Blog

 

 

The town is the kind of place where people in the witness protection program go to live. It was exactly what my wife and I needed at the time. Not to vanish from thugs and mobsters, but more to shelter ourselves where no one would follow.

 

I knew I was in trouble when my own dad called me by my last name. Along with being my father, he doubled as my baseball coach. I had just made a disastrous baserunning decision and was thrown out at third, ending not just the game, but the season. I had squelched my team’s chance at our Little League championship. Tail between my legs, I sat down in the dugout beside my teammates as Dad expounded on my oversight for all of us to unmistakably hear. He gave a damn about my progress as a ballplayer.

 

My first car was a low-riding, muffler-dragging behemoth tailormade for my grandfather.  The 1972 Chevy Caprice—the largest sedan Chevy had ever manufactured—was just what he ordered.  When he decided to hang up his keys, it became mine for the taking.  I painted it primer grey and named it the Land Shark.

 

Having developed my highway skills inside a snug Volkswagen Beetle, the Land Shark was a different beast.