Introduction It was getting dark and I was standing in the parking lot beyond the right field fence at the high school baseball field. The kids call it ?gthird lot.?h It once provided parking for Newton North High School students, but that was before too many kids got cars, so now it?fs reserved for faculty and seniors during school hours. At this moment, third lot was two-thirds empty and the only remaining cars belonged to the players on the baseball team, plus a handful of parents and friends. I had my keys in my hand. I?fd already said goodbye to my old high school coach, who?fd made the drive down from New Hampshire to sit with me and watch my son play. It was a cold New England May day and the game was running long and I had to get going. I was due at a wake for the 21-year-old son of my cousin.

The wake was taking place in the small town where I was born, an hour?fs drive to the west, and the notice in the newspaper said visiting hours would be over at 7 p.m. It had been an emotional day, sitting on the cold metal slats, watching Sam hit, catching up with my old coach, and thinking about what my cousin Mickey was going through. I hadn?ft seen Mickey in over a year. We were never especially close. That happens when you have fifty-one first cousins and move away after college. But it was easy to remember everything I admired about Mickey. He was a terrific high school athlete, only two years older than me.

He seemed to be better than everyone else at everything: Football. Basketball. Skiing. He was strong, tough, skilled, and movie-star handsome. He had his own rock ?fn?f roll band. Chicks dug him and guys wanted to be him. It would have been easy to hate the guy, but he was generous and caring, and when I would see him years later he was always humble about his high school greatness. He?fd made a fine life for himself, working for the gas company and raising two kids with his wife.

Now he was getting ready to bury his son, young Michael, who had died at home in bed, another victim of the national scourge of Oxycontin. Michael had been a high school football stud, just like his father. He had been good enough to win a scholarship to Wagner College, and there had been a picture in the local newspaper of Michael signing his letter of intent. Now, just a couple of years later, his picture was in the paper again, accompanied by one of those impossibly sad stories about a promising young life that ended too soon. So I was feeling a little guilty as I stood in third lot, jangling my keys and watching the high school baseball game groan into extra innings. I didn?ft want to miss the wake, but I remembered that earlier in the day Mickey?fs brother had told me, ?gWe?fll be there long after seven.?h Besides, Sam was scheduled to lead off the bottom of the tenth and he was due. He had been hitting the ball hard all day, but he was sitting on an 0-4 and I knew his small world would tumble into chaos and panic if he went hitless for the day.

Such is the fragility and self-absorption of the high school mind. I was wondering about my own mind, too. I am a professional sportswriter, specializing in baseball. I?fve been a columnist for the Boston Globe for more than fifteen years, covering Olympics, Super Bowls, World Series, Stanley Cup Finals, NBA Championships, and Ryder Cups. I traveled with the Baltimore Orioles, Boston Celtics, and Red Sox back in the days when writers really traveled and lived with the ballplayers. I?fve written ten books, seven on baseball. I can go to any game, any time I want. And yet I find myself fixated on the successes and failures of Newton North High School and Sam Shaughnessy, my only son and the youngest of three ballplaying children.

Sam?fs sisters had fun and fulfilling seasons in high school volleybal.