and son Skyped two or three times a week, just shooting the breeze, and Jack felt at peace for the first time in many years.
But happiness in his new home in California was short-lived as his past came roaring back with a vengeance. Arturo Delgado, a high-ranking Colombian drug lord whom Jack had outmaneuvered in a major narcotics bust years earlier, was hell-bent on revenge. His plan was to destroy Jack by killing his only son.
Delgado came very close to succeeding when he ran Chris down crossing the street in front of Jack’s loft building in a seven-thousand-pound Cadillac Escalade. A murder attempt witnessed by Jack. Chris had been thrown headfirst under a transient’s parked van, into a concrete curb. The catastrophic injuries sidelined Chris from the baseball squad and turned him to prescription drugs to assuage the psychological and physical pain brought on by the severe concussion and broken radius. The bone had snapped in half and jutted through the young man’s perfect skin, an image that continued to haunt Jack. His pitching arm was now held together with titanium pins.
Chris had suffered no permanent brain damage, but his recovery was rocky. He suffered from PTSD, posttraumatic stress syndrome. He couldn’t sleep through the night—afraid he’d be cut from the team, or never throw a fastball again, or get killed walking across the street. The orthopedic surgeon promised that his young arm would heal stronger than before, but Chris wasn’t convinced and it was a constant source of guilt for Jack.
And twenty-five years in narcotics did nothing to prepare Jack for the gut punch he felt discovering his son’s theft of Vicodin out of his Dopp kit on a recent visit.
Chris’s arm was healing as promised. He’d been given the stamp of approval from the team’s orthopedist and was doing light workouts. He was still seeing an off-campus psychiatrist and promised Jack he was clean, but Jack found himself holding his breath, and his tongue, whenever they Skyped or talked on the phone.
After five unanswered rings, Jack was about to sign off when his son’s anxious face filled the computer screen.
“Dad . . . I know I’m not supposed to take sides, and I know that you’ve taken the high road, even though Mom, who I love, divorced you . . .”
“Yes, son?”
“But Jeremy is a dick.”
“Chris.”
“A dick, Dad. End of story.”
Jack, of course, didn’t know the beginning or middle of the story. “All right, take a deep breath, think before you speak, and continue.”
“Jeremy thinks I should quit the team. Give up baseball. Concentrate on my studies and use Stanford as my calling card.”
Jack felt a slight burn. He wasn’t comfortable Jeremy had stepped into the dad role. “It seems he has it half right. That was half of the plan,” he allowed.
“Right, but not until I gave it my all. If he wasn’t a dick, he would understand that simple formula.”
“What’s his reasoning?”
“He kept talking percentages. Said only ten percent of NCAA players make it to the majors.”
Any fool knew that. “Okay, so what?”
“As opposed to the number of Stanford grads with four-point-oh averages who get drafted by companies in the Silicon Valley. He thinks I’m jeopardizing my future. And now with the injury . . .”
“How did it come up?”
“He saw my report card.”
“What’s your grade-point average?”
“Dad!”
“Just asking, son.”
“Three point five. My grades took a hit when I took a hit.”
Jack understood the last jab was meant for him, and he rolled with it. That was part of being the real father. At least he was glad he could count on the loyalty of his son.
“Understand one thing, Chris. Your mom and I both understand how hard you worked to achieve your place on the team. Remind me, how many kids from your high school won full athletic scholarships?”
“Three.”
“Did you deserve that honor?”
“Hell, yes.”
“So, there’s only one thing
But happiness in his new home in California was short-lived as his past came roaring back with a vengeance. Arturo Delgado, a high-ranking Colombian drug lord whom Jack had outmaneuvered in a major narcotics bust years earlier, was hell-bent on revenge. His plan was to destroy Jack by killing his only son.
Delgado came very close to succeeding when he ran Chris down crossing the street in front of Jack’s loft building in a seven-thousand-pound Cadillac Escalade. A murder attempt witnessed by Jack. Chris had been thrown headfirst under a transient’s parked van, into a concrete curb. The catastrophic injuries sidelined Chris from the baseball squad and turned him to prescription drugs to assuage the psychological and physical pain brought on by the severe concussion and broken radius. The bone had snapped in half and jutted through the young man’s perfect skin, an image that continued to haunt Jack. His pitching arm was now held together with titanium pins.
Chris had suffered no permanent brain damage, but his recovery was rocky. He suffered from PTSD, posttraumatic stress syndrome. He couldn’t sleep through the night—afraid he’d be cut from the team, or never throw a fastball again, or get killed walking across the street. The orthopedic surgeon promised that his young arm would heal stronger than before, but Chris wasn’t convinced and it was a constant source of guilt for Jack.
And twenty-five years in narcotics did nothing to prepare Jack for the gut punch he felt discovering his son’s theft of Vicodin out of his Dopp kit on a recent visit.
Chris’s arm was healing as promised. He’d been given the stamp of approval from the team’s orthopedist and was doing light workouts. He was still seeing an off-campus psychiatrist and promised Jack he was clean, but Jack found himself holding his breath, and his tongue, whenever they Skyped or talked on the phone.
After five unanswered rings, Jack was about to sign off when his son’s anxious face filled the computer screen.
“Dad . . . I know I’m not supposed to take sides, and I know that you’ve taken the high road, even though Mom, who I love, divorced you . . .”
“Yes, son?”
“But Jeremy is a dick.”
“Chris.”
“A dick, Dad. End of story.”
Jack, of course, didn’t know the beginning or middle of the story. “All right, take a deep breath, think before you speak, and continue.”
“Jeremy thinks I should quit the team. Give up baseball. Concentrate on my studies and use Stanford as my calling card.”
Jack felt a slight burn. He wasn’t comfortable Jeremy had stepped into the dad role. “It seems he has it half right. That was half of the plan,” he allowed.
“Right, but not until I gave it my all. If he wasn’t a dick, he would understand that simple formula.”
“What’s his reasoning?”
“He kept talking percentages. Said only ten percent of NCAA players make it to the majors.”
Any fool knew that. “Okay, so what?”
“As opposed to the number of Stanford grads with four-point-oh averages who get drafted by companies in the Silicon Valley. He thinks I’m jeopardizing my future. And now with the injury . . .”
“How did it come up?”
“He saw my report card.”
“What’s your grade-point average?”
“Dad!”
“Just asking, son.”
“Three point five. My grades took a hit when I took a hit.”
Jack understood the last jab was meant for him, and he rolled with it. That was part of being the real father. At least he was glad he could count on the loyalty of his son.
“Understand one thing, Chris. Your mom and I both understand how hard you worked to achieve your place on the team. Remind me, how many kids from your high school won full athletic scholarships?”
“Three.”
“Did you deserve that honor?”
“Hell, yes.”
“So, there’s only one thing
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