Years ago, the father of two former players was killed when his auto shop was robbed.
I saw police lights at the shop as we headed home from pizza night at the in-laws’. We hoped and prayed for the best. The next morning, before kickoff on the opening day of soccer season, my sister’s teary call confirmed my friend Greg had been the one killed.
A good man lost is always a tragedy.
When last I saw him, Greg made repairs to my car I couldn’t afford and bought me lunch out of the back of a hatchback. He said in Spanish to the awesome cook and entrepreneur who’d pulled into his shop lot that he’d get the bill for my lunch – whatever I wanted.