Rebellious
By the time I talked to anyone (other than Jerri) again, I’d been locked up in the house for the better part of three days. I’d only left twice to run. Although I was sort of out of shape because I hadn’t worked out in January, I ran really hard and right into the middle of town, and I ran into the street when cars were coming, which is bad. I flipped off an old man who honked at me at an intersection. (I’m sure he knew who I am too—little Bluffton.)
I was pissed.
Here’s the shit:
After my announcement, Wisconsin fans caught fire. Journalists were on fire. Bloggers and Facebook members—all on fire. They were totally united in their hatred of me. They called me traitor and classless and an asshole and a bad citizen and selfish and lots of four-letter words I don’t care to repeat. Jerri screamed because we got calls every five minutes, all day, all night—people breathing, hanging up, or shouting profanity. We could see their damn numbers. These people weren’t even anonymous.
Worst thing I saw? Some asswipe kids from Appleton in front of their ranch house rapping in a video called “Homo Reinstein” where they rhymed “Reinstein” with “Vi Queen” (I think in reference to the Minnesota Vikings) and replayed over and over me picking up and putting down the Badger hat, eventually putting on some kind of red filter like there was blood covering me. They acted all gangster or whatever. I could take you. I could wipe that driveway up with your stupid faces.
People left comments cheering them on.
I read Facebook again and again. I watched the tweets pile on me. I watched the “rap” video again and again.
Why?
I guess I was happy to be pissed (instead of depressed). I thought I understood Dad’s poem. I wanted to be fearless, like a Wallenda who worked without a safety net. I’ll break the mold. Being pissed gave me the courage of my fake convictions (that all Wisconsin people were assholes). It felt so much better to be pissed than incapacitated. I felt like I had a reason, a mission. Show them you don’t care if they live or die.
The more shit I got, the less sorry I felt for picking up the Wisconsin hat. These people wanted me to crumble on the damn floor because I’d made a mistake? (I convinced myself it was a mistake.) I’d rather set fire to the whole damn Dairy State than crumble on the floor. I don’t back down. I’d pick up the Wisconsin hat again, idiots. I backed down when I was a squirrel nut, bullied kid. Not now. No more.
***
On Friday, I wanted to talk about it. (Jerri didn’t want to talk about it.) I called Gus to bitch at him about Wisconsin football fans.
“It’s just a damn game,” I said. “I’m the one who plays the game. What’s wrong with all these people? They’re pissed at me? They should go play their own game.”
“Mob mentality, man. They like being on a team, and if you mess with their team, they want to kill you. People are brutal,” Gus said.
“It’s not their team. They watch the freaking Badgers on TV. Idiots should die,” I said.
“Uh…You okay?” Gus asked.
“I’m mad, man!”
“Okay.”
“Stupid!”
“Um…” Gus was quiet for a second. “Okay. My parents are going to Milwaukee for an art show tomorrow,” Gus said. “How about you come over and we have some beer? We’ll put down a six-pack, man. Relax and reflect. I’ve got some big news.”
I didn’t even think for a second about the alcohol policy at school or the track season or anything (or about “big news” for that matter). “That’s what I’m talking about,” I said.
“Cool,” Gus said.
“I’ll break the mold.”
“What?” Gus asked.
“I will toast the fire that consumes Wisconsin.”
Gus paused. “Dude, calm down.”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“I have to call Maddie so she can get beer,” Gus said.
“Have you heard of the Flying Wallendas?” I asked.
Gus was already gone, calling Maddie. She baby-sits for her older brothers and sisters. They give her beer and wine and everything else as long as she keeps baby-sitting for them.
My anger kept me from thinking about Pig Boy for a couple days. He’d sent me that weird email about who killed Curtis. He sent me other emails, which I didn’t open. I forgot about him and roasted my nuts on an open fire instead.
After talking to Gus, I ran the hill on the main road for an hour. It was a killer workout, but I had to do it.
My plan: Explode all over Wisconsin during track season. Defeat Roy Ngelale (a Wisconsin recruit). I would destroy the rest of their sons in the long jump pit.
Nice plan.
Except something drenched the anger. Drunk.