An Article About An Article

Edison teen gains fame as streetstyler

The Home News—Sunday, September 7, 1986

When I was growing up in Edison, New Jersey, we (skateboarders) didn’t have skateparks, or sanctioned skate spots. What we had was pavement, lots of it, and the challenge of eluding cops, jocks, store owners, burnouts, and hostile drivers.

We didn’t let these obstacles hinder us. Instead, we took our quasi-urban environment—the walls behind grocery stores, the Rutgers College campus, and New Brunswick parking decks—and we made the best of it.

In a community crowded with traffic jams, townhouses, industry and malls, we considered the asphalt behind Acme prime open space.

I got my first skateboard on Christmas morning, 1984. Just a year and a half later, in June of 1986, a week before my sixteenth birthday, I was sponsored by Powell Peralta, the nation’s leading skateboard manufacturer, while attending a professional ramp competition at Mount Trashmore in Virginia Beach, Virginia.

That weekend, I joined the East Coast’s best street skaters in the Mount Trashmore parking lot for what felt like a casting call. It was a pivotal moment in skateboard history, where the focus shifted from the professionals on the ramp to the kids playing in the streets, of which I was one.

Surrounded by a company of technically sound and polished street skaters—my style was erratic, expressive. While others tried to put themselves across—I put every ounce of my being into every trick. It was apparent to many industry insiders that I wasn’t from Dogtown, and that I didn’t surf. Coming from the Northeast, I was more B-Boy than Z-Boy—I didn’t fit in, and they didn’t know what to make of me. However, skateboard legend, filmmaker, and talent scout for the Bones Brigade, Stacy Peralta did. He saw something in me, believed in me, and asked me to join the team on the spot.

In mid-July I boarded an airplane for the first time, flying to California to compete in the National Skateboard Association amateur streetstyle championship. I landed in Oceanside not just with my own tricks but with an entirely new set of ordinances. I didn’t just take on the country’s best amateur street skaters, I took on the entire West Coast skateboard establishment and I won.

Then in August, I was featured on the cover of Thrasher, the major magazine for skateboard enthusiasts, and later that month, I was back in California to film a scene for the upcoming Bones Brigade video, The Search For Animal Chin.

As a who’s who of professional skaters and industry leaders gathered in Los Angeles for a night of filming in an underground auto repair shop transformed into a mock Las Vegas club, I stepped out into the dusk on Pico Blvd. I looked up into the sky as the last rays of light receded, reflecting upon a summer, the likes of which the sun would never rise again.

In early September, I found myself standing on a sidewalk in Edison with a group of local skaters outside T & F Outdoor Sports, a hunting and fishing store located on Plainfield Avenue. The owners, Tom Zeccino and Frank Pagano, had expanded their inventory to include skating equipment, clothing, and videos based on our suggestions. They, along with Frank’s father, Tony, were our biggest supporters in town, providing us with both equipment and friendship. This is also where Alan Hoffman, a staff writer for our local newspaper, The Home News, came to meet us—to meet me.

Hoffman towered over us, holding a notebook and pen, dressed in khaki pants and a loose-fitting short-sleeve button-up shirt. As soon as he began asking us questions, it was clear he had come in peace; he believed something interesting and meaningful was happening here. He approached us with both an open heart and an open mind.

We were used to being told what to do by adults, not asked why we do what we do. This was the moment I had been waiting for—a chance to speak up for skateboarding in my community. But before I could say anything, the other skaters blurted out responses to Hoffman’s questions. Their replies sounded as if they were reciting lines from some half-baked Hollywood skateboard script. I couldn’t believe my ears—did they actually think this way? Was this all skateboarding represented to them—some shallow teenage rebellion? To me, it came from a deeper place. We weren’t resisting; we were redefining. Street skating wasn’t a reaction to the social pressure of high school—it was an insight, a revelation. It was poetry and philosophy—it transcended the immediate culture. I'd heard enough.

We don’t have any ramps around here, so we just use our environment to make up tricks. We just use anything. We could have a major session right here, I said, waving my arm at the storefronts, the sidewalk, the air. These walls. Anything.

Hoffman zeroed in on me—now we were having a real conversation. He pointed out that while skaters passionately believe in the merits of skating, many people only see skateboards and what we do in the streets as a threat to society’s well-being and safety.

People don’t understand it. They think it’s dangerous and a toy, I responded.

I get the impression they don’t want to see us having fun. They’d rather see us on a football field. You get hurt skating and they want to ban it. Why don’t they just ban activity? I consider skating like an art form, and they can’t appreciate that.

Hoffman nodded his head empathetically. He’d gotten what he needed, and now he wanted to see me skate.

We moved to the asphalt lot behind Washington School, one of the places we skated regularly. It was time to let my skating do the talking. While still speaking to other skaters, Hoffman focused intently on my every move. This was one of the first and most significant demonstrations of my career—a chance to showcase skateboarding in my hometown.

Wearing baggy pants, a baby blue T&F shirt, and a pink wristband, I went wild on the pavement.

Hoffman didn’t need to know anything about skateboarding to realize what he was witnessing was raw, simple, and emotional. It was clear that I was not just working through a litany of skateboard maneuvers; I was improvising, inventing, and innovating in the moment. All the other skaters stopped and watched, stunned by the intensity and passion of my performance.

To me, skateboarding wasn’t a fad—it was a lifestyle. It represented liberation from a predestined life filled with work, sports teams, and muscle cars. I was charting a different path—I was following my heart. I had skated outside the confines of society and had found happiness—I was living my dream. Hoffman smiled.

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