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+---- Thread: My Road by Anthony Petrakis (/showthread.php?tid=172)
My Road by Anthony Petrakis - Grapehead - 05-21-2017
My Road
by Anthony Petrakis
Part 1
![[Image: GrykXp0.jpg]](http://i.imgur.com/GrykXp0.jpg)
On the surface my life might appear to be a dream; growing up in Newport Beach, California definitely has perks. Most people hear about the mansion I live in, or how well off my family is. Going to high school in Newport and college in Berkeley was a great privilege for me, there's no denying that. I got a brand new BMW as a graduation present from my parents, a new wardrobe every season, countless vacations around the world, and almost anything my heart desired. This great fortune didn't begin until my junior year of high school. For most of my life my family hung somewhere just above the poverty line, even with both parents working full-time jobs. We didn't live in Newport Beach, and we certainly didn't have any BMWs. Life taught me that to be truly lucky you need to survive long enough to get lucky. So here I am on the cusp of joining the ranks of professional football, and in this moment my life is playing through my mind like a slideshow. Sometimes it is difficult to believe that I am here now, that I've overcome all of the obstacles in my life up to this point. So this is my story of perseverance.
One cold October morning my parents rushed to their old Honda and raced off to the hospital. I know it was cold because that's always how the story is told to me. My poor mother spent almost 24 hours in labor with me. When I was finally ready to come out I weighed just above ten pounds. There isn't much about that time that I remember, so I'm going entirely off the story my mother always tells me. The world was a much different place back then, but my immigrant parents grabbed any opportunity that America presented for them. When my older brother was born my parents moved to California in search of more opportunity. So by the time I arrived my mother and father had a home in the small town of Chino, California. My father, Andreas Petrakis, worked as a correctional officer at the Chino Institution for Men, while my mother, Hera, bounced around between jobs as a waitress. They made ends meet as best they could, and whatever money was leftover went into a college fund for me and my brother, Demetre. I had absolutely no complaints growing up; I loved my family, and I never knew any better life than what I had. Our parents knew though, so secretly they tried to save up whatever they could to give my brother and I a better life someday. They wanted to make sure there was nothing standing between us and any career we wanted to pursue. It is hard to imagine two better parents than Andreas and Hera Petrakis.
Despite my parents insistence that I would someday attend college, my scholastic ambitions were entirely non-existent through the early years of my life. It's not that I had anything else occupying my mind, just that the thought of going to school each day seemed like torture. Of course as a kid I didn't have any clue what real torture was, but I continued to moan as though I did. My parents never doubted me though; they always treated every transgression I committed as a lesson for me to learn. So I carried on with my life, not paying much attention to school. Hell, it was probably senior year of high school before I even decided where I was going to college, but I'll get to that. In elementary school I definitely knew where and when to find trouble. My brother and I went to Edwin Rhodes Elementary school.
![[Image: 6aHm9gS.jpg]](http://i.imgur.com/6aHm9gS.jpg)
It was a pretty nice school, especially as far as Chino goes, but I didn't really care much whether the school was nice. I quickly made a name for myself as a trouble maker. Teachers sent me to the principal's office so regularly that sometimes I started heading there before I was even told. School bullies gave me a hard time, but I spent just as much time bullying the other kids myself. I would curse at the teachers, or break classroom equipment. I knew just how far I could go without being expelled from the school. My brother, Demetre, was two grades ahead of me, but he always kept a close eye on me. My parents think my bad behavior came from a desire to show off for my brother, but that didn't matter to him. Demetre tried to keep me in line by beating the snot out of me whenever I messed up, but it hardly ever worked. In fact, I remember this one time, my friend Mitch and I found a dead cat over by Cypress Avenue. It hadn't decayed much at this point, but it was gross enough to cause some havoc. We carried the thing back to school but were intercepted by our principal, Mr. Michaelson. I have no idea why, but I grabbed the cat by the tail and threw it right in his face. A bunch of kids saw, including Demetre who was right there, and he immediately grabbed me by the collar. Not too tight or anything, but just so he had control of me. For a second he kind of smiled, but then I was on my back getting punched in the face. The principal pulled him off, but Demetre screamed that I had never pull something like that again. Of course I definitely did pull things like that all the time. It really wasn't something I grew out of when I moved past elementary school. A few times a week I would catch a beating from my brother, and each time he would tell me to smarten up.
School was also a drag because I didn't have very many friends. I could make friends just fine, but before long I would piss them off with some prank and they would stop talking to me. Except for Mitch. He always had my back, and eventually we would go to Berkeley together. I made a few enemies along the way, and man can I hold a grudge. If a kid ever crossed me then I probably have their name on a mental list of people I dislike. I imagine any of my teachers would be shocked to find out how different my life has become. They say that all those little moments in your life are the building blocks for who you become. I love the person I am now, but would I do things differently if I could go back? Yes. I would've done what I could to make my life easier, because it ended up being hard enough without the obstacles I created for myself.
![[Image: yssZbqx.jpg]](http://i.imgur.com/yssZbqx.jpg)
There were nicer areas in Chino, closer to the hills, but we lived in the distance. There weren't a lot of great jobs to go around, and most people either worked for the school district or at the prison. From the outside Chino has a less than favorable reputation, but there isn't anything abnormal about the town at all. The population is small, but the community was rather tight, and things like crime and vandalism didn't run rampant as some may try to imply. In almost every way imaginable, Chino was a perfectly normal American town. It always kind of bugged me when Chino was depicted as a slum, because it just simply wasn't. My family had a nice life, and Chino was a big part of who we were. We didn't have a lot of money, but in Chino you didn't need a lot. It wasn't like we were ever in fear of starving; my father would die before he let his family go hungry. There was always the fear of my father or mother being laid off from their work. My parents discussed our backup plan if that should ever happen, because they didn't want us to be scared if it did. We did eventually have to use the backup plan, but I'll come to that later.
For most of my childhood though everything was relatively simple. My father and mother worked hard to provide my brother and I with everything we needed. I went to school and was generally a little menace to the town, while my brother was a perfect student. My parents adored Demetre; they say they didn't have a favorite but for many years I could tell. It wasn't that they neglected me, just that Demetre was always succeeding and making them proud. I was the only kid he ever hit, and he never ever mouthed off to a teacher. I hated how much everyone loved Demetre, and I was tired of everyone comparing me to him. It was obvious that I was the lesser brother, but I was behind him in so many ways. Things are totally different now, of course, but back then if you told someone I would be the successful brother they probably would have laughed. It wasn't hard to see what kind of life people expected for me. I didn't really like the things people said about me when they compared me to Demetre. I would get angry at them, shout my name, and throw a tantrum. Sometimes I considered running away; I felt so worthless. Someone once wondered if my acting out had to do with feeling like I was in my brother's shadow. It's true that I may have developed an inferiority complex, but Demetre tried to help with that. He was only two years older than me, but by the time he reached the sixth grade he was incredibly mature and already dreaming of becoming a lawyer someday. By this time Demetre had stopped laying beatings on me, and tried to help me overcome my own anger.
![[Image: kbioCvU.jpg]](http://i.imgur.com/kbioCvU.jpg)
He knew that if I was going to get through school without him there to watch me, that I would need to learn to control myself. Obviously his frequent and severe beatings weren't teaching me the lesson he thought they would, and his time sharing a school with me was almost over. He would say things like “Anthony, you need to be able to take care of yourself after we die,” or “Anthony, you need to learn to be a man now while father and I are still able to teach you.” I thought it was rather strange that my brother was no longer trying to beat these lessons into me, and now wanted me to listen. It all fell on deaf ears though, because I continued to lash out. There was no sense trying to be a better person, because I could never live up to the great Demetre. I began to resent him even more when he tried to offer me advice. I hated him for always making me look bad, and I wished that he would mess up just once. Thinking back on that makes me sad because of what would eventually happen, but I think it's important not to forget those moments when you were ungrateful. My brother was wonderful to me in those years after he moved onto the next level of school, but I took those years for granted. Anyway, Demetre was just concerned about me, and my well being. It was something I wish I had appreciated more.
My parents began to grow concerned with my behavior as well. They never really threatened me, but they did keep asking me to accept help. My parents wanted me to be mature and make the right decision, but I wanted my free time. At some point the constant disappointment in their eyes was too much to bear, and by the end of the fourth grade I was visiting a child's psychiatrist. Mr. Arnold insisted that I call him Dave, but at the time I refused. It was months before I ever really spoke to him about anything significant. For some reason he never seemed even a little bit frustrated. He recommended that my parents enroll me in a sports program, which to me sounded like a terrible idea. I knew I didn't have a choice though, except in which sport it was I wanted to play. My father encouraged me to play baseball, believing it would bring me discipline and an opportunity to make a living. I wanted to play football though, because I thought it was the only sport I could actually vent my frustration. This idea upset my mother, and she would always tell me about all the horror stories she had heard. She was positive that playing football would be the cause of my death. So, there was absolutely no convincing her to let me play football, and I ended up playing soccer.
![[Image: UTkrLK6.jpg]](http://i.imgur.com/UTkrLK6.jpg)
It wasn't my favorite activity at first; I was uncoordinated, undisciplined, and uncommitted. My anger problems weren't subsiding either. This led me to begin opening up to Dave, expressing my frustration that playing soccer didn't seem to be helping at all. He explained that in order for soccer to help me I would have to commit myself to the sport. If I wanted to succeed on the soccer field I needed to spend more time on it. This mentality was necessary for many things, he explained, including gaining some benefit from my sessions with him. He challenged me that if taking his advice helped me with soccer, then I had to continue to open up to him and let him help me as well. Once I focused my efforts on soccer I began to succeed elsewhere in my life. I was performing better in school, I wasn't fighting with other kids, and I certainly wasn't throwing dead cats. Dave was so excited for me, and excitement was a feeling I don't remember ever eliciting from someone. It felt like he was proud of me, and I became proud of myself. Soccer became fun all of a sudden. In fact, the first time I ever felt like a champion was playing soccer, and it lit a fire inside of me that still burns to this day. I peaked in soccer when I was 14. That season I lead my team in goals on the way to a state championship. My friend Mitch was on the team with me as well, and the two of us were the best players in the state. Even with us the team wasn't very respected. We were considered an inferior team because we came from a small town. So heading into the state championship we knew we were going to be counted out before it began. Despite being considered the underdogs heading into the final match, we won the game 4-0. We proved everyone wrong simply by competing our hardest. That feeling was so good that I've been chasing it ever since that day. Looking back on my life I would definitely say that I've hard my share of hard times, but for a few years after I started playing soccer my life was pretty calm.
![[Image: xxoII7W.jpg]](http://i.imgur.com/xxoII7W.jpg)
A few months later that calm period came to an abrupt end one afternoon. While I was walking home from school that day, this eerie feeling came over me. As I was coming closer to my house I noticed that my father's car wasn't in the driveway like usual. Instead, there was a police vehicle parked out front. You know how people always say “it was just like in the movies”? Well, this was just like in the movies. My stomach felt like it fell off a building, my heart ached, and everything got kind of blurry. My mother ran over and wrapped her arms around me the moment she saw me. I could tell she had been crying, so I nervously asked her what was going on. She told me the police had stopped by to deliver some bad news about my father. It seems a riot had broken out in the prison after one of the inmates managed to smuggle in a gun. Mother told me that my father tried to wrestle the gun from his hand, but ended up getting shot. She broke out in tears again as she explained that my father was dead. That's when I noticed Demetre was laying down on the lawn staring up at the sky. He wasn't crying or anything, just quietly gazing at the clouds passing overhead. I don't think any of us said another word for the rest of the night. Mom made supper like usual, but we barely ate any of it. A few people had dropped by to pass on their condolences but that was all. When my mother heard me tell this story she let me know that she remembers it differently. She says that Demetre cooked supper because she was too drunk. I honestly don't remember my mother ever drinking, so it gives me shivers to think that my mind may have altered memories around this time to help cover up just how bad things were.
The funeral was arranged rather quickly, and a lot of family traveled to attend the service. My father's sister, Medea, stayed with us when she came, which sucked cause her son is a real jerk. [If you're reading this Peter I am talking about you, ya jerk!] When they were trying to decide who would carry my fathers casket to the burial, I insisted that I be allowed to help. Demetre told me that I wouldn't be strong enough to help. I remember I wanted to hit him then, but I did not want to embarrass my mother by getting into a fight with him. Instead I went straight to my mother and explained to her that Demetre wouldn't let me help carry father's casket. An already difficult day would have been even more difficult if I couldn't even help lay my father to rest. In the end they decided to let me help, and on the day of the funeral I believe I became an adult as I carried my father to his final resting place.
![[Image: 2pB2bZE.jpg]](http://i.imgur.com/2pB2bZE.jpg)
To be continued...
Code:
Ready to be graded. Word count: ~3,000My Road by Anthony Petrakis - Admin - 05-21-2017
Damn dude, nice writeup
My Road by Anthony Petrakis - JBLAZE_THE_BOSS - 05-30-2017
Grade
Word Count: 3157
Payout: 3.7 Mil (Rounded Up to the 3200 word payout)
Commentary: Good effort on this piece. It was definitely well written. Happy to see that your player was a bully as a child, good road to becoming a football player. Throwing dead cats in peoples faces, no surprise nobody wanted to be your friend. And you kept a mental list? You were a goddamn lunatic and so was this dude Mitch for being near you. Glad to see your player eventually smartens up and gets away from soccer. It'll be interesting to see how your dead dad motivates you in the next part of the story. Good job :lol: