My son is a homegrown man. He came of age on the South Carolina coast where the line between urban and rural is blurred by the Spanish Moss drifting off the branches of live oak trees, the fields of tomatoes, greens and corn just a few minutes drive from the hotels, golf courses and shopping district, and the waterways that wrap around them all. He's part city longing and part sea island sand. He is becoming -- and it's as much collard greens and pot liquor as it is muscle, dream and drive. One foot is firmly rooted in the traditions of his ancestors and the other is making a new print for someone else to follow.