Can I Say by Travis Barker

Author:Travis Barker
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2015-09-16T16:00:00+00:00

The older Pops got, the more I worried about him. He was still riding his Harley everywhere, and I was afraid that he was going to have a serious accident. When he came to see me, it was about a hundred miles each way. I told him, “Pal, I love you but I need you to get rid of the bike.”

“No way in hell am I getting rid of my bike.”

“What if I replaced it with something?”

“There’s nothing you could replace it with that I’m going to like. I want my bike.”

I reached out to the TV show Payback, where you give a car to someone who’s helped you for your entire life. I told them, “I want to pay back my father for taking care of me my whole life. And I want him to stop riding the fucking Harley-Davidson.” So we arranged to get a Corvette for him.

The day of the show, he came down to my house, and I asked him to go outside to take care of a delivery that was coming. When he went out the front door, they were lowering a brand-new Corvette, next year’s model, all customized, silver and black, just sick. He said, “You guys delivered the wrong fucking car. Travis ain’t got no Corvettes.”

They said, “No, sir, this is supposed to be at this address.”

I came out and told him that the Corvette was for him being good to me and taking care of me my whole life. I also told him that he had to give the motorcycle to me and promise never to get back on it. He burst into tears, and he gave me the motorcycle. I sold it, and he’s had the Corvette ever since.*

I wasn’t home very long, or very often: Blink-182 were always on the road. For one tour, we flew down to Australia—the day after we landed, we checked out of our hotel in Melbourne and I was hustling through the lobby to get to our tour bus. Right next to me were Lil Chris and a security guard named Jake. Usually Jake helped us out with our bags, because he was a three-hundred-pound dude with muscles. But somehow, this time Chris and I had ended up with most of the luggage. I had a bunch of bags on my back, which made me lose my balance. I tripped on the sidewalk, just feet away from the bus—there was some uneven pavement—and landed hard on my right foot. I could hear an ugly snapping sound and I felt an intense flash of pain.

Gus, our tour manager, said, “Dude, just walk it off, get the blood flowing.” I tried to limp around—the tour hadn’t even started and I didn’t want to punk out.

But Chris saw I wasn’t doing well. He said, “You good, man?”

“Dude, I can’t even fucking walk.”

We took off my shoe and my foot was black and blue. I played the gig that night: I had Daniel pick up a double bass pedal so I could play with my left foot.

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