a corner of the room, and the TV sat on a piece of smooth wood suspended by giant chains that floated above a cobblestone fireplace. Over the pool table hung a light fixture covered with the logos of popular beers and liquors. Pictures and mirrors decorated the unfinished walls—part modern-day saloon, part demolition site. It was beautiful and mysterious, and reminded me of a dungeon. The musty smell of the cobblestone fireplace overpowered the lingering cigarette smoke exhaled from my mother’s lips. I moved quietly across the floor so that I wouldn’t wake the ghosts.
As I looked for something interesting to watch on TV, I flipped through the channels and stopped on a station where I saw gymnastics for the first time. I will never forget this moment. When I die and God asks me about my life, I’m going to tell him this memory. The TV screen seemed to grow larger; as a matter of fact, it was the only object I saw. Everything else in the room disappeared. Watching the American gymnasts Mary Lou Retton and Bart Conner was like watching real magic. They flipped against gravity like a machine—powerful, strong, and flexible. In that moment I was hooked. I stared at the TV and felt a fire spark within me. Actually, it was not a spark; it was more like an explosion. My body grew warmer with a sudden feeling of jealousy, making me want to compete against this new emotion and transform it into achievement.
The room grew quiet and I heard my soul speak for the very first time. It was so loud it amazed me that the entire universe didn’t hear it. It simply said to me, “Repeat,” and I knew exactly what it wanted me to do.
I looked around the room and looked for something soft. I noticed our couch, which told the story of a family that had outgrown its comfort and moved on. Its emptiness and sadness were my solitude because I found a safe haven to attempt a flip. This old couch and its cushions would become my guardian angels and protect me from injury.
My first cartwheel wasn’t great, but by the fifth try, it was perfect. It felt good to me, like someone had bottled freedom and I had just taken my first drink of it. I felt that energy—strong, invasive, fluid, and alive. I would never go back to a life without that feeling, and would do whatever it took to keep it. I repeated the movements again and again, trying to expand and become something more. With every fiber of my being, I knew that movement would be my destiny.
That night I couldn’t sleep, and thought about crawling out of bed to do flips on the cushions. The crescent moon slipped through the clouds and the autumn wind rustled in the trees. I lay still and awestruck, anticipating tomorrow so that I could return to my new discovery.
My brother Michael, who is seven years older than me, was my idol, and I told him what I was doing. He was a fearless soul who never seemed to experience physical pain. I had seen him punch holes in walls, resulting in bloody, swollen knuckles that he would just laugh off. He was a tough guy, and I wanted to be just like him. He had the Italian brown hair from my father, the shorter Irish height from my mother, and the fiery temperament of both. He came downstairs with me and I showed him what I had achieved. With Michael by my side I no longer feared the evil spirits that I believed inhabited our basement.
Michael immediately came up with the idea that we could jump over objects and land on the cushions. He scavenged the basement and found a few things that we could dive over—a Styrofoam cooler for my father’s beer, a plastic cooler (also for my father’s beer), a vacuum cleaner, and anything else that we couldn’t easily break. We set up the cushions to land on, just inches away from the cold, stone hearth of the fireplace.
Being smaller, I ended up clearing the most objects. It was as if I had springs in my legs, and I intuitively knew how to use them. In my body, in my heart and soul, I knew how to part from gravity and interpret movement. I couldn’t articulate it, but my body knew long before my mind did, and it felt like I was uncovering ancient hieroglyphics.
Like an addict needing his fix, I would sneak downstairs and do gymnastics. I thought I could figure it out on my own and be successful. I tried doing a backflip, but fell on my neck. I got up and tried again, and the same thing happened. I did it again and again, and I kept landing on my head. My brother and sisters would come downstairs to see if I’d hurt myself yet and yell, “You are going to break your back . . . stop doing that!” But I didn’t stop; I couldn’t stop! I had heaven to build, and that was how I would lay down the first brick.
I continued to go to the basement to learn the trick, and one day it happened. I did it. I landed on my feet and not on my head. The accomplishment of the cartwheel became insignificant compared to the new power of the backflip. I was no longer human, but more like Superman or one of my He-Man action figures. My blood turned into concrete determination, suffused with happiness and amazement. I couldn’t wait to tell my brother and sisters, “I told you so!” and “I knew I could do it!” My body spoke louder than my soul, saying in the sharpest voice, “I want more!” I wanted more of that feeling and would do whatever it took to achieve it. I had to learn another flip, a different flip. My body was already accustomed to the achievement of the backflip, and it needed a new move to feed that feeling.
I stayed up until two o’clock in the morning waiting for my parents to come home from work to show them my backflip on the dog-eaten cushions. I pulled them downstairs, even though they were upset that I was awake at that hour of the night. I did it for them, and they were surprised at what I had learned on my own. The perfect execution of my self-taught skill marked the point of no return. I would never look back.
THE LUNGS, PART OF THE PULMONARY SYSTEM, ARE THE ESSENTIAL RESPIRATION ORGANS IN ALL AIR-BREATHING ANIMALS. THE TWO LUNGS ARE LOCATED IN THE CHEST ON EITHER SIDE OF THE HEART. THEIR PRINCIPAL FUNCTION IS TO TRANSPORT OXYGEN FROM THE ATMOSPHERE INTO THE BLOODSTREAM, AND TO RELEASE CARBON DIOXIDE FROM THE BLOODSTREAM INTO THE ATMOSPHERE.
My brother and I shared a bedroom across the hall from my parents. It was small, crammed with toys, and covered in off-white wallpaper with soldiers on it. The wallpaper was peeling, and when we were bored we peeled off even more, exposing the bare wall beneath.
We slept on large, wooden bunk beds—solid temples ascending from the Earth of a crumb-filled, matted-down brown rug. Black-and-white-striped cotton blankets covered us at night, making me feel like I was tucked inside a giant ice cream sandwich. Michael slept on top because I was afraid of falling. When it was time for bed he would lean over and make faces at me, trying to make me laugh. I always did.
Nighttime was troublesome for me because my parents often came home late. As part owners of the family’s Italian restaurant, they worked all night and had to close up the building. I was a momma’s boy and needed to know where she was at all times. When I laid my head on the pillow, I had horrible images that something bad was happening to her. I just knew she was somewhere out there, lost in the darkness, and I would never see her again. These thoughts were unbearable, and left me with a deep sense of loneliness, confusion, and dread.
As a child I feared death, and that fear soon became an obsession. I was terrified that the people I loved would die all at once, their bodies stolen by the darkness that bent through the light of the room, and I would be left alone. Most nights I would cry myself to sleep before my parents came home, and the exhaustion of weeping lulled me into a warm, seraphic state. The scent of my mom’s perfume as she kissed me goodnight always made me feel safe. When my parents came home from the restaurant, their breath smelled of a powerful medicine, but my mother’s breath was stronger, more potent, and more commanding, as if she was the medicine she breathed. I loved her smell—a mixture of Marlboro cigarettes and gin—which I’m convinced to this day must be the divine smell of angels. I knew I would be all right no matter what, once she was home.
It was a Friday night and my parents had to work later than usual to close the restaurant. My sister Trish, who is nine years older than me, babysat us since she was the oldest and most responsible. I had a psychic connection with her and often knew what she was thinking without her saying a word. Trish was short and carefree, and had dark brown hair with fire-red highlights. She was stronger than she realized, and always tried to