Narrator: Sometimes... when you're a kid... you lie awake at night and ponder the kinds of questions that grownups have long since stopped asking. Questions like - What did it feel like to be dead? Are time and space really infinite? What was there before the universe began? Why are there people like Wayne?
[Wayne snorts and tosses in his sleep]
Wayne: Butthead!
Narrator: I could never figure it out. Even in his sleep, my brother seemed to hate my guts. I guess he'd just never forgiven me for something I did to him very early in life. I'd been born. Then, to make things worse, I stayed.

Narrator: Teachers never die. They live in your memory forever. They were there when you arrived, they were there when you left. Like fixtures. Once in a while they taught you something. But not that often. And, you never really knew them, any more than they knew you. Still, for awhile, you believed in them. And, if you were lucky, maybe there was one who believed in you.

Narrator: Teen logic. At sixteen, it was a tool we used with abandon. And this logic came in all shapes and sizes. We used it to help us through life's tough moments. It helped explain our behavioral oddities. But never was out logic more useful, then when it lent credence to a really hot rumor. It was a dull week in the winter of 'seventy-three. So the rumor had spread like wildfire. By junior year, I'd been down the old rumor-trail... one too many times. Maybe I was a little tough on the guy... but it was so clear to anyone with even a semblance of intelligence. Unfortunately... a semblance of intelligence was in short supply.

Narrator: That afternoon there was kind of a... celebration. They were celebrating youth. Enthusiasm. Idealism. They were cheering for the best, and the brightest. Only they didn't know what I knew then. But they found out. I guess in the end, Miss Shaw did what was best for her. After all, no compromises, no regrets. The only thing is - she didn't do what was best for us. Even today... I don't know who to be angry at. Her... or the system that drove her away.

Narrator: That afternoon, Dad and I took the tour. We talked furniture. We talked life. We made plans. And the next morning, at 8:00 AM, seventy-eight students gathered in the McKinley cafeteria to take what was supposed to be the most important test of their lives. Everyone had a different way of coping that day. Some were more effective than others. But for all the risks and choices, I was one step ahead of them. After all, I knew that this was just one test in thousands I'd be taking in my life. None of them final, none of them irrevocable. And the way I saw it, maybe life was a risk. But this time, I was ready.

Narrator: That afternoon, we gave it all we had. We threw ourselves into it. We did our dead-level best. Our dead-level best... stunk. Pretty soon our problem was clear. It was our goalie's fault. But by halftime... we'd run out of scapegoats. When I got back on that field, I was mad. I'd take these guys on myself, if I had to. When that whistle blew... we actually got possession of the ball. And what's more amazing... we actually completed a pass. It was our finest hour. Unfortunately... we'd kicked the ball into the wrong net. We completely fell apart. It was like "Lord of the Flies". And that's when it happened. Pops was heading towards us to say it was over. That we had no hope of winning. That it was time to hang it up. I don't know what it was that touched him. Maybe it was the way we stuck together. Maybe it was the way we were tearing apart. But in that brief instant... Pops McIntyre became a coach again. And we were finally... a team. Sure, we lost that day. But it was a glorious defeat. After all, all over America, there were teams like ours. Teams that marched bravely into slaughter. Teams that went oh-and-fifteen, and kept on losing. And kept on trying. Not for the league titles... or the silver-plated victory cups. But just for the joy of playing. Together. The thing is... I'll never forget those guys. Even if they were dorks.

Narrator: That Christmas of nineteen-sixty eight, my brother, Wayne, and I fell in love. With color-TV. It was more than love. We were witnessing a modern miracle. And we worshipped it like aborigines from the black-and-white stone-age. It was the first thing we ever agreed on. Even Mom and Karen tended to mist up in the presence of that almost-living color.

Narrator: That day... I realized something from this man that I was trying so hard not to be like. He understood the value of money. And the cost of it.
Kevin: Hey - it's too bad about that putt.
Jack: A putt's a putt.
Kevin: Coulda made it, Dad!
Jack: Maybe.
Narrator: I guess Dad knew he could lose a game, and still not lose his manhood. His pride didn't hinge on a stupid shot. Or some shiny new clubs. And I suddenly knew exactly what I wanted to use my money for.
Kevin: Dad! Can I buy you lunch?
Jack: Whatever you say, Kev.
Narrator: It was the first time I ever really said thank you to the man for all he'd given me.

Narrator: That first week of high school, as I watched our class band together. I realized something about these strangers I'd just met. Strangers I hardly knew. Strangers who were just like me. We were all sharing the same feelings. The same fears, the same loneliness. We were just starting out, and there was only one direction to go. So we went - together.

Narrator: That night I sat and looked at old photos of my dad. The things he'd done. His life and times. Maybe I was searching for some way to make things better. It wasn't up to me to set this right. [Kevin's parents are talking in the background] I couldn't hear exactly what they said, but watching them I finally knew what my father needed for his birthday. Not a funny tie or a forty-seven dollar meal or even a ratchet set. What he needed was to know deep down that she remembered what he remembered; feel even for that briefest moment like king for a day.

Narrator: That night my father stood there, looking up at the sky the way he always did. But suddenly I realized I wasn't afraid of him in quite the same way anymore. The funny thing is, I felt like I lost something.

Narrator: That night, Paul Pfeiffer and I played the most important game of our lives. We both played hard. And we both played to win. And no game ever mattered more. To both of us. Maybe change is never easy. You fight to hold on. You fight to let go. But that night... after seven-hundred ninety consecutive loses... Paul finally beat me. Paul made the basketball team that year. And he had some loyal fans. But his biggest fan... was also his best friend. I guess sometimes you have to grow apart... to keep growing together.

Narrator: The best part of having a best friend is knowing someone really understands you. Paul Pfeiffer and I shared more than just the laughs and the Oreos. We shared confidences. In a lot of ways, Paul knew me better than I knew myself. And he wouldn't hesitate to remind me if I ever forgot. It was a tried-and-true relationship. But like all relationships... sometimes it got a little... stale.

Narrator: The biggest thing in a young boy's world is his dad. You do what he says. You do what he does. He's your guide through the mysteries of manhood - your confidant. Your pal. Until the day comes when, for some reason, things change. Your confidant becomes... that guy on the other end of the couch.

Narrator: The fact was... the teachers I had at RFK ranged from the ridiculous... to the sublime. From the exasperating... to the intimidating. From the ineffectual... to the indecipherable. It's just that, as with most adolescents... my real education began at home. From my family. My mother instilled in me a deep appreciation for the importance of family. And knowing your roots. Then, of course... there was my father. The man who'd taught me the intricacies of progressive parenting. My sister taught me the concept of independence. And, by accident of birth... ladies and gentlemen, my brother, Wayne. A pillar of support in times of crisis. All-in-all, I guess you could say my family was kind of a proving ground for the lessons of life.