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In the dream I’d be driving a car when a lead baseball bat would fly through the window, right at me. I’d wake up in a sweat.

In another dream I’d be walking through downtown Baltimore, kicking it with my niggas, when I’d look up at a lead baseball bat about to crack my head open. I’d wake up drenched in sweat.

There was a dream when I’m in a roller coaster and I look down and see some crazy man beating the controls with a lead baseball bat until the roller coaster starts collapsing and I start plunging to my death. Wake up in more sweat.

I don’t understand dreams—then or now. There’s nothing you can do about what you dream. But I have to say that in this case those dreams saw something I didn’t—until I saw it in the flesh.

This shit was strange.

This was what happened in sure-enough life. This was no dream.

Can’t remember the day of the week when it came down. Can’t remember the weather. Might have been cloudy. Might have been clear. Don’t know what jams were banging back then. Maybe MC Lyte and “Ruffneck.” Maybe Da Brat getting “Funkdafied.”

I remember that rumors were floating around how Tupac had shot two cops in Atlanta. Tupac might have been on my mind ’cause Pac had just come through our neighborhood.

He knew a lot of the niggas on our block. Couple of weeks before the day that changed my life, I was on the corner when I heard everyone saying, “Pac’s around. Pac’s down on the Boulevard, Pac’s chilling with the niggas.” I went down there to see for myself. And there he was.

Beautiful cat. Eyes all bright and lit up with love. Lit up with intelligence. No security either ’cause he knew he was safe with us. We loved Pac. He was short, compact, killer good-looking, and had huge feet. All the big-time dealers came out to see him, protect him, and welcome him.

I got to say, “Whassup, Pac,” and see him smile right at me.

His smile was real sincere and his attitude real cool. Seemed like he had time for everyone. I was wishing I could hang with him, but so many people were wanting that same thing. Figured I better leave him alone. Wish him well. Go on my way.

It’s something when you see a real star.

On the day when my dream came to life, I wasn’t looking for no stars. Wasn’t looking for a damn thing. Fact is, I was minding my business, walking my usual walk.

Father once told me, “You don’t walk, Snoop. You stalk. You walk like you don’t want no one to fuck with you.”

“I don’t,” I said.

So I was stalking through the neighborhood. Forgot where I was going or what I had to do. Doesn’t matter ’cause I looked across the street and saw a fight about to come down.

Didn’t know the people. Didn’t know why they was fighting. Didn’t know nothing except fights always drew me. Something about the energy of a fight. The excitement. The danger. I wanted to get close and see what was happening.

So I crossed the street.

I fuckin’ crossed the street.

Had I gone straight or turned the corner away from the fight, my whole life would be different.

Funny how so much hinges on five or six little steps.

I took those steps across the street and saw that tempers were boiling over. People calling each other motherfuckers and dirty bitches. Fists were flying.

Then it happened.

The bat.

The lead baseball bat.

A girl looked at me with murder in her eyes. I didn’t know her. Never had seen her before. Don’t know why she came at me. Made no sense. I wasn’t cussing her. I wasn’t threatening her. I was just walking by, watching this fighting, when she picked a slugger lead baseball bat—the same bat that had been coming at me in my dreams—and started swinging it at my head. If she caught me, I’d be dead.

I screamed for her to stop, but she wasn’t interested in stopping. She wanted to take my head off.

I tried to get away but by then the crowd was too thick. I couldn’t move. I was hemmed in by people while this crazy lady was lunging at me with a lead bat.

There was only way to stop her.

I took out my shit. I figured once she saw it,