tells me, “You have to give Caesar away.”
I am too heartsick to do it myself. Mom calls Evelyn, and she finds a home for him. It is not as bad as I fear. I know the people who are taking him because I see them at the dog shows all the time and have a crush on their daughter. Mom is heartened by that fact. “Oh, he’s going to a nice home, Lorenzo,” she says happily. “Evelyn tells me you even like one of those people.”
“Yeah, Mom,” I confess, “but that’s not the point. Caesar’s my dog. Can’t you keep him so I can see him when I come home?”
Once again, Mom never puts herself in my shoes. “We’re so busy, Lorenzo,” she says. “We can’t possibly keep him.”
I never feel as if Mom puts my needs before hers, and this latest incident only deepens that feeling. I have so much trouble saying goodbye to Caesar the day the people come for him. I give him a long, hard hug as tears well up in my eyes. Then I give him a simple command: “Go, Caesar.”
Caesar goes to his new owners. As they exit out the front door, he stops, lingers for a second, and looks back at me one last time. Working through my tears, I find the strength to command him one final time, “Go, Caesar, now.” The big lug turns and lumbers out the door as I collapse on the floor, crying my eyes out. To this day, I can see his furrowed brow creasing his forehead and that puzzled look in his deep-set brown eyes as I bid him goodbye. I still choke up just thinking about him.
The following day, Esther drives me to Los Angeles International Airport. Fighting back tears, I gulp hard as we say goodbye and I board the 747 bound for New York. Seconds after, the airplane cabin door closes shut. It is like a jail cell slamming in my face. The only thing missing is the standard-issue prison jumpsuit, because that’s what I feel like, a prisoner.
New Jersey seems like the end of the world to me—and is. I loathe it as much as I did New York when Mom moved us there before. I hate every minute and am just heartsick over not seeing Dad and my friends. Most of all, I am angry with Mom for sending me there, for keeping me from my father and my friends, and for moving us away from them now for the second time. My inner radar, however, tells me, “Lorenzo, get your shit together.” I know that I am a young man in need of saving regardless of how deeply upset I feel.
It is no small task to grow up in the shadow of a famous father. From his larger-than-life persona to his grand presence as an actor, he has big shoes to fill. At times, as a boy, I think I will never measure up. Entering the academy is no different. I am this overweight, out-of-shape, chunky twelve-year-old kid who looks more like Buddy Hackett’s son than Fernando Lamas’s. What’s more, I’m hardly what you’d consider a jock. My father, on the other hand, is this giant of a man in tip-top athletic shape, someone who can do just about anything physically.
Military school is the hardest thing I have ever experienced. Nothing but guys, bunk beds, lots of marching, and no girls (not even one!). It all seems so extreme. I just want to go back to California.
Yet even though the disciplined environment is grating, eventually I come to appreciate it. In the end, it is all good for me. The lessons I learn there have a lasting impression on me.
All freshmen at the academy, including me, are classified as “plebes,” the lowest class in the U.S. Naval Academy, actually no rank at all. All incoming freshmen are required to take the Marine Corps physical fitness test. It’s a series of drills designed to teach self-discipline and maintain a high level of physical fitness, all pillars of “the Marine Corps way of life.” Standard dress is green-on-green T-shirts, shorts, socks, and running shoes. No deviation. The test is composed of three events: pull-ups, abdominal crunches, and a three-mile run, all conducted in a single session.
Most of the guys run rings around me. They do the pull-ups, the crunches, and the three-mile run with ease, unlike the aforementioned overweight, out-of-shape, chunky twelve-year-old who looks like Buddy Hackett’s son. I fail the test miserably. I cannot do a single pull-up. I cannot do a crunch (does a Nestlé’s Crunch count?). I am so down on myself sitting at my locker afterward I want to quit. Suddenly, I feel this presence and look up. It is Stan Slaby, the coach who administered the test.
“Hey, Lamas,” he says, “what’s going on? Why the long face?”
“Coach,” I confess, “I just feel horrible, you know. I can’t do a push-up or a pull-up.”
What the coach says are just plain, simple words, but the fact they come from someone who has probably seen a thousand kids in my situation throughout the years means more to me than he can know. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” he says gruffly, “and get on a team.”
After that, Coach mentors me. My junior year I get on a team as he suggests—well, three teams: first track, then wrestling, and then swimming. In a few years, I have a much different image of myself. Coach is a big reason for that.
Another guy I look up to back then is my company commander, Tom Coffey. Like Coach, he pushes me to be better than I am and, most important, to lead through my actions.
“Lamas, if you are ever lucky to become an officer of your own company,” he barks at me as if he is giving an order, “don’t take your privilege for granted. Don’t treat anybody less than you would want yourself treated. The best way to lead is to be an example for the others to follow.”
“Yes, sir!”
During my four years at the academy, I really buckle down. I abide by the school’s rigid rules of forced responsibility; I take things more seriously. Until attending the academy, I admit cracking the books or studying hard never turned me on. But now I study hard and my grades reflect it. I possess a keen interest in animals and nature, and so I set my sights on going to vet school after I graduate. My goal is to become a veterinarian and work with animals for the rest of my life.
I earn varsity letters in track, wrestling, swimming, and football after honing my athletic skills, and become more confident in my abilities and in myself. Taking notice of my exemplary behavior and results, the academy promotes me to battalion staff second lieutenant; I’m in charge of 250 cadets.
Even Esther notices my amazing transformation during one of my summer breaks back in California. “Military school is the best thing for you,” she says.
Esther, of course, is right. Because of that experience, I am a much different person today—more disciplined, more focused. And I’m grateful to Mom for stepping in when she did.
Who are you calling chunky now?
During summer breaks in California, I’m like a regular kid again and enjoy quality time with Dad. We go to soccer games, swim in the ocean, and hang out together a lot. My first summer home I work as a gas station attendant to earn extra money. It is not something I would recommend on a long-term basis, but it works for me. To my friends’ amusement, I would say, “I have a job with the Royal Dutch Shell Group.” It sounds better than saying, “I work at the Shell station in Brentwood.”
The summer of my junior year with Dad and Esther, I land a job as a lifeguard at the Jonathan Club, a prestigious private Santa Monica beach club that’s been in existence since the late 1920s. Dad gets me a car through Bucky Norris, his well-connected friend and former minister-turned-insurance-salesman and longtime drinking buddy at the Cock’n Bull. It’s the first time I drive legally on the streets of California as a licensed driver: a smoking, brand-new, kick-ass-under-the-hood Ford Falcon. Between lifeguarding a bevy of hot-looking babes and driving that beauty around, I feel like the coolest guy on the planet. After getting the Falcon, I end up calling my first childhood crush, Laurie.
