Identical (52 page)

Sean Terrence O’Connell

Buff

Don’t like that word.

Not tough enough to describe

a weight-sculpted body.

“Built”

is better. Like a builder

frames a house,

constructing its skeleton

two-by-four

by

two-by-four, a real

athlete shapes himself

muscle group by muscle

group, ignoring the

pain.

Focused completely on

the gain. It can’t happen

overnight. It takes hours

every single day

and

no one can force you to

do it. Becoming the best

takes a shitload of inborn

drive.

Drive

That’s what it takes to reach

the top, and that is where

I’ve set my sights. Second

best means you lose. Period.

I will be the best damn first

baseman
ever
in the league.

My dad was a total baseball

freak (weird, considering

he coached football), and

when I was a kid, he went

on and on about McGwire

being the first base king.

I grew up wanting to be

first base royalty. T-ball,

then years of Little League,

gave me the skills I need.

But earning that crown

demands more than skill.

What it requires are arms

like Mark McGwire’s.

I Play Football, Too

Kind of a tribute to Dad.

But, while I’m an okay

safety, my real talent

is at the bat. I’ll use

it to get into Stanford.

The school’s got a great

program. But even if

it didn’t, it would be

at the top of my university

wish list because Cara will

go there, I’m sure. She says

it isn’t a lock, but that’s bull.

Her parents are both alumni,

and her father has plenty of

pull. Money. And connections.

Uncle Jeff has connections, too,

and there will be Stanford

scouts at some random (or

maybe not so) game. I have

to play brilliantly every time.

Andre Marcus Kane III

Bomb

Give most girls a way

to describe me, that’s what

they’d say—that Andre

Marcus Kane the third is

bomb.

I struggle daily to maintain

the pretense. Why must it be

expected—no, demanded—of

me

to surpass my ancestors’

achievements? Why

can’t I just be a regular

seventeen-year-old, trying to

make

sense of life? But my path

has been preordained,

without anyone even asking

me

what I want. Nobody seems

to care that with every push

to live up to their expectations,

my own dreams

vaporize.

Don’t Get Me Wrong

I do understand my parents wanting only

the best for me.

Am one hundred percent tuned to the concept

that life is a hell of a lot more enjoyable

fun with a fast-

flowing stream of money carrying you

along. I like driving a pricey car, wearing

clothes that feel

like they want to be next to my skin.

I love not having to be a living, breathing

stereotype because

of my color. Anytime I happen to think

about it, I am grateful to my grandparents

for their vision.

Grateful to my mom for her smarts,

to my father for his bald ambition,

and, yes, greed.

Not to mention unreal intuition.

My Grandfather

Andre Marcus Kane Sr. embraced

the color of his skin,

refused to let it straitjacket

him. He grew up in the urban

California nightmare

called Oakland, with its rutted

asphalt and crumbling cement

and frozen dreams,

all within sight of hillside mansions.

I’d look up at those houses,
he told

me more than once,

and think to myself, no reason why

that can’t be me, living up there.

No reason at all,

except getting sucked down into

the swamp.
Meaning welfare or the drug

trade or even the cliché

idea that sports were the only way out.