Damaged Souls (Broken Man) - By Christopher Scott Page 0,15

sons started to play together. Pretty soon, the clans were inseparable, and Greg and Mitch promised to stay best friends forever as little boys will do.

They remained best friends all through elementary school. They did every thing together, and could almost complete each other’s sentences. They competed in basketball, tennis, golf, video games, even girls at that young age. Greg was also Mitch’s favorite target on the football field, catching both his passes and his insults with equal aplomb.

“You run like a girl, I have no idea why I ever throw it to you,” Greg’s mind flashed back to grade school as he remembered Mitch trying to bring him down with another of his insults.

“Probably because I am the only one who can catch that shitty half spiral you call a pass,” Greg always came right back at him. “If you could throw it half decent, we might be able to win a game.”

“You’re an asshole,” Mitch came up with his best response, knowing he wasn’t going to win this war of words. “You ready for Saturday.”

“Of course I’m ready,” Greg responded and thought of their next game. “Just get me the ball, we’ll get it done.”

They made a great team as kids, and they both could really play football. Mitch had a cannon for an arm, and Greg possessed great speed and even better hands despite his small size. They loved the game and plotted their future together as they approached middle school.

“What do you think of Peyton Manning,” Greg’s mind again flashed back to another one of their conversations as he heard Mitch’s voice clear as a bell.

“I think he’s pretty good,” Greg remembered how he responded. “But, he wouldn’t be shit if he didn’t have Reggie Wayne to throw it to.”

“I think he would be great throwing to anyone,” Mitch shot back as Greg tried to figure out if he was insulting him or Reggie Wayne. “I’m going to be that good one day.”

“Sure you are,” Greg remembered laughing. “I just hope you can start for the middle school team.”

“Go screw yourself,” Mitch replied as Greg recalled the obscenity laced banter of their youth, two fifth graders trying to appear older, tougher, and better than they were.

But, Mitch was good, and both of them knew it. Even at that young age, Coaches from all around town in football crazy South Florida were coming to watch practices and the young phenom destined to be the next Dan Marino. Nearly six foot tall before the age of twelve with the arm and stats to back up his size, Mitch received the kind of adulation usually reserved for stars, and Greg caught the leftover attention and any ball thrown his way.

They were going somewhere, and as the school year approached, Mitch and Greg looked forward to football camp, the only two sixth graders invited to try out for the middle school varsity. Their future looked bright, but on a hot summer day, everything changed, at least for Greg.

* * *

Greg gave up trying to sleep, abandoning his bed and walking to the kitchen thinking of his dad. Everything would be different now, he thought to himself as he opened the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. I don’t even think I would be the same person, Greg understood the consequences of his father’s death as he sat down at the table and revisited the past.

Life couldn’t have been any better than when he was growing up. His mother and father were happy and they lived comfortably if not luxuriously as the real estate market boomed and his father’s law practice reaped the rewards. They spent their time going to parties, swimming and golfing at the country club, and living the care free life of wealth and success. Yes, they were the perfect picture of family happiness, the charismatic attorney armed with beautiful wife and athletic son, destined for greatness in the courtroom and on the gridiron.

His father’s biggest client was J. Mitchell Caldwell, third generation owner of Caldwell Development, one of the largest developers of luxury real estate in South Florida and Greg’s best friend’s father. They did everything with the Caldwell’s, Father/Son golf tournaments, deep sea fishing in the keys, even film study for football. It seemed Greg’s family had earned their ticket and was destined for the upper echelons of South Florida society.

It all changed on that hot summer day in August. Greg remembered coming home from football practice and being surprised to find an empty house. Concerned but