculinity. Kinda hilarious because nobody wants to just come right out and say, dude, you're gay.

You really aren't supposed to say that kind of thing to guys who are engaged to women. Which is probably why I say it to him all the fucking time. Like supposed tos ever stopped me.

Gay Gay Gay. Gay Gay, Gay Gay.

I guess I could have been flicking his ears or punching him or something stupid. Whatever, it always managed to crack a smile on his face when I'd bellow out GAY. Usually somewhere in the vicinity of his face. Like, three inch minimum.

We were able to joke about it for so long because it wasn't true, and everyone else was convinced it was. I think, sometimes, he did things just to make people scratch their heads and say, hey, wait a minute... The blond hair, the photo shoots, parading around wearing leather. But then, I know Mike and while he's big on the inside jokes, he doesn't do things just for show. And he really does like his blond highlights.

I used to tease him about what he'd cry about next. I called the Valentine's Day all-time-franchise-points-cry. The funny thing is, all the times he's cried, all the times people have seen him cry, it's because he's so fucking happy, so fucking proud, so fucking awed of what he's accomplished. It's not conceited to say something like that. Because it's true. You have to work extremely hard, be something real special to get as far as Mike's gotten. Those 16 games are the hardest you'll ever play, and you've got 82 in front of them that are just as important.

A lot of guys cry when they win it all. You're just so emotionally drained and you sit down and the next thing you know you've got all this stuff dripping down your face. And a whole lot of guys cry when they lose. It's not just about being a sore loser. It's about giving it all and that not being enough. There are few instances in anyone's life where they absolutely give it everything they have and it's not enough.

Those Calgary boys were crushed. JS had big huge tears running down his scruffy face. Sykora had to have his coach come out and tell the press to leave him alone.

But I've never seen Mike cry after a loss. Even after a big one. First one to start to strip, take a shower, but maybe that's moreso because he's one of the first people they want to interview. His voice soft and quiet and tired, but that's not very different from after any other game, and maybe his eyes are a little softer, but in the end it's just, "I guess we just didn't have it tonight," in his quiet, usual Mo way.

He's competetive and hates to lose, but he takes his dues, and in the end, it is just a game.

I think about the way he used to talk to other guys after games. We were pretty much a team of vets, but there'd always be that one kid that just needed to hear something, being his first gut wrenching loss and all. Guy, or Keaners, or maybe even Muller--good quality guys, and likely candidates. Leaders. Funny, too. Only they'd keep to themselves, and Mike, I'm not sure what he'd say, but he'd say it. Just a sentence or two, and that was always enough. I'm not sure--I wish I knew what he said. He never said much to me, never really had to. I was far more content with a look or a ride home. Strange how things get so quiet after a loss, and guys don't want to hang out or go out for a beer. That's intuitive, yeah, but it's shocking each time the way the silence hangs over everything, making it a little harder to breathe, leaving the room a little more melancholy. Everybody finds their own way home, except for the lucky ones that don't have to make that solitary journey.

I doubt he says much anymore. It's not that he's removed himself from the team, or even the same old same old about Mike being a leader by example (which is true, but not exactly right when it comes to describing the way Mike leads), or even that he doesn't care anymore. Or maybe that's what it is. I've often wondered if you can be friends without vendettas or loyalty. They seem pretty integral.

Mike, like most NHLers, was aware from the start that you don't make friends after you make it to the big leagues. Sure, your teammates become your best buds, maybe even your teammates will have a really hot daughter that you can date (poor, poor Guy), but for the most part, the people you knew when you were 16, sometimes even 18, those are your lifers. Those are your friends forever because they were your friends who knew you when. Who knew you when you were ugly, going through puberty, mother fucking stupid, poor, so not even close to being an NHL star. They're real in a way that people never are after you've made it.

They're your friends for life--they're your lifers, and everyone else is just an acquaintance. Only Mike didn't treat them like they were.

There are friends, the kind you're so fucking loyal to, you'll pass up fucking their daughter (Brendan, you owe me. Big). And there are friends you've fucking hated for like 15 years because they fucking stole your donut and then your date to the big dance, and then made fun of your ugly car and--okay, so you hate them, but for some reason they're still your friend. These are the friends that it's so easy to pay attention to. You love someone, you care about someone, you hate someone, you want to beat someone, and it's so easy to pay attention to them, to what they're saying, doing. It's easy to be with someone you care about.

I said that if you knew Mike, you really knew him, because he was honest and open. And the thing is, you didn't have to be a lifer to know him. Maybe he only knew you for a little while, or maybe he met you coincidentally two weeks after his big contract was talked about in the papers, but he was always completely present with you.

Ask one of his sisters if she's his favorite. Any of them. She'll respond with a resolute you betcha. Ask her how she knows and she'll reply, "Because he told me so."

He's got three fucking sisters and they're all his fucking favorite. And it's not that he's stupid and can't count, or doesn't understand what the word "favorite" means, or even that he was lying to them. Only that, when you were with him, you felt like you were the only one in the room, and he wasn't thinking of anything else--only you. And it was only you, and the 3 billion other people he met. It was never a matter of misleading people; simply, he made you feel special. He listened, intently.

A lot of people are quiet, but aren't necessarily listeners. They listen by default, because you won't shut the hell up. Mike, on the other hand, was genuinely interested. He actually listened; he was concerned about you.

So his friend count probably has a margin of error of about 30 points.

But... those vendettas, that loyalty, it sticks, man. It's past, it's emotion, it's love, it's why you're so fucking close, so intimate, and you're attached like superglue. Can't get rid of me no matter what. And I think about Mike, and the reason these friendships, acquaintanceships, whatever worked was because he listened. But what happens when he just stops listening? Where's the glue? How do you stick his ear to your mouth and force him to listen?

A lot of people are probably off put by that. The way he's just stopped listening. Asshole. Jerk. Doesn't give locker room captain speeches, doesn't take the rookies out for ice cream, doesn't say anything to anyone after they lose to New Jersey, Anaheim, go home without a post season.

It's probably easy to attribute it to the on-ice production problems. After all, they pushed his problems into the nice little Fiancee Ruining Game box years ago.

They assume it's some internal problem--he's self-absorbed, he's a dick, a primadonna; he's that fucker, Sykora, playing without heart during the 2002 playoffs, sitting in a cushy booth with a mild case of the sniffles.

You know, the press villified Petr for that. Strung him up, and let the fans shake their fingers at him, for not playing hurt or "giving it his all." Selfish. Pussy. Fag.

And it's funny because it's true. That fucker, Sykora, playing without heart because his heart's been traded 300 miles away.

You hear about these sorts of things when your GAY best GAY friend is on the same GAY team. (Yep, it's still funny--GAYGAYGAYGAYGAYGAY. I'm fiGAYve years old)

I wonder, though, if people realize that Mike's the way he is, because of what they've done to him.

4

People like to gloss over the next few months: Yeah, uh, so Mike got hurt and then he had a shitty season until he dumped his fiancee and then he was good again. They gloss over it because it's easy for them. It wasn't their life that was being turned upside down. People don't like to remember watching someone they idolize, care about, love struggle. And Mike fucking struggled those few months. And not just on the ice. Which is what, sometimes, most people--even me--forget.

I thought, if only he could get his game back together, his life would get good too.

It's stupid, I know, because anybody will tell you that if shit is going down off the ice, it's going to mess up your game on the ice. Hockey players like to think they've divied up their lives in such a way that off-ice stuff doesn't affect their play. Yeah, well, most hockey players aren't exactly college graduates. (Not that college grads are high on the common sense odometer, but I'm sure they can fake it better)

If your game is shit the first thing the coach is going to do (well, after he yells at you to stop being a lazy ass and lose ten pounds) is tell you that he doesn't give a flying fuck about what you do in your personal life, but when it messes up his game (yeah, as if that mother fucker was out on the ice or something) it becomes his problem, so buy some fucking roses, and apologize to the fucking wife/girlfriend, and fix this shit now.

Hockey players are predictable. It's always about some girl. Every now and then it'll be a family member, or we'll be putting too much pressure on ourselves, or we'll be thinking about getting traded. But most times it comes back to the girl. You fix that up right good and your game returns.

But Mike isn't a hockey player. He's Mike. So it wasn't about a girl. It's never been about a girl.

It'd be so much fucking easier if it was just about a girl. Girls are so easy. You buy them stuff and you "listen" to them, and everything is great.

But it wasn't like that for Mike.

I knew he was going through a rough spot, but I figured he'd deal with it. His game would return and everything would be okay.

I was his best friend, and I didn't do anything.

You know, they like to say that it isn't your fault. That you can't control another person. That their choices are just that: theirs. You can't be held responsible for what somebody else does.

Only, Mike didn't make a fucking choice. He didn't wake up and say, yeah, uhm, sure, okay!

But I chose not to do a fucking thing.

Maybe if I had talked to him. Maybe if I had visited him more often at Turtle Creek. Maybe if I had just done something.

These are the things I replay in my mind. Other guys think about the puck that clanked off the pipe, the man they should have cut off at the blue line, the cup clinching goal they should have saved.

I think about the things I could have done to save my best friend.

3.1

I could say that the hit was the beginning of it all. Really, I could choose any arbitrary date. It doesn't really matter. Mostly, I picked that event because I remember that night so vividly.

How could anyone forget the night their best friend died?

He hadn't, but I didn't know that at the time. When someone's head snaps back in the most awkward of ways, you generally don't think it'll still be attached later. He came within two centimeters of being paralyzed from the neck down. That's some scary ass shit.

I was convinced he was dead, and then never going to play hockey again, and it didn't help matters that they dropped the fucking stretcher while wheeling him out. But hours later when they finally let us see him, I'd been expecting the worse, and there he was sitting up and flirting with the nurses. Ridiculous mother fucker. He joked that night, but I knew he was scared. I knew it gave him pause.

He didn't reveal any of this to us that night, nor the press later. He could have reeled off some cliches, you know. Said that it wasn't a reflection of increased violence in the game. Said that the speed of the game had led to the incident. But he didn't. Quiet Mike Modano spoke up and said he'd leave the game. He said it was unacceptable, and people listened. It was the first year he was really being taken seriously. He had won a cup. He'd earned it. He wasn't soft; he'd been captain for a few weeks the season before, led his team to the cup. And people listened.

I talk a lot about the game. About how boring it is. How awful it is. How much I hate it. He's never been as flamboyant as me, but he's relayed a similar sentiment to the press over the last few years. I say it to improve the game. I say it to incite the wrath of owners and fans. I say it because it's fucking funny.

He says it because he believes it.

I love this game. Mike just happens to be good at it. I don't mean that he doesn't care about the game. He's competetive; he wants to win. And I know he'd miss it if he was forced to leave it. He's an athlete by nature; he always wants to play. But it's just a game, and he wants games to be fun.

I'd play this game no matter how awful it got. I'd suck the marrow from it's dying bones. I'd play pickup games to remind me of how it used to be, and then complain everytime I hit the ice. I'd stay in the hopes it'd get better. I'd stay in the hopes that one day I'd get to see the next Wayne Gretzky up close. See, it's more than a game to me. It's life, it's everything. It infiltrates my life. There's hardly a moment when I'm not a hockey player.

There's the difference between me and Mike. I'm a hockey player. The end. It's not so simple, not so easy for Mike to define. He tosses me a strange look whenever some new rookie recites those lines during some interview. He can't understand how they've figured it all out at 18. Or rather, how they've limited themselves already.

Male. Hockey player. Canadian. These are the things that define me. My identity. You ask most guys in the league to describe themselves and one of the first things they'll throw back at you besides their last name (like trained fucking seals, man, we bark out our last names) is their team: I'm a Detroit Red Wing.

Male/female. Californian/Wisconsinite. Gay/straight. Athlete/non-athlete. Is this really who we are? He reads science fiction novels where you can change your sex as easily as going to the dentist, and he asks me if I'd still be me if I was a woman. If I was straight. If I was American.

I shoot back that I have dual citizenship.

Maybe who we are is bigger than all that, he thinks.

I never have much to say on the topic, and he finds that odd. I don't think about these things. Because I know I'm a hockey player. I know I'm a man. I know I'm Brett Hull. I'm certain of these things. I'm content with checking boxes. I hate those fill-in-the-blank surveys. Who wants an endless array of choices? I'm a multiple choice man, myself.

I used to think that Mike did. That he wanted all those choices, enjoyed all that freedom, all that autonomy. That night changed my mind, though. (Oh, did he forget to mention his innocent faux pas? I figured nothing better was going to come along?) That night was huge. You could hear an audible gasp from the crowd. Razor's voice, breaking the bad news to the Dallas crowd: Mike was engaged.

3

Mike likes to shop. No, he really likes to shop. Like, if you thought Brodeur was a clotheshorse, or if you thought your wife liked to shop, then you'd obviously never met Mike. Bastard always makes fun of my clothes, but at least I don't spend all day in front of a mirror, and I wear a lot of ugly things, but I'd never wear a fucking purple turtleneck. Let alone be photographed wearing it.

He loves clothes, and he loves trying them on. It's fucking boring as hell, and yet, he'll spend forever doing it. He doesn't so much anymore, but after that summer... Trying on clothes all the fucking time. I mean, he could afford it with that contract of his, but I could also buy three thousand weevils, but you don't see me doing that. There was just something about trying on something new, slipping into a different persona, that he liked. Because he'd try on mother fucking anything. Purple turtleneck, case in point. That was sorta cool; the way he'd try most anything on, and wouldn't just reel back in disgust (like I would have--I mean, mother fucking turtleneck?) or judge something without trying it first, but still...

Sometimes you just have to say no. You've got to know your limits. But Mike always had trouble with that, especially after that summer. He knows himself well. I mean, I know myself well, but how well does anyone know themself? I don't mean like you're fucking crazy and you're keeping secrets from yourself, but I fought hard not to be my father's son. I wanted to be ME, desperately. I did a lot of things for the sole purpose of not being my father's son, but that wasn't really me. And it took me a while to find myself, to become comfortable with myself, and even longer to let myself be my father's son.

Mike spent a lot of time by himself. He went up to Canada, stayed with a different family, kept to himself. I know he fucking loves that family; they're like his own. He visits them, talks to them, likes to see the old neighborhood. But even if a host family is warm and welcoming, it's still foreign and not your own. (I don't think I'd ever send my kids away from me. Even if they wanted to go; I'd force them to stay at home and be miserable.) And then later, he went first, and he went to Minnesota. Next hot shot, and I'm sure that ostracized him. Veterans recognize a hot shot; they know he's just a kid, but they also know this kid could usurp their place. It's a strange interaction: simultaneously taking a kid under your wing, and also keeping him as far away and as uncomfortable as possible.

I'm sure Mike didn't do anything stupid. Never heralded himself as the next big thing. Never pissed off any of the vets. In fact, I bet they fucking loved him. Mike loves to listen. He loves to learn, to observe. Respectful little fucking kid who always does his homework. Probably had those vets preening. The thing is, if you're always listening, always observing, you aren't interacting. So he probably spent a lot of those first few years by himself.

I figured out who I was because I constantly had people challenging me. I was stubborn as fuck and had to prove them wrong. I was loud about becoming the person that I was, that I am. I always had to do the opposite of what was expected of me. Show up to training camp in shape? Fuck no, twelve pounds overweight. Dress up for a fancy occasion? Cowboy boots. And when people expected me to do something outlandish, I'd stun them by doing the correct, proper thing.

Mike's averse to confrontation. Quiet, intense listener who grew up, mostly by himself, learning from example. That's a bit of a task. To watch others, and choose the bits and pieces that you like, that you'd like to be. He's learned from fucking everyone he's met. Taken pieces of them. You've got to be awfully mature to do a thing like that. To grow up miles away from your parents and all that you know. To have the ability, the possibilty, the fucking opportunity to fuck everything up, and yet not. To have the foresight not to ruin everthing.

I would have, probably. I needed guidance. I needed somebody to yell at me. I needed people to drag me to practice. Trick me into trying out for a team. I'm grateful for those people in my life, because they've allowed me the life I lead now. One that I wouldn't trade for anything, I'm that fucking happy.

But that's because people knew I was a fuck up. People knew I'd goof around all day if they didn't keep me in line. Mike wasn't. His surrogate mom at Prince Albert didn't need to scold him, hold his hand, remind him to wash up before supper. So she didn't. I had limits set for me, and I was always pushing them. Constantly. But Mike didn't. He could do whatever, and it was up to him to know when to stop.

Which is maybe why he's still testing the waters, testing himself, seeing how far he can push himself. Trying to figure out who he is. Trying on clothes until he finds something that he likes, and not stopping (dedicated mother fucker) until he does.

That's what I'd like to think anyway. Because nobody likes to think about their best friend being so fucking lost he'd try on a purple fucking turtleneck for comfort.

2

If I had to choose someone to spend the rest of my life with, it would probably be Mike. We got on real well when we first met, and we've got on well since. He respects me and he gets me; he laughs at my jokes, and is the first one to call me out on something stupid I've done. He's not afraid of me. Not that people generally are, but most of the time they're at least in awe. I mean, fucking look at me.

But Mike wasn't. I could have been anyone. I just so happened to be the kind of guy he liked to hang out with. We golf. And talk on the phone. A lot. Seriously. I was probably the first person who spoke just as much as him, only didn't think it was queer. See, that's the thing. He's so fucking quiet, but he rambles on for hours. You'd never think that, just looking at him. Everyone knows I like to talk; they assume that just because Mike is quiet that he doesn't. He's just selective, that's all. Not necessarily with his words--he's no poet. Jesus fucking Christ, Brett, and fuck and uhh... this chick was like and uh, fuck, shit, man. But he doesn't say that stupid shit to just anybody. He's private.

Private. I hate that word. Because it makes it seem like he has something to hide. But he doesn't. He's the most open person I've ever met. He doesn't have time for bullshit, which is why he rides my ass all the time. My bullshit amuses him, and annoys him too. The thing is, if you know Mike, then you really know him. He doesn't hold back. Instant trust. Honesty. Those are some pretty scary words. Which is why he finds himself in these situations so often. People don't come across guys like Mike that often; it scares them. So it's easier to strike first, to take advantage of him. Because nobody wants to end up looking like the sucker. Because this guy can't really be like that, right? It's all just some elaborate trick, right?

He guards himself more each time, but it's his nature to fall victim again. He can't really help it. Though he tried. Tried real hard after that summer with the cup.

1

That summer was probably the best summer he ever had.

Fucking kid had the fucking time of his life.

And it was true.

For a moment he was free of everything. Free from responsiblity, from expectation... he'd won his fucking cup, and he spent the next two months celebrating. Summer, as is, is a melting time. Yesterdays melt into tomorrows; days melt into weeks; the whole thing runs into itself: tri-colored ice cream melting into a colorful puddle on the sidewalk.

(Did he mention his mom? No, not his Mom--his mom. The one who fixed him sundaes? Root beer floats? Walked his dogs? God damn always had his fridge stocked full of ice cream that he hardly ever ate? Yeah. That one.)

That summer melted hard and fast; a constant party, and he probably never slept. It was his moment. A time for reflection and debauchery. Like a good boy, he helped himself to two servings of trouble. Licked his plate clean the first time around, and didn't need to be prodded to go back a second time.

It's probably a good thing that the off season was so short--shortest it's ever been. He probably wouldn't have survived another month of fun.

And yet... maybe that wouldn't have been so bad. He could have drunk himself into a twelve step program. Gotten kidnapped or lost in Mexico. Drowned in a bathtub of champagne. Had a heart attack in the middle of a disgusting, sticky orgy. Gone out with a bang. Gone out, delirious and confused, drugged and happy. That would have been something.

That would have been something, that would have made the last five years more bearable, perhaps. And this story, really, is all about me. Not him. Because it fucking sucked to watch him, watch him stumble and fall, cave into himself.

Fucking asshole never thinks about me. Drugs, booze, sex: a series of addictions would have been easier to handle. Instead, he made my life hell.

Got engaged, bought a house, and that was the end of him. Ended his summer in the worst possible way by tying himself down. Maybe it was the high from the summer, maybe he was fucking stupid and needed to fuck his life up a little, maybe he thought he needed a wife to place inside the new house he was building. Maybe, just maybe, he was so fucking happy he was stupid enough to believe he could bottle up that summer, stow it away and keep it, keep it safe and away from prying eyes.

Fucking idiot.

You can't fault a kid for running face first into a sliding door. Oh boy, you can fucking laugh, that's right, but it hurts when it's your kid. Beyond the embarrassing cringe, beyond acknowledging this dumb ass kid is probably a reflection of you, it hurts when he holds his head, his eyes dazed, maybe starts to cry and when you reach out he screams at you to leave him alone. Hurts when afterwards he just sits there, rubbing his head. Hurts more when he doesn't even reach for the door, doesn't even try to fucking run through the glass panes again like an idiot. Just sits there, complacent, head full of hurt.

And it wasn't your fault, but it feels like it. I'm god damn lucky none of my kids are stupid enough to run into god damn doors. My genius genes prevented that. Mike's parents, though, weren't so lucky.