Iceman Read Online Free

one-on-one tackle football. It was an all-or-nothing game—you either scored, or you got slammed. By now Dan, who was three but big for his age, followed me, Laura, and Sean everywhere we went. Half the time he’d end up running back inside and crying to Mom because he’d been hurt. She’d tell him what she had told the rest of us growing up: He had two choices, play inside by himself or play outside with the kids. Either way, she didn’t want to hear him whining.
    The house was crowded. It was three bedrooms, with a small guesthouse in the backyard. My great-grandma lived back there for a while—which meant seven of us were splitting those three bedrooms. When she passed away, my grandparents moved into the guesthouse, basically giving us five the run of their house. They were just incredibly generous. We never wanted for cleats or equipment or support at our games because they were always helping out. People who don’t know me, who try to tell my story, like to think that I fight because of some deeply hidden anger because my father wasn’t around. Sorry to disappoint, but that’s not the case, although he gave me—and my family—plenty of reasons to be mad. One time when I was two and he was still living with us, my mom came home to find me in a room by myself eating an onion that my sister had given me. I was starving and my father didn’t want to get off the couch to feed me. Another time, when I was eight, Pops, a guy everyone called Smiley because he never got mad at anyone or swore around us, came running into the house muttering, “I saw him, I swear to God I saw that fucker and I’m going to kill him.” It didn’t take us long to realize he was talking about my dad—the guy I would eventually just refer to as the sperm donor. Pops ran out of the house with his handgun and his billy club looking to take the man out. I grew up occasionally hearing my mom cry herself to sleep because she was so sad. And I saw her work three jobs at a time—for the county, as a salesperson at a knife store, in security—sometimes up to ninety hours a week, so we could get Christmas presents.

    It was crowded in our house, but I always loved having Grandma and Pops around.
    But, as I said, I wasn’t mad. I’ve always been glad he wasn’t around. If he had stayed, I’d be a much different person. I’d probably be seriously messed up because I would have been raised in such a bad environment. Instead, I turned out remarkably well-adjusted. Seriously. In college I once kicked down a door that was stuck, and immediately the school put me into anger management (and made me pay $240 to fix the door). I spent one session with the counselor and explained that I just wanted to get on the other side of the door. After talking with me he told me not to come back. He didn’t think I had an anger problem. I still don’t. I’m not holding in any “Where’s Daddy?” demons. I never step into the cage angry, trying to turn my opponent into my long-lost father. You can’t win if you can’t control your emotions, that’s what my grandpa taught all of us when we were young. And he was my father figure, doing all the things that every dad does for his kids, and because of that, it’s never occurred to me that I should be pissed my dad wasn’t around.
    We all benefited from living with our grandparents, and not just because they helped put food on the table, kept a roof over our head, and bought us equipment. They had already been parents and were more tolerant—and had a better sense of humor—when we kids made mistakes. When I was two, I watched Pops using a hammer to fix something outside the house. He turned his back for a second and I picked up the hammer, went over to the sliding glass door, and banged on it, the way he had been doing. The door shattered. And once everyone knew I was okay, his response was