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1972.
Dad was headed home after working one of those graveyard shifts. Two miles from home, he came upon a blind curve and was headed straight for one car passing another. He tried to slide his motorcycle between the two cars.
He almost pulled it off.
His left handle bar clipped the driver's side mirror of the car being passed.
What followed was five years of surgeries, rehabilitation, hospital stays.
He lost his right arm.
He would never bend his right leg again.
For my sister and myself, this meant being shuffled between relatives and friends while my mom stayed with my dad through the entire ordeal.
Yeah, my early childhood development kind of got warped just a tad.
There was never any playing catch with Dad. Or shooting hoops. Or even getting to spend time with him between the ages of 5 to 10.
A kind of unintentional blessing in disguise as now I was not feeling overwhelmed with home sickness that could plague a young player my age.
In fact, one letter I got from my grandmother scolded me for not writing home enough.
So I sent her a postcard in reply.
Sometimes I can be a real jerk.
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