Fresh Off the Boat Read online

“Welcome, dude! You play football?”

  “Nah. I’m a big Skins fan but I never got to play.”

  “Oh, you’ll love it, good ol’ American fun!”

  “You play basketball?”

  “Nope, just football and roller hockey.”

  Then Dave invited himself and his stank-ass feet into our house. I liked the guy, but I knew that as soon as my mom saw him walking around on the carpet with his dirty-ass bare feet, she would bug. Everyone knows to take their shoes off in an Asian home, but the fuck you supposed to tell Huckleberry Finn when he rolls in barefoot? There’s no answer for that. It’s unprecedented behavior on our continent, unless you’re a wounded samurai that got his wooden chancletas stolen.

  Dave came in and started wandering around, touching things, and didn’t notice the footprints he was leaving everywhere. It was nasty, but I thought he was hilarious. I actually couldn’t wait for my mom to notice. Watching Dave explore the house felt like watching some prehistoric Encino Man that just came out of a block of ice. He was curious about everything, the way I was at Jeff Miller’s. Compared to other white people, he wasn’t the least bit judgmental. He just kept picking stuff up, turning it over in his hands, and then putting it back down again, covered in fingerprints. There was a genuine curiosity I appreciated. When he wasn’t picking stuff up, he tossed his football in the air over and over like an old Chinaman with his Baoding balls. He was looking at the house, but I was watching him. Then Mom came home.

  “Xiao Ming! Ta de jiao zang si le!”

  (Translation: EDWYN HUANG, his feet are disgusting.)

  “What’d your mom just say?”

  “Uhh, she just said hello.”

  “Hmm, that’s a lot of words for hello!”

  “Let’s just play football, dude.”

  My mom had this habit of speaking Chinese in front of Americans. She didn’t give a fuck that they probably thought it was rude. I was caught in the middle. There’s a part of me that loves immigrants who throw niceties to the wind and just speak their tongue all day, every day. The older generation never felt integrated in society anyway so they don’t care if you see them as “rude.” I mean, cot damn, “rude” is probably a compliment compared to the shit people used to say to them. This is our language and it’s your problem if you don’t speak it, right? But another part of me feels, “What’s Dave got to do with it?” He’s just a nice kid that wants to see what a Chinese home is like. More than that, he just wants to see if the new kid plays football.

  Dave was two years older than me and we didn’t talk much about anything besides football, but for the next three years he was my best friend and every day after school, we played. Football took over my life. I got John Madden Football for Super Nintendo and started copying the plays from the game—literally diagramming them on a piece of paper—so Dave and I could practice them with our brothers. It was always Dave and me versus Billie G. and Billie F. plus whoever else wanted to play in the neighborhood. There were a bunch of other kids who would play, but in four years, never once did Dave and I get split up.

  The Billies were a couple of douche bag Zack Morrises. Pretty-boy cheap-shot artists. Crunchy in the face types. Billie G. is a pro wakeboarder now and he’s still the biggest cock and balls you’ll ever meet. I was the smallest and slowest out of the four, but Dave and I won most of the time because we were smart and nasty when we had to be. Billie G. was the most athletic—fast, tall, jumped high, all that good shit. But he had no plays, and Billie F., while also athletic, was a huge pussy with alligator arms.

  Dave used hustle and worked to play Billie G. to a draw every time. Billie G. was like Randy Moss, the callous but supreme athlete, and Dave was Darrell Green, all heart. I played quarterback and covered Billie F., who was faster than me, but he’d hear footsteps and get shook. I bumped him a lot, ran him off his routes, and hit him hard when he did catch the ball. Dave had trouble getting open against Billie G. so we ran a lot of play-action, screens, flea-flickers, all that crazy shit. Anything to get Dave matched up against Billie F. The funny thing is the Billies were dumb as rocks. Their only play was for Billie F. to fade back into the end zone and throw it as far as he could to Billie G.

  Our little brothers and the Atkins kids played, too, so we usually had eight- or ten-man games. It usually ended up as the Huangs and Williamses versus the Atkinses and Billie G.’s and Billie F.’s clans. Our ace in the hole was Emery, clearly bigger, faster, and tougher than all the other kids his age. He also hated Billie G. and Billie F., because their moms would make fun of our mom for being an FOB. Billie G. was the boogie man, though. He’d hit you late, chip you with his elbows, and tell mad Chinaman jokes. He terrorized us for years.

  In seventh grade, my parents enrolled me at Trinity Prep. I was dumb excited because Dave went there, too. We couldn’t wait to go to school together and he told me about the football team. I registered late for the team because it was my first year at the school, but the coach, Mr. Rock, let me start practicing in early August. They didn’t have enough helmets so I was the only kid without one for the first week.

  “Huang, what position do you play?”

  “Quarterback.”

  “No, really, what position do you play?”

  “I play quarterback. I got plays and stuff.”

  “Let’s start you at wide receiver, see how that goes.”

  Organized football was a lot different than street ball. I always played quarterback in the yard, but standing five foot four in seventh grade, I wasn’t about to start at quarterback. I’m kind of glad there weren’t smartphones back then because a midget Chinaman telling his coach to start him at quarterback would be viral video gold. Almost like Eli Porter* free-styles. Yet, no matter what, in my own head, I was a quarterback.

  Playing wide receiver really didn’t start off very well. I always rocked my pants with a sag so I wasn’t very comfortable in football tights. I asked for a size big and when I ran routes, the shits would start falling and my hip pads would flop all over the place. I was too small to run the crossing routes I was good at and I was too slow to run the go routes guys my size needed to. It was a constant struggle in my life, a big man trapped in a little man’s body. Charles Barkley shit. The coaches laughed and the other players gave me a hard time, but I just kept working.

  After our first game, it became clear I would never see the light of day at receiver. Coach Rock switched me to defensive tackle and right guard. It made no sense. When they lined us up at offensive line, it looked like Niagara Falls. Tall guy, tall guy, tall guy, Eddie Huang? The fuck you doing here, son? I honestly think Coach Rock thought I was helpless and put me at line so that I’d quit. The first rep I ever took on the line, he put me at left tackle and had Kwame line up across from me. Kwame was the biggest dude on the team, played defensive end, and was a straight terror on the edge. I started talking to myself.

  “Yo, you got this, son. Ain’t nothin’, just get low, get leverage, and send this boy packin’.”

  “Blue nine, blue nine, yellow, yellow, hut!”

  Kwame fired off the line and I started to shuffle back. Before I could even set my feet, BOOM. He just chucked me with two hands on a bull rush and I went flying. Literally, two feet off the ground, whiplash on my neck, and I tumbled over twice before coming to a stop. Dead fucking meat.

  “Huang! Get up, Huang!”

  “Whuuuh?”

  “Huang, can you hear me?”

  “Kwame?”

  “No, this isn’t Kwame! It’s Coach Rock. Get up, Huang!”

  Coach Rock was stumped. He had no idea what to do with me. I absolutely sucked at organized football. But I never once thought about quitting. In some crazy, sadistic, twisted way, I was having the time of my life. I was part of something. It wasn’t Chinese school. It wasn’t family. It was good ol’ American Fun and I loved it. When the helmets and pads were on, for sixty minutes, I wasn’t Chinese anymore. I was part of the team. Instead of being singled out and laughed at
for being Chinese, I was being laughed at for totally sucking at football. It was a relief.

  Mom kept trying to get me to stop playing because I came home injured in some form or other every single day. She used to watch me get tossed around by Billie G. in the backyard or wait on the sidelines to play at practice. She would be crying when I came home, but she never told me why until I got older. I had no idea she was watching, because she always hid from view, but my mom was always there. Without ever asking me, she understood that I needed it but wished I didn’t. I wasn’t built for this American life. I was like a lil’ shih tzu tryin’ to run with the pit bulls. That was Dave and me. You see it a lot. There’s the toy dog barking and leading the big goofy dog around. Isiah and Rodman, AI and Dikembe, Eddie and Dave. Life doesn’t always make sense.

  Three weeks into the season, Coach Rock introduced new drills into practice. The first one was the Indian Run. The entire team, fifty-plus kids, all ran around the football field. You had to stay in line and the last guy in line had to sprint to get to the front until everyone did it twice. The first time we did it, the team thought to slow down a little bit when it was my turn. Everyone figured I was the slowest and it was to their benefit for me to get it over with as soon as possible since another forty-nine guys had to do it, too. Coach Rock was a wily motherfucker, though, and made the team run even faster when it was my turn. He was on to it. I understood why the guys wanted to slow down and I understood why Coach Rock wouldn’t allow it. It was a pivotal moment.

  I looked at the ground, clenched my teeth, pumped my arms, and ran as fast as I fucking could. Couldn’t nobody help me but myself this time … I just kept chopping my feet. Up, down, up, down, up, down. My pads, helmet, pants, were all too big. Shit looked like a yard sale. By the time I looked up, I was a good bit in front of the first guy and snot was coming out of my damn ears. Twenty minutes later, the drill was over and I was over by the fence puking my guts out.

  “BRRR, break it down!”

  At the end of practice, we’d all get in a big circle and break it down. Coach Rock would yell some random shit and we’d yell back, but I was so tired, I literally passed out on the ground.

  “Look at Huang! This guy left it all on the field today, y’all!”

  “WHOOP!”

  I couldn’t believe it. Coach Rock said something nice about me and the team was cheering.

  “Good shit, Huang!”

  “Listen up, team! Huang is the smallest guy on the team, but he gave it up today. If we practice like this, we’ll win some damn games this year! So, player of the day today, Eddie Huang, let’s hear it.”

  To that point in life, I’d never been more proud of myself. For twelve years, I really never once did anything that made me proud. There were things that made my mom or dad happy, but this was mine. It wasn’t much to most kids. I mean, I was basically getting recognized for being straight dogshit, ignoring that I was straight dogshit, and doing anything in my power just to maintain my dogshittiness. I think on Urban Dictionary that’s the definition for insanity—or a Michael Bay film. It was just one good day of practice, yet it meant everything to me. There was hope.

  The next day, we had another new drill, the Circle. Coach had the whole team form a circle and inside the circle, he’d put a football in between two guys in a three-point stance. When Coach blew the whistle, the two guys would fight as hard as they could to push across the football. It was my favorite drill, all heart. Kwame dominated the defensive line, Dave worked the receivers, and there was this one guy, Friedman, the biggest seventh grader and the only one who had a chance to start. He played offensive line. Friedman should have been the best lineman, but he didn’t always give it his all. In the circle, he’d win, but not as easily as he should.

  “Friedman! Huang! In the circle!”

  I couldn’t believe it. Coach never let me match up against Friedman. Usually I just went up against the sled or this other kid who sucked so bad I forgot his name. All I remember was that he was so fat his head didn’t fit in the helmet so it looked like he always had bitter-beer face. But Friedman actually started and played in games. I strapped on my helmet and ran to the middle. The whole team was screaming. I had a good day with the Indian Run, but this was different. I was nervous in my stance. As soon as Coach Rock blew the whistle, I clenched my teeth, closed my eyes, dug my feet in the ground, and kept ’em moving. That was a theme with football. I closed my eyes when tackling. I don’t know why but I tried to mentally block everything out and hit the other player as hard as I fucking could.

  I COULDN’T BELIEVE it. “Wooo! That’s how you do it, Huang! Friedman, get your ass up! Let’s go again.”

  This time Friedman put up a fight. He got me with a good punch first, but I stayed low and just chopped my feet back and forth. My height became an asset once I learned to move my feet. I won again. I probably got a little overexcited so Coach brought me back down to earth. Later that day, he had me go against Kwame in a simulation and of course, he crushed me, but not like before. I got pushed back, but I didn’t go flying.

  For the next three weeks, literally every day, Coach Rock named me player of the practice. I was an animal. I got my confidence and just kept pushing back furiously with my eyes closed. Other people couldn’t compete. They were playing a game but I treated it like life and death. The zenith was about six weeks into the season. We always played simulated games on Wednesdays, Offense versus Defense, and that day I was lined up against this new kid, Jason, who had transferred from Apopka. He was at least five inches taller than me, with long arms, but he didn’t know how to use them. He had an awkward chicken wing and sucked at setting his feet. I was playing left guard and we usually ran belly right. At that point Coach Rock used me as the rallying cry, but he didn’t actually believe I could play.

  Instead of blocking Jason right like the play was supposed to go, I wanted to see if I could blow him off the ball. I faked right, planted, set left, and started pushing him into the linebackers.

  “Huang! What are you doing?”

  “Coach, we’re not going anywhere right. I can blow this guy off the ball, let’s run left!”

  “Hey! You hear this kid?” yelled Coach Rock to his assistant coach.

  “What’d that boy say now?”

  “He says he can blow your boy Jason off the ball.”

  “Oh, yeah? Run that ball left!”

  “All right, Huang, belly left, let’s go.”

  Coach Rock thought he had me. I was out of line, but we’d developed a rapport and he knew I meant well. But football is a hierarchy. The players don’t change the plays. So Coach Rock figured that he’d play along, tell the defense we’re running left, and I’d get smacked.

  “Blue, blue … blue, blue, thirty-two, hut!”

  Jason knew we were going left, so I couldn’t fake right. I got as low as I could, gave him a good punch under the shoulder pads before he could set, and just drove him into the strong-side linebacker. My center did his job and pushed his guy right and Rosado, the running back, came screaming through the hole.

  Put your two arms up / touchdown.†

  “Wooo, Huang! You son of a bitch! That’s a hole! That is a cot damn hole! You heard this kid call the play in the huddle?”

  “You told me, I told them. Still couldn’t stop the play! God damn Huang …”

  “I told you, Coach!”

  “Shut up, Huang.”

  That was the first practice in three weeks where I didn’t get recognized as player of the practice, and I understood why.

  I HAD STOPPED doing homework. I just didn’t care. Football was my life. I didn’t even pay attention to what my mom was cooking. I honestly can’t remember any single item of food that stood out. Every other phase of my life is littered with food memories, but during this time, the only thing I can muster is sesame fried chicken from this takeout spot, Forbidden City. It’s literally American Chinese sesame fried chicken, but these guys figured something out. There wasn’t a
nything else worth eating there. Even their General Tso’s, which had a similar technique, was nasty. Yet this sesame chicken was ethereal.

  It was on the way home from school, so we’d stop by all the time and pick up three orders. One day we went to Forbidden City and I had first-quarter grades in my backpack. My mom was all excited to go so I figured I’d wait till we were in the car and finished eating before showing her my report card. Man, that fucking chicken was good. Evan sat in the front a lot of the time because he was the youngest and my mom wanted to watch him. He was always the last one to finish eating. He didn’t really seem to like food like Emery and me unless we went to Wong’s for pi par tofu. That was his favorite. Silken tofu mixed with shrimp paste, steamed in soup spoons, fried into golden ovals, and served with brown sauce over rice. Shit was unstoppable.

  But then it had to happen.

  “Mom, here’s my report card.”

  “How’d you do?”

  “Good.”

  “Evan, read me the report card.”

  “I don’t know this word, Mom.”

  “What word?”

  “The one at the top.”

  “Let me see …”

  My mom took the report card from Evan.

  “That says ‘Progress’ … WAN BA DAN!” (Translation: You piece of shit!)

  Mom flipped. I got a C in pre-trigonometry.

  “Evan, hit him with this brush!”

  My mom gave Evan the big metal hairbrush with copper bristles and told him to hit me with it, but I just kept ducking.

  “Ha, ha, Eddie’s scared of the brush.”

  “Emery! No one is talking to you. Where’s your report card?”

  “I don’t have one, Mom, my class just has stickers.”

  “Well, stop talking, then, Emery! Eddie, hit yourself in the face!”

  “Mom, what’s progress?”

  “Evan, shut up! You think this is funny, huh? I’ll kill us all!”

  My mom drove this ridiculous Starcraft van that couldn’t turn without looking like a club sandwich falling apart. When we fucked up, she’d purposely swerve the car in and out of lanes to make it feel like we were going to get in an accident. I honestly don’t know how we survived this three times a year, but we did. Evan always started crying, I would go quiet and get really annoyed, and Emery would laugh ’cause that’s what Emery does.