Pain Don't Hurt (3 page)

He stood up completely straight, towering over me, his head pitched at an odd angle. His neck was fused in one position after sustaining a serious injury in World War II. He could hardly turn it at all, so instead he would shift his entire torso in the direction he was looking, making him look like some sort of dinosaur. He grabbed my wrists inside of one of those giant hands and I could hear the jangle of his belt. I had no idea what he was doing.

“Tomorrow, we are taking you to a gym and you'll learn how to do this the right way, since you are obviously too stupid to learn it here. You'll learn it, one way or another.”

I was on my tiptoes, my arms yanked completely over my head, my shirt having crawled up to expose a patch of skin right above the top of my pants. I had forgotten how to breathe, and the fear I felt made me go completely limp. I wasn't fighting him, and he just got angrier and angrier. . . . The skin exposed to air bristled with goose bumps. It was hot enough to fry an egg in that room, but sheer terror was confusing my body to the point of making my hair stand on end.

“Look at you, you aren't even trying to fight. You just let things happen. You'll learn one day, or the entire world is just going to walk all over you. . . . You'll learn.”

There was a quick “ssssssssp” sound as the wide leather belt slipped from inside his belt loops. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. The only sentence that ran through my head over and over again was “Don't cry don't cry don't cry.” My face was frozen. He spun me around to face the opposing wall; his dresser was there, and one of his collections of watches sat on top of it. He loved collecting them, used to say, “A man isn't properly dressed without a nice timepiece,” despite the fact that he never wore any of them. I used to love sneaking into his room when he was gone to hold some of the pocket watches from his dad in my hands, feel the cool, smooth metal and read the inscriptions, some of which were so old they had mostly rubbed off. I tried now to remember what some of them said. . . . I tried to focus on remembering. . . . Something I could just repeat in my head to get me away from this moment . . .

“You'll learn one way or another. If you keep doing it this way, you'll always learn the hard way. My way or the highway.”

The belt whizzed through the air and landed right across that exposed patch of flesh. I felt lightning run through me and the room flashed bright white. The pain was brilliantly surprising. I prayed my mother would come in, would hear it and save me, though I knew she wouldn't. I prayed that Colin would come in, rise up, and tear my father off of me, but I knew he wouldn't. I prayed for the neighbor to see what was happening and to come rushing in, shouting and shaming my father into tears. I prayed for him to understand that what he was doing was wrong. The belt came zipping at me again and cut into my skin. I disconnected; it felt like I was floating. I remembered one inscription and began singing it in my head. . . . “Time waits for no man,” spelling the words out slowly, giving my mind a place, a pattern, to hide in. . . .

The belt continued to land across my back and behind, until finally, he released my wrists and I dropped to the floor. He carried me to my room. I remember feeling idiotically happy I was being held so close. He laid me down on my bed and told me to take a nap. I was not going to go to sleep, but I closed my eyes anyway. My back was stinging, and my blood sugar started dropping. He brought me a glass of juice. I sipped at it and pretended to be sleepy. He walked out, saying, “Tomorrow we are going to the boxing gym and you'll learn how to really fight,” closing the door behind him carefully.

Moments later I heard his car start in the driveway. He was going to the bar. Twice in one day. Not that uncommon. My mother was downstairs, likely cleaning something she had already cleaned several times in the last hour. My brother was out with his friends, getting into some sort of trouble. I sat up, finished my juice, and walked to the mirror in my room. I started trying to stand the way I remembered seeing the boxers on TV stand. I tried to imitate them and threw a few punches. I made the meanest faces I could muster, twisting my mouth into a grimace, growling and cursing, using every foul word I had ever heard uttered. My shirt was sticking to my back, so I knew I had been cut. I demeaned myself in my head for noticing and shouted, “Toughen up!” I would disappear into fantasy worlds often as a kid, where I would create athletes in my head, complete with stats and strengths, all fleshed out in my mind. I would pretend that I knew them. . . . Or that I was one of them . . .

I stood throwing punches until my shoulders ached and I was exhausted. I then went into the bathroom and washed up, cleaning my own back with a wet rag, marveling at the crumbs of dried blood that came away with every swipe of the wet cloth. I changed my shirt and buried it in the hamper. My mother must have seen it, though she never said anything. My father came home later and we had dinner. He talked calmly about how he planned to take me to a boxing gym the next day, and I smiled back at him, thinking that one day I would know how to fight, and I would soon be stronger than him.

He made good on that promise. The next day I was dumped into the center of the dingiest brick building in Wilkinsburg, on the outskirts of Pittsburgh. The heavy bags were gray, duct-taped in spots, and lumpy. The ring had flakes of dried blood in it and giant dents in the floor, so men circling would occasionally trip or falter, cursing and stomping the ground like animals as they chomped on their mouth guards. For the first time I smelled what a real fight gym smells like. That mix of dirty, wet hand wraps; a musty mildew smell; the inside of gloves—a leather and sweat mix, body heat, and the sweet smell of Vaseline, which boxers use to prevent cuts in sparring. All of those smells converged in that thick blanket of steam that just blended together into one now thoroughly recognizable and familiar perfume. I was the only white face in the room other than my father, and I was by far the youngest. Every single person took a minute to sort of bemusedly gawk at me as I walked in, glanced at my towering father, and then went back to what he was doing. I was handed a small pair of gloves and a tall, onyx man sheathed in sweat sat next to me and said through few teeth, “Okay, we gonna wrap ya hands now, kid.” I stuck one hand out and he began wrapping a thin layer of gauze around my knuckles, grabbing single strings of tape dangling from the edge of his shirt to secure the gauze as he wrapped. My father had already left, scooted out the door to head to the bar the minute he knew someone was watching me. I was alone in that place, and yet, with this stranger, this wiry black man in a sleeveless T-shirt, bobbing his head to the soul music cranked in the gym, smiling through more gaps than ivory, and yanking my shoulders into place, I felt this surge of opportunity rise in me. “You like Motown, son? Yeah, you do, everybody like Motown.
Yeah!
” he shouted, grinning, and I couldn't help but smile back. I didn't even care that sweat was running into the cuts on my back. I didn't care that I knew absolutely nothing about the sport and now suddenly was being forced, once again, to throw punches, the very thing that had caught me a beating the day before. As the sweat began to build up on me once again, my shirt went transparent. This tall man glanced down as my shirt pulled up, exposing my raw back. He gently pulled the shirt down and said, “You got some of that rage in you, kid, you let that out, this is where you come to let that out.” I pounded as hard as I could straight into the center of the bag. I was learning the art of exorcism. These men around me, all of them, were working through something. They laughed loud, danced, made silly jokes, and threw punches at each other with a force I had only ever seen on TV, but what brought them here was something else, something deeper and individual. I recognized this; we were all broken pieces of pottery here, and for the first time I believed I had a place in the world.

chapter two

If I have seen further than others it is by standing upon the shoulders of giants.

—
ISAAC NEWTON

F
rank, my God, put that enormous thing away or you are going to trip
Tony when he comes in here, and then we'll all catch an earful. I can hear it now: ‘Who let Frank unwrap his cock without hazard signs?' ”

Frank Wilson, number 37 for the Pittsburgh Steelers, a tight end who was a draft pick from Rice University, was in the locker rooms after training, sitting on the edge of a three-foot-tall stool, naked. His massive frame pitched forward as his elbows rested on his knees, he was using his towel to blot his face and shoulders. Frank sported great promise: he had incredible athleticism, good looks, and charm that only came with the Southern players. His physique was something that nine-year-old me used to be absolutely baffled by. Huge, muscled, not a bubble of fat. If repeat injuries hadn't been his curse, Frank could have been great. Frank was funny; he loved to laugh. Always making jokes. And Frank had the biggest cock I have ever seen, and will ever see, in my natural born life.

“Seriously, Frank, goddamn. What are you trying to prove? This guy, before he beds down a chick he probably has to call 911!”

Loren Toews, number 51, a scientifically minded genius from Berkeley who at this time was a linebacker for the Steelers, was visibly flinching at the image of Frank's penis dangling off the edge of that three-foot stool and brushing against the floor. The room erupted again into laughter as Frank gripped his enormous member and began swinging it around like a lasso. I was standing in the corner of the locker room, laughing hysterically. I owed moments like these, and many others I would share over the years with the Steelers, mostly to my godfather, Tony Parisi, a former professional hockey player who, when the Pittsburgh Hornets folded, retired and took a job as the equipment manager for the Pittsburgh Steelers. Tony and my father used to get together and talk sports, and “Moose” had decided that between the boxing lessons I received, I needed to be around more real men. Tony had then volunteered to take me on as a ball boy when I got old enough. It would later become my first real job at the age of fifteen, but the paycheck would be the only difference. Starting from when I was about four or five, I spent nearly every summer around these men, hanging in their dorm rooms, where they would read me stories; on the field, where sometimes I got lucky enough to have them teach me how to throw, catch, punt, or buttonhook; and inside these locker rooms, listening to their dirty jokes, watching them rib one another for various things, and doing any and every small odd job I could just to try to absorb more of whatever they seemed to have. I learned different things from each of them, attributes I wanted. Frank made me want to look better physically, and he made me wonder when puberty was going to hit. He also was about to smack a sixteen-year-old, awkward, redheaded Mike Rooney directly in the thigh with a penis so large they used to have to gauze it to his leg just so he could play football.

Mike came wandering in to start cleaning up, picking up the dirty clothes to run laundry, collecting cleats to start brushing them clean, any number of jobs we had as ball boys, when Frank smacked him directly on the leg. Mike Rooney jumped as though he had been hit by a Louisville slugger jammed full of rusty nails. Upon absorbing the full reality of what had just happened to him, and how many were there to witness it, Mike contorted his face and body up into some odd tribal-looking dry heave and shrieked like a four-year-old girl. The room thundered with laughter.

Frank pulled his towel up and smacked Mike on the back. “I'm sorry, little man, I'm so sorry,” he said, gripping the towel with one hand and wiping tears away with the other.

Mike, thrilled to be included in a joke with these men, even if he was the butt of it, grinned through a rashy-looking blush and began grabbing up piles of damp, sweaty clothes. He tossed a jersey at me, and the wet cloth of Jack Lambert's number 58 smacked me right in the chest. As I fumbled to keep it from hitting the ground again, Jack slapped a massive hand onto my shoulder and grinned a wide grin (his dentures in place, as he was off the field), saying, “Thanks, kid.”

Mel Blount, number 47, a kind-faced cornerback from Georgia whom I looked up to and who grew to be something of a distant uncle in my eyes, walked his jersey to me and placed it neatly in my hands, smiling, and thanked me. Jack Ham, number 59; “Mean” Joe Greene (who hated being called mean actually), number 75; and on and on . . . Titan after demigod stacked their “hero capes” into my hands. This was almost an everyday occurrence in the summers. One of my first summers with the Steelers, I had jokingly called Lynn Swann “Swannie” after hearing another player toss the nickname out. Lynn had gotten two inches from my then four-or-five-year-old face and growled at me, “Don't you ever,
ever
call me that.” I trembled until I felt an enormous arm cross over my chest and number 34, Andy Russell, a fearsome linebacker, leaned in to mirror Lynn's posture and snarled, “Back off,
Swannie,
he's just a kid.” I let myself softly close one hand around Andy's jersey hem, gently running the fabric between my thumb and forefinger, and felt vindicated when Lynn Swann stormed off. It was like having the Incredible Hulk standing behind me. I returned every summer after that even though I didn't start getting paid for helping out for another ten years.

I pushed the laundry to the washers in giant bins, where we would then separate all of it neatly. Jockstraps, T-shirts, and sanitary shorts went into small string bags to be washed separately. The players didn't always take their pads out of their practice pants (knee pads, quad pads) even though they were supposed to, so we would have to peel them out. Pants got washed separately. Jerseys were the third pile and got washed on their own. This was my favorite washer to load up as I could count out the numbers, and I knew every single player who went along with the numbers. From roughly 1980 to 1990, I was a part of this ritual.

The shoes were set aside, as all dirt collected in them would need to be brushed out carefully. The pads were stacked on top of the lockers (I used to think dirty pads were the foulest things in the world until I smelled dirty hand wraps getting repeatedly used). Mike and I pulled bits of tape off the players' uniforms and carefully cleaned every bit of them. We finished brushing field dirt from the shoes, and when the laundry was finished we folded, hung, and gathered up the complete uniforms and placed them in the players' lockers. On this particular day I made my way back to the players' dorms. I went to Mel's room, dodging wads of paper tape being lobbed at me by Jack, and wandered in. Donnie Shell, number 31, was leaning against the table. Mel shifted his feet up onto his bed and said, “Grab a seat, Mark.” I smoothed a bit of the bedspread out and sat down. Donnie and Mel were talking about music. So I sat and listened. After a while of hearing them rattle off names, I decided to chime in.

“Hey, do you guys like Jimi Hendrix?” I asked brightly. I was so sure I had just suggested a name that would win me accolades with these two men just because I knew it. I knew the name of a major black rock musician, and I was positive that they would be absolutely blown away. I was wrong.

Mel shifted to his side and raised his eyebrows at me quickly, his face a mixture of surprise and offense, as though he had just witnessed a person de-pants the queen of England. Donnie smiled and just started shaking his head, saying, “Oh no, Mel, oh, you gotta tell him, Mel.”

Mel patted my knee and said, “Son, we listen to
Motown
. You know Motown?”

I smiled. I knew it from the boxing gym. “I know Motown. They play it in my boxing gym.”

An expression I had never seen before passed over Mel's face. Mel was impressed. “Are you boxing on the side, Mark? That's a tough sport. Heck, that sport is too tough for me! You're a brave man, Mark!”

I went so hot all over with pride I felt like my skin might blister.

After a few minutes Mel reached over and slapped me on the back, saying, “Aw, kid, you are all right. The little Moose is all right.”

These were my summers. Between working with the players I would jam training in. I started Tang Soo Do when I turned ten. My first martial arts training. I would come to practice and some of the players would ask me how my “karate lessons” were going. I didn't even care that they got the name of the art wrong, I was just happy they were asking. Some would ask me to “show [them] some moves.” I would jokingly show a few things off and then resume work.

When I was around fifteen I was at the field after a training session with the Steelers, talking to the grounds crew, when a few men from the Chicago Cubs started coming onto the field for batting practice. Carmine from the grounds crew shouted out to Billy Williams, “Hey, Billy! You know this kid here, he's been playing ball since he was probably born! You should give him a lesson or two!”

Billy Williams, the batting coach for the Chicago Cubs, turned his head toward me and flashed a smile. “Is that right?”

I nodded a little too quickly. “Yessir. I've been playing since I was six years old!”

Billy looked around and motioned for me to come onto the field. I stood and started toward him, Billy's stats swimming in my head. I stepped backward to avoid Shawon Dunston, who was running laps. Andre Dawson stood a few feet away, a player who later that same year would be named National League MVP; his stats were ridiculous. I approached Billy and muttered, “Is that Andre Dawson? Oh my God, he had forty-nine home runs and a hundred and thirty-seven RBIs! He's one of the best!”

Billy grinned wide. “Oh yeah? You a fan? Well, hang on just a minute. . . .
Hey, Andre!
” Andre trotted over, and I froze. “Hey, Andre, this young man here is Mark Miller, and he is a big fan of yours. You want to stick around a minute? Seems that young Mr. Miller here is a baseball player himself, and I'm thinking maybe we could show him a thing or two about a thing or two. What do you say?”

Andre grinned, handed me a bat, and said, “You know how to hit, kid?”

I spent the afternoon in the middle of a lesson with Billy Williams and Andre Dawson coaching me. Hours went by. When they finally left the field I thanked them both, and Andre told me, “Keep that arm in good shape, kid, you got a real good arm. . . .”

All throughout high school I played football, basketball, and baseball. I wrestled (because I'm from Pennsylvania and you kind of have to) and I also ran cross-country. I also continued to box and study Tang Soo Do. Sometimes in the gym a few of the guys who were entrenched in the fight scene would play around with something new called kickboxing.

The summer of 1990 I was working with John Fox, who was the Steelers' defensive back coach. By this time I had gained my own reputation with some of the players. Over ten years of working with these guys, hearing their bullshit, taking their nonsense and giving it back, I had started being known as something other than “little Moose.” I was creeping out from under my father's backbreaking shadow with these guys. They knew me as a hard-assed seventeen-year-old, an athlete who favored combat sports. Most of them loved me for it. A few just weren't prepared to deal with a youngster who would “give back.” Greg Lloyd was a linebacker then. It crept around the field that Greg had started training in Tae Kwon Do and was telling everyone who would give him two seconds of ear how tough he was. One day in the locker room, Greg started in on me. I was around six feet one inch tall and maybe one hundred sixty pounds dripping wet. A beanpole, all angles and piss and vinegar. I turned and looked at Greg, and in my clearest, most overenunciated voice, the best impression of my father I could muster, I said, “Well, Greg, why don't you tell me where you train and I'll come there. I'll be happy to kick your ass any day of the week.”

The whole locker room went quiet for about thirty seconds before one by one the guys burst out laughing. Greg sputtered out a gym name and told me he was inviting me personally, trying to gloss over my underplayed venom with patronizing class. I tried to schedule with him multiple times and strangely, Greg was never available. Something about him creased me so hard, and I could never put my finger on it. He was a sideline bully, a tourist when it came to the actual art of kicking ass. He struck me as the guy who got off on pushing around people who he didn't think would fight back. I had a real problem with that sort of person.

I received a letter from the University of Pittsburgh asking me to come play baseball for them. I was offered a scholarship based on my athletic ability in baseball. They recruited me as a pitcher. My first semester was golden. But after just one semester my “good” arm was shot, and I had been pulled in another direction. By then I was training to fight full-time. I didn't want to be a professional baseball player. I didn't want to hear my father brag to his friends about how he had prepped me to become this. I wanted to be bigger than that, bigger than him. I didn't want teammates. I wanted the onus to fall directly on my shoulders as to whether I would succeed or fail every time I stepped up to compete. As a fighter, when competition time comes, all you have is yourself. Within one year I was kickboxing full-time.

In 2001 I heard somewhere that Greg Lloyd had shoved a gun into the mouth of his own young son because the kid, who was just twelve years old then, had apparently gotten bad grades. I was glad I had stepped to him once I heard that, even if he had been too much of a pussy to face me.