In the hot, buzzing summer of ’85, right before the football season that would name me a NYC All-City player, I was wrapped up in a completely different game—the graffiti scene. Those days of adventure and raw expression, tagging subway cars with my buddy ZOOM, rest in peace. He was a legend in his own right, a true artist of the streets.
We’d head out under darkness, our backpacks loaded with cans. The thrill wasn’t just in the act but the entire experience—the train’s hum, the smell of paint, and the adrenaline rush of dodging the third rail and any prying eyes. That night was one for the books; we went all out, bombing train after train with our signature “throw-ups,” those quick, stylish pieces that said we were there.
Each day at football practice, as we ran drills and I smashed into tackles, I’d glance at the #6 train line that ran parallel to the field. Spotting each car I tagged, a grin would sneak onto my face. There’s a certain pride in seeing your work roll by, a moving canvas displaying your night’s adventures. It was a stark contrast to the structured brutality of football, yet it filled the same need—to leave a mark, to prove something.
As the years have passed, those wild nights have turned into stories I tell, moments of a different life. But every time I see an old, tagged subway car or catch the faint whiff of spray paint, I’m right back there—under the city lights with ZOOM, making art that was as ephemeral as it was exhilarating. The tracks might have carried away our work, but the memories? Those are mine forever, a reminder of youth, rebellion, and the art that shaped me just as much as any game on the field.
