I started questioning the mainstream narrative about race in 1973, while attending a San Francisco Giants game at Candlestick Park with my Little League buddies. After a few innings, we all went to the bathroom and got cornered by a group of black boys in a stairwell. They singled me out, threatened me, and then stole my belt. Why my belt? Because it was cool! Black leather with silver eyelets up and down it, very fashionable at the time. I remember the complete humiliation I felt as one of the boys pulled my shirt up, unbuckled my belt with his filthy hands and slid it out of my waistband. My buddies ran off crying as I flagged down a security guard.
I was taken to a holding room somewhere in the bowels of the stadium and questioned for a half an hour or so. Then I had to just wait around until another security guard came back with a group of boys and asked if I could identify the one who took my belt. That part was easy, since he was still wearing it. As the black boys stared me down, I was released (with my belt) and ushered back to my seat. But the blacks were let out as well, without punishment. For the rest of the game, I hid behind the scoreboard and watched the gang search for me, aisle by aisle. It was a scary situation and I will never forget nor forgive them. If they had caught up to me, they surely would have beat the crap out of me.
