Feeling Bad for Marco

A year ago this time, my son Marco had just won his second award at Brookshires, a huge grocery store chain here in Texas and maybe elsewhere. He won "Bagger of the Year" at the Texas Motor Speedway, which is also very big here. He was grogery manager at his store, one of the real flagships of the company, was 22 and earning about $12 and change before overtime, with a 401k and medical/dental. I'd bought a 2002 KIA for him and he'd paid back the $4300 in less than a year so it was clear title that I kept only for insurance purposes, which they somehow allow in Texas. He was in love with Carly and going to get married. She wad entering the Marines and he was entering the Air Force.
That was never my dream but it was his. And I support him and will support his dreams forever.
Then Carly thought she was too young for marriage and left him. Then two months ago he called his boss the "n" word, and even though Marco is 1/4 black--his grandpa and grandma were both children of mixed marriages in the Amazon between indigenous and African slaves--he lost his job over it.
Two weeks ago he was leaving a music venue in Dallas when a "red pickup" smashed the front of his Kia then fled, leaving it useless.
Last week, after having scored 65 out of 70 the Air Force placement test--the top 3 percentile--it was discovered that his right ear has a probem. It can't hear the lower base register. I never knew that and no other hearing test ever showed it. Dammit. But they rejected him on the grounds that if there was a sonic blast, he might lose all hearing in the right hear. Which would render him useless for the Air Force.
So last year he was in love, gonna get married, join the Air Force and was a rising star at Brookshires.
In the last half-year he's lost all that.
I've talked to him and tried to explain that having the right tools doesn't translate to success. Or that losing you position translates to failure. Carly is still great but young. His choice for his white boss was a bad choice. His car getting hit by a drunk driver is luck of the draw, and who the heck ever thought the Air Force would say 90 percent hearing isn't good enough?
But he's depressed. He's not doing much but playing video games, borrowing one of my trucks, not going anywhere. I don't want to push. It takes time to reassess your life, a life that was going good but is now all fucked up and you don't think you did anything to precipitate the change.
I love him. I'm feeling for him. But I know that sooner or later you have to grab your balls to see if you have any. Like when we moved to Texas and I was out of work and finally went to the Day Labor Center. That was humiliating but kept me going somewhere at 6 AM. And while I didn't get much work in my five weeks there, at least I came away with an award winning story which found me a new regular place to print my stories.
So Marco, here's my prayer for you: Grab your balls, say hello to the world. They can take it all in a moment but you are strong enough to take your share back. Look for the angles. Look around the corners. Don't loll in defeat, look for the opening as if you were in a fight: The guy who covers his face leaves his gut open. Hit the gut. Win in a surprising fashion. I am your dad and I love you and believe in your strength and versatility and ability to come back from being down on points. You are my son and you have the guts to deal with a bad hand. You've been watching me do that for years. You've learned. You can do it. You are fantastic. Never doubt that.
Go out and start swinging. That way you've got a puncher's chance.
And punchers win a lot.