“Before the Flags Flew”
Before the colors, before the flags, before the world saw him as just another statistic, there was a boy with a dream and a battered Raiders cap. His world was small—a few cracked sidewalks, a mother working herself to the bone, and a father who was just a ghost in old photos. The block was both Code Playground and battlefield, and every lesson was written in sweat, fear, and the echo of sirens.
He learned early that you had to stand tall, even when you felt small. The older heads on the corner became his teachers, showing him how to talk tough, how to never let anyone see you fold, how to carry yourself like you belonged—even when you felt like you didn’t. The first time he saw someone get checked for colors, he didn’t even understand what it meant. But he saw the fear, the pride, and the pain in every set of eyes. He saw how quickly a kid could become a target, how fast a heart could turn cold.