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In 1983 I was eleven years old and I lived on 79th Street, and there were exactly two men in the world I would listen to without arguing. One was my grandfather. The other one wore a mohawk and more gold than the jewelry counter at Evergreen Plaza, and he was on TV every week helping people who couldn't help themselves. I had the lunchbox. I had the B.A. action figure, which my little brother lost in the radiator. I ate the cereal until my mother stopped buying it. And the summer I turned twelve I shaved the sides of my head in the bathroom with my uncle's clippers, and my mother made me wear a Cubs hat to church until October. Worth it. I'm twenty-seven now. I drive a delivery truck, I coach a Park District basketball team of ten-year-olds, and I still think about what Mr. T would do in most situations. This page is my thank-you to him. |
My scanner has been busted since Easter, so here is Mr. T the old-fashioned way:
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/ __ __ \
| (o) (o) |
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'-._____.-'
o=o=o=o=o=o=o
o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o
o=o=o=o=o=o=o
(it's the gold that makes it look like him)
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WHAT MR. T TAUGHT A KID FROM 79TH STREET People who only know the haircut and the famous line about pitying fools are missing the best part. Every chance he got, on TV, on his Saturday cartoon, on that motivational tape my aunt rented for us, Mr. T told kids the same few things. I'm going to list them here because I tell my basketball team all of them, and they roll their eyes exactly like I did.
TEN THINGS I LEARNED FROM THE A-TEAM
THINGS THAT ARE TOUGH, BUT NOT MR. T TOUGH A Chicago January. The Dan Ryan at five o'clock. A Bears linebacker. My grandmother when you track mud in. Getting ten-year-olds to run a zone defense. The lid on a jar of pickles. Your VCR's clock. Rust.
FAN MAIL
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