Dear Sean

Ten

If we were famous in 1963, it was nothing compared to what happened the next year. They called it “mania,” and that’s what it was, Sean. Fans would fill entire streets, screaming, fainting, pushing each other just to look at your old dad’s face.

They’d grab at our clothes and try to cut off our hair to keep as a souvenir, and we couldn’t hear ourselves playing over the noise of their screaming; we couldn’t go outside while we were on tour because the fans would attack us, and the policemen could barely hold them back.

“Ready?” I whispered.

Already the plane was dipping down, and Paul took a deep breath and nodded. I didn’t know what he was feeling, but already an intoxicating cocktail of nerves and excitement was boiling in the pit of my stomach.

Paul gripped my hand, and Ringo wiggled his eyebrows at me, noticing the gesture, which I thoroughly ignored.

For a minute we were weightless, the plane nearing the landing area, and I waited as we descended… lower and lower until he hit the ground with a slight bump, rolling on the wheels now but safely on solid ground.

I let out a breath of air.

We arrived in America in 1964, and as soon as the plane landed there was already a huge crowd gathered at the landing site.

There were signs among the crowd, some saying “Welcome Beatles” or something along those lines, others huge, blown-up declarations of love: “Paul I love you,” or “George forever.” I caught my name among one of the signs, above a huge picture of my face decorated with a swarm of hearts.

That’s me! I pointed the sign out to Paul, a stunned, silly smile on my face.

“Wave,” he whispered, grinning quickly at me.

Ringo tightened his scarf around his neck and we marched down the steps. I waved at the crowds that were already roaring deafeningly, and took off my cap to wave with it.

It might have been my imagination, but as I did that, the screams seemed to intensify.

They interviewed us about everything and anything, asking questions in the airport.

“John, what’s your favorite color?”

“John, who inspires your songs?”

“Tell us, who’s your favorite bandmate?”

The fans tore at us on the way to the hotel.

“John, they’ve got my jacket sleeve!” Paul shouted, his voice higher from panic.

I turned and felt a stray hand graze the back of my neck.

“Paul, just let go!” I shouted, barely hearing myself over the other voices.