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RENEGADE
AT
HEART
AN
AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Lorenzo Lamas
with Jeff Lenburg
BENBELLA BOOKS, INC.
DALLAS, TEXAS
The events, locations, and conversations in this book, while true, are re-created from the author’s memory. However, the essence of the story and the feelings and emotions evoked are intended to be accurate representations. In certain instances, names, persons, organizations, and places have been changed to protect an individual’s privacy.
Copyright © 2014 by Lorenzo Lamas and Jeff Lenburg
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher.
BenBella Books, Inc.
10300 N. Central Expressway
Suite #530
Dallas, TX 75231
Send feedback to [email protected]
First e-book edition: December 2014
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication
Lamas, Lorenzo.
Renegade at heart : an autobiography / by Lorenzo Lamas ; with Jeff Lenburg.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-941631-25-6 (paperback)—ISBN 978-1-941631-26-3 (electronic) 1. Lamas,
Lorenzo. 2. Actor—United States—Biography. I. Lenburg, Jeff. II. Title.
PN2287.L242A3 2014
791.4502'8092—dc23
[B]
2014034982
Editing by Brian Nicol
Copyediting by Stacia Seaman
Proofreading by Michael Fedison and Chris Gage
Text design and composition by John Reinhardt Book Design
Cover design by Sarah Dombrowsky
Cover photography by Peggy Seagren McIntagart
Printed by Lake Book Manufacturing
Distributed by Perseus Distribution
To place orders through Perseus Distribution:
Tel: (800) 343-4499
Fax: (800) 351-5073
E-mail: [email protected]
Significant discounts for bulk sales are available.
Please contact Glenn Yeffeth at [email protected] or (214) 750-3628.
To Mom, an amazing woman and survivor,I dedicate this book to you.
—Lorenzo
To Lorenzo, for your brotherhood, your friendship,and for forging down this path together.
—Jeff
PROLOGUE
Remember, You Have a History!
AS WHITE-CRESTED WAVES crash on the shore with a loud thundering roar, I feel his presence stronger than ever, standing at our favorite spot on Will Rogers Beach in beautiful Malibu. This powerful, graceful, confident, conspicuous but refined man swimming like the champion he was. Laughing and breaking into that wide, infectious grin as he playfully lifts me up on his broad shoulders to surf ashore as crashing waves lather us in white foam. The same man I admired so much, the man who built his career through blood, sweat, and tears and fought hard every step of the way to become accepted, respected, and successful. My hero, my confidant . . . my father, Fernando Lamas.
As I gaze out at the blue Pacific sparkling like diamonds as the layers of dense fog give way to brilliant rays of sunshine, I truly miss him. That rich baritone and overdramatic lilt in his voice—surprisingly sounding more like Count Dracula than the native Argentinean he was—as he would offer his wise counsel and timely words of encouragement. Every time I come here it is only natural I think of Dad. This beach was our place. It is here we spent so many times together. Although the quantity was not there, what we had, as he used to say, was “quality.” Something I would never trade for anything.
One of my father’s favorite things was cruising up Pacific Coast Highway in his luxurious, shiny, tan-and-gold Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow so we could spend the day together on the beaches of Malibu. My father loved that car. It was a hard-won prize, representing years of toiling and paying his dues to make something of himself as a foreigner with a foreign name in an alien land. I can still hear him saying as if he were performing onstage, “In a Rolls, Lorenzo, you’ve arrrrrrr-ived!”
Dad left a major imprint on my life with his many life lessons and his penetrating words, none of which have lost their significance for me. If anything, unlike small grains of sand swept away by receding waves into the abyss, they have taken on greater importance with age. He was always sharing, always instilling, always preparing, always planting seeds. His eyes were on the future—my future, my life—and what he thought was best for me.
As the majestic waves crest out in the distance, I remember one such example clearly, like yesterday. Dad picks me up from school. I run out to the parking lot to find him in his usual parking spot, doing his usual thing—reading the newspaper. Looking up, he smiles when he sees me and excitedly honks the car’s distinctive horn. I climb inside his sparkling Rolls to the usual looks of envy from other kids waiting for their parents. Then we speed off.
The glow of pride on my father’s face instantly fades. He sees I have been crying. He knows why: Other boys have been teasing me about my name. There are no Lorenzos or Fernandos in the neighborhood where I live or in the school I attend. Dad never says a word to me
