A book read by millions! Some made it through the Sixties...some didn't. This is the tale of two boys that just barely made... More > it. Hey, its only Eleven dollars. That's less than a couple packs of smokes. Borrow it, steal it, buy it, I don't care how you get it- just read it! < Less

The inevitable crosswinds of circumstance can be so cruel, and, oh, so profane.
On a blistering Saturday in June of 1966, I... More > played my final baseball game, and the crosswinds howled. When a few seemingly insignificant seconds in a boy’s life failed him, I was too young to understand that it was possible for a twelve-year-old never to be thirteen.
My best friend, Zooma West, and I, watched in horror, as our buddy, Tony Ruminello, was shot and killed by a teammate. In the years that followed, we trudged through the corridors of folly with reckless abandon, and, in our wake, our destiny was determined.
Then, on a weekend in August of 1985, everything changed; our paths converged one final time. Only one of us would survive. Our private Hell had no contingencies.
But, fortunately, sometimes, tragedy makes fools of us all. < Less

It speaks for itself.

A book read by millions! Some made it through the Sixties...some didn't. This is the tale of two boys that just barely made... More > it. Hey, its only Eleven dollars. That's less than a couple packs of smokes. Borrow it, steal it, buy it, I don't care how you get it- just read it! < Less

A book read by millions! Some made it through the Sixties...some didn't. This is the tale of two boys that just barely made... More > it. Hey, its only Eleven dollars. That's less than a couple packs of smokes. < Less

It speaks for itself.

The inevitable crosswinds of circumstance can be so cruel, and, oh, so profane.
On a blistering Saturday in June of 1966, I... More > played my final baseball game, and the crosswinds howled. When a few seemingly insignificant seconds in a boy’s life failed him, I was too young to understand that it was possible for a twelve-year-old never to be thirteen.
My best friend, Zooma West, and I, watched in horror, as our buddy, Tony Ruminello, was shot and killed by a teammate. In the years that followed, we trudged through the corridors of folly with reckless abandon, and, in our wake, our destiny was determined.
Then, on a weekend in August of 1985, everything changed; our paths converged one final time. Only one of us would survive. Our private Hell had no contingencies.
But, fortunately, sometimes, tragedy makes fools of us all. < Less