NUMBER 86: What Doesn't Kill You Will Give You a Lifetime of Memories

Fremont, California. 1981.

I was thirteen, and I was going to play in the majors.

Yep.

The big show.

In my mind, I was as good as Babe Ruth when he was my age, and I'd had my name in the paper often enough to convince myself.

I played center field and right field, and batting? I could hit. I could knock a ball over center.

I had played baseball every summer since I was five.

That summer, I paid my own registration, my uniform fee, and bought my own cleats. I couldn't wait for tryouts. When I made the Fremont Cubs, I was elated.

About a month into the season, my stepfather grounded me. He said I hadn't earned the right to play baseball anymore.

And that was it.

Eight summers of baseball. Gone.

I was wrecked.

Something about thirteen-year-old me … he said I couldn't play baseball.

He didn't say I couldn't play football.

There was hope.

God knew I needed it.

My Argus newspaper route was gone because I had been falling asleep in class. Boxing at the Fremont Boys Club was finished until fall. I had lost my fight against the kid from Oakland, and I was heading into seventh grade, where grownups assured me life was about to get serious.

Real consequences.

Awesome.

My mind kept playing the same highlight reel.

Argus route? Gone.

Baseball season? Gone.

Boxing seemed years away.

It was Nightmare on Bullard Street.

I was the dog missing a leg, an eye, half his tail, and named Lucky.

Thank God for Mario.

Mario, by that summer, had become my best friend.

He fit in with us. Our neighborhood, and part of us.

When we played, blood didn't mean stop. It meant play better. Play harder. And there was no crying. There was no whining. Suck in some air, dust off, and go back at it.

Scrapes, noses bent shooting baskets, three flies up. Whatever we played usually ended with at least one of us wearing what were probably hospital-grade major abrasions.

All came with the territory.

Mario fit into it all, and though somewhat shorter than most of us, he had heart, energy, and determination.

He refused to lose.

He was a first-class maniac with a natural acumen for hitting a kid hard enough that the next time they saw Mario coming, they'd rather give the ball away or develop a sudden interest in being anywhere else.

Mario wanted to play football.

Any team. Any position.

He wanted to hit people. Tackle people. Murder the offense.

Yeah. He fit right in with us.

I had a somewhat different philosophy.

If the other team wanted the ball that badly … give it to them.

Mario's mom, Theresa, was one of the leading women in my life. I practically lived with his family that summer.

Theresa learned about my unending clashes with Rick.

There was no way she was going to let me spend the summer without playing football.

She signed me up.

Mario was beside himself with excitement.

I'd played flag football. Two-hand touch. I was good.

So I went with them to tryouts.

When tryouts ended, Mario, Theresa, and I were getting ready to leave when somebody called my name.

I was told to report to a lady at Table A.

I'd been drafted to the Fremont Falcons.

Number 86.

Mario made the Colts.

Fortuitously, the Colts and the Falcons practiced at the same time, on adjoining fields at Durham.

Two teams.

Two best friends.

Two bikes.

Double days.

Oh, hell's bells.

It was hot.

Coaches yelled incessantly.

Nope. I had no clue what I was in for.

Looking back, it must be similar to what a new recruit feels when they're ordered off the bus and told to stand on the yellow footprints.

Yep. Hell had surfaced.

Mario loved it.

I had fantasies of swimming pools, girls, and a lot of every kind of good food.

At thirteen, I had developed the biological imperative and bottomless appetite of a ravenous silverback gorilla.

Mama couldn't believe it.

There had been a time when three of her family-famous tacos would fill me.

Then?

Eight sounded about right.

I could smash a large pizza by myself.

Between our morning and afternoon practices, I'd go home, eat, walk over to Mario's, and discover that the long journey of a few dozen steps had worked up another appetite.

Second lunch.

Fantasies are great, but I learned that a coach with his face three inches from yours, yelling RUN! will knock fantasy into oblivion even faster.

Mario played on the field next to me.

We watched each other when we weren't being killed by serious guys and coaches who desperately needed a stiff dose of Thorazine.

Mario was one of those serious types, but he was serious and fun.

His coaches loved him.

Of course, they did.

Mario understood football. He loved the hitting, tackling, and competition. He wanted to win, and he had the disposition to do something about it.

I enjoyed wearing my uniform.

I enjoyed the girls. And game days. The cheering. Being part of a team.

Practices, not so much.

Coach Pinkerton had a special interest in making us run.

I said run, not jog!

We had warm-ups. Calisthenics. Hurdler stretches. Never heard of those until … football.

Loved hurdler stretches. Mmm hmm.

Then the line drills. Never heard of those, either, until … you guessed it: football.

Six yards out. Run back.

Twelve yards out. Run back.

Eighteen yards out. Run back.

Again.

Again.

Growing up in Fremont, we didn't have Mission San Jose money.

They had baseball fields and football fields.

For us, baseball season meant we had a baseball field. Football season meant we had a football field.

Same place.

Different lines.

That meant when Coach Pinkerton ordered us to run around the field, he meant the whole field.

I also struggled to learn the plays.

All the coach could do at times was cock his head sideways and stare in disbelief.

He had heard of kids like me.

He had never seen one.

There I was. The least naturally gifted football player of his entire life.

He tried everything.

Left guard. Right guard. Left tackle. Right tackle. Fullback.

Defense was never, EVER a consideration.

I was a champion boxer. I knew how to hit somebody. Crushingly hard. I had stamina. Brutal strength. Determination.

Boxing and football presented differently.

In boxing, I could read my opponent.

In football, it was bloody chaos. Guys came from all directions.

I discovered how disinterested in the sport I was during drills one afternoon.

I hit a kid as hard as I could.

Our helmets collided.

A brilliant white flash went off in my head.

Immediate serious pain.

Down we went.

I had taken him out.

My teammates went nuts. Coach Pinkerton, clipboard in hand, was jumping up and down.

I got up, shook it off, and celebrated with my team.

I made a decision: I'll never do that again.

And I never did.

Meanwhile, Mario was having the time of his life.

He experienced the plaudits and rah-rah joys of winning that I knew from fighting.

In football, I experienced the other end of victory.

To say we had very different football experiences is one of my greatest understatements of all time.

Now, Coach Pinkerton.

I never understood how that man managed to speak in a normal voice after practices and games.

He yelled.

He yelled when we ran. He yelled when we stopped running. He yelled when we did something wrong. And on those rare occasions when I thought I'd done something right, he'd generally find something else to yell about.

One afternoon, after warm-ups, stretches, line drills, and running the field a few times, Coach ordered us to run some more.

Again.

At one point Mario and I were running, talking, and laughing. Apparently, enjoying yourself during physical punishment was a serious offense against the coaching profession.

We managed to tweak our coaches' minds.

We laughed that off.

By the time I got back to my team, I was hurting.

Coach Pinkerton ordered another run.

I ran.

Last.

Again.

He was angry now.

I crossed the line last, again, barely able to breathe.

Another run.

Oh, hell's bells.

I started around the field.

I hadn't made it halfway when I heard his voice.

Behind me.

OMG!

Coach Pinkerton was running after me.

I discovered how quickly I could find energy.

He chased me around that field, yelling the entire way. I made it back to the team, and I was finished. Absolutely finished.

Coach grabbed my facemask and jerked me around.

Was I giving him my best?

My team needed me.

Show up and work hard.

Wasn't I the only champion fighter on the team?

I was exhausted. My body hurt. I was angry. I wanted him to leave me alone.

And then I broke.

I cried.

Right there in front of God, my coaches, my team.

I couldn't hold it back anymore.

I was furious.

Coach saw it.

And something happened.

His voice changed.

He became quiet.

"Take a knee, Scotty."

Scotty.

I hated that name.

But I was smart enough to keep that to myself. If Coach or the guys knew how much I hated being called Scotty, I would be Scotty for life.

I took a knee.

He leaned down.

"Scotty, have you ever noticed we don't yell at all of the players?"

I listened.

He pointed out that the coaches yelled at the kids they saw the most potential in. They pushed hard because they knew we were capable of more.

Whatever he said after that was a blur.

My spirit rose up inside of me.

He saw potential in me.

Number 86.

I had spent that summer losing things.

Baseball.

My Argus newspaper route.

Boxing.

Coach Pinkerton, who had just chased me around a Fremont baseball field, was saying he believed in me.

I wiped my face.

Got up, and went back to practice.

I still hated running, but when Coach ordered me to run, I ran harder.

Now … the touchdown.

I was in the end zone.

Wide open.

Nobody near me for miles.

Our quarterback, Lamb, was scrambling for his life.

The blitz was on.

I watched him looking around for somebody to throw the football to.

Then he saw me.

Wide open.

He searched for anyone else to throw to.

And that is where … everything went into super slow motion.

The crowd was cheering.

I was about to become legendary.

Lamb drew his arm back and fired that football right at me.

This was it. My moment.

All eyes on me.

Breath bated and held suspended.

I was going to catch that ball, score a touchdown, and send the crowd into a frenzy.

The ball came into my hands.

I couldn't believe it!

It hit the harness of my shoulder pads and bounced off.

Touchdown, it was not.

My heart sank.

There I was.

I could knock a baseball over center field.

I could win a championship fight.

Catching a perfectly thrown pass in the end zone escaped me.

We lost another game that day, and I owned the reason we lost.

Mario and Theresa always had a way of showing me the brighter side.

I learned I had a favorite part of football.

Round Table Pizza.

The best.

Then and now.

The perfect place for a football team to celebrate a win.

We frequented it.

But Mario and I didn't need a football game to find our way there.

One day, we were riding our bikes through Fremont.

Lake Elizabeth. Railroad tracks. Irvington District. The old pickle factory.

We were nearby.

And we were hungry.

Of course, we were.

Round Table.

We combined our money and placed our order.

I ordered a pitcher of beer for us, clueless that it was a big deal.

I wondered why the lady behind the counter had an interest in my age.

Sharp on the uptake, I expected age was important to her, so I told her the truth.

"I'll be fourteen soon."

Eleven months later.

She giggled.

"All right."

And she handed us two frosty mugs of beer.

Root beer.

No charge.

Just for being me.

We enjoyed our stay, and as Mario and I were heading out the door, she told us we'd made her day.

She said I probably had a career in comedy or entertainment waiting for me.

Who would have thunk it?

We headed out on our bikes.

We still had more Fremont to explore.

Yeah, that summer.

Mario made the Colts.

We rode our bikes to Durham. We practiced on adjoining fields. We watched each other play when we could.

He won.

I ran.

He tackled people.

I ran.

I kept playing.

There was always somewhere to go.

Something to do.

Someone waiting for us.

The places we went. Our epic adventures.

That was the summer I became convinced that what doesn't kill you will give you a lifetime of memories.

Mario was my best friend then.

At fifty - I'm not saying the rest - he's still my little brother and greatest friend.

I can still see him on that field at Durham. The Colts practicing next to the Falcons. Coaches yelling. Boys hitting each other hard. The heat. The dust. Coach Pinkerton.

And Number 86 … desperate to catch my breath.

We had bikes to ride.

And there was still plenty of daylight.

Bryan-David Scott

Faith. Fire. Love. Story. Legacy.

Let Love Lead.

© 2026 Bryan-David Scott. All rights reserved.

The Saturday Evening Studio Series, and all associated original stories, images, characters, titles, text, branding, concepts, series materials, and creative works, to the extent protected by applicable law, are the intellectual and creative property of Bryan-David Scott.

Sharing is welcomed and appreciated. Readers are encouraged to share links to the original published work and brief excerpts with appropriate credit to Bryan-David Scott, clear identification of the original title, and a link to the original source. Please preserve the author's words, meaning, and attribution.

Except for the sharing permission stated above and uses permitted by applicable law, reproduction, redistribution, scraping, resale, AI training use, derivative publication, commercial use, adaptation, republication, or unauthorized display requires prior written permission from Bryan-David Scott.

Unauthorized copying, extraction, resale, training use, publication, or distribution of this material, in whole or in part, is prohibited to the extent permitted by applicable law.

For republication, licensing, commercial use, adaptation, or other permissions, contact Bryan-David Scott Studios.

Share the story. Credit the author. Preserve the work.