by Terry Crews
I was half standing, wanting to cover the image, turn the channel. She reached the TV first and snapped it off. We stood facing each other awkwardly. I knew I was in trouble. I was embarrassed, and I was scared she was going to flip.
She looked at me closely, as if she was trying to read my expression.
“Have you been …?”
I stared at her blankly. I was so naive I had no idea what she meant.
“I don’t know,” I said. I wasn’t lying. I really didn’t know.
“Have you been, you know, masturbating?” she said. “You have, because you’ve been looking at that stuff.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “I’ve never done that before.”
I was like: You can do that? Then I started doing it. And sneaking even more porn.
My new habit was also a part of my ongoing attempt to figure out what it meant to be a man. There was no conversation about anything in our household, certainly not the birds and the bees, and so I picked up what information I could wherever I could find it. I was constantly wondering: What does it take to be a man? When can I be called a man? Who’s going to say I’m a man? I became consumed by such questions, and I was on a quest to answer them for myself: Is it being able to beat somebody up? Is it being able to drive a car? Is it a first kiss? Is it having sex?
At the same time, my desire to be good became a quest to be so perfect that I could make up for the bad things I did in secret. I was the primo yes man. And I was soon obsessed with achieving perfection in all areas of my life. This meant working harder, working more, becoming fitter, improving my art ability. It wasn’t enough to paint a picture that my teacher and classmates admired. I had to paint the perfect picture. It wasn’t enough to be good at sports. I had to be the best player ever.
The neighborhood I grew up in became worse and worse over the years, and when we played football in the street, or in a park, a handful of grown men always sauntered over to get in on the game. Maybe they were just reliving their youth, but they felt it was their job to make us tough, and they did not mess around.
I took my position, ready to get moving as soon as the play started. A big, grizzled man in his late twenties or early thirties, his arms roped with muscle, hunched down across from me, staring me down, psyching me out.
“Hey,” he said. “You ain’t gonna do nothin’ in here.”
As soon as the action was under way, he lunged toward me. I knew better than to show any fear. I ran at him just as hard as he was coming at me. With a whack that reverberated throughout my core, he smacked me down to the uneven asphalt. I lay with gravel poking into the back of my head, trying to catch my breath. In an instant I was up. If I showed any weakness I was done. We took hits that hard from grown men every time we played. It was really kill or be killed. Looking back, it seems crazy. I’d never let my son be in a situation like that. But I can tell you this: I became a better player. It hurt too much not to learn to run faster, get out of the way quicker, and take on full-body blows, all without complaint. As long as those guys were looking on, when we got hit, we brushed ourselves off and kept on going.
We had to decide whether we were going to grow up quickly, and be strong, maybe even earn enough respect from the older guys to make a name for ourselves, or if we were going to sneak away. A lot of the other boys my age knew it wasn’t for them, and it didn’t take them long to stop messing with these pickup games. But I wasn’t going to show any fear. I was obsessed with my own internal mantra: I’m big enough. I’m strong enough. I’m fast enough. Even if you beat me today, I’m coming back tomorrow. That’s how I first realized the power of physical fitness and athleticism, which soon took on an even greater significance in my life.
BASKETBALL WAS THE FAVORED SPORT IN MY hometown, and I started playing in sixth grade. Pickup games in the summer were huge, and during Flint’s cold winters, it was also a social thing, as well as a sport you could excel at indoors. In ninth grade I added football and track to become a consistent year-round athlete. I knew, however, I was not good enough at basketball to go pro or even play at the college level. Because there were so many great basketball players in the city who were better than me, I decided football would be my ticket out of Flint. My need to be the best meant that I not only threw myself into practice and did extra drills on my own time, but I also volunteered for everything. No matter what the coaches asked us to do, I was the first person to raise my hand.
Fortunately, during my seventh-grade year, I finally came under the leadership of a man who recognized not only how hard I was pushing myself but also saw something special in me. My football coach, Lee Williams, took an interest in me like no one else ever had, and he became a father figure to me. His encouragement was crucial, arriving at a moment in my life when it was enough to change everything for me going forward.
My father hated sports. He was all about the Army and wanted me to enlist as soon as I graduated from high school. I knew this was one of the only ways to escape Flint, and the only way out that would also earn Big Terry’s respect. But something about this path didn’t sit right with me. It wasn’t what I wanted.
I was an artist, and now I was an athlete. I didn’t know what this meant for my future. But Coach Lee did. After yet another practice when I’d worked as hard as if we’d been playing a championship game, he pulled me aside. My first instinct was always to fear I was in trouble, even though I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong.
“Terry Crews, let me tell you something,” he said. “There’s no way you should not be playing football at a Division One college on a Division One scholarship.”
His voice was so sure and strong it was as if he was giving a speech about me.
“Really?” I said.
“Terry Crews, you’ve got everything,” he said. “There’s nothing you can’t do. I see these other kids doing it at these big schools. You’ve got all those traits right here. I see them. You can do all that.”
“Really?” I said again, too stunned to say anything more.
At first, I couldn’t process what he was telling me. I drank in his praise like a thirsty man. No one had ever encouraged me like that before. It was all I needed.
I always tell everybody: All a kid needs is one good word from someone he believes. It’s not necessary to have anything more than that.
Coach Lee literally changed my life forever. And he was only my coach for three years. After my ninth-grade football season, another coach forced him out, which was devastating for me. But it didn’t really matter by that point. Even after he was gone, I held on to his words forever. He had said I should be playing football on a Division One scholarship, and that was what I was going to do. As far as I could tell, it was going to be the best way to get out of Flint. It was perfect for me. I wanted to be strong. I wanted to be athletic. I wanted to be a superhero. Who’s closer to that than an NFL star? I began to see myself as a football player.
Of course, not everyone else in my life was as supportive of my hopes and dreams, and not all of the experiences I had were so positive. As soon as Marcelle and I were old enough, Big Terry had us working every weekend, and all summer long, shoveling snow in the winter and mowing lawns in the summer. We hated it, but not because we had to work hard. I didn’t mind making an effort when it came to painting, or lifting weights, or doing football drills. I resented the fact that Big Terry dropped us off and left us out there all day. Sometimes we did two or three lawns, and then, even after we were done, we had to wait for him to come pick us up. By the time he finally showed up, our whole Saturday was gone, and I was fuming.
The people we did work for gave our wages to Big Terry, and Marcelle and I never saw any of that money. So we had worked all day for nothing, not one single cent. As far as Big Terry was concerned, this was part of our lesson.
“I’m teaching you what it’s all about,” he said. “This is what it is.”
Well, my takeaway from that was: What’s the use? Wh
y bother working hard if you’re not going to see any benefit from your endeavors? It was clear to me from that moment on: If I was going to be working, I needed to be working at something I enjoyed. I made a promise to myself at a young age that I would always love what I do. Now, that’s a wonderful, noble philosophy to live by, but it got me into some trouble down the line. When you’re coming up in the world, sometimes you’ve got to do things you don’t enjoy. Good luck telling my thirteen-year-old self that, though.
Anytime Marcelle and I did get a little bit of money, we had very different approaches to our finances. If I had five dollars, I went to McDonald’s, and just like that, it was gone. On the other hand, Marcelle squirreled his money away under his mattress. I was a big spender. He was a big saver.
But then, without fail, Big Terry always came into our room at some point and stood there swaying in the doorway, looking back and forth between us.
“You guys got any money?” he asked.
“Nope, I spent mine,” I said.
I looked at Marcelle, waiting to see what he’d do, knowing it would probably be better for him to lie and say he didn’t have any money, either. But he couldn’t lie. Even though it was obvious how badly it was tearing him up, he nodded his head.
“I got some,” Marcelle said.
“Let me see it,” Big Terry said.
Marcelle went over to his bed and pulled out his money. I’d watched him be disciplined for weeks and weeks, going without the treats I indulged in, until he’d saved a couple hundred dollars. Just like that, Big Terry held the bills in his hand.
“I’ll give it back to you,” Big Terry said.
Marcelle nodded at him, even though we all knew that was a lie. Big Terry never paid him back, and he never stopped taking Marcelle’s money. And so I learned another lesson from Big Terry early on: If you work hard and save your money, somebody is going to come in and take it, so you might as well spend it all.
BY THE TIME I WAS IN HIGH SCHOOL, I’D HAD ENOUGH. I was getting out, and that was that. With Coach Lee gone, I started looking around for anyone else who might help me in my goals, or at least support my dreams. Things had gotten beyond weird at our old church, and we’d finally convinced Trish to join a new congregation. I had high hopes from the beginning. Our old church had been a whole lot of shouting loud and saying nothing, whereas our new pastor was more of a teacher. I decided I needed to have a meeting with him to talk about my life and my plans for the future. We met in his office one day after school. I got right to the point.
“Pastor Brown, I want to play football,” I said. “I want to be a football player.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” he said. “Football, that’s not good. That’s evil.”
“Wait a minute, you play basketball on Friday nights,” I said.
“We play basketball at the church,” he said. “But, in basketball, we’re just trying to get a ball in the hoop. Football, you’re intentionally trying to hurt people.”
I’d spent my whole life trying to be good, except for my one secret habit, which I swore I’d never do again. And now, my pastor was telling me that my ticket out of Flint was evil. I was devastated and collapsed inside. He had no idea that, for me, this conversation meant everything. He just kept shaking his head.
“Yep, basketball is cool,” he said. “Football, I would never recommend that.”
I knew I wasn’t intentionally trying to hurt anybody when I was playing. I was just trying to tackle them. I was just trying to be a good athlete.
That day changed everything for me. I still went to church with Trish and Marcelle, but I was hatching a plan in my mind.
I’ve got to leave, I thought. I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to get a new life. There has to be more for me than these true lies I’m hearing.
It was easy enough for me to bide my time at church, but it wasn’t so easy at home. Trish and I didn’t agree on anything, and neither of us was quiet about it.
“You hate me,” she said. “I don’t know what your problem is.”
Well, there was our crazy church, for starters. And then there was the fact that she wouldn’t let me date. Here I was, fourteen, fifteen years old, and of course I had an interest in girls, but she shut it right down.
“No,” she said.
“Why can’t I?” I asked. “Why can’t I just go on a date or something?”
“Because you’re stupid,” she said.
I rolled my eyes at her and that just made her gain steam.
“Yeah, you’re stupid,” she said. “You’re going to get somebody pregnant.”
She was afraid, because she’d gotten pregnant at sixteen, and again at eighteen, before she was ever married. She saw Marcelle and me as little boys still, and she was sure the girls out there were going to take advantage of us and tie us down. She didn’t know that she was a lesson for me of all I didn’t want my life to be.
———
AS THE EIGHTIES PROGRESSED, THE CONDITIONS IN FLINT grew more and more dire, and I became more and more determined to get out by any means necessary. All of the auto plants were closing. People were getting evicted and leaving town. Schools were shutting down. Homes were falling empty and becoming increasingly decrepit. Then the crack epidemic hit. With the drugs came more violence. Every time there was an event in the neighborhood, people got shot. Let me tell you, I lived Roger & Me. Whenever someone asks me about where I grew up, I tell them to watch that movie. That’s exactly what my high school experience was like.
Our school was a magnet school that bussed kids in from all over, so it was 60 percent black, 39 percent white, and 1 percent other minorities. We were located right in the middle of the roughest neighborhood in the city, and gang members and drug dealers often hung around the building, waiting to put any egghead black kid or scared white boy in their rightful place.
Once I was leaving basketball practice when this thug we all knew as Julio took my shoe from my gym bag and ran outside. I chased after him but stopped short, almost needing a diaper, when I saw notorious Flint drug dealer Donald “Juice” Williams and his gang sitting astride their customized Chevrolet Chevettes.
“What you gon’ do?” Julio taunted me.
Knowing I had to maintain a strong appearance, I didn’t show my fear.
“You better give me my shoe back!” I said, trying to sound tough.
“Come get it!” he said, looking to the gang with him, showing that he knew, that I knew, that I didn’t have a chance.
“Give the kid his shoe back,” Juice exclaimed.
So Julio threw it back. It landed about five feet in front of me. I grabbed it and quickly found a ride home, my nerves frayed by thoughts of what almost was.
FROM TENTH GRADE ON, I WANTED OUT OF FLINT SO BADLY that playing football well enough to earn a scholarship became my sole obsession. Trish continued to forbid me to date, but I’d decided I didn’t want a girlfriend anyhow. I didn’t want anything that would tie me down. It was fine to like a girl from afar, but that was it. Nothing was more important to me than my ticket out of town, and I couldn’t lose focus.
Luckily, around the time I lost Coach Lee, I made friends with a kid named Darwin Hall, and he became that one person I needed to help me believe in my dreams. In eighth grade, I’d tried to steal one of his French fries. He hit my hand and then got into a karate pose. Rumor had it he was a really good martial artist, and so I made nice, and we’ve been best friends ever since. That’s how guys meet: a challenge is thrown down, and then with mutual respect, a friendship can grow.
In tenth grade, Darwin transferred from Flint Academy to another high school, but I still went over to his house almost every day. I felt guilty for leaving Marcelle stuck at home, but I was at an age when I needed to carve out my own life for myself. Darwin had five sisters, all much older than him, and his parents mostly left him alone, so we often had his house to ourselves. We spent most of our time in his basement without adult supervision. We were well aware of the pos
sibilities.
“We could be doing all kinds of things,” I said.
“We could be smoking weed,” he said.
“We could be having girls.”
“But we’ve gotta be good if we’re gonna get anywhere.”
And we were. Instead of going wild, we just hung out together, watching movies, listening to music, break dancing, and getting real with each other.
“Let’s talk about what we’re gonna do,” I said. “Let’s talk about the future.”
Darwin was a computer geek, so we talked about that, even though there were times it made my eyes glaze over. And we talked about my two great loves—football and movies—even though neither really interested him. We talked about what we wanted our lives to be like, where we would live, and what kind of women we would marry. Most important, we made a deal that whenever one of us learned something—about girls, or school, or life—we would always tell the other person.
My dad certainly wasn’t teaching me anything. In fact, he was always telling me to do something he’d never explained to me before—like the time he made me change the oil in my mother’s car—and then, when I did it wrong, he got mad at me. That hurt me badly. I didn’t understand how he could expect me to know something I’d never been taught. It seemed more and more like the adults in our lives couldn’t be trusted, and we had to figure out everything for ourselves. We pulled away from our parents and spent most of our time together, looking ahead to a future when we’d be free. Trish was not happy about this.
“You always want to go over to his house,” she said. “You always want to be away from us. What’s your problem?”
“I just, you know, I’m not dating, I’m not doing anything,” I said.
But even the innocent activities we were getting up to were enough to upset Trish. It was no secret that I’ve always loved to dance, and on Saturdays and Sundays, Darwin and I practiced break dancing for, literally, twelve hours straight. We worked out routines and went over them again and again, until we were as perfect and synchronized as we could be.