The Joy and Agony of Loving Tony Hawk

Watching Hawk’s path to destruction is painful. And inspiring.

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Last year, I bought my first skateboard. I had been on a skateboard only once before, back in high school, and it had been a disaster—I fell, bruised my ribs, and planned to never touch one again. But this time was different. I skated through the summer of 2021, learning to balance, cruise, and eventually land the occasional ollie or shuvit. My reason for learning was simple: I wanted a hobby I couldn’t monetize, compete at, or excel in. I didn’t have a goal, standards, or expectations. I’m a middle-aged adult who will never be good at skateboarding, and I don’t want to be.

The only thing I want is what I call “a moment.”

I had seen a moment in a tweet from Tony Hawk earlier that year: Old Man Tony, the most accomplished skateboarder in history, 52 years old, trying to land a 720. The exact moment comes at 33 seconds into the clip—not when he finally lands the trick after countless tries, but the moment when he tosses his skateboard in celebration. It’s the moment he knows he landed the trick, did what he came to do, and can go home.

A moment rivals sex and drugs.

A moment is when everything feels right in the world.

A moment is perfect.

It was that clip that got me interested in a new documentary that premiered this month on HBO, Tony Hawk: Until the Wheels Fall Off. And whether you’re interested in Tony’s career or only barely recognize his name, you should watch it.

Until the Wheels Fall Off is an insightful look into the skateboarding subculture of the ’80s, ’90s, and 2000s through the career of the best skateboarder in history. Tony and many of his peers, including Lance Mountain and Rodney Mullen, are interviewed. You’ll learn how much Tony was disliked as a kid in the ’90s, the booms and busts of making a living as a professional skateboarder, and the evolution of how his cohort—and fans like me—see him today.

To know of Tony Hawk is to love him. But he’s still skating like he has something to prove, as one former skateboarder, Stacy Peralta, explains. After a particularly nasty fall, Stacy pushed Tony’s peers and family to intervene to keep him from continuing to skate at his age, but couldn’t find anyone willing to have the conversation with Tony.

“It was shocking. It was really scary … and it really, really troubled me,” Stacy said. “I mean, come on! That’s not a bad concussion [anymore]. That’s a disaster.”

Photo: HBO

I struggled with the “troubled” feeling that Stacy described, partly because it’s so easy to celebrate the glory of accomplishment without the reality of what goes into it. Tony and his peers are destroying themselves.

“Broke my elbow,” Tony says in the documentary, as he begins running through a list of some of his injuries over the past 40 years. “Knocked my teeth out at least five times. Didn’t dislocate my shoulder, but it went out and [back] in. Rolled my ankles so far that they should have broken … I’ve had dozens of concussions but only a few that were really bad, where I woke up somewhere else … Fractured my skull, broke my thumb, broke my pelvis.”

Tony’s descriptions of his injuries and his compulsion to get back on his board sounded not unlike how I might describe someone struggling with drug addiction and sharing what it had cost them over the years. Skateboarding is dangerous and could eventually kill him—and according to Lance Mountain, it likely will. But when faced with Stacy’s appeal for an intervention, Lance—who himself still skates like he has something to prove—sounds somber in his acceptance.

“I think it’s no one’s place to say that to him,” Lance says. “[Tony] doesn’t even understand that we’re probably gonna die skateboarding and kill ourselves. It’s something you can’t change … It’s horrible. You’re actually destroying yourself on what you love.”

Perhaps the movie’s greatest appeal is to see whether you can listen to Rodney, Lance, and Tony without them changing your mind about the merits of self destruction. Rodney, one of Tony’s few peers, is especially effective. He seems to have a healthier relationship with skating, if only in his ability to articulate its merits with such soft-spoken emotion that you almost can’t help but be persuaded.

“This is the luxury of having spent my life doing what I love,” Rodney says. “The cost of that sucks. I’m not blind. I’m not numb to the pain. I would argue I’m more conscious of it than anybody else. But I’m also more conscious of what that gives me … I see all the arguments against it, but I wish I could relate the intangibles to you.”

“My guess is that we’re all built the same,” he continues, talking about other obsessive skaters. “None of us are completely stupid … But ultimately, we also know what we have. And to go and lay down in that sense of it, that’s like embracing what we’ve done with our lives.”

The awareness that their passion could be the death of them, and the peace they’ve found with it, is agonizing. But the joy is also intoxicating.

“I could feel the thrill that I got from anything I’ve done through him. It was huge,” Lance said about watching Tony land the first-ever 900 at the 1999 X Games. “I was so excited to see him do that. So excited and happy for him … And just the feel of that, the win of that … it’s just killer. It’s so good.”

And if the joy of skateboarding is, for them, the entire meaning of life, maybe all the rest of us can do is cheer their moments when everything feels right in the world.

Or maybe have a moment ourselves.

Mine won’t be a stellar accomplishment on my skateboard. I’m still a middle-aged adult who will never be good at skateboarding, and I don’t want to be. But maybe I’ll feel it—that everything is right in the world—if only for a second.

And toss my board like Tony.

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Thanks to everyone who responded to last week’s essay about Everything Everywhere All at Once. If you haven’t watched it yet, I hope you see it soon—especially Marc, who sent my favorite email this week, which included the line “I’m not sure my wife would appreciate talking rocks, but I may have to make a solo trip to see it.”

You listen to me, Marc: She’ll love the talking rocks. The day will come when I make a bad recommendation in this newsletter, but that day hasn’t come yet. Tell her that I need this and that I’m irrationally connected to the idea of convincing her, a stranger, to just trust me. If she doesn’t like it, I’ll give away five books next week. I put my name on this, Marc; I’m not fucking around.

Speaking of ringing endorsements, I actually just read the first book review for my upcoming memoir and it made my day, to say the least.

In the meantime, 12 days until my memoir comes out. I hope you preorder.