When Muhammad Ali died, a reporter asked his daughter,  Laila, about him.  She said that he was far from a perfect man, but was always the first to acknowledge his shortcomings and that was the reason she respected him.

I had an enlarged photo of Ali in my office next to my baby bamboo plant, the one where as an underdog, he has just knocked Sonny Liston out and yells at him to get up.  I never really bought into his cockiness or bravado, but instead I remember him saying as an older man, “Only God is great.”  From the man considered the greatest.

I taught my daughter that statement and she replied “Dad, you don’t even believe that.”  I said “Not all the time.  But I do implicitly.”  And that faith leaves room for doubt, quite a bit of it.  I told her that anyone who says they believe in God completely and all the time is lying.

A significant portion of my job responsibilities was to serve as an advisor.  I joke that I served kings and fools.  The former in a figurative sense and the latter in a definitely literal sense.

Most definitely.

On several occasions, the definitions overlapped.  The last Deputy Commissioner I served under was a small man in every sense of the word.  Insecure, he would surround himself with mainly women in his inner circle, and the occasional yes-man.  He excluded pretty much all of the uniformed commanders in the command.  When I explained some pretty egregious errors involving public safety, threats to officers, and even national security, he would laugh and pooh-pooh what I said.  Which makes no sense because what I defended weren’t originally my positions or thoughts, but rather the views of the prior Deputy Commissioners of Legal and Counterterrorism / Intelligence, and the Chief of Detectives.  Kings.

Basically, this “king” was just a top-level secretary.  He would make sexual jokes during staff meetings, say the N-word (quoting a source but utterly unnecessary and just a show of power), focus on making pins and T-shirts, boast about his Tesla, and give out “commands” like mail out the documents.

I was so ashamed to be in the presence of this man.  My Chief asked me once about a staff meeting where he was conspicuously absent and what was discussed.  I replied everything and nothing.  Chief chuckled and says quite apt.

Kings and fools.

A good friend said this – Women (and men) know what’s good for them but tell themselves false narratives to make themselves feel better or whatever.  We were discussing this principle in the context of romantic relationships but I think this is applicable to a host of other areas – work, pursuits, distractions, pain killers.  In short, we lie.   Why is that?  I don’t exactly know but my guess it has something to do with fear.  Of the unknown.  What we truly want.  Who we are.

I told my daughter that the boy who likes her the most will be the meanest to her.  Intuitively it just felt and sounded right.  It’s probably more of a rule of thumb than true all the time (and definitely not in the case of bullying or abuse).  But I looked it up and a psychologist said that one explanation is that people often fear rejection or think they aren’t worthy so at least on a subconscious level they strike preemptively.  That was the given explanation for why little boys throw stones at the little girls they like.  Well my little girl won’t throw stones back.  She’ll put him in a chokehold – no kidding here, she actually knows how to do this – Brazilian jujitsu and all that.  She also has her dad’s streak (which I used for good – mostly).  This also explains possibly why in many rom-coms, characters who initially don’t get along end up together.  Basically every season of Bridgerton.

Sun Tzu writes that the path to victory is to know your enemy and yourself.  The former is definitely important but the latter maybe more so.  That takes vulnerability, humility, and courage.  All rare qualities.  A constant battle and struggle.  

Maybe that’s also the true meaning of love your neighbor as yourself.  It’s not about pampering yourself or even accepting who you are but rather knowing  who you are, what you want or need, and maybe the sum of it all – who you were created and destined to be.

My DA Chief and I discussed why Satan and his buddies decided to rebel against an all loving God.  And maybe that’s the answer – we tend to reject what is actually good for us.  Probably something to do with wide and narrow paths and roads less traveled.  

Sweet the sin 

Bitter the taste in my mouth 

I see seven towers 

But I only see one way out 

I took the poison from the poison stream 

And I floated out of here

She will suffer the needle chill 

She’s running to stand still

I’ve always been a good defender in any sport I played.  My daughter plays a lot like me.  Her nickname is Iron Leg.  Tough, unrelenting, high pressure, unafraid of contact.

Defense is about will.  Harnessing it.  Imposing it.

Defense is about pain.  Harnessing it.  Inflicting it.

One time, the senior pastor’s son tries to intimidate me in a pickup game.  He is a varsity player, bigger, stronger, older.

He never scores.  He had a stable home, a prince at church, a jock at school.

But I had pain, lots of it.  And I throw it at him.  At the end of the game, he remarks to his friend that I’m not afraid to guard them.  Damn straight.

Nothing to win.  Nothing left to lose.

I’m not really sure how to characterize this period of my life.  Tough?  Formative?  Sad?  Hopeful?  Other?  It doesn’t matter, this will always be a big part of me.

Leaving the birth country for a new one was difficult.  I remember crying a lot.  I missed my friends and family.  America was big.  America was scary.

Adjusting was not easy.  While I learned and spoke English in Malaysia (a Commonwealth country), I had the tell-tale Malaysian accent.  The one I can immediately identify today.  I had trouble pronouncing certain words.  A not-so-awesome friend would constantly remind me of the time in 7th grade where I bungled fhe words “Calculator” and “Connecticut” in English class.  To this day, anytime I see those words, I silently say them to myself as a reminder that I can pronounce them properly.  Like now.

My parents bought a house in a decent neighborhood and school district.  But I wear clothes bought off the DC streets.  We go to the grocery store for entertainment, they don’t have these in Malaysia.  I have no idea what I’m doing at school.  Bullies, lots of them.  They play cruel tricks on me.  I almost get detention because I don’t know how to read the complicated lunch schedule.  I get suspended for fighting (yes I started it, found a bigger guy to make a point, fought him in front of half the school, lost but was less picked on after).  I am so unathletic, I get sent with a few guys to the mainly girls section of PE.  

I drop most of the accent after a year.  American TV and radio will do that.  Getting made fun of will also do that.  I learn to play the major US sports in a year.  I learn that my arm is above average.  I can outthrow many of my peers.  I learn that my reflexes from playing badminton are useful for baseball and hockey – I discover I can field balls and save shots like a champ.  I even realize I have enough football skills to play at the level of a sandlot backup quarterback.  And yes, that jumpshot.

To remind me of who I am, I put posters of Malaysia up on my bedroom walls.  These eventually come down for Clyde Drexler, Tom Gugliotta, Kevin Hatcher, and Jimi Hendrix.

We almost get deported.  Our file was evidently dropped behind some file cabinet at the INS.  Economic pressure affects the family.  They find the file.  We stay.  My dad keeps his job.

I somehow make it into a magnet high school program.  Average in math, a decent writer, a hell of a problem solver, I beat out Ivy League bound kids on the critical thinking portion of the test.

But I never forget where I’m from.  Not entirely by choice.  I get reminded of that from time to time.

I don’t really know how to close this one.  Because it has never really closed.  I cling to this saying.  It applies to everything a person has done in life.

Once one, always one.

Immigrant song.

My first Deputy Commissioner, a badass in every form of the word and the man who hired me (DOJ Organized Crime, AUSA SDNY, took down the mob) lost a brother to crime.  In his early 20s, while on witness protection duty, he was assassinated in his vehicle by two gunmen accompanied by two lookouts.  President Reagan made this event a key component of his policies.

I had the privilege of attending his memorial mass in NYC,  Held at the magnificent St. Patrick’s Cathedral in downtown Manhattan, it was a sight to behold.  Sniper units on rooftops, our Vapor Wake dogs (selectively breeded, highly trained, have their own baseball cards), the bagpipes, helicopters.

And when the Deputy Commissioner got up to speak, everyone was silent and in awe of how he described his brother’s life and passing.  And all the good that followed.  People are surprised when I tell them that NYC was once one of the safest cities in the US.  It went from over 2000 homicides to roughly 500 in two years.  Now it’s run by those who can be described generously as self-serving, incompetent, political types.  Nevertheless, heroes do exist.

This is how I lost several friends whom I thought were close and the church community I grew up in.  At a former pastor’s ordination, I stayed over at another pastor friend’s apartment.  Another friend, a 36 year old church youth counselor also stayed over with three 18-year old girls.  I initially slept in the living room with the youth counselor while the three girls slept in an adjoining bedroom.  In the middle of the night, thinking I was asleep, the youth counselor enters the bedroom with the girls.  This doesn’t look good.  I ask my pastor friend what to do and he tells me to do nothing.  I thought about this and decide to pull the youth counselor out.

I report this incident to the church, as well as another incident where another female friend told me how he pushed her to the ground to presumably engage in some type of behavior.  When she pushes him off, he claims that he misread the situation.

I try to enlist the support of several friends, many of them respected and highly placed within the church.  They turn their back on me, asserting that I overreacted, was on a witch hunt, and was a bull in a China shop.  They stonewall and cover up.

Embarrassed, I resign my membership.  The church I attended and served in for 17 years.

Only recently, 15 years later, I found out that he pushed another two younger females to the ground.  Also throwing parties where he encouraged underage drinking and watching while several teens “experimented” with each other.

In a strange twisted way, this new knowledge was vindication as I was gaslit into believing the church may have been initially correct in their assessment.

He is still attending the church with his wife and family.

This is a true story.

In softball, I’ve generally had good batting averages but not a lot of power, hitting usually for singles.  I mostly played in the outfield, with a decent arm and extremely good fielding skills.  In fact, I can’t remember a time when I’ve dropped a ball that I could reasonably get to.  I’ve even made some catches that I’m not sure how I caught them.  I was never a spectacular player, just solid and dependable.

Except in this one game in Indiana.

The Christian Legal Society and Christian Business Society had a charity game.  The Business team was led by a tall good-looking guy who prayed eloquently before the game.

The Legal team had me.

I play the game of my life.

No one wanted to play shortstop, so I did, channeling my inner Cal Ripken.  I dive for balls, catch liners, organize the defense.  I get on base every single time I’m at bat, even hitting for extra bases several times.

In the bottom of the 9th inning, we are down by three runs with the bases loaded.  Two outs.  It is my turn to bat.  All I can think of is don’t screw this up, just get on base and give someone else a chance to keep the rally going.

I hit the only home run ever in my life.  Never before, never again.  

And as I round the bases, I glance at the face of the Business team leader and he is in shock.  Also a little jealous.

I don’t bother staying for the post-game prayer, walking home instead with my glove under my arm.  With deep satisfaction.

When interviewing for summer legal jobs in Minneapolis-St. Paul, my interviewers ask me what drew me to Minnesota.  I said I just had a feeling it’s where I needed to be.  The pay is low, I may as well have been working at Target.

But I meet my prosecutor mentor, a Vietnam veteran and someone with 30+ years on the job.  He teaches me how to think and write. To this day, my writing style most resembles his.

The second case I work on involves a 70 year old grandmother who was stabbed to death 21 times by her granddaughter’s boyfriend.  I see the crime scene photos.  That weekend, I lock myself in my room and don’t come out.  On Monday, I am a changed person – something within me had died.

But the summer is beautiful.  The sun rises early and sets late.  I light a candle at the Cathedral of St. Paul every morning for the girl I loved.  I spend a lot of time at the Minnesota Law Enforcement Memorial, dedicated to fallen officers.  I am particularly struck by the black marble monument inscribed with the biblical verse “Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called the children of God.”  I knew at that moment what I would give part of my life to.