It was the first time that I had ever hated the sound of my own name. "Tommy, you're up," the coach had yelled down from the entrance of the dugout. I was sitting on the end of the bench next to my ... [+]
I tucked my hair, long and blond like Kurt's, behind my ears. Red flannel hung low, loose and sloppy, like my guitar. My jeans, all beat to shit, inked with black Sharpie "fuck you's," frayed and stomped by Chuck Taylor. I'd pluck my novice power chords and scream pretty, toneless songs of teenage angst into microphones inside grange halls.And then Kurt died.Alone and prone, below a shot gun, defiant fist clenched next to jeans, all beat to shit, all frayed and stomped. I saw him: a martyr, a hero, a role model pathetic god. But really, he was a scared little boy cowering behind long blond ha