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You’ve read this far, so I may as well subject you to one last story while you’re still here. First of all, as you might have surmised, there is no Druskin Academy. At least, not that I know of. There is only Joe Druskin, my old jayvee football coach in Minnesota, who introduced me to Hüsker Dü and to Cyberball and who was kinder to me than I ever deserved at that age.
There is also no Sewell Hall. There is only Soule (pronounced sole) Hall, the dorm in which I resided when I went to a haughty dipshit prep school—one not-so-coincidentally similar to the haughty dipshit prep school depicted in this very book—back in the early 1990s. Why yes, that dorm DID have its own Shit Memoirs resting on the floor of the upstairs toilet. One time I cracked it open and was both honored and horrified to see that someone had made a list entitled, “Top Ten Things Drew Always Says.” One of those things was “The Saints are my dark horse team this year.” It was true. I did always say that, even though I’m not a Saints fan and even though this was back when they never won anything.
Anyway, the story. Back in April of 1992, Jerry Seinfeld hosted an episode of Saturday Night Live. This episode is probably best remembered for the immortal “Stand Up And Win” sketch where Adam Sandler answers, “Who are the ad wizards who came up with this one?!” for every clue. A couple of my dorm-mates attended that taping live at Studio 8H. When Seinfeld came out to do his monologue, they cried out “YEAH SOULE!” from the balcony. At least, it sounded like “YEAH SOULE!” to them and to those of us watching with elation back in the common room. To the rest of the audience watching in New York and at home, and to Jerry Seinfeld himself, it sounded very much like they were screaming ASSHOLE at him. Seinfeld pointed up to the balcony with a smile, gave an ironic “Thank you,” and then carried on. That part of his monologue was cut from subsequent reruns of that episode, but I swear it happened.
I was only able to write this book thanks to the formative years I spent living in that dorm, and to the friends I made at school while I was there. Those friends include but are not limited to Howard Spector, Jesse Johnston, Steve Martyak, James Fisher, Winthrop Short, Robin Mahapatra, Matt Breuer, Scott Mitchell, Joe Urban, Ameet Thakkar, Moses Sabina, Enrique Smith, John Crisostomo, Virginia Corpus, Sam Brooks, Matt Addesa, Izzy Lawal, Sid Brown, Xander Hargrave, Josh Panas, Josh Dapice, Ettrick Campbell, Brooke Killheffer, Vivek Masson, Chris Sandeman, Scott Iason, Grant Whitmer, Brook Katzen, Ashwin Mehta, Anna Hochstedler, Linda Jenkins, and many, many others. Hoo boy, that’s a big list. Frankly, it makes me sound WAY more popular than I actually was.
That list also includes the actual Paul Bamert, who has nothing in common with the Paul Bamert you just met in these pages, except that he’s a great dude AND that he enjoys Clemson footbaw. So thanks to the real Bamert for letting me swipe his name for this. I owe you an Edible Arrangement for your trouble.
This book hopscotches all over the world, so I’m also deeply grateful to all the family members, friends, and colleagues who gave me loose field reports from many of their travels beyond the horizon. Is it time for me to list off another bunch of names? Dear reader, it is. My eyes and ears around the globe included my wife, my parents, and my brother and sister, plus Megan Greenwell, Laura Wagner, Patrick Redford, Barry Petchesky, Giri Nathan, Libby Watson, Steve Czaban, Howard Spector, Erica Wishnow, and Spencer Hall. One day I hope to go to all of the places that these people have gone to. For now, they remain pleasant dreamscapes: out of reach but not despairingly so.
We’re not done here yet. This book is based on what is, charitably speaking, a scientifically implausible premise. I toil in a real world where hoverboards for sale don’t even hover. It’s total bullshit. Despite science’s miserly ways, I did rely on an actual physicist, Matt Bellis, to physicist this book and to give me a rudimentary course in quantum mechanics that IMMEDIATELY sailed over my head. You have Matt to thank for the idea of portclaps, portwinds, and other phenomena in this book that are not coming to your future but at least sound like they could be. Science is MAGIC.
There is some car shit in here and since I’m not a car guy, I wanna thank all the car people in my life—my in-laws, my brother-in-law Greg, and Patrick George—who chipped in to make sure that other car people wouldn’t throw their ratchets at me over the mechanics detailed herein. I’m sure I still got some things wrong but I swear I did the best I could. Your cover and interior design come courtesy of the fabulous Dennis Padua. I can write a zillion words but it’s the art that pumps fresh oxygen into everything, so thanks to Dennis for that.
While Anna Huff is NOT based on my 14-year-old daughter, both girls are avid divers. So thanks to my kid for giving me a vital lesson in diving technique when all I know how to do off the board is an underwhelming cannonball. Furthermore, no characters in this book are based on my two sons, which is for the best since no fictional character could ever do those boys justice.
I also need to thank everyone who gave me notes, in particular Kelsey McKinney, Jesse Johnston, and Mary Pender. Bonus feedback and inspiration came from Mari Uyehara, Tim Marchman, Tim Burke, my mother-in-law, Matt Ufford, Justin Halpern, Byrd Leavell, David Roth, Chris Gayomali, Lauren Theisen, Rob Harvilla, Luis Paez-Pumar, Rob Grabill, and many more. I was only able to write this book because Megan and Susie Banakarim gave me a sabbatical from Deadspin in 2018 to go finish it, so I thank them both for the time and also for so much more beyond that.
Finally, about my wife: I spent the majority of my time writing this book remembering what it was like to be a lovesick teenager. I was desperate for a girlfriend back then. That was all I ever wanted and all I ever thought about. And lo and behold, I found my wife. I love her and she loves me, and that remains impossibly fucking cool. We’ve been married seventeen years and have three kids. Our marriage is, itself, a teenager. That is also impossibly fucking cool. If I sound like every cornyass dad on Twitter when I say all that, so be it. I don’t mind corny things now. I never want to forget how lucky it is to be loved. It’s the fucking greatest. I may get old but being in love never will.
And to Byrd: Thanks for the lift.