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Diagnosed with a rare eye disorder in the third grade, Charlie’s self-esteem began to unravel by the thread. He wouldn’t have a future as a detective like his hero, Magnum P.I. He would never soar in a jet fighter like he dreamed. He would never drive a race car and see the checkered flag wave. College was out of the question because he just wasn’t smart enough. At least that’s what the teachers told him. Only a God who was unusually cruel would shatter the dreams of a little boy by creating him defective.
Three days before he tried to kill me, I sat side-by-side with Saul in his library. Reposed in his oxblood leather chair, I smoked a Cuban cigar and sipped aged bourbon under a dim brass lamp sitting on his mahogany desk. The lamp suffused a golden color, a shade of sun at dusk, projecting our silhouettes on his bookcases filled with Plato and Homer and Machiavelli. I was in a contemplative somewhat melancholy mood, feeling like I’d come to a fork in the road when Saul’s mobile phone rang. It was Dylan Banks.
Dear Football, I love you. You have been the love of my life for as long as I can remember. Everything good that I am, everything good that I will ever be, in part I owe to you. You were there for me when I thought all was lost. You picked me up and loved me when no one else would. Now can you please sit down? I have some things I need to say.
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