Eddie and Alex Van Halen delivered newspapers at 5:00 a.m. before school to save money for instruments. Dutch immigrant kids who barely spoke English. Their classmates made fun of their accents. Their father worked three jobs. Their mother cleaned houses. The Van Halens were nobodies. 1978. Eddie and Alex Van Halen stood on stage at the Arrogant Ballroom in Chicago.

 12,000 people screaming their names, not their American names. their real names, Van Halen. After the show, in the hotel room, Eddie looked at his brother. The same brother who used to wake up with him at 4:30 a.m. to deliver papers. The same brother who practiced drums on phone books because they couldn’t afford a kit.

Alex Eddie said, “We did it. The newspaper boys made it.” March 17th, 1978. The Aragon Ballroom, Chicago. Van Halen had just finished their set, opening for Journey in Montrose. But something had happened that night that nobody expected. The crowd had come for Jouri. They’d left screaming for Van Halen.

 Eddie stood in the wings of the stage, sweat soaked, ears ringing, watching the crowd that wouldn’t stop chanting. “Van Halen, Van Halen, Van Halen.” Alex came up beside him, drumstick still in hand, his shirt completely drenched. “You hear that?” Alex said, voice from the adrenaline. Eddie nodded. He heard it. He felt it. 12,000 people chanting their name, their father’s name, the Dutch name that kids in Pasadena used to mock.

 Van Halen, Van who? Van nobody. Not anymore. Back in the hotel room at 2:00 a.m., Eddie couldn’t sleep. Alex couldn’t either. They sat there, two brothers, in a Chicago hotel, the same way they’d sat in their mother’s garage a thousand times before. Except everything was different now. “You remember 1964?” Eddie asked suddenly.

 Alex looked at his brother. Which part? The newspapers. Getting up at 4:30. Freezing our asses off. Alex smiled. Every morning, Monday through Saturday, 53 houses on our route. Eddie got up, walked to the window. Outside, even at 2:00 a.m., there were still fans lingering, hoping to catch a glimpse, hoping for an autograph. Eddie couldn’t comprehend it.

Tell me the story again, Eddie said. Start from the beginning. From Holland. Alex leaned back on the bed. They’d told this story to journalists a dozen times, but telling it to each other was different. This was their story, not the press release version, the real version. 1962, Alex began.

 Mom, Dad, you and me, on a boat from Roderdam to New York. You were seven, I was nine. We had two suitcases and $200. We didn’t speak English, Eddie added. Not a word. Dad knew some. Mom knew less. We knew nothing. Alex laughed, but it wasn’t a happy laugh. It was the laugh of someone remembering pain. First day of school in Pasadena. Kids made fun of my accent.

Called me that weird Dutch kid. Eddie turned from the window. They called me worse. You know what hurt the most? When they’d say our name wrong. Van Halen. Van Holland. Like it was a joke. Dad was so proud of that name, Alex said quietly. Van Halen. It meant something in Holland. Here it just meant we were different.

 Eddie sat down on the opposite bed. Dad worked at the factory during the day. Janitor at the elementary school at night. Cleaned houses on weekends. Mom cleaned houses too every day to pay for that tiny house on Los Luna Street. And we started the paper route. Alex said to help. Eddie nodded. 1964. I was 9 years old. You were 11. We’d wake up at 4:30 a.m.

 Still dark, freezing cold some mornings. Alex’s eyes were distant, seeing the past. We’d meet Mr. Henderson at the corner. He’d have the papers bundled. We’d load them into our wagon. 53 houses. We had the route memorized. Mrs. Chen at 12:47 always left a quarter tip on Sundays, Eddie remembered. Mr. Rodriguez at 1,289 had the mean dog.

 That dog bit you twice, Alex said. Three times, Eddie corrected. But we needed the money. $15 a week split between us $750 each. You know what we were saving for? Alex asked. Eddie smiled. Instruments. The memory was so vivid. Two boys, immigrant kids, saving quarters and dimes from newspaper tips, saving birthday money, saving Christmas money, all going into a shoe box under Alex’s bed.

 The shoe box labeled music fund. We didn’t even know what we were saving for exactly, Alex said. just music. We knew we wanted to play music. Eddie remembered the day they’d gone to the music store for the first time, winter of 1965. Alex was 12, Eddie was 10. They’d saved $127 from a year of newspaper deliveries. They walked into Harry’s Music on Colorado Boulevard.

 Two skinny Dutch kids with accents looking at instruments they couldn’t afford. The drum kit was $300, Alex said, remembering the same moment. I asked Mr. Harry if we could pay in installments. He laughed. You cried on the walk home, Eddie said. I was 12 and my dream just got crushed. Of course, I cried. Alex’s voice was defensive but gentle.

 You cried, too, when you saw the price of the guitars. They sat in silence for a moment, both remembering that walk home from the music store. Two boys who wanted something so badly but couldn’t afford it. two boys who wondered if dreams were just for rich kids. “We didn’t give up, though,” Eddie said. “No,” Alex agreed.

“We just worked harder, added a Sunday route, made it 72 houses, started shoveling snow in winter, mowing lawns in summer.” “Die got up, opened his guitar case. His Frankenstrat sat there. The guitar he’d built himself, black with white stripes, made from parts, because he still couldn’t afford a real Gibson.

” 1967, Eddie said, touching the neck of his homemade guitar. We finally had enough. You bought that used Lwig kit. $550, Alex said. Took us 3 years to save. 3 years of waking up at 4:30 a.m. But I got my drums. And I got this. Eddie held up the Franken Strat. Well, the parts that became this. A body from one store, a neck from another.

 I built it myself because even after 3 years of saving, I still couldn’t afford a real one. Alex looked at his brother’s guitar. That ridiculous homemade Frankenstein guitar that Eddie had painted himself. The guitar that every kid in school made fun of. That weird striped thing. The guitar that had just played to 12,000 people.

 The guitar that would change rock music. Dad didn’t understand. Alex said, “Remember?” He kept saying, “Music is not a job. Music is a hobby. You need real careers.” Eddie nodded. He wanted us to go to college, become doctors or lawyers. He didn’t come to America for his sons to be musicians. He thought we were wasting our time.

 Alex said, “All those years of practicing, he’d come home from working three jobs exhausted, and we’d be in the garage making noise.” “Making music?” Eddie corrected. He called it noise. Eddie sat down again. 1973, we played our first real gig. Remember? Hamilton Elementary School dance, Alex said. They paid us $50 total for the whole band.

 $1250 each, Eddie calculated. Same amount we used to make delivering newspapers for a week, except this time we made it playing music. Dad was so angry, Alex remembered. He said, “You spent 10 years learning instruments to make $12. You could make more delivering papers. Eddie was quiet. He died in 1986. Never saw us make it.

 Never saw Van Halen become this. He saw the first album though, Alex said. 1978. We gave him a copy. Remember what he said? Eddie smiled sadly. It’s very loud. That’s all he said. It’s very loud. They both laughed, but it hurt. But mom knew, Alex said. Even back then when we were kids, delivering papers, saving for instruments, she knew.

 Eddie remembered his mother, Eugenia, working herself to exhaustion, cleaning houses, coming home with her hands raw from chemicals, but always, always asking them to play for her. She’d sit in the garage and listen to us practice, Eddie said, for hours. Even when we were terrible, even when we were just learning, she’d sit there and smile.

She believed in us when nobody else did. Alex said. Not the kids at school, not the teachers, not even dad. But mom believed. Eddie looked at his brother. 1974, we started playing backyard parties, high school dances, bar mitzvah, anywhere that would pay us. $50 a gig if we were lucky, Alex said. Sometimes 25.

 We’d load our own equipment, drive ourselves, set up, play, break down, drive home, all for 25 bucks. But we were playing, Eddie said. We weren’t delivering newspapers anymore. We were musicians. We were broke musicians, Alex corrected. I was living on ramen noodles and hope. Eddie laughed. Remember that gig at the Whiskey in 75? The owner said we had potential, but we’d never fill the place.

 We came back 2 months later and there was a line around the block, Alex said with satisfaction. Same owner said he discovered us. They’d played the Sunset Strip for two years, building a following, getting better, getting noticed, until finally Warner Brothers came calling. A record deal, a real record deal, not some sketchy small label. Warner Brothers.

February 1978, Eddie said. The album came out. Van Halen, Alex said, the name like a prayer. Our name, our father’s name, on every record store in America. By March, it was top 10, Eddie continued. Gold by April. They’re saying platinum by summer. Alex stood up, walked to the window where Eddie had been standing earlier.

 The fans were still there, still waiting. You know what I keep thinking about? Alex said, “Those mornings, 4:30 a.m., freezing cold. You and me loading newspapers into that wagon. We were 9 and 11 years old. Immigrant kids who barely spoke English. Nobody thought we’d be anything special. We were nobodyies,” Eddie agreed.

 We were newspaper boys, Alex said. And now, he gestured to the window. To the fans, to the gold records sitting on the hotel dresser, to everything they’d become. Eddie joined his brother at the window. Two brothers, both looking down at the evidence of their impossible success. Alex, Eddie said quietly. We did it.

 The newspaper boys made it. Alex turned to his brother. And for the first time since they were kids, since before the fame in the album and the screaming crowds, Alex let himself cry. Not sad tears, release tears, relief tears. We actually did it. Tears. Dad was wrong. Alex said, “Music isn’t just a hobby. Music is everything, and we proved it.

” Eddie put his arm around his brother’s shoulders. We proved it by waking up at 4:30 a.m. for 3 years. By saving every quarter. by practicing when everyone else was partying, by believing when nobody else believed. “Except mom,” Alex added. “Except mom,” Eddie agreed. They stood there in silence.

 Two immigrant kids who delivered newspapers to save her instruments. Two brothers who’d built a band from nothing. Two musicians who’ just played to 12,000 people who knew every word of every song. Van Halen. Not Van Halen. Not Van Holland. Van Halen. The name their father carried from Holland. The name kids used to mock.

 The name that was now on the top 10 charts. The name that would change rock music forever. You think the kid who delivered newspapers to Mrs. Chen in 1964 would believe this? Alex asked. Eddie thought about 9-year-old Eddie. Skinny Dutch kid with an accent loading papers into a wagon at 4:30 a.m. saving quarters for a dream he couldn’t even articulate yet.

Would that kid believe that in 14 years he’d be a rock star? No, Eddie said honestly. That kid was too busy trying to afford a guitar to imagine this. But he kept going, Alex said. Even when it seemed impossible, even when everyone said musicians don’t make money, even when dad said to get a real job, that kid kept delivering papers. Kept saving.

Kept dreaming. Eddie nodded. Because the dream was bigger than the doubt. The music was louder than the noise. And now the whole world hears it,” Alex said. They were quiet for a long moment. Then Alex picked up his drumsticks from the nightstand. The same sticks he’d played with tonight.

 He twirled them through his fingers. That nervous habit from childhood. “Edddy,” Alex said. “Thank you.” “For what? For waking up with me at 4:30? For delivering papers with me? For saving quarters with me? For believing with me? For building this with me?” Eddie looked at his brother, his best friend, his bandmate, the person who’d been there for every single step.

We build it together, Alex. From the first newspaper route to tonight, everything together. The Van Halen brothers, Alex said. The newspaper boys who made it, Eddie added. Outside, the sun was starting to rise over Chicago, the same sun that used to wake them at 4:30 a.m. to deliver papers, but now it was rising on Van Halen.

 on two brothers who’d proven that immigrant kids with accents and homemade guitars could become something extraordinary. Not because they were lucky, not because they were discovered, but because they worked, because they believed, because they never stopped delivering, whether it was newspapers or dreams. Years later, after Eddie’s death, Alex would tell this story to Wolf Gang about the newspaper route, about saving quarters, about 4:30 a.m.

 mornings in their father’s doubt in their mother’s faith. Your dad and I, Alex would say, we started with nothing, less than nothing. We were immigrant kids delivering papers, but we had each other. We had the music and we had the stubborn belief that if we worked hard enough, dreamed big enough, the newspaper boys could make it.

 Wolf Gang would ask, “Did you ever doubt it?” And Alex would think about that hotel room in Chicago, March 17th, 1978, looking out at the fans holding the gold record, his brother beside him, the two of them finally truly believing. Every day, Alex would admit, until the moment we didn’t. Until the moment we looked at each other and realized we did it. We really did it.

The newspaper boys made it. From 4:30 a.m. paper routes to sold out arenas. From saving quarters to gold records, from nobody to Van Halen. And it all started with two immigrant kids who refused to stop dreaming. Even when dreaming seemed impossible. Even when the alarm went off at 4:30 a.m. Even when the dog bit.

 Even when their father said music wasn’t a real job, they kept delivering and eventually the world received.